by Allen Wyler
“A room for one or two nights.”
His eyes immediately went back to the computer screen. “Name on the reservation?”
“I don’t have one.”
He adjusted wire-rimmed glasses, typed, waited for a moment. “Smoking or non-smoking?” Still no eye contact, which, on second thought, might be best.
“Non-smoking.”
The keyboard started clicking again. “One or two nights?”
He considered two, but decided to move to another hotel tomorrow. “Just one.”
The clerk studied the screen a moment, nodded, flashed a toothy smile at him. “Credit card and passport, please.”
Jon handed him his Visa card and driver’s license. “Passport’s a problem. The airline lost my suitcase and it’s inside. They said to go ahead, check in and they’d deliver it sometime this evening.”
The receptionist’s polite smile dissolved to a frown. “Sorry, but we’re not allowed to issue a room without a passport.” The clerk’s face left little doubt this wasn’t negotiable.
“But—”
“Sorry.”
Back on the sidewalk, Jon tried calling Yeonhee again. No answer. Try the lab? Sure, he could do that, but what were the chances Park had it under surveillance? Better not. Instead, he shut off the phone to conserve the battery. What now? Just then, his peripheral vision caught movement and he instinctively turned to look. A cop was stepping out of a patrol car, eyeing him intently. Jon continued walking to the corner, picked up the pace slightly.
A man’s voice yelled, “Stop!”
Jon glanced back at the cop, who was now pointing a finger at him. “You. Stop!” The cop started running his way, right hand on his holstered weapon. Jon broke into a flat-out run, weaving through a group of pedestrians, danced around a trash bin, pushed two spaced-out ear-budded teenagers aside, frantically searching for a less obstructed path even though he had no idea where to run. Just run!
Ahead, at the end of the block, the traffic light was turning red. He bolted into the intersection, cutting diagonally across, dancing between fenders as horns honked and brakes screeched. He worked through six intersecting lanes of traffic, moving as fast as possible, fighting the urge to turn to check on the cop because it would waste a half second.
A Mercedes screeched to a stop directly in his path. He put out his hands, did a western roll over the left front fender, his momentum carrying him forward, hit the pavement and kept on moving. Reached the opposite curb at a dead run, caught sight of a subway entrance, beelined for it, reached the top of the stairs and started flying down two at a time, out of control, shouldering people out of the way, muttering apologies.
He blew into a white tile cavern of ticket machines, noise, and commuters, slowed enough to see two tunnels down and three sets of exit stairs up. Without a second thought, he headed for the furthest exit, ran the stairs up and out onto the sidewalk, rounded to the nearest corner and immediately slowed to a brisk, less conspicuous walk, and melted into a cluster of pedestrians.
Only then did he chance a quick glance over his shoulder, but the cop wasn’t chasing him. He ducked into an alley, the air thick with rotting garbage and the stench of urine, stopped to catch his breath, calm down, and think. His chest ached, the soles of his feet stung from running in leather street loafers.
Can’t stay here, move . . .
Cautiously, he returned to the entrance of the alley, glanced right, then left. Coast clear. Half a block down the street a taxi pulled to the curb, the back door opened, and a couple stepped out. Jon ran to it, jumped into the back seat before the man could close the door, and ordered the driver, “Quick! Tyasami Medical Center. Emergency!”
The driver calmly accelerated back into the thick traffic. Gasping and sweating, Jon slumped back against the seat, thought, What next?
He thought about what just happened. A cop spotting him so easily could mean only one thing: Park released his description at least to the police and perhaps to the press, making it more risky to be seen in public, and even more critical to secure a safe hiding place where he could work on getting a passport. Which raised the question: even if he had a passport, would it get past airport security? Had to think about that . . . And this cab, had Park notified the taxi companies? And if so, did the driver call it in? Not knowing the language kept putting him at a huge disadvantage.
