Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

  Seemed like all of Jon’s muscles jerked in one massive startle response. “Shit! He followed us.”

  Yeonhee and Gayeon looked at each other, eyes wide, neither one wanting to be the one who answered or opened the door.

  More pounding.

  Gayeon went to the wall beside the door, pressed an intercom button Jon hadn’t noticed before, said something in Korean. A gruff male voice answered.

  Yeonhee whispered to Jon, “Quick. Hide. It’s the police.”

  He started toward the bedroom but she grabbed his arm. “No. That’s the first place they’ll look.”

  He had no idea where else to hide in such a small apartment. The closet? Bathroom? No, she was right, they check those places first. There was no place else. He was totally screwed.

  Gayeon motioned to Yeonhee who, in turn, shoved aside a rack of clothes, exposing French doors to a decorative, nonfunctional balcony. On closer inspection, it was only a wrought iron railing. The doors were probably intended for air circulation and light because they opened to a narrow alley with nothing but a brick wall on the other side. Yeonhee pushed him toward the opening. “Quick, out here!”

  Out where? He grabbed the railing, leaned over, looked to either side. What the hell was she talking about? This side of the building was solid brick with a narrow ledge a half brick wide connecting similar balconies of the other two units on this floor. “You kidding? There’s nothing to stand on.”

  She pushed him again. “Hurry!”

  More pounding came from the door.

  Shit! He peered straight down three stories to an alley of bricks, a few puddles, and garbage cans. His heart stopped. Where the hell was he supposed to go? A fall would kill him. His muscles locked up.

  Yeonhee said, “Quick, quick! Go out there.”

  He couldn’t . . .

  “Jon! Detective Park is at the door!”

  Great choice: Park or lying dead on stinking bricks in fucking Seoul.

  He turned his back to the alley, stepped over the iron railing onto the narrow ledge, both hands in a death grip on the window jamb. She slapped his hands. “No no, let go. Move away or they see you.”

  He sucked a deep breath and gripped the edge of bricks at shoulder height. Carefully, he studied each toehold while working inch by inch sideways, along the narrow ledge, his heart pounding in both ears. The moment he cleared the glass door it shut, trapping him in chilly morning shadows. The clothes rack reappeared on the other side of the glass, partially hiding him. But if he could still see over the top of it into the room, they could sure as hell see him. He inched further away to the left of the window.

  Still not far enough.

  Slowly, by first sliding his left foot a few inches, then repositioning his handholds one by one, he moved away from the French doors, finally decided this was far enough, no way was he moving one more millimeter. He’d take his chances right here.

  Dizzy with fear, eyes clamped shut, fingers gripping brick, he prayed to God to not let him fall, pressed a cheek against a cool damp brick, and drew a slow deliberate breath. How long before his legs suddenly buckled from the strain? In high-definition slow motion he visualized the series of events that would ultimately kill him: the eventual loss of balance, the split-second realization there was no way to compensate, the accelerating backward fall through space, slamming into brick, lying in a puddle of hurt as blood pooled from damaged organs into spaces reserved for lungs or intestines, the slide into shock, finally death in a stinking garbage can–filled alley in fucking Seoul, South Korea. Why?

  You never knew when you’d die. Or how. But dying like this? Ridiculous! All because some fanatics didn’t like his work or because Stillman. . . .

  Maybe both.

  And that, more than anything, pissed him off.

  For a moment of existential clarity, he wondered which of two emotions ruled: anger or fear?

  And vowed to survive. If for no other reason to have the opportunity to fuck Stillman over.

  Think!

  He knew better than to look down, because his fear of heights would paralyze him and make falling a certainty.

  Think! There had to be something to do.

  From inside the apartment came a muffled gruff male voice. Yeonhee yelled something, followed by a burst of harsh words. Gayeon screamed. A male laughed. Doors slammed.

  Hold on. Ignore the pain.

