Ping-Pong Heart

– 39-

They’d heard about Miss Jo, she told me, and the murder of Major Schultz.

“We pay attention to everything going on at the Eighth United States Army.”

“And also what’s going on with me?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Our sources already knew that people more powerful than Miss Jo were involved. Possibly the Five Oh First and the agent known as Commander Ku.”

“That’s why you sent those two operatives to save Miss Jo,” I said, “when we had arrested her in Itaewon?”

She nodded.

“Why was she so important to you?”

“Because we knew,” she said, “if you turned Miss Jo over to the KNPs, even though Inspector Kill might have his doubts, accusing her and prosecuting her for the murder would be too convenient. The South Korean government would want the motive for the murder of an American officer to be nothing more than greed and personal revenge. They wouldn’t want the American public to think his death might’ve been due to espionage.”

“Because that might hurt the Pak Chung-hee regime’s image in the West. And increase the call to bring our boys home.”

“And cut off your generous American aid,” she said.

Doctor Yong In-ja had once been chief of the Itaewon branch of the Yongsan District Public Health Service; she’d later been my very serious girlfriend and mother to our son, Il-yong. Moonlight filtered through the dirty window, illuminating her face. She looked beautiful. Ernie would’ve laughed at me for thinking so: She had a round head, wore round glasses and kept her straight black hair cut short. But she had flawless pale skin, and her broad smile lit up the world when she was happy. She was brilliant and, more importantly, dedicated to her cause. A cause that aimed to establish a third path in Korean government. Not Communism. Not authoritarian militarism, like the Pak Chung-hee dictatorship. But a way that was democratic and independent of foreign influence. Her contingent was well established and had roots all the way back to the resistance movements in South Cholla province during Japanese colonization. As such, both the North and the South Korean governments hated the group and, more often than not, killed its leaders on sight.

“Our contacts in the police department,” she said, “told us that you visited Mokpo. It was discussed at our leadership counsel. Your presence in Mokpo made no sense. It didn’t advance your investigation. They couldn’t figure out why you’d come.”

“But you knew.”

“Yes,” she replied. “I knew. It was dangerous, to me and to our son.” She took a deep breath and continued. “We wanted Eighth Army to investigate the Schultz murder because we hoped you’d find the spies in your ranks.”

“Your plan worked.”

She stood and lifted the wooden crate upon which she was sitting, then placed it closer to me. She reached out and took my hand. “I am marked for death,” she told me. “Only a revolution here in South Korea can change that. You and I can never marry.” She paused, letting that sink in, and added, “That is our fate.”

I nodded.

“Every time you search for me, it puts me in danger. You must promise.” She squeezed my hand. “Don’t ever try to find me again.”

“It’s difficult,” I answered, stricken.

“Yes. But you understand why.”

“I understand. That pain I can bear. What I can’t bear is not seeing our son.”

“I know that.” Then she called out something in Korean. I was so confused by then that I didn’t realize what was happening. The door opened. The two Korean men who’d dropped from the roof in Itaewon were standing outside. Big guys. Tough. But they didn’t enter. Instead, one of them waved his hand and a very small person walked through the door. He hurried to his mother’s side. Through the skylight above, a moonbeam shone on his face. My son. Il-yong. The First Dragon.