Say, for example, Major John Smith from the intelligence center decides to sneak away from his wife one night for a bit of secretive muff-diving. Choi and his boys have spotters outside the brothels: When Smith has sated his loins and paid his bill, they pick him up and take him to the station for a little grilling. They can ruin his career and bust up his family, or they can trade favors.
Or maybe it’s Congressman Smith who has come to Korea for a little official fact-finding tour, and some harmless, wanton fun on the side. Or maybe it’s Sergeant Smith, the clerk for Colonel Jones, the operations officer in charge of war planning. The possibilities are both endless and boggling.
And the blackmail didn’t have to be limited to the sex trade. Maybe it’s an arrest for shoplifting. Maybe it’s blackmarketing. Maybe it’s a drunken brawl. Every crime committed by an American inside Itaewon would be reported immediately to the Itaewon station. Hell, the target doesn’t even have to commit a crime. Maybe it’s just something Choi and his boys trump up to entrap some particularly juicy target, rather than the random targets of opportunity who walk willy-nilly through their precinct doors every day.
Obviously such an opportunity presented itself in the person of Thomas Whitehall, who was renting an apartment so he could have a private enclave to meet his male lover, who just happened to be the son of the South Korean defense minister.
Mercer’s eyes suddenly lost their normally granular look and became wide and intense.
I said, “Think about it. Choi sees an opportunity that’s much juicier than running blackmail schemes and collecting intelligence. He sees a chance to burn down the entire alliance. He ignites the fire by murdering Lee and framing an American officer. He tosses on a thousand-gallon can of high-octane gasoline by massacring a bunch of Americans right outside the gates of Yongsan Garrison, right in front of twenty news cameras. He even shoots some of the reporters, just to spur their outrage.”
Carol finally got it. She dropped her valise and said, “Oh my God.”
Then I admitted, “Of course, I’m just surmising. I mean, there’s maybe two or three other possible explanations. And believe me, I’ve tried to think them all through. But see if you can conceive of another that fits every angle.”
“You really believe this?” Mercer asked. “I mean, you’re not just blowing up some big conspiracy balloon to get your client off?”
“Hey, I’m a lawyer. Of course I am.”
CHAPTER 34
At 7:00 A.M., I sat in Mercer’s office as Carol dialed the Itaewon precinct station. Her phone was connected to a speaker so Mercer and I and a few other agents could overhear the conversation. Carol identified herself as Moon Song Johnson and asked to speak directly with Chief Inspector Choi.
He came on and she chattered away, sounding like a scatterbrained Korean-American housewife, saying she was married to a very important American Army colonel on post, saying she’d met Michael Bales and his wife, Choi’s sister, through local acquaintances, and that Bales had once told her that if she ever had any problems in Itaewon, well, then she should feel free to call his brother-in-law.
Well, she did have a problem, she complained. A big problem. She’d been in Itaewon shopping the day before when some louse cut the straps on her purse and ran off with it. For the next five minutes Choi asked her the standard whens, wheres, and hows; from the sound of it, checking the blocks from a standard police questionnaire.
Then Carol started crying. She moaned for a while about all the vitally important things inside her purse, from her military ID to her passport, and how ruined her life would be if she didn’t get them back. Choi kept assuring her he’d do his best. He insisted he had a strong grip on his precinct. It was all a matter of intelligence, he told her, and he had very good intelligence. He’d put out word to the local merchants and he’d know if the thief tried to use her charge cards or identification. Carol asked him if maybe it was an American who might’ve stolen it, since, after all, her wonderful husband notwithstanding, Americans are such uncultivated, lawless bastards. Choi admitted that Americans are certainly a depraved and crooked race, but said he doubted they’d commit such a crime off base, because the punishment for getting caught would be so much worse than being caught on base. Should she call the Post Exchange and Commissary to warn them?, Carol asked. Yes, he assured her. Call and warn them. Take every precaution. Ask them to watch for your ID and credit cards. She asked if he thought the criminal would escape his net. No, he assured her, he didn’t think the criminal would escape. It might take time, but if the thief used anything from her purse, then Choi’s many sources would notify him.
Carol thanked him and asked if she should check with Bales on the progress. Yes, please, Choi politely replied, check with Michael.
My estimation of Carol Kim increased. In a seven-minute conversation, she’d pried all the right words out of Choi’s lips. One of the men leaning against the walls immediately slipped the tape out of the recorder and dashed off with it.
Next, a Korean in civilian clothes was ushered in. He seemed to know everybody in the office except me, so Mercer introduced us. His name was Kim-something-something, like nearly every third Korean you meet. He was Mercer’s counterpart in the KCIA, the Korean version of our Agency, only there’re some fairly gaping differences, since the KCIA isn’t hamstrung by restrictions concerning domestic operations, nor is it held back by millions of human rights regulations. For example, if the KCIA wants to kidnap you and bust your kneecaps to get answers, it can do that.
Kim had a stack of dossiers tucked under his arm. He looked wrinkled and disheveled as though he’d been pulled out of bed by a frantic phone call. Which he had. By Buzz Mercer.
The files under his arm were the personnel dossiers of the 110 cops assigned to the Itaewon precinct. He set them down on Mercer’s desk, dividing them into two neat stacks – one big, containing about eighty or ninety folders; the second smaller, containing twenty to thirty files.
He looked at Mercer. “We ran these through COMESPRO. This is how it came out.”
His English was flawless. There was not even a hint of an accent, which was not uncommon for those Koreans selected for important jobs where they were supposed to interface with Americans fairly frequently. The Koreans choose folks who sound just like Americans, gnarled idioms and all. They do this not just because they’re hospitable folks, which they are, but because Americans tend to be much more loose-lipped when they’re around folks who sound just like them. This is an advantage in intelligence work particularly.
Anyway, Mercer nodded that he understood what Kim was talking about, which he most likely did, because he’d probably been through this a hundred times before. I, on the other hand, had nary a clue what Mr. Kim was talking about. I coughed once or twice to get his attention.
“Excuse me,” I finally said, “what in the hell is this COMESPRO? Could you tell me what you’re talking about?”
Kim looked over at Mercer, who nodded, which I guess was the cue it was okay to let me in on this little secret. He gave me a smug smile and I was instantly reminded of my sixth-grade teacher, an arrogant schmuck who spent his life surrounded by twelve-year-olds and therefore thought he was the world’s smartest guy. Spooks often remind me of him, regardless of their nationality. Since they know all kinds of dark, fluttery things us normal folks don’t, they have this slightly stuck-up, superior attitude. It’s one of those knowledge-is-power things, I guess.