Dead End Deal (36 page)

He didn’t much fancy killing Ritter, but he knew he had to do it. Didn’t much fancy killing Michael either. Neither one had actually done any wrong other than be the wrong person crossing paths with another wrong person. Which, in his business, was usually the case. For reasons he couldn’t identify, damaging people’s lives began to bother him. As a younger man, he didn’t buy into the karma concept. Now, nearing retirement, the concept of ‘what goes around comes around’ had begun to creep into his consciousness and resonate. Especially during the increasing stretches of early morning insomnia when every little goddamn thing on your mind grows disproportionately important.

This definitely would be his last job. Snuff Ritter and be done with it. Might be a tad shy of the number his financial planner projected to maintain his present lifestyle the rest of his years, but close enough to suit him. Might mean one or two fewer trips to Vegas each year to get laid. But hell, the older you got, the less pussy you wanted anyway. Least, that’s what he’d been told.

Temple pressed against cold the window, he stared out over the Striates of Juan de Fuca, breathed the pleasingly familiar smell of brine and boat oil as the rhythmic vibrations of the engine lulled his mind. More and more lately he fantasized about long road trips on his maroon Harley flathead. Nothing better to connect you with Mother Earth than being surrounded by the smell of cattle and freshly threshed hay, road heat, raindrops splattering your visor, surface imperfections in the road vibrating up through your spine. Travel for miles, stopping only at appealing sites or towns. Stay one week or one hour depending on how it struck your fancy. Yeah, soon as this fucking job ended. . . .

The Victoria Clipper’s scheduled arrival was 11:15 a.m. with a 5:30 p.m. departure. By 8:30 this evening he’d be done with this job and back in Seattle. First thing tomorrow he’d be at the airport to catch the first available shuttle to LA. Soon as he was home, he’d start preparing the Harley for his first retirement trip. Yeah, he’d really do it. A road trip.

J
ON REMAINED ON THE
flying bridge as Andrew and Susan climbed the stairway down to the main deck to help two Coast Guardsmen and one German Shepherd board. He heard one man introduce himself as Lieutenant Cosgrove and ask, “Sir, you just embarked from Sydney, did you not?” Jon’s gut tightened.

Andrew answered, “Yes.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience, but we need to do a quick search of your vessel.”

“If you don’t mind, what are you looking for?”

“Explosives and firearms, sir. OHS just put an increased threat level into effect. Now, if you don’t mind, the sooner we start, the sooner you’ll be under way.”

Andrew pointed to the cabin. “No problem. Have at it.”

A few minutes later an African American male Guardsman came up the ladder, said, “Excuse me, sir. I’ll be out of your way in a moment.” Glanced around the flying bridge, opened the only compartment, rummaged through flares and three life vests. Apparently satisfied, he secured the door. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” and climbed back down.

N
IGEL FEIST MADE SURE
he cleared the gangplank well before the queer did. Slowly, he walked the pier toward a stone retaining wall and the looming Empress Hotel, watching for Michael to pass him. And that’s exactly what happened. Feist was leaning against the wall at the shore end of the pier when the little bugger pranced by. Nigel fell in behind him and followed. In a few minutes they’d meet Ritter and the job would be finished.

W
ITH THE SAME ALACRITY
and precision as in Victoria, Andrew and Susan moored the
Million Dollar Script
at a large marina on Lopez Island. With four bumpers in place and all lines cheated, Andrew told Jon, “This is as far as I take you. Man, if you get busted on your way to the ferry it isn’t going to be in
my
car.”

Jon shook Klein’s hand. “Thanks. I think you realize just how much I appreciate this.” He paused to swallow the emotional lump in his throat. “You have my name. Next time you plan to come down to Seattle, call. I’d love to take both of you to dinner.”

“Have to think about that one.” Andrew laughed. “First, I figure to play it safe and let some time pass, make sure you’re not being hunted by al-Qaeda or some other group before being seen with you.”

Jon put a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Ciao.”

Jon jumped to the concrete dock and stood still a moment, legs adjusting to a stable surface. He breathed in warm salt air. Creosote and drying seaweed never smelled so beautiful in his life. In fact, at that moment the marina seemed to be the most beautiful place in the world. He started walking slowly along the dock toward the parking lot, fighting to control the emotions bubbling up from within. The moment he reached shore, he dropped to his knees, bent down, and with tears streaming from his eyes, touched his forehead to the warm asphalt. Home at last!

