“Keep going. Back to Seoul.”
“Right. Good thinking.” Ernie took his eyes of the road and twisted his head toward me. “Why?”
“He knows he’s not going to get away with this.”
“Okay.” Ernie sped around a ROK Army military convoy.
“Even if he ditches the little kisaeng and we have trouble pinning Miss Hwang’s murder on him, he knows we know about the game with the extra inventory.”
“With the Colt 45 and the brandy and the other stuff.”
“Right. That’s over. And a record of all of it is on paper somewhere. Hard to find, maybe well hidden by the Comptroller’s Office, but once we know it’s there-and we do know-we’ll be able to dig it up.”
“So if he doesn’t want to go to the Federal Pen,” Ernie said, “he has to destroy those records.”
“Precisely.”
“But that’s impossible. It would take him days, maybe weeks, to go back and pull all those invoices. Like Rick Mills said, this has been going on for years. Even if Demoray only goes back to when he got involved, it’s a massive task.”
“You’re right about that.” I waited for Ernie to say more, but his face was twisted in consternation. Still, he wound through the much slower traffic with the consummate ease of a driving virtuoso. “Unless Demoray takes a shortcut,” I said.
Ernie glanced at me. “Shortcut? There’s no shortcut. This is the fastest route to Seoul.”
“Not that kind of shortcut.”
“Then you mean with the records?”
“Yes.”
I could see his expression change as he pieced it all together.
“I’ll take the back gate,” he said.
The back gate into South Post Yongsan Compound led us past the 121st Evacuation Hospital, along the edge of the 8th United States Army Golf Course, through the Embassy Housing Area, and finally into the main 8th Army Headquarters Logistics/Supply Command.
We pulled up in front of the 8th United States Army Non-Appropriated Fund Records Repository. A side door was wide open. Beyond it, a quarter-ton truck was parked. Holding his .45 at the ready, Ernie checked the truck and then shook his head. Empty. We entered the warehouse.
The lights were off, but there was enough moonlight streaming in through the windows and the doorway for us to realize that we were in the main office clerical area. We pushed past the same grey desks we’d seen recently with what appeared to be the same stacks of onionskin paperwork in their wire in-baskets.
When we stepped into the main records area, we stopped for a moment and listened. Above, moonlight filtered through the overhead windows, dimly illuminating the seemingly endless rows of metal stanchions and neatly aligned cardboard boxes of records. At first we heard nothing, but then Ernie motioned toward his right.
I listened carefully.
Splashing. The sound of liquid being poured, punctuated by intermittent gurgling. Vast quantities of liquid. And then, for the first time since we’d entered the warehouse, I took a deep breath.
“Gas,” Ernie whispered.
He motioned for me to go left as he moved toward the rows of records on the right. As I stepped deeper into the warehouse, I realized that many of the cardboard boxes on the wooden shelves were wet with gasoline. The air was saturated with its pungent smell. I reached into my pocket, wishing I had a handkerchief to tie around my nose. But I didn’t. I thought of the .45 I hadn’t checked out from the arms room. At a supply closet, I stopped to search with my flashlight and pulled out a broad-brushed broom, US Army-issue. I’d used millions of them in my day and knew how to detach the handle. I unscrewed it and when I left the supply closet, I had a sturdy walking stick in my hands. I held it with both hands, pointing it forward like I’d done with my rifle during bayonet drill.
When I reached the far end of the row, I squatted and listened.
Whimpering. The little kisaeng. She was just a few yards away. I stood up and walked toward the sound.
“Hold it!”
I froze. There was Demoray. Moonlight from the storm windows above shone down on him, and sitting next to him on a stool was the little kisaeng, her head bowed, her hair drenched with liquid. Gasoline.
Demoray held a lighter just above her head.
“Back off!” he shouted. “I want you both out of here now!”
Ernie was crouched about ten yards behind him, both fists aiming his .45 automatic dead into the center of Demoray’s back. But the air was drenched with gasoline fumes. Certainly, if Ernie fired, this entire warehouse would explode into flame. The little kisaeng, Demoray, me, and Ernie with it.
“Hold it, Ernie,” I said.
Ernie lowered his .45.
“What is it you want, Demoray?” I asked.
He stood up straighter, lowering the cigarette lighter slightly. “That’s more like it,” he said. “Showing a senior NCO a little respect for once.”
“You don’t deserve any respect,” Ernie growled.
I waved him down.
“Name it, Demoray,” I said. “What do you want?”
“First, I want you two assholes out of this warehouse.”
I nodded toward the little kisaeng. “Only if she goes with us.”
“She stays!” he shouted.
Ernie raised his .45 again.
“Burning her isn’t going to do any good,” I said. “Burning yourself alive isn’t going to do any good either. The game’s over, Demoray. Best to keep your mouth shut and hire a good lawyer.”
“Some Second Looey who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground?”
“You can hire a stateside lawyer,” I said. “Other people have done it. You must have plenty of money.”
“What do you know about money?”
“Not much,” I admitted.
“Enough of the bull,” Demoray said. “I want you and your partner out of here now.” He raised the lighter, his hand on the striking wheel.
“Okay,” I said. “We’re moving.”
I took a step backward and, as I did so, I flashed a hand signal to Ernie. We’d used them plenty of times in tight situations. They weren’t regulation. You couldn’t find them in any Army Field Manual, but they worked for us. This one said, “I’ll distract him while you take him down.”
I moved quickly to my left, stuck out my hand toward the little kisaeng, and said, “Ka-ja,” which in Korean means “Let’s go.” On cue, she rose to her feet. Demoray flinched and Ernie sprinted forward. Startled, Demoray swiveled at the sound of the footsteps, but he was too slow. Ernie plowed into him like an All-Pro linebacker. The lighter flew from Demoray’s hand and skittered along the cement floor. I ran forward and pulled the little kisaeng behind me, then I crouched, dropping my right knee onto Demoray’s thigh, grappling with one of his flailing arms, and simultaneously pulling my handcuffs out from behind my back. Within seconds we had him trussed up, lying facedown on the floor. I retrieved the lighter and placed it carefully into my pocket.
“Not so tough now, are you, Demoray?” Ernie said.
I started to walk toward the little kisaeng, expecting her to be relieved and happy, but instead of greeting me she stared off into the hallway to my left. Footsteps approached. Someone kicked my broom handle across cement and then a shadow emerged around the corner. Standing in front of us was Rick Mills, Executive Director of the Central Locker Fund.
Accompanying him, in all its macabre glory, was a double-barreled shotgun aimed straight at us.
– 15-
“Don’t even think about it, Bascom,” Rick Mills said.
Ernie had his hand on the hilt of his holstered .45.
“Take off your jacket,” Rick Mills said. Ernie did, and dropped it on the floor. “Now, unbuckle the leather. Without touching the weapon, drop the entire holster on top of the jacket.” Ernie followed instructions.