The Iron Sickle (33 page)

“I saw one,” I said.

“You saw it?”

“Well, I didn’t open my eyes.”

He smiled again, more broadly this time.

“Can you get me out of here?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “but you’ll have to walk.”

“I can do that,” I said, grabbing my walking stick.

When I stood up, he said to me, “Which one do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“The
insam
. They presented themselves to you. It would be an insult now not to harvest one of them.”

“Only one?”

“Only one. Greed would also be an insult.”

I studied the green plants poking up between the sparse grass and the damp leaves. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“You don’t have to use it yourself. Give it to someone you respect.”

I thought of someone. “Which plant would be best?” I asked.

“The oldest is the most valuable,” Hunter Huk said, pointing to the grandfather plant, “but the entire clan will grieve if you take him. Better if you take a young man, one who is strong and covets adventure.”

I studied a few of the medium sized plants. One of them stood off by itself, slightly elevated on a clump of turf. “That one,” I said, pointing.

“Good choice,” Hunter Huk said. He pulled a short curved dagger from beneath a leather belt that cinched his buckskin tunic to his narrow waist. He turned it and offered the wooden handle to me.

“Will you show me how?”

He knelt near the plant. Leaning gingerly on my staff, I joined him. “Carve through the earth around the edge and dig deep so as not to damage the roots. If you pull him up whole he will survive longer and once the outer husk dries, the flesh of the root will still be full of vital juices.”

I did as I was told, widening the churning of earth at his direction. Finally, I pulled the plant up whole, root and all. It appeared to have legs and arms and even a stumpy kind of face. Hunter Huk handed
me a small leather pouch, and I placed the plant inside and knotted it with a drawstring. I tried to hand it to him but he waved it away.

“Keep it,” he said. “It is yours now.”

I stuffed the plant in the large upper pocket of my fatigue blouse.

“Come on,” Hunter Huk said, motioning for me to follow.

At the edge of the clearing, he turned and bowed three times to the small family of plants. I did the same.

Hunter Huk motioned toward the valley below. About a mile away sat the intersection I recognized as I-kori.

“How can I thank you?” I said.

“By giving the
insam
to someone who is worthy.”

“I will.”

I looked back at the road. There was a military vehicle there, a jeep. Maybe it was Ernie. When I turned back to say goodbye, there was no one there. I glanced at the opening in the woods. Were the branches quivering? They seemed to be, but I couldn’t be sure.

I hurried downhill.

As I approached the jeep I realized it was painted a darker green than the olive drab color favored by the US Army. This was the deep pine-colored hue of the ROK Army. I hobbled forward as fast as I could. The hourglass figure that emerged from the passenger seat was unmistakable. Major Rhee Mi-sook waved at me and smiled. For a moment, I wanted to turn and run, but I realized I wouldn’t get far. Instead, I tossed the walking stick aside and strode as confidently as I was able straight toward her.

My beard was a growth of a few days now, and my fatigues were muddy and damp. I must’ve stunk to high heaven. I saw all this on Major Rhee’s face. Her cute nose twisted and she pointed me toward a three-quarter ton truck that was racing toward us from up the road.

“Ride in there,” she said. “I’ll interrogate you later.”

“I have to get in touch with Eighth Army,” I told her. “Now.”

“What is it?” she asked.

But when I stepped closer, her nose twisted more severely this time, and she held the back of her dainty hand up to her face as if to ward off germs.

“Never mind,” she said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Do you have a radio?”

“No. But there’s a phone not far from here.”

The three-quarter ton truck arrived, and she motioned for me to get in. As she returned to her jeep, I climbed in back with three ROK Army soldiers. They scooted as far away from me as they were able. I wasn’t happy about being under the control of Major Rhee, but somehow I had to communicate with 8th Army and let them know about the threat to the veterans who were gathering at Walker Hill. About a half mile up the road, we screeched to an abrupt halt. The ROK soldiers started cursing and grabbed their rifles. I braced myself against the wooden stanchions of the truck and hauled myself upright. A roadblock. Korean National Police armed to the teeth. The cops all wore combat boots and khaki uniforms, and they were all armed with either M-16 rifles or big .45s strapped to their hips. One of the vehicles even had an M-50 machine gun mounted on it—an M-50 machine gun that was trained right on us.

