WE MADE TWO TURNS, DOUBLING BACK ON OURSELVES through narrow passageways. It was cold down here and getting colder. I admired the goose-bumped flesh on the arms of the Chinese girl and wondered how she could stand the frigid temperatures.
Our path was lit by small oil lamps flickering out of indentations carved in the granite walls. Whoever set up this operation had little faith in electricity.
Mining must’ve gone on down here at one time or another. At the opening to an old shaft I spotted rusty rails and what appeared to be a cast-iron mining car. Probably an antique.
A shroud of smoke drifted close to the floor, snaking its way into the dark shaft.
At another carved opening, this one covered only with a beaded curtain, the Chinese girl bowed and motioned for us to enter. I nodded to her and watched as she trotted back into the darkness.
“Nice can,” Ernie said.
I grunted. He never lets up.
The beads clattered as we pushed through. This chamber was even darker than the hallway. In-
side, there were no lamps. Instead, the sparse flames of stone stoves sputtered beneath thick earthen pots. The room was filled with the pungent aroma of herbs. Some tangy, some sweet. All types of herbs. Seared, boiled, roasted. I felt as if I had stepped into the den of some long-lost medieval alchemist.
Along the walls were plain wooden cabinets, each lined with hundreds of square panels. A wooden knob poked out of each little panel and every one was marked in black ink with a Chinese character. I couldn’t read all of the characters but most of them had the radicals for “wood” or “plant” or “horn.” The collection of herbs in the wall of tiny drawers was vast. It must’ve taken years to accumulate.
Something moved.
At first I thought it was nothing more than a shawl draped over the back of a chair. Then I realized it was a man, hunched over one of the small pots.
“Good evening, Agent Sueño,” he said.
His voice resonated with venerable authority. To my amazement he even pronounced my name correctly.
Ernie stepped toward one of the stoves and grabbed a pair of metal tongs.
“Ah,” the man said, “and Agent Bascom. So good of you to join us.”
Ernie spat on the floor.
I decided to answer in Korean. And not politely.
“Wei uri chapko deiri wasso?” Why did you drag us here?
The man known as So Boncho-ga, Herbalist So, stood up. He was tall for a Korean, with a back that was crooked only when he leaned over his pots.
Bulging eyes glistened in the dim light like eggs swimming in water. From a tangled bush of gray hair, a bronze forehead slanted downward, lined with deep wrinkles, making the skull that housed his brain seem as solid and as secure as the steep flight of stone steps which led to his kingdom.
He reached forward with a pair of rusty tongs that were almost as crooked as his fingers and moved a steaming
pot from one fire to another. When he looked back at me his full lips moved, enunciating the English as if he had been born a first cousin to the House of Windsor.
“You employ our mother tongue well,” Herbalist So said. “Even the indirect insult. Quite admirable.”
He puttered amongst his pots for a moment or two, finished some obscure chore, stepped forward, then turned his full attention toward me.
“Are you familiar with Chinese medicine, Agent Sueño?”
I could’ve tried to hard-ass him. Make him answer my question. But I knew the door behind us was barred and I doubted that there was any other way out of this damp cave. Besides, his boys probably weren’t far away. I had to go along with him. For now.
Ernie still stood motionless. I didn’t know how long that would last.
“I know that a lot of Koreans believe in Chinese medicine,” I replied.
“Oh, yes. They certainly do. And for good reason. There are many secrets locked in these herbs. Secrets that I have spent my life trying to unravel.”
“But it’s only a hobby for you,” I said. “Not your main line of work.”
He chuckled at that.
“Yes, you’re right. Not my main line of work. It was at one time, though. When I was young. Even our Japanese overlords believed in Chinese medicine. They had no objection to us plying our trade as long as all prescriptions were written in their foul language.” He turned, spat on the floor, and stared directly at Ernie.
Ernie tightened his grip on the tongs. Herbalist So looked back at me.
“This chamber.” He waved his arm. “It was carved out of natural formations that were discovered when dropping a new well in the area behind Itaewon. The local chief of the partisans decided to use it for his headquarters.”
I stared at him, trying to discover the source of the pride that rang in his voice. I said nothing.
“Yes. That’s right. The chief of the partisans was my father.”
With a damp cheesecloth he wiped residue dripping from an earthen spout.
“We held classes down here. I was one of the students. The Japanese had forbidden us Koreans to speak or read or write our own language. Everything had to be conducted in Japanese. To keep our own culture was risky, but we did it. After four thousand years of Korean history, did they really think their brutal methods could turn us into second-rate Japanese?”
I didn’t have an answer for him.
“Of course not,” he said. “Have you been to south post on your own compound lately? The old prison there?”
“Yes. I’ve seen the bullet holes in the wall,” I said.
“The Japanese executed many Koreans. Some of them just before you Americans arrived, after their Emperor surrendered. The Imperial Army from your compound made a final raid on Itaewon and the surrounding areas. With the thought that our misery was almost over, my father was careless. They caught him, up above. Two days later they executed him. The following day an American troop ship landed at the port of Inchon.”
