Dead End Deal (13 page)

16

A
FLIGHT ATTENDANT
glided down the aisle checking seat belts and seat backs. Thankful to finally be underway, Jon upended the flute of champagne, savoring the tingling effervescence at the base of his tongue. A good buzz just might allow two or three hours of sleep. A perfect way to burn up those interminable hours of constant engine noise, a time when passengers watch movies or sleep and bored flight attendants gossip in the galley or flip through dog-eared magazines.

The smiling flight attendant took his champagne flute with, “I’ll bring you another, soon as we’re airborne.”

“Do I look
that
nervous?”

Her smile brightened. “No. But you seemed to enjoy the last one so much I thought you might like another,” and continued for the galley.

The jetway withdrew, exposing a train of empty baggage carts and a trio of ear-protected workers sauntering toward the terminal. The plane jerked backward as the overhead video started playing the familiar United Airlines melody. Jon pulled his Kindle from the seatback pouch and got ready to settle in for the long boring hours ahead.

Three pages later Jon got the feeling of something wrong, a premonition of sorts. Or maybe of being watched.

From overhead came, “Flight attendants prepare for takeoff.”

The engine whine increased as the Boeing 777 lumbered through a left turn from the taxiway onto the runway. The feeling wouldn’t go away.

Was an Avenger on this flight? Were they following him? Maybe even Feist?
Panic squeezed his heart.

Engine thrust increased, masking voices of the conversations around him, hurling the huge jet forward, slowly accelerating, then the 777 nose lifted, breaking tire contact with the runway and suddenly cutting decibels of noise to the constant rumble that would encase him for the next third of a day. The feeling didn’t go away now that they were airborne. Now what? Pick up the Airphone and call Fisher? And say what, exactly?

Get a grip. Chill. Think.
He took in a deep breath and dried both palms on his thighs.
Think!
His heart pounded. A band of tension tightened around his temples.
Jesus, they know!

I
N HIS PERIPHERAL
vision Nigel Feist watched Jon Ritter scan the rows of passengers only to settle on him again. He read the uncertainty in Ritter’s gaze, figured he must be thinking, “Is that him?” The beautiful thing about sitting right out in the open like this was it lent a touch of credibility to his disguise. Just another GI returning to active duty in South Korea. He casually checked the heavy stainless steel Citizen on his wrist. Cheap-ass watch had to be at least ten pounds heavier than his real timepieces, but it too added a touch of authenticity to his cover—as did the engraved stainless steel Zippo in his pocket along with the Marlboros he didn’t smoke. Attention to detail often was the only difference between success and failure in an operation.

17

J
ON STOOD IN
one of four switchback lines to passport control booths, the rows defined with red strap-tape tightly stretched between chrome stanchions, three for Korean nationals, one for non-Koreans. Not nearly enough to efficiently handle the number of people. A digital clock on the wall behind the booths showed 16:30 hours, Sunday evening. What would that be in Seattle? 8:30 Sunday morning, he thought without conviction. For some reason, the International Date Line made the calculation more difficult for him.

“Next.”

He stepped from the scuffed red line on the floor to the booth, handed the officer his passport. The officer ran the edge with a bar code through a reader, asked, “Nature of your trip?”

“Business.”

“How long?” The Korean appeared deceivingly bored in spite of an unmistakable intensity in his eyes.

Jon really had no idea. Depended on what Jin-Woo might say. “A week, maybe two.”

“Where are you staying?”

Jon flashed on Fisher’s warning:
They have sympathizers everywhere. Be careful. You never know who you’re talking to, even with friends
. An immigration officer as informant. . . . Yeah, it could work. Lie? Chance it? Do they ever check?

He chose a hotel at random, “The Ritz-Carlton,” not knowing if there even was one in Seoul.

The officer grunted, flipped through the passport pages searching for a suitable spot, stamped one, slid it back under the Plexiglas.

Jon fell in behind a ragtag line of passengers heading along a windowless hall to customs. Would Yeonhee be waiting with Jin-Woo? He smiled at the thought.