Four blocks later, at a randomly selected stop light, Jon tossed a handful of won into the front seat, opened the door, darted into a group of pedestrians in the crosswalk. He waited for the cab to cross the intersection and disappear into traffic before deciding on which direction to go.
He realized he was still in the major business district. And still lost. Across the street, on the front of a shop, hung the familiar green Starbucks mermaid logo. The sight of something so American and familiar brought a wave of relief. It didn’t make sense, he knew, but at least he’d feel safer being inside and off the street. Maybe with a few moments rest, he could calm down, regroup, come up with some sort of plan, maybe even reach Yeonhee.
37
JON SAT AT a small table for two nursing a latte, wondering what to do if he couldn’t reach Yeonhee. Or, what if she refused to help? With frayed nerves already putting him on edge, he didn’t need the caffeine but decided the drink was the price of admission for taking up a table. He jotted down various options on a napkin, then carefully considered each one, regardless of how crazy it might seem. Twice he’d worked through the list, revising three, crossing out two, yet no one option outshone the others.
Call Jin-Woo? Definitely not a good idea. Park knew he was Jon’s main contact in Seoul and would lean on him to give Jon up.
Call Wayne? He could do that, but without some sort of plan, it would accomplish nothing more than provide some moral support. Besides, until he located a charger for the Droid, he needed to conserve the remaining energy.
Fisher had nothing for him yet.
He considered going to the American Embassy but worried Park might have it under surveillance. It was probably best to reach them first by phone. For the moment, it seemed wisest to find a place to stop and get a reasonable plan together.
He checked his watch again. It had been ten minutes since trying Yeonhee’s cell. He might as well try again. This time she picked up. “Jon? That you?”
Only three words, but said with enough concern to be instantly comforting. He asked, “Do you know about the patients?”
“Yes,” she said without a hint of incrimination.
There was so much he wanted to say, and even more that he needed to know. Mostly he needed help, but could he trust her? He said, “I don’t know what you’ve been told or what you believe, but I had nothing to do with their deaths.”
“I believe you.”
What a relief. “And Jin-Woo. . . . What does he say?”
“I don’t know,” she said with alarm. “He didn’t come to the lab and I couldn’t find him on the wards and he doesn’t answer his cell. I’m worried because that’s not like him.”
He cupped the phone with his free hand and turned away from the other customers. “When did you talk to him last?”
“Yesterday. When I came to the lab this morning it was empty, so I went to the ward. The nurses say the police took him away early this morning, right out from one of the patient’s rooms, it seems. It’s very embarrassing for everyone.”
“Has a Detective Park talked to you yet?”
“Yes and he is not a good man.”
Couldn’t agree more. “He talked to me as well. Look, here’s the deal. I’m in serious trouble and don’t have anyone I can turn to. Do you think you might be able to help me?”
“No problem. Anything. What can I do?”
It dawned on him: involving her—even slightly—would make her an accomplice. The last thing he wanted was to cause her to be arrested. And what about Feist, did he know who she was? Would he use her to get to him? Worse, would he kill her as retaliation? Suddenly
his head filled with all sorts of problems he hadn’t considered until now.
“Jon?”
“The patients . . . have you heard anything about their cause of death?”
“No, nothing. They were gone from their room by the time I went to the ward. It was awful. People are saying you . . .”
So there it was: convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. “Do you have any idea why they think that?”
“No. And I can’t think of any reason either. If anything, you had so much invested in them doing well. I just can’t believe you did anything to them. What can I do to help?”
Having her believe him and offering to help lifted a weight from him. But at what price?
He glanced at the other customers, as if they would somehow advise him what to do.
“Jon?”
“Yeonhee, look . . . on second thought, this isn’t a good idea. If Park finds out you helped me in any way, you’ll be in serious trouble. But you don’t know how good it makes me feel to just have you offer.” He’d have to figure out another way to get help, and most likely through the embassy.
“Where are you? I can come get you.” This time her tone was stronger and more determined.