Some of the soldiers raised their weapons as if preparing to return fire. As fast as I could, I clambered out of the truck and crouched low.

I heard shouting. Major Rhee’s voice. Another voice shouted back at her, one I recognized. Mr. Kill. They were speaking so quickly and both of them were so enraged that I couldn’t understand everything they were saying, but I picked up enough. Somehow, the KNPs knew I was there. They wanted to take custody of me and return me to 8th
Army. Major Rhee was having none of it. I was in her custody now and that’s how it would stay. Neither side was backing down.

I wasn’t too crazy about being argued over as if I were chattel, and I was also worried that whoever I ended up belonging to would lock me up. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but it was clear that the ROK Army and the Korean National Police were each determined to control the situation in their own way.

My memories of what Major Rhee had done to me when she’d been posing as a Senior Captain in North Korea made up my mind. I didn’t want that to happen again. With as much dignity as I could muster, I marched forward, stiff-legged, lurched past Major Rhee’s jeep and started to walk toward Mr. Kill.

She grabbed me in a neck lock. I was too weak and off-balance to resist. She pulled me back and somehow a pistol appeared in her hand. The bolts of a dozen KNP M-16 rifles were released and clanged forward. Behind me a smaller number of ROK Army rifles did the same.

“He’s mine,” Major Rhee screamed.

Her face barely peeked over my left shoulder. The pistol grazed against the right side of my chin.

I willed my mind to concentrate, to try to parse what they were screaming at each other. Mr. Kill was shouting that he knew her game. She wanted the man with the iron sickle to keep murdering Americans because she wanted the US to leave the Korean peninsula. Major Rhee shouted back that it would be good riddance.

Without thinking, I threw myself backward. She wasn’t expecting it, and she wasn’t strong enough to keep from crumbling beneath my weight. The KNPs surged forward. The next thing I knew Mr. Kill had ripped the pistol from Major Rhee’s hand, and she was screeching at him a long list of invectives. Many of the words in Korean were completely new to me. Three of the KNPs jerked me to
my feet and dragged me toward one of their waiting vehicles. I half expected a round to burst into my back, but in the end everyone held their fire.

As we drove of, Major Rhee was still screaming.

“I need a radio,” I shouted at Mr. Kill as we raced away. “Or a telephone.”

“We have one.”

He sat in the passenger seat of the small sedan, his assistant, Officer Oh, driving. He flicked a switch and stretched a cord toward me in the back seat.

“Touch the button when you want to talk,” he said. “Who do you want me to contact?”

The CID office in Seoul didn’t have a radio but the MP station did.

“The Eighth Army MP station,” I said.

He punched in some numbers. A staticky speaker crackled to life.

A familiar voice said, “Eighth Army Headquarters, Military Police.”

“Grimes,” I said, “they took you off guard duty.”

“Sueño?” He sounded as if he was amazed. “Where the hell are you?”

“With Mr. Kill, heading toward Seoul. You have to relay a message to Riley at the CID.”

“Shoot.”

“Be sure to let Agent Bascom and Captain Prevault know I’m safe, and I’m on my way back to Seoul. If they were searching for me they can stop.”

“Got it.”

“And also let them know that they have to get someone out to Walker Hill.”

“Walker Hill?”

“Right. The resort area on the eastern end of Seoul. There’s a threat to the Korean War veterans who are out there.”

“What kind of a threat?”

“The man with the iron sickle. He’s after one …” I tried to continue talking, but we were behind a line of hills now and the connection had been broken. I handed the microphone back to Mr. Kill.

“Walker Hill?” he asked.

“The man with the iron sickle and his accomplice, Madame Hoh, they’re on their way now.”

“What do they want?” he asked.

“Revenge.”

When we emerged from the hills, Mr. Kill managed to make contact with KNP headquarters in Seoul. He gave crisp instructions, and I had no doubt that within minutes the resort hotel at Walker Hill would be swarming with cops. Whoever this American veteran from the 4038th Signal Battalion was, he’d be safe.

I leaned back in the seat, completely exhausted.