  Every muscle in every fingers ached. Same with his calves. His breathing came fast and shallow. A drop of sweat slithered into the corner of his eye, causing a blink, then another. He fought the urge to rub it with a finger. Instead, he pressed his cheek against the cold brick and blinked, diluting the salt, soothing the sting. He closed his mouth and purposely slowed his breathing, but this sucked dust up his nose. He sneezed, the force pushing him away from the wall, almost to the tipping point. He teetered just shy of it, instinct saying to grip the brick harder as logic argued that if he did, his fingers might slip or fatigue out. He fought to not fall backward and remained suspended like this until his balance slowly shifted toward the building again, then stabilized to where he could pull back against the wall. He pressed against the brick, clamped his eyes shut and held on for dear life as time decelerated into a world of nothing but aching, cramping muscles.

  I can’t take this any longer.

  You have to.

  He tried to distract himself by concentrating on deliberate deep breaths. Another drop of sweat stung his eye. He blinked, squeezed his lids tighter, and held on. Gayeon and Yeonhee yelled again. Another door slammed.

  Fuck it! He’d rather risk dealing with Park than endure another minute of this torture. Besides, he was rapidly reaching the limit of endurance. Too much longer and his fingers would give out. He started to inch back to the window, the simple change in position giving his muscles a much-needed sense of relief. He paused to listen, suddenly aware of a change inside the apartment as the voices faded. A door slammed, followed by silence.

  He inched closer to the French doors, reached the railing, and slowly climbed onto the wider ledge, the surer footing giving his muscles and mind a huge relief. He waited a few seconds before knocking on the window. No response. He waited several more seconds before knocking again, harder.

  The clothes rack jerked aside and Yeonhee opened the door. “Jon, you okay?”

  “Yes,” he said, relieved. He just wanted to be inside with both feet on something wider than half a brick. Careful to not slip or loosen his grip, he stepped onto the threshold of the door, both legs cramping from strain. For a moment he crouched, flexing his fingers, relaxing his calves before taking the final step over the wrought iron railing into safety. Finally inside the room, he sat on a cushion, put his face in his hands, and started shaking.

  46

  JON REMAINED ON a cushion, back against the wall, Gayeon’s laptop on his thighs, researching Richard Stillman and Trophozyme. An ugly suspicion shrouded his mind, making him nauseous. What if Stillman’s phone wasn’t tapped? What if Stillman had been orchestrating events from the beginning? There were too many coincidences to ignore the possibility, things like visiting him in the hospital the day after Gabe’s murder. Or offering him the CMO job offer a month before his personal information and picture surfaced on the Avenger’s website. Taken individually, none of those events amounted to much, but taken together . . . Sure, it wasn’t concrete, just a series of coincidences. But, still . . .

  Stillman’s motivation? That was the easy part. The way the agreement read, if Jon didn’t return from Seoul, the formulation would revert to Stillman. Emily always claimed he was too trusting, that one day he’d be taken advantage of. Well, maybe this was it.

  “Jon!”

  He glanced up at Yeonhee and Gayeon, who were watching TV with the sound low. Gayeon started thumbing the remote, upping the volume as Yeonhee pointed at the screen. A news channel appeared to be reporting a breaking story, a reporter holding a wind-screened microphone just below her lips, police and gawk
ers crowding in behind her.

  “What?”

  She waved him silent, held up a finger. A moment later she turned to him wide eyed. “It’s Jin-Woo. He’s dead. Murdered.”

  “Aw Jesus . . .”

  Then his own picture—the one on his passport—flashed on the screen with a voice-over. Gayeon rattled off a string of words and Yeonhee returned to the newscast. A wave of nausea hit. He knew what was coming before they translated. He checked his watch. Only forty-five minutes until they were scheduled to meet Yeonhee’s friend, Jung-Kyo, the Hyundai executive, the man with connections he hoped would secure him a passport.

  He pushed the laptop aside and stood, knowing he had to do something. “We should get going.” Although he wasn’t sure what to do or where to go, he couldn’t sit still another minute.

  Yeonhee pushed up off the floor. “It’s only ten minutes from here. You want to take the risk of someone identifying you? Especially after this,” referring to the news story.

  One good thing about big cities, you could be anonymous in public. In that regard Seoul was no different than New York or Los Angeles. So the way he figured, a few extra minutes on the street didn’t increase his chance of being arrested.