Another official waved him past the checkpoint without a second look and he continued on toward two opaque glass doors that slid apart with a hiss of air, depositing him in a teeming arrival lobby. He immediately recognized Jin-Woo’s full-moon face bobbing above the crowd, craning to spot him. Jon waved, caught his eye, and looked for Yeonhee next to him, but she wasn’t there. Jin-Woo broke into a broad smile, hand extended. “Good see you, my teacher.”

“Thanks for meeting me.” Driving all the way out to the airport to meet him was a big deal and an imposition, but one Jin-Woo gladly offered now that the international airport was located miles west of Seoul, near the city of Incheon. The old Kimpo airport was closer to Seoul but much smaller, making the increased volume of international traffic impractical. Jon said, “This is all I have. No need to stop at baggage claim.”

“This way, then.” Jin-Woo led him from a crush of milling travelers, past car rental and currency exchange booths, through another set of automatic glass doors into heavy humid smog as the wavy remnant of an orange red ball started to disappear behind a building. A black Hyundai waited at the loading zone, the driver snoozing comfortably at the wheel. Jon threw his bag into the trunk, then slipped into a pleasant air-conditioned chill and black leather. Doors slammed, seatbelts clicked, a moment later they were heading toward the airport exit.

Jin-Woo gave the driver an order in Korean before turning his attention to Jon, “We have much to talk about during the drive. I will take you to Walkerhill Hotel.” Before Jon could reply, Jin-Woo patted Jon’s arm. “It is hard, I think. Your loss of Emily. My heart is heavy for you.”

“Yes, it is. It’s hard getting used to life without her.” Jon turned toward an endless series of aluminum light poles flashing by, his eyes misting over in one of those emotional moments that seemed to float just below the surface of consciousness. He’d built up defenses to deal with the loss, but there were other times, like right now, when the mention of Emily’s name hit him square in the face and thinking about her death triggered tears. Lately a new twist to this emotional yo-yo was making him even more despondent when he thought about her. He was aware that his memories of her were blurring around the edges and he had to concentrate to recall small details in her face. The mole on her neck just underneath her right ear. The speckles in her green eyes.

To break the awkward silence, he asked, “How is Sunhee?” Jin-Woo’s wife.

For the next ten minutes they chatted only about personal items and avoided discussion of the clinical trial. After a pause Jin-Woo leaned closer to Jon and lowered his voice so the driver couldn’t hear. “To do your project without committee supervision is very dangerous for me in Korea.” In most medical centers, any form of human experimentation, like drug studies, must be overseen by an internal review board. For obvious reasons, Jon and Jin-Woo agreed to not risk the exposure of submitting a protocol for review.

“Look, if —”

Jin-Woo held up a hand, cutting him off. “I only say this because I understand you wish this to be a very silent study. No one in the medical center is to know.”

Jon cast a quick glance at the driver, hoping to send Jin-Woo the message to drop the subject until they were really alone. “Exactly.”

Jin-Woo followed Jon’s look at the driver and then leaned even closer. In a whisper, “Then you must realize such a thing is impossible without help from someone high in administration.”

A bad feeling burrowed into Jon’s gut. “Meaning?”

“Our CEO, his father has Alzheimer’s. I had words with him last night. All very quiet. His father will be one of the patients.”

Jon couldn’t tell if this was a question or statement. Most of all, he didn’t know anything about the man—basic details like if he would qualify for the protocol. But the way Jin-Woo said it, it was important to include him. He straddled the fence with, “I don’t know. I know nothing about him.”

“No. You do not hear me. He will be a patient or there will be no implants.” Jin-Woo sliced a hand through the air for emphasis.

Jon wanted to remind Jin-Woo how much was riding on the outcome of the trial, that clean data requires careful screening of subjects, especially to verify their diagnosis. Just because a person may have signs of dementia didn’t mean they have Alzheimer’s disease. But hell, Jin-Woo knew all this. Instead, he nodded. “Got it.”

Jin-Woo added, “There are many reasons for this. One is, to work in my lab, you need security pass. He can arrange this immediately. Otherwise,” he glanced down at his folded hands, “it will take time.”

“Okay.”

“Excellent. In the morning I pick you up and we go to Tyasami for an interview. No decision is made without his approval.”

