Mortal Allies Read online

  Katherine stroked her chin. “So what’s their legal system like?”

  “From a defense perspective, Dante’s inferno. A system designed by victims, for victims. To them, a trial is a search for truth and justice. And sometimes they go about finding it in some pretty ugly ways. South Korean gendarmes and prosecutors can get pretty rough, if you get my meaning. There’s this hilarious joke about the Korean who really wanted to sign the confession, only he couldn’t, because all his fingers were broken. But you probably don’t want to hear that joke right now.”

  Allie’s big nose stuck out about two inches. “We’ll just tell them to blow it out their ass. We’ve got this SOFA shit on our side, right? They can’t have him. It’s that simple.”

  I replied, “Very eloquently stated, but it’s not that easy. It’s their country, so like it or not, we’re walking on eggshells.”

  Katherine began pacing across the room. She took small, measured, deliberate steps, because it wasn’t a real big room, but also because she was that way. Very calculating, very shrewd.

  “Do you have any suggestions?” she finally asked me.

  “Sure. Arrange an immediate meeting with Spears’s legal adviser and the ambassador. Except, if I heard right, the ambassador’s in a hospital in Hawaii. So maybe the embassy chargé instead.”

  “What for?”

  “Mainly to hear what they’ve got to say.”

  “Anything else we should do?” Katherine asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “Have a big breakfast. It’s going to be a long day.”

  She and Allie and Maria didn’t want to eat a big breakfast, or any breakfast, which I can’t say displeased me all that much. I therefore went downstairs and ate alone. I stopped in the convenience shop first and picked up the newspapers for the past two days. These were issues of the Stars and Stripes, an overseas military newspaper that included excerpts from stateside Associated Press stories and lots of local news articles written by a regional staff based in Japan.

  Updates on the Lee murder case filled the front pages of both days’ papers. As Clapper had warned, the case was every bit as much a lightning rod in Washington as in Seoul. Not only were the Republicans trying to usher through a bill to overturn the “don’t ask, don’t tell” compromise, but a consortium of angry Southern Baptist fundamentalists were mustering a march on Washington to protest the godless policies of the President who had opened up the military to gays.

  I was just finishing my second cup of coffee when Katherine and Keith swooped down. Keith looked handsomer than ever in a superbly tailored worsted gray flannel suit, with a silk handkerchief stuck out of his coat pocket that perfectly matched his necktie. He looked like one of the models you see in all those catchy men’s fashion magazines Army guys don’t subscribe to. Our fashion world is prescribed in tedious detail by something called a regulation that doesn’t leave you the least bit curious about what lapel cuts or tie widths are in vogue this year.

  Katherine looked frantic. “We’ve got an appointment at the embassy in thirty minutes.”

  “Have fun,” I mumbled, whipping the paper back up in front of my face.

  She and Keith kept standing there, and I knew damn well what was going through Katherine’s mind. She wasn’t about to beg me to come along, but hey, she was way over her head on this.

  I wasn’t over my head. I was swimming in my own métier, as the saying has it. But I also wasn’t about to come along — unless, that is, she did beg me. I can be real churlish that way.

  She said, “Attila, I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to tag along.”

  “Uh-huh,” I murmured, hibernating behind my paper.

  “You know, this might be a fairly interesting session.”

  “Bet so,” I idly mumbled.

  “Come on, Attila. You coming?”

  “I haven’t done the crossword yet,” I remarked indifferently.

  Another moment passed. I heard Keith whisper something in her ear.

  “Attila, please come,” she said.

  “Hey, Moonbeam, my name’s not Attila,” I replied, pointing down at my nametag. Keith’s eyebrow shot up in the air at that one. He looked questionably at Katherine as though to say, Moonbeam? Then he smiled, because really, as monikers go, it fit.

  She ignored him and said, “Okay, Major . . . Major Drummond . . . Sean. Please come.”

  I put down my paper with an exaggerated sigh. “Be happy to. If you think I would be helpful, that is.” I looked up into her beautiful face and could see this was getting excruciatingly painful for her.

