Why was he doing this? Because he was AWOL and broke and somebody was paying him to turn over the documents. Who? Not much doubt. The North Koreans.
So why did he black-market, too? Because there was good money in it. And maybe the North Koreans paid only upon delivery. And since Shipton was probably in no position to run an auction, the North Koreans probably paid him only what they wanted to pay him. And that might not be all that much. After all, they wanted to keep him hungry. Keep him feeding them stolen information.
Maybe they helped him get the phony ration control plates. Maybe that was his payment.
But that was speculation. We had a highly trained navy commando on the loose in Korea. He was a killer, he was after top secret documents, and he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
Shipton knew the military community intimately and he could blend right in. Buy uniforms, obtain phony ID’s, waltz in and out of classified areas with just bluff and bravado.
What would he do next?
Probably continue to make all the easy money he could off of those ration control plates until they became hot. Did he have any idea yet we were onto him? If not, in a couple of hours, when the front doors of the PX opened to shoppers, he might stroll right on through as if he owned the place. And we could be right there to finally bust him.
Maybe. But nothing else in this case had been easy. Something told me picking him up wouldn’t be easy either.
He hadn’t been subtle with the navy. Hit somebody over the head and steal what you need. But maybe he had no choice. The Kitty Hawk was only in port for a few days. Hard to establish an inside contact in that time. Besides, Shipton was probably counting on interservice rivalry to keep our exchange of information down and make it less likely that we would link his naval activities with the security compromises in 8th Army. And he was probably right.
I didn’t think he would just randomly keep stealing classified documents and black-marketing until one day we got lucky and he got caught. Something told me there was a master plan to all this. Bo Shipton was too intelligent, too well trained, to drift along in crime without some sort of overall goal. Maybe it was just to make enough money so he could slip out of the country and retire on the Riviera. Or did the classified information he was gathering, looked at as a whole, represent some sort of clandestine mosaic?
Whatever his motive, I knew in my heart that he had a mission. I just had to figure out what it was.
On the way to the snack bar, we had stopped at billeting and shaved and now, with bellies full of scrambled eggs and hash browns, we both felt a lot more human.
“This Shipton is one bold dude,” Ernie said, his mouth full of toast.
“Killing Miss Ku. Killing the Nurse. Not very bold. They were both helpless.”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “And he tortured Miss Ku. At least Whitcomb was more like a fair fight, wasn’t he?”
“Even that wasn’t fair when you consider all the combat Shipton has been through.”
“It won’t do him any good when we catch him,” Ernie said. He glugged down the last of his coffee. “Don’t sweat it, George.”
I checked the clock on the wall. Almost eight hundred hours. Riley would probably be in. So would Strange. We left our dirty plates on the table and walked back to the snack bar manager’s office.
He was a Korean man in a neat white shirt and tie, hunched over a stack of invoices. I showed him my badge and he pointed to a phone at a table loaded with purchasing regulations. I lifted the phone and got through to the base operator and told her what I wanted. Ernie stood in the doorway and watched the short-order cooks in the kitchen.
Strange answered on the first ring.
“Distribution.”
I asked him a few questions that he couldn’t answer, but he said he’d try to get the information and I should call back in a couple of hours. He made me promise to tell him all about the girls on Texas Street once he had what I wanted.
I hung up and thought of calling Riley. But what would I tell him? That Shipton was more dangerous than I’d figured? Besides, we weren’t supposed to be on the Kitty Hawk at all-supposed to go through channels for that sort of thing-and I didn’t want to mention our little naval adventure if I didn’t have to.
We walked around the compound for the next couple of hours, keeping our eyes open, until the PX manager unlocked the front door of the store. Korean dependent wives streamed in, along with a few GI’s, but nobody who looked like Shipton. Ernie found a secluded spot across from the parking lot, and I went in the back door to use the nervous manager’s phone.
He wasn’t happy to see me again but was relieved that this time I didn’t want to go through the cards. I borrowed his copy of the AAFES phone directory and started calling PX managers in the compounds leading north from Ptisan.
At each place I got a raft of shit, but gradually I convinced each manager that he’d be in serious trouble if he didn’t cooperate. If someone else was murdered, I promised to put the blame directly On him. In the end, each consented. Most even gave me a Korean secretary, who took down the four stolen RCP numbers Shipton was using and promised to check all the ration cards before they left the store. If they found anything, they would call me here at the PX manager’s office.
The calls took over an hour. When I finished, I told the manager that if I received any calls he should keep the person on the line and bring me to the phone right away. I’d be in the parking lot or in the store somewhere.
He frowned but agreed.
I grabbed a couple of paper cups, filled them with coffee from the manager’s large urn, and carried them out into the parking lot.
Ernie was still slouched against the cement wall.
“If we were on the black market detail,” he said when he saw me, “we could make a year’s worth of quota today.”
I handed him the coffee and turned to look at the GI’s and Korean women pushing carts of merchandise out of the store toward the line of PX cabs. ‘They’re at it hot and heavy.”
“This is a big city,” Ernie said. “Only one military base. A big demand.” He sipped on his coffee. “I think we’re wasting our time here.”
“I do, too.”
“After a big score like the Kitty Hawk,” Ernie said, “Shipton wouldn’t take any chances. He’d leave Pusan.”
“You’re probably right. But where would he go?”
“Depends on what he’s after.”
“Yeah.”
We finished our coffee. As goods were loaded into the backs of taxis and customers climbed aboard and sped off, more people filed into the end of the cab line. It was endless.
“Maybe I ought to call Riley,” I said.
“Maybe you should.”
“You want to go in? It’s cold out here.”
“No. I’ll wait. You’re better with the bureaucratic bullshit.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“You deserve it.”
I went back inside, and after my talking to the Korean female operator and listening to a lot of clicking and buzzing, the phone rang and someone picked it up.
“Criminal Investigation,” the voice said, but it wasn’t Riley. It was the First Sergeant.
“This is Sueno.”
“Where in the fuck are you?”
“You know where we are,” I said. “In Pusan. Doing our job.”
“Is that what you call it? Now listen to me carefully, Corporal Sueno…” The First Sergeant always used our ranks when he was busy trying to cover his own ass. “I want you and Sergeant Bascom to hop on the first train heading north and get back to Seoul ASAP! You understand that?”
“Understood. But why?”
“Because I say so! That’s why. The head shed is just about to shit a brick. Two army investigators aboard a goddamn naval vessel!”
“What are you talking about, Top?”
“Don’t give me that innocent shit! I know it was you two shitheads. Nobody else would be stupid enough to pull such a stunt.”
“But we’re onto something here.”