Jon wasn’t convinced he entirely understood. Why couldn’t Jin-Woo arrange a temporary security pass for him? Why the interview? He wasn’t comfortable with this arrangement, but by now Jin-Woo was scanning emails on his phone, and it seemed the matter was settled. The car interior grew silent and Jon was feeling more and more uneasy. Although he trusted Jin-Woo, how could he trust the CEO, a man he’d never met? Did this represent a weak point in their security?

N
IGEL FEIST GRIPPED
the handlebars and leaned over the tank of the black Hyosung GT650 motorcycle. Fucking Korean piece of shit. A nothing bike compared with any of his Harleys. A disposable bike, one you rode on a trip, then dumped. The only good thing about a Hyosung was its cheap price.

He wore black gloves, black leather coat, black jeans, black turtleneck, full-face black helmet with a black duffel strapped to the rack and a black rucksack on his back. He cruised easily through traffic, tailing the black Hyundai. He thought about the image he presented. Stillman would probably get a hard-on, what with all this black. But the reason for it was simple: people noticed red or yellow cycles, especially the gaudy ones tricked out with tons of chrome. But a totally black machine could zip past and hardly be noticed and never remembered.

Although the Hyundai carrying Ritter remained several cars ahead, Feist focused on the taxi. More specifically, the lone man in its back seat. Feist didn’t worry about losing Ritter because if forced to guess where he’d stay, he’d put his chips on the Sheraton, the hotel closest to the medical center. And if that turned out to be wrong, he could always surveil the medical center until Ritter showed up. No, his primary interest was the passenger in the taxi. Feist first noticed him on the Seattle–Narita flight because the bloke so obviously had an eye on Ritter. If it had ended there, he would have thought nothing more of it. But then the bloke ends up on the Seoul leg too. Okay, sure, people heading to Seoul commonly connect through Japan so the odds were in favor of a few passengers being on both segments. But the man followed Ritter right on through baggage claim, on out to the meet with his slant-eye friend. Now the bloke was in a taxi tailing them. Why?

Two options popped immediately to mind: the publicity surrounding Lippmann’s murder increased Ritter’s attractiveness to the Avengers, meaning they’d pop him here in Seoul. The second, more likely scenario, was the FBI could be using Ritter as bait to nail an Avenger. Either way, his presence made the job trickier, a wrinkle he’d have to sort out before doing anything with Ritter.

A
DOORMAN IN
a well-tailored grey uniform opened the car door for Jon. “Welcome to the Sheraton Walkerhill.” The stately old hotel sat atop a park-like hill overlooking the Han River, the Tyasami medical complex easily seen on the opposite bank. The driver popped the trunk for the doorman to unload Jon’s wheelie.

Jin-Woo walked Jon to the revolving door, said, “Sorry I cannot go to dinner tonight, but after such a long flight you need rest. Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. I fetch you for your meeting with the CEO. Sleep well.”

F
ROM THE PARKING
lot Nigel Feist watched the slanteye’s Hyundai pull away from the hotel as Ritter disappeared into the lobby. He now knew where Ritter was staying, which meant he probably knew where the bloke tailing him would be. Book a room or go elsewhere? Problem was there were no other hotels in the immediate vicinity, making surveillance problematic. He parked the motorcycle and headed for the entrance to the Sheraton.

18

F
ROM PREVIOUS STAYS
at this same hotel, Jon knew he needed to insert the key card into a wall holder just left of the door jamb in order to activate the electricity. Although this conserved energy, it left the room without air conditioning or circulation for whatever time elapsed since the last person was inside. When Jon opened the door a wall of stifling stale air greeted him. The moment he slid the key into the holder, the AC powered on. A quick check of the thermostat showed 36 degrees Celsius—whatever the hell that converted to in Fahrenheit. He simply set it for 22, a figure that memory said seemed about right, and resigned himself to broiling before the room drifted down to a tolerable temperature.

He tossed his wheelie on top of the first of two queen beds, kicked off his loafers, threw his blazer on the other bed, opened the drapes, and unpacked. Finished with that chore, he stood at the window admiring the lights of Seoul. He should be hungry but wasn’t. Instead, his stomach was sour and his mind sticky with fatigue. How long since he’d slept well? A week?