Dead End Deal (35 page)

The
maître d’
glanced at the obvious choice, nodded, “Certainly.”

Before removing the second place setting, the waiter handed him a menu and asked if he wanted a drink. Jon ordered a scotch rocks.

“Very good,” and floated away.

Jon opened the menu as a ruse for a closer look at the older couple enjoying lively conversation over dinner. Both wore upscale casual clothes that radiated the affluent “boater look.” Perfect. Jon shifted in the chair, crossed his legs, in a move that naturally turned toward them. He took a moment to eye their entrées before asking the man, “Excuse me, but what’s that you’re having?”

The man glanced back with a friendly smile and laughing gray eyes that matched the color of a closely-cropped beard. “The veal. They do an absolutely amazing job with it.”

“Really! You eat here often?” And wondered if he was mistaken, that instead of boaters these were locals enjoying a dinner out.

“Whenever possible,” he beamed. “This is our third day here,” with a nod at the window and the marina beyond. After a chuckle, “We’ve eaten every one of our meals here.”

Jon followed the glance to a view of sailboat masts in evening sky. “You guys sail?”

“Naw, we’re power boaters. A forty-five footer. Over in another site.”

“Forty-five! Nice size for the two of you,” offering his hand. “Wayne Dobbs.”

The man set down his napkin to shake. “Andrew Klein. My wife, Susan.”

Susan simply nodded, dabbed at her lips with the corner of the white napkin, eyebrows in a suspicious furrow.

Alarm bells rang in the back of Jon’s mind. That look . . . did she recognize him from the broadcast descriptions?
Stay calm. Be cool
. Jon raised his scotch in a toast. “Where you from?” If pressed, his guess would be California. They looked the type to afford to moor such an expensive toy in a northwest marina year-round and jet up to enjoy a breathtaking cruise whenever their mood and busy schedules permitted.

Klein jutted his chin toward the other window. “Lopez. Our excuse for coming over here is to use this marina for maintenance. I tell you, their work is top drawer. Turns out to be an amazing deal. But to tell the truth, the
real
reason we come over is to eat.” With a laugh, he patted his flat stomach. “Got to watch the calories though.” He glanced at Jon’s empty place setting. “What’d you order?”

“Salmon.”

With an approving nod and conspiratorial tone, “They do an amazing job on that too. One of my favorites, matter of fact. This is truly an amazing restaurant. Met the chef yet?”

“No. It’s my first time here.” He sipped scotch and cautioned himself to not push too hard.

“Just a kid. In his twenties, I think. But absolutely amazing. The owner hired him right out from under some big-time Vancouver restaurant. A real coup. Expect to see him on
Iron Chef
one of these days.”

“When you heading back? To Lopez, I mean.” One of the major islands in the American San Juan chain, an archipelago sandwiched between Washington State and Vancouver Island.

“In the morning, looks like. Planned to head out tonight but turns out they couldn’t get her prop on in time. So, of course, that gave us an excuse for one more dinner here.” He smiled at his wife, who declined the obvious segue into the conversation.

Jon leaned closer to Klein. “Mind if I ask a favor?”

His smile faded. “Depends. What?”

“Any possibility I could hitch a ride to Lopez with you?”

Klein’s expression lost the edge of friendliness. Susan Klein leaned over, whispered something in her husband’s ear. Surprise flickered through his eyes.

Shit, she
knew
. Probably heard about him on the news, maybe had even seen a picture. Having anticipated this possibility, Jon said, “Look, I’m in a bit of a jam and need help. Just hear me out. Okay?”

Andrew nodded. Susan folded the napkin over one leg with an I-knew-it expression.

To defend himself, Jon briefly summarized what happened from beginning to end, including being held by police in Seoul, and then handed Andrew his cell phone along with Fisher’s card. “Here. Call him. Tell him you’re with me, and ask if it’s okay for you to take me to Lopez.”

Andrew eyed Jon suspiciously while Susan continued chewing slowly, her body language leaving no doubt where she stood on the issue. Klein glanced at her, weighed the offer a moment before picking up the phone and business card. “Okay, but outside. Not in here where others can hear.”

