Burke found the atmosphere somewhat similar to that of the Dokjo Restaurant, a slice of traditional Korea wedged inside the modernistic canyons of downtown Seoul. The famed kisaeng house was much larger and more elaborate than the Dokjo, however. It was located in a walled compound and contained large dining rooms plus smaller, individual pavilions arranged in a garden setting.
The kisaeng, like Japan's geisha, were a dying breed. They had their beginnings in the royal court during the Koryo Kingdom, rulers from 918 to 1392. They flourished in a male-dominated society with an elite class composed of the very wealthy. Selected on the basis of charm, beauty, and talent, they were trained from childhood to become elegant, highly skilled and refined consorts. The kisaeng were the best educated women in Korea. They were companions to kings, scholars, artists, the top officials. They could sing, dance, paint, play various musical instruments and carry on intelligent conversations with the high and the mighty. The demise of the kisaeng and their employers actually began around the turn of the twentieth century and was accelerated in recent years by two factors. The modernization and democratization of Korea had eroded the former elite class and brought disfavor upon some of its more discriminatory practices. But even more important, the cost of operating a kisaeng house had become prohibitive. With the availability of factory and office jobs, few young girls chose the rigors and isolation of the kisaeng. And the high standards of food and service and the ever-growing cost of labor had served to steadily deplete the dwindling ranks of the houses. At a price of several hundred dollars per person, the clientele had become quite limited.
Burke was glad to be the one charged with scrutinizing extravagant expense vouchers. He would have had serious questions for anyone turning in an entertainment expense account with this sort of tab on it. But if it produced the desired results, it would be worth it.
As they were ushered through the labyrinthine structure toward their private room, Burke noticed a young girl watching from one of the doorways. "Did you see that one?" he asked Se-jin. "She couldn't be much more than early teens."
"Some may be older than they look," said the Lieutenant. "But she's undoubtedly a trainee. They aren't allowed to work that young now."
There were more than enough others to do the job, though. As soon as they arrived in their tastefully furnished room, a bevy of young beauties dressed in colorful hanbok began to ply them with such attention that Burke was left shaking his head in wonder. Duane loved it. He had grown up among the country club set, but this beat anything that group had ever experienced. The girls served them drinks and a vast array of food. They did lots of smiling and giggling, particularly at the Westerners' attempts to follow Korean customs. Lieutenant Yun stayed busy explaining what was going on, translating their comments and attempting to keep Burke and Duane informed on the proper way to handle various dishes.
While some of the girls sat with them, doing everything from pouring drinks to mopping their brows, others played various instruments and sang or danced. As the evening moved along, Burke noticed one girl in the background playing a twelve-string kayagum zither. She had a beautiful singing voice, but instead of the glued-on smiles of the other girls, she had a rather wistful, almost melancholy look about her. She also appeared somewhat older than the others, who seemed to generally ignore her.
When she began to sing one song, Burke grinned at Lieutenant Yun. "I recognize that one. Arirang, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Yun. Then his face turned sad. "It makes Koreans weep, you know. Do you know the words?"
"No."
"'Arirang, Arirang, Arariyo, we are going over Arirang hill. If you, my love, go along without me, before you have gone a few miles, you will have sore feet. "
Duane cocked his head with an I'm-not-believing-this expression. "It must lose something in the translation."
Burke nodded at the singer as he leaned toward Se-jin and spoke in a soft voice. "She's the one we want."
"Are you sure?" the Lieutenant asked. "She's older, more reserved."
Burke smiled. "Exactly."
When they were about finished with all they could handle in the eating and drinking department, Se-jin got up and approached the girl, as if to compliment her on her performance. He had been instructed to tell her that Burke was a writer who wanted to interview a kisaeng for a book he was working on. He would pay her well just to talk with him a short time.
After a short discussion, he came back to the table. "She gave me the address of a friend where she'll be available at eleven-thirty," he said. "She doesn't want the other girls to know anything about it. I told her they wouldn't."
Mr. Min, who was known in some circles as Hwang sang-sol, checked out the weapons and other supplies and information left in his apartment by the "Reijeo cleaning crew," whose real cleaning mission was something quite different than that presumed by his neighbors. Their normal job was to tidy up the scene of NSP operations that had turned messy. "Restoration specialists" was the euphemistic name by which they were sometimes known. They could quietly dispose of bodies and erase all evidence of violence, restoring an area to its former appearance. In the case of Hwang, they brought in whatever items he had requested for the job assignment. It allowed him to operate without resort to risky underworld connections, a fact that had served him well over the past year of frequent employment by the Agency for National Security Planning. There had been only one slip-up, which had necessitated the elimination of the old Namdaemun Market information peddler, Mr. Chon.
He went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of maekju, Korean beer, and sat at the table to toast his good fortune. His contact had just informed him that the policeman he had eliminated in Pyongyang was the man who had put Mr. Chon on his trail. What a stroke of luck. He had removed an irritation that had been plaguing him with the persistence of a piece of gravel in a shoe. As he downed the bottle of Crown beer, he studied the material the "cleaning crew" had left on his new target. An American, he noted. This should be interesting.
A sharp, muffled noise outside in the hallway set off a mental chain reaction, causing his head to snap around, his ears tuned to catch the slightest warning sound. He heard nothing. Then he realized it had been the door slamming shut in the next apartment. The pretty policewoman. She would make a worthy chase, he thought. It would probably mean getting rid of the mustache. But he quickly discarded the idea. He had a firm rule against mixing business with pleasure. Furthermore, he realized he was becoming a bit too familiar around here, a little too complacent about his surroundings. In this business, a lack of vigilance was an invitation to disaster.
Koh Suk-cha, the kisaeng, was still attractive in a wistful way but more resembled a flower stripped of most of its petals without her makeup and hanbok. She sat nervously in the living room of her friend's apartment, dressed in rather nondescript brown blouse and slacks, and answered Burke's questions. He did most of the talking. Duane sat by in silence and Se-jin helped with the translation. Her English was not too good. Burke asked how she got started and what was done in the training period. Then he turned to her present role at the Jang Jung Gak.