We Were Beautiful Once (32 page)

It was a question that did not bear answering, but when the silence between them became overpowering, Diane gave up. “I'm going to bed.”

 

Ten days later, Seymour and Nick were in Korean Airlines Business Class, traveling to Seoul. Freedman's presence had more importance to the Koreans, and it was no surprise that when the men arrived, the first order of business was for them to ascertain what he would be willing to do on their behalf. Nick had no illusions that Freedman was the key to his success. The day after arrival, the two men were picked up at 9 a.m. by limousine at the Marriott Hotel. Three Koreans dressed in black slacks and black leather bomber jackets waited in a second limo. The pair of limos sped out of the compound and onto more heavily trafficked thoroughfares, before turning down quieter streets and, finally, into a complex of empty back alleys. The cars stopped before one of a narrow row of two and three story gray masonry houses.

Freedman, with Nick behind him, followed a man sporting a light blue turtleneck under his jacket. The accompanying men were all about 5'5”, broad shouldered and small waists. Freedman muttered, “Strongmen...  KIA.” Nick glanced over his shoulder. Freedman was more accustomed to “cloak and dagger”—having followed seedy men, like the man in the blue shirt, when he had worked protocol in the Kennedy White House. Reaching a second landing, the two Americans looked fleetingly at one another and then at the KIA men, before climbing the last flight of narrow wooden stairs. Freedman removed his jacket. His shirt was soaked. He paused to catch his breath. The men finally reached the top floor and entered a small, three room apartment with white walls. They were seated at a dining room table that accommodated six, filling the space. Seymour sat at the head, his backside halfway into the hallway, Nick and four men fit like clams on each side of the table. At the far end sat Jang Jun-Hwan—thin faced, crooked teeth, a man in his late sixties, distant. A minute passed during which everybody, except Nick, lit a cigarette.

Jang smiled, looked around the table, and finally spoke, “Can I offer you a glass of orange soda?” A man in a black jacket put tall heavy tumblers on the table and filled them from a quart bottle. “Sir, please indulge me. I need to be certain who you are, or rather who I am told you are, as impolite as that may sound. Can you please tell me, by way of example, what you did in Washington and a few of the people you claim to know.”

Seymour gave Jang a five minute recitation of the sort that he would give if he were  a job applicant. When Seymour finished, Jang nodded and turned to Nick, whose summary took roughly a minute. Following the Americans' disclosures, Jang's question was more pointed. “Mr. Freedman, I am less interested in who you know on a professional level, than who you know on a personal or friendly basis. With whom do you socialize?”

“I've had a long political life as a White House aide in the Kennedy, then Johnson Administration and finally the House of Representatives...  by 1968, I got to know on a first name basis the power brokers—you know, Kennedy family, three Secretaries of State...  ”

“Yes, but how well, and among these, what gentlemen in particular, Mr. Freedman?” Jang was still not satisfied.

“Well, Kip Karigan, Majority Leader in the House of Representatives.  His daughter had a drinking problem. Called me at two in the morning to get her out of jail. Drunk driving. There are many examples like this.”

“Ok, Mr. Freedman, I understand.” Jang turned to Nick. “And, you Mr. Castalano?”

“I know few people, in Washington that is. I went to school with Giacomo Locke, Congressman Joseph Rodham's top aide. If he were here he would have a million stories, but I'm afraid I have none.”

The Korean screener listened but did not ask Nick to elaborate. “Gentleman, I need to excuse myself. I will return shortly.” Jang rose, bowed politely in Freedman's direction and left.

“He's reporting what he heard up the line,” Freedman remarked.

Jang returned half an hour later. “I apologize for the delay. Let me ask you, Mr. Freedman, do you have any reservations helping our government find someone who will listen to a problem we have with delisting—that is being unauthorized to export certain weapons systems to allies in Africa.”

“I'd have to know more. It sounds like someone already did business in an impermissible way.”

“Yes, that is the allegation, so to speak. Nevertheless, we need to put the pieces back.”