  “Doesn’t matter. I have to get out of here and walk around, do something.” He picked up the New York Yankees ball cap he purchased yesterday.

  Yeonhee nodded agreement. “Good idea. Give me a minute to get ready.”

  “I need to call Wayne anyway, so take your time.” The thought of getting away from the warm, claustrophobic apartment already soothed his anxiety. On the other hand, meeting Yeonhee’s jealous boyfriend was also making him nervous. Could he trust him? He decided that Jung-Kyo’s reaction to seeing him with Yeonhee would be his only indication, and then it might be too late. But what other option did he have? He checked the cell phone battery, saw a full charge, unplugged it and dumped the charger in his gym bag. Done packing, he dialed.

  Wayne said, “Sure hope you’ve got good news for me this time.”

  “Not exactly.” He summarized his narrow escape from Feist and the news about Jin-Woo. Lastly, he mentioned meeting someone who might be able to score him a passport.

  “Do whatever it takes. Just get out of there as fast as you possibly can.”

  “Believe me, I’m trying.”

  Yeonhee shrugged on her black raincoat and pointed toward the door. He held up a finger for one more minute and spoke into the phone, “Look, I need to go, but something occurred to me last night, so there’s one thing I want you to do. There’s a Trophozyme board member, Sandra Nolan. There’s also a person on Council with the same name.”

  “NIH Council? The one that approved the human trial?”

  “Exactly.”

  Wayne took a second to put it together. “Son of a bitch. You thinking—”

  “Yep. Check it out, see if they’re the same person. Okay?”

  47

  YEONHEE’S IRRITATION GREW with each passing minute that Jung-Kyo kept them waiting. She saw it as another example of a passive-aggressive attempt to control her. Yes, he was a big-shot executive with important meetings on his schedule, but this was the only time she’d ever asked him to disrupt work for her. And she stressed the importance of the situation. He promised to leave the office immediately, but that was thirty minutes ago and the walk here shouldn’t take more than ten minutes at most. What would happen if the police caught Jon? She was certain he hadn’t killed the patients and knew for sure he hadn’t killed Jin-Woo. Now, each minute he remained in Seoul increased the odds of his capture.

  For the past half hour they’d perched knee to knee on bar stools at a counter of a noisy hole-in-the-wall noodle bar, in thick, steamy air smelling of grease, garlic, and ginger, pretending to eat, although neither she nor Jon had any appetite. They faced the window, Styrofoam bowls of a tasty chilled specialty on the counter in front of them, the bill of Jon’s New York Yankees cap pulled low to hide his anxious, tired face. He fidgeted constantly. She didn’t blame him. She knew what it was like to be in a foreign country unable to speak the language. And knowing this only increased her sorrow for him and his situation. She couldn’t imagine being falsely accused of a crime for which the penalty might be death. She stabbed chopsticks at the noodles, silently cursing Jung-Kyo’s juvenile jealousy.

  How much longer could they sit here without attracting even more attention? Already, the proprietor was eyeing them with impatience, letting her know this was an eat-and-moveon type of place.

  Jung-Kyo entered, roughly shouldering past a stooped, weathered lady paying the cashier won. Tall, lean, and handsome in a beautifully tailored Italian suit and perfectly glossed leather shoes. Yeonhee leaned close to Jon, her knees touching his thigh, and whispered, “He’s here.”

  They slid off the stools and came face to face with Jung-Kyo. She pointed to the door, said, “We talk outside,” and followed him out, Jon trailing. They moved away from the stream of pedestrians and next to the shop’s window. She asked Jung-Kyo, “Can you get the passport for him?”

  For several seconds he sized Jon up before saying in Korean, “What is he to you?”

  “Please! We don’t have time for this.”

  “The police are searching for him, aren’t they.”

  She looked directly into his eyes with no attempt to hide her anger. “He hasn’t done a thing wrong, Jung-Kyo.”

  With a scowl, he shook his head. “That is for the police to decide, not you.”