56

J
ON FOLLOWED KLEIN
out the door and along the sidewalk. Klein stopped, scanned the area to make certain they were alone before punching in Fisher’s number. He stood with the phone to his ear glancing just about everywhere but Jon’s eyes. Seconds later, he glanced directly at Jon, raised his eyebrows briefly, and said into the phone, “Mr. Fisher? . . . “My name’s Andrew Klein. I’m with a man who claims to be Jon Ritter and that he knows you.” . . . “Yeah, sure . . .” Klein studied Jon a moment. “Around thirty-five, I’d say about five ten, slender, graying blond hair” . . . “Yeah, he has the scar.” . . . “We’re in Sidney, BC. He wants me to ferry him to Lopez on our boat.” . . . “Okay.” He handed Jon the phone.

Jon asked Fisher, “We all set?”

“We are.”

“I’ll call you when, and if, I make it to Lopez.”

Fisher said, “Excellent, but we never had this conversation. Understand?”

Jon nodded. “Understood.”

“You have a way lined up to get from the island to the city?”

Jon wasn’t about to tell him. Right now, landing safely on US soil was the most important thing in his life, so he didn’t want to risk any problem. “All taken care of.”

As they turned toward the restaurant door, Klein put his hand on Jon’s shoulder, stopping him. “Tell you how we do this. Meet us here, say, eight in the morning. You buy breakfast, we run you to Lopez. How’s that for a deal?”

For the first time since Detective Park detained him in Seoul, Jon believed he stood a chance of making it home. He seemed so close now. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

Jon’s salad was waiting when he retuned to the table. As he settled in the waiter appeared alongside the table. “Another scotch, or would you like wine with dinner?”

Jon glanced at the salad, then back to his empty glass, a soft, warm buzz carrying him to another place, numbing the accumulated fatigue and lifting the stress still weighing heavily on his shoulders. “Better not. I still have work to do tonight.”

T
HE DOOR TO HIS
motel room closed behind him with an anemic hollow thunk of cheap construction, the room air stale and warm with a faintly familiar residual of disinfectant and mildew. He pushed the button on the decrepit AC window unit and it coughed to life, clattering away, in a feeble attempt to exchange air. Next stop, the bathroom, to rinse his face. Returned to the bedroom, dropped down heavily onto the foot of the bed and, using his original Droid, called Wayne at home. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Jesus Christ! Where are you?”

“Victoria,” he lied, figuring Stillman might still have a way of monitoring Wayne’s phone.

“BC?”

“Yeah. Look, I don’t have time to chat so here’s the deal. I need a big favor.”

“Sure. Anything. What?”

“Immigration knows my passport is forged so they’re looking for it under the reissue number. Only way I’m going to get back is to use a different passport. Park still has my original, but my old expired one is in the desk at home. Think you could get it for me and have Michael bring it tomorrow on the Clipper? If they don’t look too closely, I might be able to slip through with it.”

Wayne let out a long slow whistle. “You honestly think they’ll let you board with an expired passport?”

“Don’t have a choice. It’s my only shot.”

“Man oh, man. Well, hell, guess it’s worth a try. I’ll be happy to bring it.” But didn’t sound encouraging.

“No, have Michael bring it.”

Wayne hesitated a beat. “Why?”

Was the phone still bugged? It had to be for his plan to have any chance of working. “Because the Avengers know who you are. Bet you they have no idea who Michael is.”

Another pause. “Got it.” But still uncertain. “Tell me where to find it and how to get in your house. Michael will be there tomorrow.”

Jon gave him instructions. Just before saying goodbye, he added, “Be sure Michael has a cell phone with him just in case I’m delayed.”

“I know you have this number so I’ll give him my phone instead.”

“Perfect.”

57

N
IGEL FEIST COLLECTED
his change and round-trip ticket from the cashier before melting into the buzz of tourists. Already the weather promised a gorgeous day for a water trip. Across Puget Sound, in the western horizon, the ragged white Olympic Mountain peaks towered above Bainbridge Island, spearing cloudless azure sky. Shrieking kids chased each other through scattered clots of adults.

Ahead of him, the little fag’s partner, Michael, leaned on the tubular metal dock railing alongside of the moored Victoria Clipper, a long, white, multi-deck boat with a bright Union Jack painted across the stern quarter. The fag had on black designer jeans, a tan cotton sweater over a white shirt, complete with a windbreaker draped over his shoulders like a fucking tennis pro in a Rolex ad. No socks, topsiders, a black Tumi messenger bag at his feet.

