Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

  Special Agent Ross Harding answered with, “Yeah, Gary, what is it?” Harding had the perfect appearance for an undercover operative. The farthest thing from a law enforcement officer you could get. None of the usual macho mannerisms, none of the arrogant self-assurance, no bluster. The perfect picture of a generic male of indeterminate nationality and a profound lack of flair. Not overly masculine but not gay. A guy who considered being well dressed a pair of new Levis and an Old Navy sweatshirt. You would be surprised to find no calluses on what looked like a working man’s hands.

  Fisher said, “We’re right. He’s on the United to Seoul through Narita.”

  Harding answered, “I’m ticketed.”

  “Excellent. Got additional information for you, a lead on the Aussie. Name’s Nigel Feist and, interestingly enough, he really is Australian. So Ritter nailed it. What’s more, everything about him fits the details of the parking lot. I emailed you a picture a few minutes ago, so it should be in your inbox.”

  Fisher already had Feist’s face and physical description memorized so rattled them off: forty-two-year-old Caucasian male, six feet, 190 pounds, short cut brown hair, intense green eyes, muscular. No identifying scars. Born Cairns, Australia. Tats on both arms only. No ink elsewhere and none of it the amateur prison crap. He added, “The most important thing you should know about him is he’s is one smart sonofabitch. Do not—I repeat, not—underestimate him. Right out of high school, he signed up for the Royal Navy. His scores were so off the chart they offered him a job in the Defense Intelligence Organization as an analyst. While there he developed covert skills. Soon as his contract was up, he resigned to start a private intelligence gathering company. Specializes in industrial espionage and dirty tricks. Word is he’s quite good at it. He’s suspected of being behind two assassinations but there was never enough to even hold him on a seventy-two hour. Point is he’s never left enough trace to be seriously questioned although he’s been under suspicion numerous times. At the moment, he’s our man until proven otherwise.”

  “Understood.”

  “If he is an Avenger I want his ass. If he isn’t, I still want his ass. My gut tells me he probably doesn’t give a shit about abortion one way or the other and is doing their work for hire. It’s that simple. Bottom line: Nailing Feist is your first priority on this trip. Protecting Ritter is secondary. We get Feist, we get our first big break in nailing the Avengers. Got it?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  Fisher checked his watch. “Better get your ass in gear. Don’t want you to miss that flight.”

  15

  HAIR TURBANED IN a white terry cloth towel, Yeonhee Lee climbed out of the large marble soaking tub onto wet white tile. She pulled a large bath towel off the stack on the table, shook it out, and wrapped it around herself, tucking in the top to keep it in place. At the moment, she was the only bather this evening, leaving the rest of the sauna deserted of customers. Only two sun-wrinkled attendants remained. Funny, the differences in language, she thought. Koreans refer to public baths as saunas. Americans consider saunas more along the lines of the Scandinavians, a cedar room with dry heat for sweating.

  She’d taken a leisurely soak and would now get a massage. Exactly what she needed after a tense day. She always looked forward to tub time as a way to free her mind and contemplate various issues. Especially recently. She was pleased not to see any of her girlfriends here. Tonight in particular, she wanted time to herself to relax and think. Jung-Kyo kept increasing pressure to become engaged. Knowing him, an ultimatum would not be far off. Then what?

  She padded into the other room where the massage therapist waited, lay down on the slab of marble and tucked her hands under her right cheek.

  The therapist asked, “Anything special today, or just the usual?”

  “Maybe a bit extra on the left side of the neck.” A knot, from bending over the lab counters so much these past few days?

  The therapist’s hand began running up and down her back, adjacent to her spine. “Your boyfriend still pressuring you?”

  Yeonhee sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Any girl would consider him a great catch. He has a high-paying job as a Vice President with Hyundai. Comes from a good family. Handsome. Dresses well. The list goes on and on. No question he’d take care of my mother.”

  The therapist’s fingers homed in on a knot in her trapezius. “He sounds wonderful, what’s the problem?”

  “I just can’t seem to tolerate his . . . chauvinism. I noticed it on our first date and it drives me crazy.”

  “Like what?”

  “For one thing, he spends all his free time with his buddies, weekends golfing, evenings out drinking when he should be with me.”

  “That’s what Korean men do, Yeonhee. Your girlfriends, I bet they would put up with it if they had a chance for a man like him. What makes you different?”

  A topic she’d thought about several times and ascribed to her time at UCLA and in Seattle. Western men were very different than Koreans. They treated women better. Something her girlfriends didn’t appreciate. She simply shrugged and said, “I’m not sure.”

  “Then maybe it’s just not the right chemistry to get married?” the therapist said.

  A half hour later, in the dressing room, Yeonhee unwrapped the towel before a full-length mirror to inspect her body. Too fat? She turned, looked over her shoulder at her butt. Sagging? Time was passing. Men liked younger, firmer women. Though only in her early thirties, as far as female competition was concerned, she was definitely on the down slope. Plus, there was only so much time to devote to working on your body. Even the gym and the spa could only do so much. . . . Besides, her day job took time.

  She wished her boobs were bigger. She hadn’t really wanted big boobs until she got to UCLA. There it seemed as if every LA girl had a thin waist, big tits, tight buns, and a tan, and it made her jealous. Sort of. What she lacked in a gorgeous body she made up for in her face. At least that’s what she’d been told. To her, it seemed too round, like a full August moon.

  Did Jon Ritter find her attractive? She hoped so. He certainly was. Not that it would lead to anything. She felt a tingle of excitement at the idea of working next to him again. But the other voice in the back of her mind whispered caution. She’d been attracted to him when they worked together before, when he was engaged to Emily. Then he was already taken. Sad. Why couldn’t Jin-Woo be more like him?

  Seattle had been a difficult for her, being away from friends and family, and Jin-Woo so persistent about trying to sleep with her. Jin-Woo wanted more from her than being his lab tech, even to the point of acting jealous. He had the nerve to suggest he’d leave his wife for her. How ridiculous. Yes, there was a small bit of attraction to him, but the most important thing was that if he was willing to cheat on his wife, then she would never be able to trust him if they ever did develop a relationship beyond work. She suspected he regularly cheated on his present wife, why would she be silly enough to believe he would be faithful to her? He’d cheat. There are some things you can’t change in a person. Fidelity being one. And she didn’t want a husband out running around with other women. Was this being silly and naive?

  She moved to the locker room and slipped the key from the coiled pink elastic band that left a temporary little mark around her wrist. Time to get dressed. Morning would come soon enough and she was expected to be in the lab by 6:30. While dressing she thought again of Jon, about what it might be like now that he was no longer attached to Emily.

  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 fli
ght 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!

  IN 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

  INCHEON, SOUTH KOREA

  JON 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?

  NIGEL 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.