  She finger-combed her hair and looked up at the small patch of blue sky between the tops of two office buildings, took a deep breath and considered her reply. Now wasn’t the time to let the frustration with him cloud her thinking. Why had she hoped for a different, perhaps more mature, reaction, when in her heart she knew this would happen?

  Slowly she brought her eyes back to him. “Jung-Kyo, he is nothing to me. How many times must I tell you this? You know he and Jin-Woo are colleagues. They work together for years now. At the moment he needs help and Jin-Woo is not able to give it to him. This makes him my responsibility. Please, I am asking for your help because it will help me.”

  Jung-Kyo folded his arms across his chest, making a big deal out of watching an overweight woman walk a miniature poodle along the street, demonstrating to Yeonhee his power and control over Jon’s destiny.

  In that moment she realized how much he relished every moment of her dependency. Suddenly, she felt tired of the endless innuendos, the accusing looks, of having to explain every second she spent out of his sight. Her relationship with him simply wasn’t worth the effort to save it anymore. So, there was nothing to lose by giving him an ultimatum.

  “Jung-Kyo, turn around and face me!”

  He continued to watch traffic as if she hadn’t spoken a word.

  She stepped closer to him and raised her voice, as if talking to a petulant child. “Very well, then this is how it will be. Unless you help him secure a passport, I will never see you again. You have three seconds to decide.”

  He did not react, calling her bluff.

  She took Jon by the hand and said in English, “Come. We’ll find another way,” and started leading Jon down the street.

  Jung-Kyo caught up and grabbed her shoulder. “Wait.”

  THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S TINY shop was filled with floor-to-ceiling color portraits: brides, gowned graduates with mortarboards, anniversary couples, families. Some smiling, some serious, others staring wistfully into the distance. One glass case held several cameras for sale. Jung-Kyo introduced Yeonhee to the proprietor and then, without a word or glance at Jon, whispered something to Yeonhee before storming out the door. The studio, if it could be called that, was separated from the reception area by a sheet that doubled as the backdrop for portrait shots. Jon sat on a stool and stared into the camera lens.

  The entire process took less than thirty minutes. The proprietor even accepted Visa, charging only five hundred dollars for the forgery and explaining that the charge wo
uld show up as a camera purchase. Jon ran his finger over the pages, marveling at the genuine look and feel, including a patina of travel wear and tear and immigration stamps from various Asian countries.

  Yeonhee tugged his arm. “Come. You must hurry. Jung-Kyo will give you two hours before he notifies the police. That’s what he told me before he left, it’s his way to regain control of me. Hurry.” Then she was moving him into the street, flagging a taxi, opening the door, shoving him in the passenger seat, shouting instructions at the driver as the cab began the race toward Incheon.

  JON WATCHED UTILITY poles flash past and tried not to think of what would happen if he made it to the airport only to be captured again. He reached over and took Yeonhee’s hand in his. He wanted to tell her something, find some way to thank her. She gave a slight squeeze but didn’t look at him.

  He wondered what she felt for him, if anything. But he settled instead on savoring each remaining second together in much the same way a death row inmate clings to each remaining minute of life.

  A VIDEO MONITOR inside the international terminal listed flights in descending time to departure. A Singapore Air flight scheduled for Chicago in fifteen minutes. Too soon. Another one was going to Vancouver, BC in thirty minutes. The next flight to North America would not board for another three hours. Three hours: too much to risk. A Cathay Pacific to Hong Kong outbound in 45 minutes: again pushing his luck to the outer limits. The moment Jung-Kyo reported the falsified passport to the Metropolitan police, it would become worthless. But the moment the aircraft left Seoul airspace he’d be out of their jurisdiction. On the other hand, if the authorities where he landed knew he was traveling under a false passport, disembarking might become a problem. But he’d rather face charges of traveling with false papers than first-degree murder in Korea.

  Except for one agent, the Singapore Air ticket counter was deserted because the passengers for the next flight were already boarding. At the counter he handed her his credit card and passport. “Any seats left on the Chicago flight?” he asked, trying to appear casual, like a seasoned traveler simply moving up a flight.