Officer Oh handed me a small can of guava juice. I thanked her and tore off the pop top and drank the contents down in two gulps. Then I closed my eyes. The siren was on now and we were making excellent time back toward Seoul. We’d be there in an hour, I thought as I fell asleep.

The Sheraton Walker Hill Hotel was completely surrounded by armed Korean National Police. A line of black Hyundai sedans was parked behind the sentries, and I figured a few ROK government VIPs were there, probably making speeches to the American veterans. We pulled up in front and a liveried doorman opened my door. He jerked back when he saw me. I looked like what I felt like, a mountain man who hadn’t washed in a week. As we clambered out of the car, I noticed a white van with a red cross emblazoned on it. An elderly American was having his blood pressure checked. They really were treating these guys like royalty.

Mr. Kill escorted me through the glass door. My muddy boots slapped on polished tile. We walked up to the long check-in counter, and a number of gorgeously made-up young women bowed to us. When Mr. Kill flashed his credentials, a black-suited duty manager appeared in front of him, almost as if by magic. Mr. Kill deferred to me and I started to talk.

“Amongst the American guests,” I said, “there is a veteran whose unit during the Korean War was the Forty Thirty-eighth Signal Battalion. We must locate him immediately.” Without being told, one of the young women in a business suit produced a check-in register and flipped it open on the counter. The list of American names was traced with polished nails. In the right column were their unit designations.

“Walton,” the manager said. “Mr. Covert P. Walton. He’s in room sixteen fifty-two.”

Within seconds, Mr. Kill, Officer Oh and I were in the elevator punching the 16th floor button. When we arrived, Officer Oh took the lead, pulling her small pistol out of her waistband as she did so. The door to Room 1652 was open. We barged in. Two maids, both with white bandanas tied around their heads, looked up from snapping sheets. Their mouths fell open. Officer Oh asked where the American guest was.

Terrified, the two women said they didn’t know. They’d reached this room about ten minutes ago, and the sign asking for room service was dangling from the outside handle.

Officer Oh ordered them to drop everything and to step outside. They did. She checked the room, in the bathroom and even under the bed, but Mr. Covert P. Walton was nowhere to be found.

We went back downstairs to the lobby. Mr. Kill called some KNP officers over and gave them instructions to search the foyer and the dining room and the shopping boutiques and to check the
identification of every foreigner they encountered. As soon as they found Mr. Covert P. Walton, they were to escort him back to the main lobby. When they bowed and scurried off, Mr. Kill and Officer Oh and I looked at one another.

“You should sit down,” Officer Oh said.

But something was bothering me, I wasn’t sure what. When we had reached the main lobby, I’d glanced outside through the big glass doors and seen the reassuring presence of the doormen and the KNPs standing guard. For some reason, something seemed missing. And then I realized what it was.

“Come on,” I said.

Mr. Kill and Officer Oh followed me outside. Her sedan was still parked there, in a place of privilege only allowed for the vehicle of the Senior Homicide Inspector of the Korean National Police. Mr. Kill stared at me curiously, as did Officer Oh. Everything looked normal; everything except one thing.

“The Red Cross van,” I said. “There was a woman inside, wearing a nurse’s uniform. I only saw her back. I imagine there was a driver up front and I spotted an elderly American in back.”

“They’re gone,” Officer Oh said in English.

Mr. Kill cursed. He ran toward his sedan, flung open the passenger door, and leaned in and switched on the radio. Immediately, he was ordering an all-points bulletin for the missing Red Cross van. Officer Oh questioned the doormen and the KNP officers standing guard. They all confirmed the same thing. As soon as we’d stepped inside, the back door of the van had closed, and they’d driven off.

“Did the American get out?”

Not everyone had been watching but the few who did said he hadn’t. They’d assumed he needed medical attention and he’d been taken away for that reason.

We checked with the hotel manager and asked who had authorized the Red Cross van. He didn’t know. He assumed it had been part of the government effort to provide first class service to the visiting Americans. He made a few phone calls, and everyone he talked to denied having authorized the van. Within minutes the posse of KNP officers returned from their search of the hotel. They’d talked to many foreigners, most of them veterans there for the conference and they’d checked every passport, but none of them was Mr. Covert P. Walton.