  Her big green eyes got narrow and pointy, and her cute little lips shrank. “It could be helpful,” she said, with no effort to disguise her resentment.

  “I’m sorry. Was that could be helpful? Or would be helpful?”

  “It, uh . . . it would be helpful. Okay?”

  I could tell I’d extracted about as much humility from her as I was likely to get. On this round, anyway.

  “And how were you planning to get to the embassy?” I asked.

  “I thought we’d take a taxi.”

  “Won’t work,” I told her.

  “And why not?”

  “Because we’d never get there. Just a minute.”

  I went to a phone by the hostess’s table. I dialed the operator and asked her to immediately put me through to the MP station. A desk sergeant with a brusque, uncompromising voice answered. I told him to connect me to the shift commander.

  An only slightly more reasonable voice came on the line. “Captain Bittlesby.”

  “Bittlesby, this is Major Drummond, co-counsel for Captain Whitehall.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “My other two co-counsels and I need to be transported and escorted to the American embassy. Immediately.”

  “Is this trip authorized?” he wearily asked.

  “Authorized by who?”

  “By Major General Conley, General Spears’s chief of staff.”

  “This just came up. There isn’t time for that.”

  Sounding a little too happy, he said, “Too bad, then. Without Conley’s signature, nobody leaves base.”

  I said, “Listen, Captain, we’ve got an appointment in twenty-eight minutes to meet with the acting ambassador. You could take that for authorization. Or, if you’d like, I’ll tell the ambassador, ‘Gee, I’m sorry, Captain Bittlesby says we can’t come.’ Then I’ll call the New York Times and tell ’em some captain named Bittlesby is trying to sabotage Whitehall’s defense.”

  The thing with the Army is that a little bit of the right kind of coercion goes a long way. Soldiers don’t like to get crossways with diplomats. What they like even less is having to explain to their prickly bosses how they made it onto the front page of a nationally read newspaper in a distinctly unfavorable light.

  Bittlesby said, “You wouldn’t really do that, would you?” He wasn’t really asking. He was taking the first grudging step in a full-scale retreat.

  “Twenty-seven minutes, Captain.”

  “Where are you?”

  “We’ll be at the front entry of the Dragon Hill Lodge in thirty seconds.”

  Half a minute later, Katherine, Keith, and I stood at the hotel’s entrance as three humvees with flashing yellow lights careened around the corner. Katherine looked at me and I shrugged nicely. It was the kind of taunting gesture meant to say, “Pretty cool, huh? Think you could’ve pulled it off?”

  The first and last humvees were loaded to the gills with military policemen in riot gear. The middle one contained only a driver, also in riot gear.

  I swiftly moved to the rear door of the middle humvee, yanked it open, and held it for Katherine. They don’t call us officers and gentlemen for nothing. But before I could react, Keith swiftly walked over and climbed in, brushing my arm softly and saying, “Thanks, sweetie.”

  Katherine chuckled and climbed in the front seat. That left me to join Keith in the back. I could’ve strangled her.
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  By the time we got to the gate, it seemed apparent that the MPs had radioed ahead, because a platoon of South Korean riot police in blue uniforms were already shoving and hammering protesters aside to make a path for our convoy to get through.

  Lots of angry, sullen faces glared at us as we passed through the crowd. It didn’t leave you with the impression you were among friends.

  The ride to the embassy took just shy of thirty-five minutes. At the gate, once again, a platoon of South Korean troops in blue uniforms with riot shields and batons were beating a wedge through more protesters.

  We dismounted at the front entrance and the young lieutenant in charge of the convoy came over. I told him to wait till we were done, and with excruciating politeness he said he would. Bittlesby must’ve warned him I was a righteous prick.

  After a security check we took an elevator to the fourth floor and walked into the ambassador’s outer office. The secretary had a long, droopy face and a long, narrow nose, and she looked at us like we were stray dogs who’d come to crap on her lawn. She lifted the receiver, pushed a button, and announced we were here. Then with a dismissive wave, she signaled us to enter the door to the left of her desk.