Go ahead, accept. She knows what she’s doing. You don’t know anyone else here other than Jin-Woo. Maybe a couple hours . . . just enough time to contact the embassy to come up with a way of getting out of Korea. “You sure you’re really okay with this? Maybe just a few hours? At the most.”
She didn’t hesitate at all. “Where are you?”
“Don’t know. I’m totally lost.” He glanced out the window again, but saw nothing changed since the last dozen times he’d looked. “Somewhere in the business district.”
“Find a cab. Take it to the Ritz-Carlton. I meet you in the lobby. Hurry.”
Across the street, a taxi pulled to the curb, the third in a row of cabs outside a small hotel. He was out the door and across the street, the cell back in his pocket, thinking if he got out of here, he’d find a way to repay her.
The driver gunned the engine to drive up the steep winding driveway to the Ritz’s front entrance. Jon reached between the front seats to pay the driver as a tuxedoed doorman opened the rear passenger door. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton, sir. Any luggage?”
“No. Thanks.” Jon brushed past him, on through a revolving door into a lobby of marble, oriental carpets, vaulted walnut ceiling, and the lingering hint of cigar smoke. Stately, yet surprisingly non-threatening, as if those who could afford a room were immune from police suspicion. Ridiculous, he knew, but comforting in a way. Looked for Yeonhee but didn’t see her.
For a moment, he stood just inside the entrance glancing around the lobby, feeling exposed and obvious, yet unsure of where to go or what to do. Then noticed his reflection in the glass doors. Unshaven, pitted rumpled shirt, an aura of panic. In short, an attention magnet. Across the lobby, next to the gift shop door, stood a polished glass display case with shelves of Mont Blanc pens, designer perfumes, and horribly expensive Hermes scarves. Perfect. Trying for the Ralph Lauren look, he threw his blazer over his shoulder and wandered to the display, peered in for a moment before turning to scan again for Yeonhee. Still not here. He sat down on a sofa to wait.
A bellhop materialized at his side. “Checking in, sir?”
Shit, the guy was looking straight at him. Jon glanced at the door. “Soon as my wife arrives.”
“Very good, sir.” The bellhop drifted back toward the registration desk to rejoin two other staff.
Still no sign of her. He was becoming increasingly nervous. Had he missed her? Had Park detained her for questioning? An accident? Were there two Ritz-Carltons in Seoul? Or had he heard her wrong?
Ten minutes later Yeonhee—stunningly beautiful in a black linen blazer, cream silk blouse, black pants, and flats—hurried through the revolving door, stopped long enough for a quick hair primp while casually scanning the crowd. He caught her eye and started for her, relieved and exhilarated by the sight of a friend. As they hugged he whispered, “Thanks for coming. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”
She cast a nervous glance at the door. “No problem. Let’s get out of here.”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, alarmed.
She tugged his hand and headed toward the side door. “Outside.”
38
HE FOLLOWED, STEALING a final glance to see if anyone was watching them, but no one seemed to give them a second look. Then again, so what? Would they be obvious about it? Yeonhee was moving with purpose, making him hustle to keep up. “What’s wrong? Someone following you?”
“I don’t know. But that detective, Park, knows I know you. I don’t trust him. He made me nervous . . . creepy, I guess would be the word for it.”
They went from hushed soft air-conditioning into muggy, noisy warmth, down the steep sloping brick drive to the shadowy side street of concrete pavers, moving quickly, yet not on the cusp of trotting, side by side.
“Where’re we going?” he asked.
“My place.”
He stopped, put a hand to her shoulder, but she shrugged it off and tugged at him to keep moving. “Come.”
He took her hand and held firm. “No. Wait a second. Let’s think this out.”
She looked past him, back toward the hotel driveway. “Okay, but around the corner.”
Yeonhee led him into an even more shadowy side street with taxis queued along the curb, awaiting the Ritz doorman’s summons. Two drivers sat against one cab’s front fender, smoking and chatting, while others waited in their vehicles. She was right, a random patrol car would have a harder time spotting them here. They continued walking, but at a normal pace.