“Wow, guess you weren’t kidding when you said you’re happy to be back.”

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Jon squinted up at Andrew’s silhouette. He swallowed, cleared his throat. “You have no idea.”

Klein offered his hand, “C’mon, you convinced me.”

Jon waved it away the help, preferring to stand on his own power. The police could arrest him now. He didn’t care. At least he’d have a fighting chance to defend himself.

“I’ll drive you to the ferry. Hell, no one’s going to risk picking you up looking like that.” He chuckled. “They’ll peg you for some sort of a psycho trying to hijack their car and probably run you down instead. Then it’d be on
my
conscience. I don’t need that kind of grief. Besides, the dock is on the other side of the island. Way too far to walk.” After a quick glance at the pier, he added, “Give us five minutes to close up the boat.”

Struck dumb for words of gratitude, Jon settled for, “Thank you.”

59

J
ON STOOD ON THE
porch to the Landing, a shanty of rough-hewn siding and moss-laden shingles perched on a curvy hillside road snaking down to the ferry landing. The small building played dual service as short-order café and waiting room for walk-ons. The clock behind the dusty window showed thirty-minutes before the next scheduled boat to Anacortes, the small ferry terminal town on the mainland. Once again he mentally reviewed the plan in play. What flaws was he missing? Would it backfire? Well, he’d find out. He opened the new cell phone purchased in Victoria and dialed Fisher.

Jon asked, “Did Wayne get the new cell phone?”

Fisher said, “He did.”

“What’s the number?”

After Fisher recited the number Jon programmed it into his system, said, “So far, so good. How about your end?”

“Perfect.”

“Call you later.” Jon disconnected and dialed Wayne’s new cell.

“Where the hell
are
you?” Wayne demanded.

“I’m going to catch the ferry to Anacortes in about an hour. Is it possible for you to meet there?”

“Absolutely, but what the hell’s going on?”

“I’ll explain when I see you.”

Wayne sighed, said, “Okaaaayyy. You want me to meet you at the ferry dock?”

“No. How familiar are you with Anacortes?”

“Haven’t been there in about a hundred years, but I suspect I can find it. It’s somewhere north of I-5 and south of the Canadian border. They haven’t moved it, have they?”

Jon laughed, still giddy from crossing the border without being arrested. “No. It’s still there. Here’s the deal, there’s a marina on the east side of town right off the main drag as you come in. There’s a marine supply and yacht sales office in the complex, lots of boats. Meet you there.”

“Lemme see . . . should take about two hours to make it there, especially with afternoon traffic and all. What time do you think you’ll be there?” Jon checked the schedule taped to the inside of the store window. Four o’clock. He told Wayne, “Five o’clock.”

T
HE
F
UCK’S
G
OING
O
N?
In a Starbucks down the street from the Empress Hotel, Nigel Feist nursed a latte and watched Michael read a paperback on a park bench facing the harbor. Now mid afternoon and not a goddamned thing happened. A suspicion began to nag, a feeling of having been in this situation before. Not déjà vu really. Rather, a misgiving . . . of being set up and fucked with.

If Ritter were meeting Michael, he should’ve shown by now. He checked his watch again, then looked back at Michael. The little bastard slowly turned another page, uncrossed his leg, and crossed to the other one.
Fucking color-coordinated faggot
. Nigel rocked his cup back and forth, checking the contents. Only dregs. Now what? Can’t very well sit here for fucking ever.

T
HE ANACORTES FERRY
slip ends a long curving road on the western shore of Fidalgo Island where slightly over three miles of two-lane asphalt connects the landing to the town’s central business district and marinas. Jon caught a taxi outside the terminal and asked to be dropped two blocks north of the marina entrance. Now, sitting at a wood table with a thick coat of Verathane in a fish and chips dive, he stared through greasy glass. Across the street a cyclone fence enclosed a large rectangle of cracked asphalt packed with boat trailers and vehicles.

