by Allen Wyler
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.”
FROM 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
FROM 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?
He stripped, stood in the hot shower for ten minutes, toweled off, wrapped himself in a white terry cloth robe, and returned to the bedroom. With the room temperature now at a more tolerable level and the layers of dried sweat washed away, he felt refreshed. Mentally, however, he couldn’t shake a vague fear in the pit of his stomach. He inspected the minibar, selected the two bottles of Jack Daniels. The miniature ice tray was, of course, empty. Seemed like too much trouble to walk the hall searching for an ice machine, so he upended both bottles into a glass, took a swallow, and enjoyed the satisfying burn at the back of his throat.
He took the glass and his cell phone to a chair beside the window, settled in, programmed the international prefix onto the phone numbers for Stillman, Fisher, and Wayne, and tried to figure out what time it’d be in Seattle. Did it really matter? Hadn’t they said to call, regardless? He downed another sip before the first call connected to Fisher. Jon asked, “Anything new to report?”
“No. How about you?”
Jon hesitated. Would it seem paranoid? Probably, but he had to mention it. “I know I’m just imagining things, but I swear I felt like someone was watching me.”
“Huh!”
Jon didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s ‘huh’ supposed to mean?”
“Could be a couple things. Maybe it’s only natural, considering what’s happened. Or maybe the Avengers are following you.”
A jolt of anxiety surged though Jon, tingling his arms and making him short of breath. He glanced at the door. Was the deadbolt on and safety chain fastened?
When Jon didn’t answer, Fisher said, “There’s a solution, you know. Go out to the airport and hop on the next flight back. Don’t screw around taking chances. If one of those shitheads is tailing you it can only mean one thing: you’re in serious trouble.”
Damn, he was hyperventilating. He upended the glass and swallowed, hacking at the burn along the back of his throat. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He didn’t need this kind of pressure right now. “I need to go. Sorry to wake you.”
“Think about what I just said. Think about it real hard.”
There was no more bourbon in the wet bar so Jon dumped a scotch in his glass, returned to the chair by the window, and stared at the lights stretching into blackness, thinking about Jin-Woo. Something about their interaction . . . something different, something subtle. Or was he so weirded out over this Feist thing that he was imagining things that didn’t exist?
Man! His brain seemed to hurt from all the angst. He needed sleep. Things always look better in the morning. Call Wayne first.
Wayne said, “Where are you? Sounds like you’re still in Seattle.”
Jon was rotating the glass, watching the amber liquid swish around the side. “In Seoul, about ready to crash.”
“We all set?”
There it was, a perfect opening to the subject. “No. Jin-Woo says that in order to get me a security pass I need an interview with the CEO. It’s scheduled first thing in the morning,” saying it as neutrally as possible to gauge Wayne’s reaction.
There was a slight pause. “Are you kidding? And what exactly are you supposed to say you’re doing there?”
“He knows. Jin-Woo told him. He said he had to involve him to short cut a lot of red tape and get me a security clearance for the lab. But as far as anyone else is concerned, the story is we’ve worked together over the years and I’m here to help him figure out some lab issues.”
“Fine, but I thought we were trying to keep you low profile.”
“I know. Look, I don’t like it either. But Jin-Woo’s ass is out in the breeze on this. He’s worried.”
“How so?”
Jon sipped scotch. “I’m surprised you have to ask. He’s doing this without any IRB oversight,” referring to the Institutional Review Board that is required before any human experimentation. “He can get totally hosed if someone blows the whistle on him. I don’t know exactly how the system works over here but it’s conceivable he could lose his license. Although he hasn’t come out and said this, I think he figures if the CEO has been informed, he’s covered.”
Again Wayne hesitated. “But?”
Jon paused, searching for how best to describe his anxiety but came up lame, so opted for, “He’s acting a little weird.” He decided to not mention the feeling of being watched. “Just fatigue, I guess.”
“You sure?” Wayne wasn’t convinced
“Yeah. It’s just that I’m beat. Catch you tomorrow.”
Jon debated touching base with Stillman, decided what the hell, and dialed. He told him about the meeting with the CEO in the morning and also described Jin-Woo’s plan for how to get the patients admitted and scheduled for surgery without raising suspicion.