One of the pots started to bubble. He rushed toward it, lifted it with a thick pad, and with a charred stick rearranged the glowing coals beneath.
I could see more clearly now and I searched the walls. They were mostly carved stone but there were some spots that were darker than others. My bet was that there were back entrances. If these chambers had been used by_armed men resisting the Japanese, they would’ve had more than one means of escape. There had to be ventilation. The smoke from the pots drifted back to the entranceway, toward the old mining shaft we had seen on the way in.
“After the war,” Herbalist So said, “we Koreans had nothing. The Japanese, yes, set up some industry. But its purpose was to export raw materials back to their heathen islands. The rest of our economy was utterly devastated. Still, we started to rebuild.”
“And then the Communists came south?”
He looked at me sharply, wondering if I was mocking his slow tale. I kept my face unrevealing.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Armies paraded up and down our peninsula. First the North Koreans, then you Americans, then the Chinese. We were poor before, but after our own civil war we were desperate.”
“That’s when you started the slicky boy operation.”
The pot he had been puttering with must’ve been done. He poured some of the potion into a thick cup. He leaned forward and inhaled, testing it, pleased. Sloshing it around to rinse the cup, he tossed the rest of it on the ground and poured a new cup to the brim. He held it out to me.
“You have been through a lot tonight, Agent Sueño. For that I apologize. Here, drink this. And sit down. You will find a bench over there.”
He motioned into the darkness. I took the cup from him, walked over to the bench, and sat.
Ernie followed, keeping a few feet away from me, heavy tongs still at the ready.
“What is it?” I asked Herbalist So, indicating my cup.
“A concoction of herbs. Designed to restore the harmony of the yin and the yang.”
I held the cup to my nose and breathed deeply. The liquid smelled of ancient things decayed and rotting in the earth.
Herbalist So walked out from behind his pots and sat down on another bench opposite me, ignoring Ernie. Ernie didn’t mind. He kept his eyes moving, studying the darkness, expecting more slicky boys to spring out at us at any moment.
At first, Herbalist So kept his back ramrod straight. Then he leaned forward.
“Balance is the key to everything we do. To our health and to our ‘slicky boy’ operation, as you call it.”
“What does ‘balance’ have to do with thievery?”
He sat back up. “You are bold, Agent Sueño. They told me that you were but now I see for myself.”
“A man named Cecil Whitcomb,” I said, “a soldier in the British Army, was killed in Namdaemun. Slaughtered by a man expert in the use of the knife. Were you, or any of the men who work for you, involved in his murder?”
Herbalist So seemed amused by the question. “And if I said no, would you believe me?”
I shrugged. “I will believe the facts.”
“Wisely said.”
I looked into his big eyes. Half-moon lids slid lazily over them, as if he were a lizard with a full belly, about to fall asleep. The steam from the cup drifted into my nostrils. I held the cup away.
“Then tell me the facts,” I said.
He set his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands.
“After the war everyone was desperate. People, especially children, were starving in the streets. You Americans did some charitable things, I’ll grant you that—much more than the Japanese would’ve done—but still your compounds were loaded with wealth. Food, heating fuel, clothing, medical supplies. All the things we desperately lacked. It was a matter of balance, you see. You had too much and we had too little.”
“So you took the partisan organization that your father left you and started raiding the American bases?”
“It wasn’t quite that simple. Like everyone else, our little band had been ravaged by the war. But we had some expertise and, above all, daring. We found likely young boys and put them through a conditioning and training program. Fed them well. Outfitted them with the proper clothing and tools, and sent them forth.”
“But you also sent them armed with information,” I said.
Herbalist So laughed softly. “Quite. Help from the inside is the only way to keep an operation such as ours productive in the long term.”
“And you didn’t become greedy. You only took as much as you figured the Americans could afford to lose.”
“Exactly. Greed, of course, would have destroyed the balance.”
“But occasionally someone did get greedy and had to be disciplined.”
“It was sometimes necessary. Unfortunate, but necessary.”
“Was the murder of Cecil Whitcomb part of your disciplining process?”
Herbalist So stared directly into my eyes. I felt it then. The intelligence, the determination, the power that was in them. And the ruthlessness. I fought back a wave of fear.
“No,” he said.
He stood and walked back to his simmering pots. Ernie paced nervously. Herbalist So adjusted some of the earthen jars over the small flames and shoved fuel beneath others. Smoke from the dry twigs watered my eyes.
“You should drink your tea,” Herbalist So said. “It restores balance.”
“Fuck your tea,” Ernie said.
Herbalist So stared at him. “Yes. Quite.” He nodded. Keeping his eyes on Ernie, he spoke to me.
“We did know Cecil Whitcomb,” he said. “When he started his amateurish campaign, we were informed about it immediately. I hoped, at first, that he’d stop on his own. His methods were crude. They attracted too much attention. When he didn’t stop, we had a . . . talk with him.”
