Martin Limon - The Iron Sickle

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

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

“Sueno?” 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.

I returned to Yongsan Compound.

Ernie and Captain Prevault had also returned by now, and we met at the CID admin office. Despite the rawness of my physical presence, Captain Prevault hugged me.

“We searched everywhere for you,” she said. “The KNPs didn’t help at first but then when Ernie insisted Mr. Kill in Seoul be notified, they started to cooperate.”

“How’d you find out I was okay?” I asked.

“I called Riley,” Ernie said. “The MPs got your radio message.”

Riley said, “The Provost Marshal wants to talk to you, trooper. Now.”

“Shouldn’t I change first?”

“ Now !” Riley repeated, pointing down the hallway.

I bowed to the inevitable. Before I left, Ernie said, “Give me the keys to your wall locker. I’ll go to the barracks and get you a change of clothes.”

I checked my pockets. “I lost them. But Mr. Yim has a set. And there’s an extra pair of boots under my bunk.”

“I’ll get ’em,” he said and hurried away.

Captain Prevault squeezed my hand. “Good luck in there,” she said.

It was a routine ass chewing. Even the Provost Marshal realized that if Ernie and I hadn’t broken free of his controlling hand, we never would’ve flushed out the man with the iron sickle like we had. Still, now the 8th Army faced the problem of having a civilian murdered right under its nose.