  Two men were seated on gold silk couches in the corner of the regal-looking office. They stood as we entered. I might’ve been imagining things, but their faces looked vaguely guilty, or slightly embarrassed, or mildly entertained, or maybe all three.

  One had the eagle of a full colonel on his collar. “Janson” was written on his nametag. He was in his mid-fifties, with short, tightly cropped gray stubble on his head, tough, distrustful eyes, and lips that were too big and wide for his narrow face. Like the lips on a piranha. He wore JAG brass on his other collar, of course, since he was the legal adviser to General Spears. He didn’t look like a lawyer, though. He had the aspect of a high school disciplinarian who accidentally got a law degree and still resented it.

  The other guy looked exactly like what he was supposed to be: a diplomat — a particular kind of diplomat, though. I mean, they’re not all vanilla ice cream, and he was the type I guessed I wasn’t going to like a lot. Maybe late forties, with black hair that was blow-dried back in the currently fashionable style, and that should’ve had at least a few wisps of gray but mysteriously didn’t. He had a chiseled, lined face, dark, piercing eyes, and an imperious curl on his lips. There was a gold Harvard ring on his left hand, but no wedding band. He was either single or advertising his availability.

  “Welcome,” he announced, acting falsely warm as his eyes took our measure. They skipped past me in a millisecond, paused briefly to envy the cut of Keith’s suit, then feasted for a long, lusty moment on Katherine. Heh-heh, little did he know. He’d have better luck with Keith.

  “I’m Arthur Brandewaite, the acting ambassador. This is Colonel Mack Janson, General Spears’s legal adviser. Please,” he said, with a smooth flourish of his arm in the direction of the two couches. That flourish-of-the-arm thing was so profusely elegant I figured he must practice it in front of the mirror.

  We all trooped over. Brandewaite and Janson sat back down on their couch, and the three of us scrunched up together and faced them.

  “So,” Brandewaite said, “Colonel Janson tells me you’ve already gotten the news. We’re all so terribly sorry about this, but . . .” He brought up his hands in a helpless gesture.

  Katherine, with a very belligerent motion of her own, said, “Why are you sorry? We’re not turning my client over. Period! End of statement! He won’t be tried in a Korean court.”

  Brandewaite glanced at Janson, an impatient, testy glance, like, What’s this? Did you fail to deliver the full text of the message?

  Then he turned back to Katherine and started shaking his head in contrived consternation. “Miss Carlson, it seems there’s some kind of mistake here. The South Korean government didn’t ask us to turn over Whitehall. They demanded he be turned over by close of business today. We are, after all, guests in their country.”

  Katherine said, “I don’t care. My client has rights and you have a Status of Forces Agreement that obligates you to ensure he’s tried in an American military court. In case you’ve forgotten, he’s not only a soldier, he’s a taxpayer and therefore your employer. He’s not being turned over.”

  Janson was glaring spitefully at me, because obviously someone had explained that inconvenient little Status of Forces Agreement thing to Katherine. And, uh . . . well, I guess I did appear to be the most likely candidate.

  “Miss Carlson,” Brandewaite said with a tone of condescending patience, “I certainly understand your position. I even share your sympathies. However,” he continued, making that “however” sound deeper and wider than the Grand Canyon, “when one international party says it will no longer honor a diplomatic agreement, there’s nothing we can do.”

  Katherine bent forward fiercely. “Bullshit. You force them to abide by it. For Chrissakes, we’re the ones defending them from the bad guys, aren’t we? That’s called leverage.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Brandewaite insisted.

  “Then make it work like that,” Katherine demanded.

  “I couldn’t . . . even if I wanted to. My position has been approved by both the State Department and the National Security Council. The situation is already radicalized enough. We don’t want to do anything that will stoke the fires. Whitehall will be turned over to the Koreans at five o’clock today.”

  “No, he won’t! I’ll file a motion and get this blocked,” Katherine threatened.