“You brought him down here?”
“Heavens, no. He did not rate such a thing. We talked to him on the compound. One of your own contract security guards had a little chat with him. No.” Mr. So shook his head. “We didn’t bring Mr. Whitcomb down here. You are the first foreigners to have such an honor.”
And the last, I thought, but I didn’t say it. Now that we knew the secret, how could they let us go?
Herbalist So glanced over at me, a wry smile raising the edge of his mouth. I was afraid to ask him what was so funny. I knew it must be my fear.
“We thought reason would work with Mr Whitcomb. But apparently he had little regard for the warnings of us Koreans. When he continued, we were obliged to use more forceful methods.”
He walked back over to the bench, carrying another cup of tea, and sat down opposite me again.
“The British bruise easily,” he said.
I didn’t answer. He shook his head.
“Still, Mr. Whitcomb persisted. An obstinate little devil. Tough. Almost as poor as us when he was growing up. In a way, I admired him. If he’d been Korean I might have given him some training and turned him loose. But I could not do that. So we were in quite a quandary. What to do?”
He spread his hands.
I wanted to ask where in the hell he learned all this English. He was a scholar, certainly. A man who remembered things. But still, he would’ve needed to practice. I thought of the Korean magazines I thumbed through occasionally, the ones with businessmen in photos with American and European wheelers and dealers. I tried to imagine Herbalist So in a suit, his hair properly brushed. He’d fit right in. All the years he’d been making money off of the U.S. compounds, he must have accumulated a fortune. He would’ve had to invest it, take on a second life. Above ground. For years his organization was one of the top producers of income in the country. His money had helped rebuild the devastated Korean economy. Helped the Koreans climb back into international markets. I was tempted to ask about all this but I fought the urge. My survival, I knew, depended on not knowing any more than I had to.
“When we heard about Mr. Whitcomb’s death,” Herbalist So said, “we were saddened. Yes, it is true. And quite concerned. Our operation has always run on an unwritten contract of mutual trust. The tenets of that contract are simple. We do not take too much and no one gets hurt. Now, someone had been hurt. We knew you Americans would be upset. And rightfully so.”
“And so you started your own investigation?”
“Yes. Of course your name was brought up immediately. And that of your partner, Agent Bascom.” He shook his head. ‘Tour violent behavior at the Kayagum Teahouse was the real clue. You really frightened the owner. She did remember you mentioning the name of a woman who works at the United Nations Club. That led us to that charming young lady, Eun-hi.”
“You talked to Eun-hi?”
“Not me personally. One of my representatives spoke to her.”
“What did she tell him?”
“About fingers.”
“What?”
“Attractive young ladies notice things about one another. When Eun-hi was approached by this ‘Miss Ku,’ they chatted for a while and Eun-hi saw’ that Miss Ku’s manicure was in poor repair. The nails too short. Unsightly lumps of hardened skin at the tips of her fingers.”
“Calluses.”
“Yes. Eun-hi, not being very diplomatic, mentioned it, and Miss Ku explained that she played the kayagum professionally.”
I thought I heard the sharp twang of the strings of the kayagum, an ancient Korean instrument similar to a zither. But other than the sputter of the bubbling pots, the chamber was silent. The sound must’ve been generated by my overheated imagination. Or by my taut nerves.
“Well, that’s all the information one needs really,” Herbalist So said. “An attractive young lady, on an unsavory mission, who is also a professional musician. Seoul is a huge city, over eight million souls, but that narrows down the search considerably. Investigators as talented as you and Agent Bascom here should have had no trouble finding her.” Herbalist So shook his head again. “Too bad you decided instead to Waste your time disrupting our operation.”
“It got your attention, didn’t it?” Ernie said.
Herbalist So nodded, surprised that Ernie had said something to him without using a cuss word. “It most certainly did.” He pointed to the cup in my hand. “You must drink, Agent Sueño. It will help.”
“Help what?” I asked.
“You will go to sleep. Everything will be quite painless.”
Ernie inched closer to Herbalist So. The shadows behind the flickering pots shifted.
“We drink that shit you brewed,” Ernie said, “it knocks us out, and we never wake up. Is that the idea?”
“Not exactly. You will wake up. Wake up somewhere other than here.”
Ernie stepped back. “You ain’t putting me back in that canvas.”
Herbalist So shrugged. “You brought it upon yourselves.”
I felt the same way Ernie did. There was no way I was going to drink this foul potion and there was no way they were going to put me back in the canvas. Besides, how could we be sure that Herbalist So was telling the truth? How could we be sure that we’d wake up at all?
While I was working this out, Ernie surprised me. He let out a slow puff of air. “Okay,” he said. “Where’s my cup?
Using a polite Korean gesture, Herbalist So held the tea out to him with both hands. Ernie reached for the hot potion but instead of grabbing it, his fingers flicked forward.
He slapped the burning liquid into the face of the King of the Slicky Boys.