She asked, “What were you going to say?”
He kept his voice low. “Here’s the thing, like you just said, Park knows you know me. What’s to keep him from watching your place? I go there, game over. He nails me.”
She nodded. “I thought about that. My girlfriend, Gayeon,” pronouncing it Ki-yon, “lives the across street. We go to her place, not mine. Come, we need to get you off the street.”
Jon gently stopped her. “Wait. I need to make a call first,” and held up his cell.
She cocked her head to one side while finger-combing her hair. “Who’s so important you need to call right this minute?”
“The American Embassy. I should talk with them before the cops find me. They can help get me out of here.” And the sooner he removed any risk to her, the better.
She nodded agreement. “Good idea, but right now we need you off the streets. Call from Gayeon’s place. It’s not all that far.”
Again, she was right. As they continued walking he took her hand, thinking it made them appear more like a couple. Especially with the cops searching for a lone male. She responded with a slight but definite squeeze, sending a tingle up his arm. He couldn’t help wonder if his strong attraction to her was due, in part, to his reliance on her? No, he’d always felt this way about her.
As they continued on, he again was struck by how little he knew about the layout of Seoul. What would happen if they were forced to split up? He’d be right back in the same helpless situation. He asked, “Where are we?”
“This district?”
“Yeah. For starters.”
“This is Kangnam, the business district. My street is Yoksam-dong. See?” She pointed at a street sign in Korean characters. As if he could read them.
Five minutes later they turned off a brightly lit six-lane avenue into a narrow one-way alley smelling of rotten garbage and lit only by a single mercury vapor lamp. Cars were parked at various haphazard angles, squeezed into every possible inch of available space. Yeonhee pointed. “That’s my building.”
In the dim light Jon could make out a five-story brick building. “I thought the plan was to go to Gayeon’s?”
“It is. First I need some things. It will only take a minute.”
“Wait.” He gently drew her deeper into the sha
dows next to a brick building across the street from hers, whispered, “How long do you need?”
“Only long enough to call her, see if she’s home, and pick up a few things. You call the embassy from there.”
He didn’t like the idea of entering a building Park might have under surveillance. “Why not call her from here?” Meaning, out in the street.
Yeonhee nodded, “Good idea,” and pulled a cell from her purse, thumbed in a number, listened, frowned. “She usually picks up by now. Maybe she’s with her boyfriend and just not picking up, or maybe she’s out.”
Figures! He studied the building, thought of Park. What were the odds he’d have it under surveillance? He pointed at her building. “Go ahead, check it out. If no one’s inside waiting for you, text me.” He held up his cell. “Ringer’s off.”
She leaned close, “Third landing,” kissed his cheek, then was off, weaving between parked cars, trotting across the street, up the stairs, through the double glass doors, her approach triggering motion-sensitive fluorescents in the small vestibule.
He watched the vestibule lights time out and die and expected to see a light appear in an apartment window when she entered, but the random pattern of dark and lit glass along the front of the building didn’t change. Well, maybe her unit didn’t face the street.
The cell vibrated. “SAFE” appeared on the screen.
From the outside, the building looked new. Inside, the hallway smelled of freshly poured concrete, bonding agents, fresh paint. No wall marks, no floor scuffs. Surprisingly, the front door of the building remained unlocked and there was no sign of a security system or intercom. Unimaginable for any condo in a major US city. Up a narrow flight of gray granite to a small landing for three doors, one of which was open with Yeonhee waiting in it.
The dominant color of her apartment interior was yellow. Yellow-striped curtains, a yellow futon with a large matching pillow on blond hardwood. In one corner a small electric stove with a teapot on the single burner. A free-standing rack fashioned from bare pipe and right angle fittings was crammed with clothes on brightly colored plastic hangers. The only bedroom contained a small wood cabinet serving double duty as storage cabinet and vanity. Louvered doors hid a closet, a standard door opened to a bathroom.