  “With who?” Brandewaite asked, barely concealing a smile.

  “What do you mean, with who?”

  The acting ambassador leaned back into the couch and crossed his legs. He ran pinched fingers along the creases on his worsted wool trousers and admired the shine on his fancy shoes. “Who will you file the motion with? This is Korea, not the United States. File it with a military court, and I guarantee you it will be overturned by noon. File it with the Koreans and they’ll laugh at you.”

  Janson was vigorously nodding his head, and since he was the military adviser to the Commander in Chief, that made it a fair bet Brandewaite wasn’t blowing smoke.

  Katherine looked inquisitively at Keith, who shrugged, and only then did she turn her big green eyes beseechingly in my direction.

  I could and probably should’ve ignored her.

  Instead, I said, “Mr. Brandewaite, exactly what is your agreement with the South Korean government? Who’s it with and how much have you conceded?”

  Brandewaite nodded at Janson to take over.

  “We’ve already agreed to turn Whitehall over for pretrial confinement. In about an hour, General Spears is going to meet with Chun Moon Song, the minister of justice, to inform the Koreans we also formally relinquish the right to try Whitehall.”

  “Only Whitehall? What about Moran? What about Jackson?”

  “Uh, no. Only Whitehall. The South Koreans haven’t requested the other two. Their crimes were reprehensible, though clearly not as heinous.”

  “Have we ever ceded the right to try before?”

  “This is a unique case. You know how the law works, Major. Precedents are guides, but they aren’t binding. Every case is decided on its own merits.”

  “Is this a reciprocal agreement?”

  Janson’s expression was perfectly innocuous. “What do you mean?”

  “Is there a quid pro quo? You turn over Whitehall, and in return other prisoners remain under our military jurisdictional courts. Are we trading flesh for flesh here?”

  Brandewaite quickly placed a hand on Janson’s leg. “Major, you know that diplomatic discussions between the U.S. government and the government of the Republic of Korea are strictly confidential. We simply can’t disclose what we’ve discussed.”

  “No?”

  “No,” he replied, very firmly.

  “Can you at least disclose who’s been negotiating with the South Koreans?”

  “Of cou
rse. I have. And Colonel Janson has very kindly served as my co-interlocutor.”

  Co-interlocutor? Where the hell did they find these guys?

  But I didn’t ask that. Instead, I asked, “So, it was just you and Colonel Janson here, huh?”

  Janson started to open his lips, but Brandewaite shut him off with a quick chopping motion. A bad mistake on his part.

  “That’s right, Major. There were some notetakers, but the colonel and I spearheaded this effort.”

  “Good, that keeps it nice and clean.”

  “Keeps what nice and clean?”

  “Who we cite.”

  “Who you cite for what?”

  “For obstructing justice and engaging in a criminal conspiracy to defraud our client of his legal rights. And the civil suit we’ll file for violating the constitutional rights of our client.”

  A look of ugly shock registered on Brandewaite’s face. He patted his puffy, oddly nongrayed hair and stared at me. “Drummond, I am an acting ambassador and you’re a low-ranking military officer. If you dare threaten me, I’ll speak with General Spears and have you court-martialed.”

  I looked instantly abashed. “Mr. Brandewaite, you’ll have to excuse me. Please. I don’t know what came over me,” I said, and that brought a slight twitch to the corners of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but it was moving in that direction before I said, “The problem we’ve got is mistaken identities. I’m not just any Army officer, I’m an attorney. Besides, there’s a big difference between a threat and a promise. Sometimes you have to listen close, but that wasn’t a threat. Right, Miss Carlson?”

  “Goddamn right,” she said with perfect timing. “I’d call it a favor, Brandewaite. He’s giving you the chance to warn your public affairs officer about the announcement I’m going to make at the press conference I’m going to convene as soon as we depart your office.”

  “I will not be bullied,” Brandewaite said, glaring at her, at Keith, at me, then at Janson, whose only real offense was being a lawyer like the rest of us. Guilt by association, I guess.