A few minutes later he broke a t
en milligram Ambien in half and chewed it into a pulp before smearing the paste over his gums with the tip of his tongue. The alcohol would accentuate the drug, putting him out for at least four hours—six, if lucky—in spite of the time zone difference. With the room bathed in shadows and dim city light, he slipped into the bed closest to the window and tried to relax and wait for the Ambien to work its magic.
19
AFTER DISCONNECTING from Ritter’s call, Richard Stillman continued standing at the glass slider, looking out, absent-mindedly tapping the phone against his palm. Start the day or go back to bed? Twenty-one floors below, the patches of mercury vapor light reflected off puddles that had formed earlier in the night. He watched a lone man walk an arthritic dog to a square in the sidewalk where a tree struggled to survive, and wondered what their story was. How many years had they lived together? Had he raised him from a puppy? How did it feel to have a pet? Was the man married or was the pooch his sole companion? When growing up, friends had pets, but he never did. Not even a hamster or parakeet. And for a split second he felt a tinge of self-pity for himself, missing out on such a common part of childhood. Did that contribute to his not wanting kids and this resigned satisfaction with single life? Was this normal? Was he abnormal?
Too many questions. Might as well start the day. Carefully, he replaced the phone into the charger and made certain the charge light glowed green before heading to the bathroom. Stripped and ready for the shower, he gripped the edge of the Jacuzzi tub and, toes on the floor, began fifty angled push-ups. Same routine every day, even days he also worked out at the gym. Push-ups, he believed, were the single best exercise to keep shoulders and pecs toned. Always accentuate your best physical assets was one of his tenets, and broad shoulders were definitely on his list.
2Pac began rapping from the dresser.
No one bothered him at this hour without it being extremely important. Curious, yet irritated at the interruption, he checked the display, saw Feist’s name, so answered with, “Yo, dog, what up?”
“A bit of bad news, I suspect. There’s another bloke been tailing your friend since Sea-Tac. Might a started before then but don’t know for sure. Don’t much fancy that. Do you?”
Hmmm . . . absentmindedly he palmed his scalp, checking the stubble, processing this new wrinkle. “Are you absolutely positive?” Didn’t make much sense, unless . . .
“No question in my mind.”
Stillman sucked his upper lip, sliding his lower teeth back and forth over it. Could it possibly be the Avengers? Could some weird freaky thing happen, like one of those lunatics took the website posting seriously? Man, wouldn’t that’d be something! Three weeks ago he’d had Ritter’s profile posted on the site as the first step in setting this entire scenario in motion and to give Feist’s threats authenticity. Maybe now. . . .
He asked Feist, “Male or female?” Not that that would tell him much.
“Bloke.”
Had to be an Avenger. Which could present a huge problem if the wacko were to execute Ritter before the cultures were finished and the patients implanted. “Just talked to Ritter. Have any idea which hotel’s he in? Didn’t think to ask.”
“The Sheraton across the river from the medical center. The slant-eye dropped him there from the airport straightaway. In his room, he is. Been there since check in.”
Well, that’s a relief. “Where are you?”
“Got me a room right next door to his. Stroke of luck, that was.”
Until the patients were implanted, he wanted Ritter alive and not interfered with. “Good thing you called, I have some fresh information for you. They’re planning on two separate surgery days, two patients each day, all scheduled as DBS implants.”
“How about talking fucking English, mate.”
“Stands for deep brain stimulation. But that part really doesn’t matter, just find a way to know what surgeries Dr. Lee schedules. Any patient with the diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease is probably one of ours. That’s how they plan to get the operating room time without anyone knowing what they’re really up to.”
“Hey. No need to be so fucking condescending.”
Stillman shot an angry glance at the iPhone but reminded himself how much he needed Feist’s services. At least for now. Soon as this was over, however . . . He swallowed his irritation and, as smoothly as possible, said, “Forgive me, didn’t mean it to sound that way.” Asshole.
Feist said, “All right, then. What do you want done about the tail?”
“It’s worrisome. Very worrisome . . . Could be an Avenger. You’ve seen him. What are your thoughts?” He could pretty well anticipate Feist’s answer, but wanted him to be the one to say it first.
“Could be,” Feist said, sounding noncommittal. “No way of telling just yet.”
“Then, use your judgment and take care of it however you think appropriate.”
“Right.”