“Well, it'd do no harm to see if there were someone who might listen to a reasonable explanation. I think I can do that,” Seymour replied.

Jang once again dismissed himself.  It was nearly noon when he returned. “Gentlemen, we would like to escort you to our next destination, if you would be so kind.”

“Where'd that be?” Freedman inquired.  

“We would like you to meet a few of our representatives at the Ministry of National Defense.”

Nick and Seymour looked at each other, turned toward the door and saw a man in black motioning them to follow back to the limos.  The cars sped off, lights flashing, overtaking vehicles at speeds topping 150 kilometers. In fifteen minutes they had reached the Korean Ministry of National Defense.

The doors of the limo swung open. Soldiers with M-16s slung over their shoulder guarded the entrance. The men exited the car and were escorted into a marbled lobby the size of a small office building. A man in an officer's uniform approached with his hands extended. He smiled and addressed the Americans in barely understandable English, “Give me passports.” The two gave up their passports, and another man in fluent English asked each of them to stand against a green sheet before he swung around a large box camera mounted on a tripod.  

The Americans were given badges with their names and picture, which they affixed to their lapels. Nick quipped, “Must mean something like VIP.” A soldier escorted them up a flight of wide stairs, along a short gray granite hall and into a cavernous sitting room with a red and white oriental rug. At one end was an oversized oak desk. A score of chairs lined the walls. A diminutive gray-haired man stood behind the desk. Freedman entered and the man came walking in his direction, aided by a cane. Nick looked down and saw the man was wearing a prosthetic. Handing his business card to Freedman, he declared, “I am Oh Jin Woo, Korean Minister of Defense.” Behind the Americans a troupe of ten men filed in, consisting of generals, colonels and civilians in dark business suits. One man introduced himself as the CEO of Daesun, the largest Korean electronics conglomerate.

The first ten minutes were spent introducing each other. The defense minister made salutary remarks that lasted another ten minutes, followed by Seymour, who responded like he had been dispatched by the U.S. State Department. Seymour ended by smiling widely for the minister. The Koreans turned to Nick. He offered that he had been a veteran and without any official imprimatur, he extended America's appreciation for Korea's commitment in Vietnam. The officers smiled gratuitously and Nick turned his attention to the minister.   

The minister spoke about how grateful he was that the Americans made the trip. After another forty minutes of ritual speeches, during which jet lag and boredom combined to make Nick's eyes droop and his head bob, the minister concluded. He smiled at Seymour. Then with good cheer and in perfect California English, asked, “Will you gentlemen join me tonight?”

“Yes, I'd hoped that we could attend a traditional Korean dinner, a
kisaeng?
” Seymour winked knowingly at Nick.

 

The supper was fit for a Korean emperor and the music for its royal court. Generals, colonels and businessmen and the cast of characters from the earlier meeting were in attendance. In a large circle, each sat with a pair of young women. The night was filled with food; live music for dancing was supplied by an accordionist and singing drummer.  By the end of the evening, no one could stand, neither Minister, General, chefs, hostesses, nor their esteemed American guests. Nick felt jovial, careless—the trial was another world away.

Dawn was breaking over Seoul's Han River when Nick and Seymour, each joined by a hostess, stumbled toward the limo that would return them to the Marriott. As the car drew away from the hotel entrance, Nick discovered the unbearably young, unbearably beautiful Rachel Choi, her alias for such occasions, standing next to him.

“I go to room,” the woman said in barely understandable English, as she gripped his arm.

“Not with me. I go alone,” Nick answered firmly, trying to disentangle himself. He saw Seymour disappear into an elevator with a girl equally young, equally beautiful.

“No, cannot do.  Must go,” was her reply.

She looked at Nick on the verge of crying.

“Must go or get fired. Please take me...  to room. So they see me go.”

Nick caught on. “All right, come stay for a little while, but then you go. Yes?”

“Yes.”