Well, at least the fag brought enough clothes. One thing Nigel learned growing up in a sea town was that no matter how warm a day appeared to be, it could get damn cold out on the water, especially in a moving craft. Best to err on the side of too many layers. In contrast, most of the tourists in the crowd—the ones toting cameras or holding maps—dressed too lightly. Five minutes after casting off, they’d be huddled inside the cabin complaining.

Nigel blended in well, he thought. Levi’s, a black T-shirt under a gray hooded University of Washington sweatshirt, Reeboks, and a scalpel-sharp ceramic knife securely strapped to his right ankle. The beautiful thing about ceramic was the toughness of steel while being total immune to metal detectors. Now, a body scanner, on the other hand . . .

A crew member unclipped the chain across the gangplank, allowing passengers to swarm aboard, racing for prime window seats. Nigel shuffled into line, making no attempt to gun for a good seat, figuring: best to not draw attention to oneself.

T
HE
MILLION DOLLAR SCRIPT
was a beauty. Teak decks, blue canvas canopy over the flying bridge, all the expensive electronics a skipper might lust for. After a quick tour, Klein advised Jon, “Stay below deck until we’re well clear of the harbor. I’ll call you when it’s safe come topside.”

Without argument, Jon moved into the main saloon and settled in on a blue cushion, content to listen to the idling engine and dream about setting foot on United States soil. The cabin carried that dry boat smell of overcooked vinyl and stale bilge water from too many days each year battened down without good ventilation.

With well-practiced harmony, Andrew and Susan cast off. Jon felt a subtle clunk as Klein shifted the driveshaft into reverse, followed by the initial movement as the boat slowly began backing away from her temporary slip.

Thirty minutes later Jon sat next to Andrew on the flying bridge, the wind whipping his hair as the sun warmed his face. Susan stretched out on a cushion on the forward deck reading a Kindle, a wide-brim straw sun hat tied securely under her chin. Jon asked Andrew, “Out of curiosity, what’s the drill for clearing customs when you island-hop like this?”

“Pretty easy, actually. I have a special permit that allows me to call Canadian customs on my cell three hours before I arrive. Then, on the way back, I call US Customs. They ask who’s on board. I tell ’em. Simple.” After a beat, he gave Jon another look. “Then again, they always have the option of inspecting the boat at anytime, anywhere. Which is something they do at random, just to make sure. Lot of drug-running through these waters.”

Jon decided to change subjects. Although he always hated it when people asked him this question, he couldn’t resist, “What kind of work you do?”

Andrew laughed, corrected the course slightly. “Right now, nothing.”

Jon watched the compass swing to the new heading and decided not to push for an answer.

Andrew continued with, “Actually, I’m taking what you might call a mini-sabbatical. We escaped LA a couple years back. At the time, I planned on taking some time off. Six, maybe nine months tops. Turns out I haven’t worked in two years. But I’m getting ready to start back any day now.”

An actor? Could be. His face carried a handsome ruggedness but didn’t look familiar. Susan appeared to be the quiet artist type, maybe a painter.

Jon was going to ask him if the boat’s name meant what he thought it did when suddenly Andrew muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” and came close to pounding the wheel with a fist.

The sudden outburst startled Jon. He jumped. “What?”

“Look to the port side of stern.”

Aw Jesus! A white Coast Guard cutter, easily identified from the diagonal red stripe across its bow, was barreling straight for them in what appeared to be an intercept course. Susan Klein shot her husband an I-told-you-so look. Panic gripped Jon’s chest. He asked Andrew, “What do I do?”

Andrew thought for a moment. “By now they’ve already seen you, so trying to hide will only raise suspicion. Guess we’ll just have to see what they want. Stay put and try not to be nervous. Hey, look at it this way: they catch you, at least it’s the Americans.”

The Coast Guard boat throttled down and pulled alongside, perfectly matching Andrew’s speed. From the bridge, a uniformed officer raised a red bullhorn to his lips. “Cut your power and prepare to be boarded.”

58

O
NCE HE WAS CERTAIN
Michael whatever-the-fuck-hislast-name was on board the Victoria Clipper, Nigel snagged a window seat and relaxed. No sense following him around like a puppy dog. Where the hell was he going to go? Besides, wasn’t worth the risk of being identified. Especially if the bugger was smart enough to check for a tail. But more than that, Nigel didn’t want to look at his face just in case he had to kill him.