Stillman pumped out an extra twenty push-ups after disconnecting, putting a little extra into it. Much as he disliked the Australian, he considered himself fortunate to have someone with his skills working this. Unforeseen problems could derail even the best-thought-out plans. He had to give Feist credit, though, for picking up on the tail. On the other hand, Feist was being paid top dollar to execute well. Good was supposed to be good, that’s why it was called good.
Strange, how these things happen. Because of posting Ritter’s information on a website, an Avenger was actually pursuing him. And now, Feist was actually getting paid to protect the pompous asshole. At least until the study was complete. In the meantime, Feist would take care of it. Laughing, shaking his head at the irony, he stepped into the steaming spray of water.
20
JON SNAPPED WIDE AWAKE. The horizon was growing lighter, making the shadows angling over the walls disappear. The digital clock radio showed 5:03. He rolled over to face away from the window and shut his eyes again, and thought about his impending meeting with Tyasami’s CEO. Once that thought focused his attention, no way he could drift back to sleep. Yeah, he understood Jin-Woo’s explanation for the need to meet, still . . . he didn’t like it . . .
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling to think about it.
Once, as a kid, he and a friend shoplifted a couple of paperback books from a drugstore. Not because they wanted to read them—in fact, they didn’t—they just wanted to see if they could get away with it. He remembered the churning weightlessness in the bottom of his chest and tingling in his fingers in the moments before actually slipping the books under his coat and crossing the threshold between thinking of a crime and actually committing it. The same anxious feeling was worming its way through him now.
And it wasn’t just the risk of the Avengers knowing about his work here that bothered him . . . it was the seedy way he and Jin-Woo were going about it. Although the patients would know what was being done, there would be no ethics board oversight. They wouldn’t actually be breaking a law by implanting their stem cells into the patients’ brains. The nature of original medical research requires physicians do things to patients that have never been done before. That’s why it’s called “the first time.” Just wasn’t ethical, the way they were going about it. As an aftermath of the Nazi war crimes tribunal, international standards for human research were established. To meet this standard, the patients would be fully informed about what Jin-Woo and Jon intended to do before they signed a consent. So it wasn’t what they were about to do that bothered him—after all, before his work became a political hot potato, the NIH loved it—it was having to sneak around like CIA operatives in order to do it. Leaving him feeling slimy and guilty.
He sat up and rubbed grains of sleep from the corners of his eyes. Might as well get out of bed and start the day. He flipped on the electric teapot, showered, wrapped himself in the terry cloth robe, and used the room’s complimentary high-speed Internet to check email. This took only fifteen minutes off the clock, making it seem like forever until THE MEETING.
For five minutes he waited at the red velour cordon separating the dining area from the lobby. At precisely 6:30 a hostess in a red and white honbock unhooked the sash, officially opening the cafe for the day, and led him to a small table next to the wall, set down a menu, and asked if he wanted coffee or tea. He ordered coffee and the traditional Korean breakfast of kimchi, rice, fish, and pickled veggies. In spite of being hungry, he couldn’t eat, so he ended up only drinking three cups of bitter black coffee with a taste that was more like Nescafe than his usual Starbucks.
By 7:35—twenty-five minutes early—he positioned himself just inside the front door where he could watch the circular drive for Jin-Woo. Too early, he knew, but Asians consider punctuality a sign of respect. Jin-Woo always arrived at least five minutes ahead of schedule so Jon wasn’t about to have him wait at the curb. Besides, he couldn’t bear another minute killing time in the room.
At 7:51 Jin-Woo’s Hyundai crested the drive and pulled in behind a black limo in the process of loading luggage. Jon was out the hotel door and into the passenger seat before the doorman could react. With nothing more than a good morning nod, Jin-Woo started driving them back down the winding road of Walker Hill.
Jin-Woo led Jon through a tall double door into an air-conditioned room with a high ceiling, wood paneling, thick carpet, and a withered, gray-haired woman behind a desk. After a nod at Jin-Woo, the secretary muttered a few hushed words into the telephone. Then, with a bow, ushered them into an adjoining office with parquet floors covered by beautiful oriental carpets. A short bald man stood with one hand on an imposing mahogany desk. The CEO wore an impeccably tailored gray suit with a starched white shirt and prep school tie. Jon estimated his age somewhere in the mid-forties, which would put his father, one of their patients, somewhere in his sixties. The CEO greeted them in Korean, then waved them toward two couches on opposing sides of a hand-carved teak table.