Nick and she stood perfectly still as the elevator accelerated to the sixth floor. Nick opened the door to his room, removed his jacket, loosened his tie and sat at a overlooking the Han River snaking its way through the city. Earlier in the day, he had set up his chessboard, and changing focus from the dark outline of the river, he slid white king's pawn K-3 to K-4. He felt Rachel watching him, and then saw her extend a small, delicate hand to black queen's bishop sliding it diagonally to the far side of the board: checkmate.

The unexpected move raised Nick's eyes. “You know how to play?”

“Yes, little.”

“Where'd you learn?”

“University, go to university, learn English, learn chess.”

“Are you a student?”

“Yes, student now, earn tuition working for Minister.”

Nick began understanding this cultural exchange on a new level. “I'm impressed. You seem like a smart girl.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nick.”

“No. Call me Nick. But you must be going, Rachel, now.”

“Can stay if you would like me, Nick.”

“Don't think that'd be a good idea.”

“Ok, I call desk for taxi?”

Nick listened without comprehending to the melodies of Rachel's voice as she spoke into the phone.  Bidding him goodbye, she left.  As he watched her shut the door, he thought, “If she's a day over eighteen, I'm a drunken sailor.”    

The next morning Nick and Seymour began a series of meetings with the Koreans to discuss the kind of support they needed. The calendar on Nick's watch read
9/8
.  In a windowless room on the second floor of the headquarters, they sat across a glass top table from Lee Dae-Ho, a two star general, and Park Dong-Min, a full colonel. The men discussed terms of engagement which, if successful, would begin Freedman's representation. Seymour did most of the talking—to do with trust, control over the various matters, assurances that if he represented the government that there would be no illegal schemes, payoffs, espionage or other high crimes that foreign agents need to “wet the bed over.” The Koreans afforded no comfort, responding evasively. Freedman could not get the unqualified answer he needed. Seymour had told Nick earlier what he had to hear, but the Koreans could not, or would not, speak for their larger constituency. Freedman remained stoic, but in his usual way chain-smoked—after each deep drag on unfiltered Chesterfields, he'd let the cigarette burn into a large, tenuous ash that would hang until the slightest air current tore it off.  And it would fall onto his pin striped suit or the general's Persian rug. It was Freedman's way of telling the men that he did not give “two shits” if he represented them. After four hours, the meeting ended in a stalemate as to how the representation would play out.

The next day the Americans were summoned to Colonel Park's office to discuss what Nick hoped to find in Korea. They were joined by Yoon Sung Min, an undersecretary from the Korean State Department. Nick summarized the Girardin case and a laundry list of questions, indicating that he would settle for a few crucial leads.

“Colonel Park, I'd like to know how to read several maps that I've brought with me. In particular there are some marks that I think could be important. And, of course, if anyone has information about whether any Americans were left behind, I would like to know that, too. And, if there were American's left behind, why? Lastly, but importantly, do you have any records concerning a soldier by the name of Roger Girardin or his whereabouts?”

The Colonel scribbled notes in a black bound notebook. “Mr. Castalano, I am not sure we can help, but we will do our best. Do you have any more questions you can share with me and secretary Min at this time?”

Nick reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a manila folder from which he removed and unfolded three maps. “I think these are maps of Camp 13.  You must be familiar with this camp along the Yalu.”

“Yes, notorious for inhumane conditions during the war under Commandant Cho Tat Wah.”

Nick turned over one of the maps. He waited until the colonel and the secretary perused it before pointing to a hexagon. “What do these symbols mean?...  burial grounds?”

The two Koreans each made notes. The Colonel said, “Mr. Castalano, we have no answers right now. But if we could get a copy of these, we will get back to you if we find something that may help.”

After the meeting, the Americans were driven back to the hotel. That evening, there was   a knock on Nick's door.

“Hello, Nick.”

“Rachel!”

“Come to pick up package from downstairs for my boss, and I wanted to see how you doing. Are you invite me? We play chess?”

Nick eyed her up and down.  A white flowered dress fit tightly around her neck and tiny waist before falling below her creamy white knees.

Nick stepped out of the way. Rachel walked over to the table where the chess pieces sat from the night she parried Nick's errant move.