For the past fifteen minutes he nursed a cup of abysmal overcooked coffee while monitoring the minimal activity in the lot. No suspicious vehicles or people entered the lot. At the far end two men power sanded a cruiser hull up on blocks. They’d been working when he arrived and paid little attention to anything else going on around them.

Time
. He slipped from the booth and out the door, crossed the street, into the fenced-in lot, worked his way between parked cars and a random assortment of empty, rusting boat trailers looking for a good spot to watch and wait. Found one behind a dented green Dumpster reeking of garbage and fresh paint, the location providing an unobstructed view to the front door of Fidalgo Yacht Sales fifty yards away.

At nine minutes to five Wayne’s silver Mercedes e320 slowly turned into the parking lot and crept directly toward the yacht brokerage. The simple sight of Wayne sent a wave of relief through him. Had to force himself to stay put and watch, to make certain Wayne hadn’t been inadvertently followed. Wayne parked the car and waited patiently inside. After several minutes he stepped out and slowly turned a complete circle. Apparently puzzled, he walked to the sales office, cupped both hands to the sides of his eyes and peered through the window, shrugged and returned to the car, climbed in and closed the door to wait. After all, he was a few minutes early.

Convinced Wayne hadn’t been followed, Jon trotted over to the car.

Wayne saw him coming and jumped out again, cocked his head to one side, looked him up and down, said, “My my, don’t we look like a complete mess.”

Jon gave him a quick hug. “Not one of my better weeks. Thanks for coming.” He quickly scanned the area one last time and, to his relief, saw nothing changed from a minute ago. He opened the passenger door to climb in. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here.” If his plan was working, Feist was safely in Victoria. And if Fisher has done his part, an RMCP undercover officer was keeping a protective eye on Michael.

Wayne sighed. “Well well, aren’t we in a hurry.” He fired the ignition but hesitated before engaging the transmission. “Just for the record, not that I’m going to leave you stranded here or anything, but am I about to get arrested for harboring a fugitive?”

“Not unless you brought the police.”

“Rats! I’ve always wanted to be a cellblock wife.” With a dramatic sigh, he shifted into reverse, glanced over his shoulder, turned the car around, and headed onto the street.

60

B
Y 9:35 P.M. THE WESTERN
horizon, seen from the ninth floor conference room in the Federal Building, became a huge black void instead of sky, mountains, and islands. The smell of overcooked coffee and copier toner hung in the uncomfortably warm stuffy air. Gary Fisher, Jon’s new attorney, Palmer Davidson, Wayne, and Jon were discussing options.

It seemed to everyone present that Stillman orchestrated both Lippmann’s murder and NIH’s withdrawal of the clinical trial on the assumption that unless Jon and Wayne resigned themselves to losing ten years of work, their only options would be to sell their technique to a biotech company or find an innovative source to fund a small stem cell trial. Both options were extremely limited and, as Stillman had correctly predicted, Jon came to him for help. Considering his prior job offer to Jon, allying with Trophozyme was the most obvious and logical course of action.

It infuriated Jon to realize how easily he’d been manipulated by Stillman. As a result, he now blamed himself for the murders of Gabe, Jin-Woo, and the two patients in Seoul, to say nothing of his living hell of these past weeks. Why didn’t he see through it? How could he have gone against his initial gut instinct and actually trusted Stillman? Not only did the guilt demoralize him, it embarrassed him to think how stupid he must appear to everyone involved, including Stillman.

But it was also clear that the FBI had no hard evidence to support their conclusions. Meaning Stillman and Feist would get a free pass.

Furious, Jon turned to Davidson. “You agree with Fisher that there’s nothing we can do to Stillman?”

Davidson gave Jon the courtesy of appearing to contemplate the question in spite of having previously voiced this opinion. “Every bit of information we have is circumstantial. Certainly, common sense leads one to believe he’s the prime driver behind the events that have transpired, but no real evidence exists to warrant any formal charges. Certainly we have nothing to persuade a prosecuting attorney to press charges.”

“And Feist?” Jon asked, although they had discussed his complicity also.

Davidson raised both hands in a gesture of helplessness. “We’ve been through this. It’s exactly the same. Sure, we would have circumstantial evidence, but no smoking gun. Besides, most of these alleged crimes were committed outside the United States, giving us no jurisdiction. There’s not a thing we can do.”