Mr. Kill by Martin Limon Read Free Book Online Page A

Camp Henry in Taegu. The names didn’t mean much to him, but he conferred with his Operations NCO and came back after a few minutes to tell us that all twelve of them were working on a signal upgrade at the communications relay site atop Namsan Mountain.
    We thanked him, asked him not to warn them we were coming, and hopped into the jeep.
    Namsan literally means South Mountain. Its elevation is almost 900 feet at its highest point, and it is covered in lush green vegetation for most of the year. It sits just south and slightly east of the downtown area of Seoul. The city spreads out around it, some buildings running up its sides, but the main expanse of the mountain is reserved for parks and rock-paved pathways, gurgling creeks and treecovered meadows, where the denizens of Seoul can find at least temporary refuge from the madness of the city.
    Perched atop the peak is a hundred-foot antenna, surrounded by squat green Quonset huts. The United States Army, once again, marking its territory.
    “I’ve never been up here,” Ernie said, as we wound our way up the narrow road through Namsan Park. Occasionally we spotted young women, usually walking alone.
    “Hookers,” Ernie said.
    “Nah,” I said, surprised. “They’re not hookers. They look so wholesome.”
    “That’s part of the come-on.”
    “You’re not serious?”
    Ernie nodded. “I’m serious.”
    “Why would they be out here?”
    “Rich Koreans cruise by, sometimes Japanese businessmen in their limousines. They pull over, talk to the girls, make an arrangement.”
    I turned in the passenger seat to take a good look at Ernie. His green eyes were glued to the road, arms reaching out straight to the steering wheel. “How do you know all this?”
    He sighed. “Here. I’ll show you.”
    With a squeal of brakes, Ernie pulled toward the side of the road. A young woman about ten yards ahead stopped walking and turned to look at us. Ernie rolled up to her slowly until I was staring out the open door of the jeep directly into her eyes.
    “ Anyonghaseiyo? ” I said. Are you at peace?
    “ Nei ,” she replied with a bow. Yes.
    She was a cute girl; round face, plump figure, wearing a demure brown skirt and a tight blue blouse. Despite the overcast gray above, she held a plastic multicolored parasol atop her head to shield her from ultraviolet rays. I continued to smile stupidly, not wanting to say anything, not wanting to corrupt her if she didn’t want to be corrupted. She studied us both quizzically, rolling the handle of the parasol deftly in soft fingers. Finally, she recalled some long-ago-studied English and said, “We go?”
    “ Odi ?” I replied. Where?
    She pointed back down the road. “ Chogi. Yoguan isso .” There. To an inn.
    Ernie grinned at her broadly. I turned and glared at him. He was much too happy with his victory. I turned back to the girl and said in Korean, “I’m sorry. We don’t have time now. We have to go to the compound on the top of the mountain.”
    The girl seemed disappointed but nodded, understanding the requirements of work and duty. There was a hardness to her features now that I hadn’t noticed before. I said good-bye and she watched us as Ernie pulled back onto the road.
    The peak of South Mountain was a flat, leveled-off area. After we flashed our identification, a khaki-clad Korean gate guard with an M-1 rifle slung over his shoulder shoved the big chain-link gate open just far enough for us to drive through. We rolled onto a dirt-covered parade field. To our left, about a hundred yards away, sat a long rectangular building with a sign that said “Namsan Mess” and, beneath that, the Korean word “ Siktang .” Literally, food hall. In the center of the open field loomed the antenna, painted red and white, rising a hundred feet into the sky. Atop it, a red light blinked. On the opposite side of the quadrangle, beyond the antenna, sat a matrix of linked Quonset huts with a sign over the main entrance that said