by Allen Wyler
“Good. How long will it take for you to write up the methodology?”
“That’s essentially done.”
“Who would you suggest keep a copy of it—a sealed copy—until you return?”
“Wayne. Is that acceptable to you?”
Stillman nodded—“Start making the arrangements with your friend in Korea and I’ll have our lawyer draft the agreement.”
11
AN ADRENALINE HIGH buzzed Jon as he drummed the steering wheel in time to an up-tempo jazz piece on KPLU, the local NPR affiliate. The sunroof was open to a pleasant 70 degrees, the air thick with exhaust fumes from the long backup of vehicles waiting for the University Bridge to lower. Guilt wracked him for originally misjudging Stillman and being so woefully unprepared for such an important meeting. Perhaps the asshole wasn’t such an asshole after all. Once Stillman realized what a bind they were in, he’d helped engineer a solution. He very well could have left them twisting, which, he had to admit, he would’ve found tempting if the roles were reversed. But he hadn’t. Now he felt grateful to the man he previously despised. Never again would he harbor such resentment to another human being, and he vowed to be more open-minded about people in the business end of science.
Should he reconsider Stillman’s job offer to work for Trophozyme? It seemed to be still on the table. Maybe working for him wouldn’t be so bad after all. Full-time research would mean giving up surgery, but hey, no more operating room would mean a huge decrease in his level of stress. That wouldn’t be so bad, now that he thought about it. At this stage of life—mid forties—he should consider lessening the pressure that neurosurgery placed on him. There were, after all, numerous studies to show how chronic workplace stress decreased longevity. Maybe after this project was over . . .
As the draw span began lowering several drivers fired up their engines, bringing him back to the immediate issues. Once again, he mentally reviewed his to-do list: myriad little things, like following up with Jin-Woo for a budget, finding his passport, throwing some clothes together, on and on. . . . But the big issue was how to actually do the implants and remain below the Nuremberg Avengers’ radar. And this raised the issue of email and phone security. He needed a secure method of communication, something the Avengers knew nothing about. Perhaps a new cell under an assumed name? Or was this being overly paranoid? Maybe he should ask Fisher to help on this.
While leaving Stillman’s office the reality of what he was about to do began to sink in: he and Wayne would be flying directly in the face of the Avengers’ ultimatum. Moving the experiment to Seoul didn’t change the fundamental issue. He was willfully placing their lives in danger. How could he be so selfish? He picked up his Droid, thought, reach Stillman and call the whole thing off, no harm, no foul? Leave everyone safe. It’s not worth the risk.
The car directly ahead moved. Jon dropped the phone into the passenger seat and shifted from park to drive and followed, the simple diversion causing him to reconsider yet again. They would, after all, be working in Korea. Only three or four people would know . . . Were the Avengers really so well connected they could find out about it? If everyone involved kept quiet . . . He’d talk with Jin-Woo again and emphasize how important secrecy was . . . But, hey, was iron-clad security really possible in a university setting with so many people around? There were so many ways to slip up, if they weren’t extremely careful. Hospital personnel like admissions clerks, surgery personnel, and countless others would be involved with getting patients in and out of the hospital. Meaning, he and Jin-Woo needed to come up with an original way to disguise the surgery so only he and Jin-Woo and the patients themselves would be aware of what was really happening. That would be extremely difficult.
Suddenly the list of problems needing to be dealt with ballooned, spawning more issues to solve during the flight over. Jin-Woo would have to handle Tyasami security . . .
He picked up his Droid again and dictated another note to himself. Was there any way to discreetly learn if the Avengers had an active cell in Seoul? Would Fisher know? Would even a discreet inquiry be enough to tip his hand? Had to think about that . . . so many things . . .
And what about Yeonhee? Did she still work in Jin-Woo’s lab? Was she involved with someone? What would she feel like to hold in his arms? To kiss? To . . .
Where did that come from? He quickly tried to suppress the answer but couldn’t. And once again felt a tinge of shame for the attraction he’d felt for her while Emily was alive. But Emily isn’t alive. Wayne’s right. I need to move on with life.
The car behind him honked. He realized he was blocking traffic.
Stillman scrolled through the directory for Feist’s number and dialed. Took ten rings before the Australian picked up. Lowering his voice, Stillman said, “Good thing you stuck around. Turns out our friend hasn’t given up. He wants to move things to Korea.”
“That a problem? Least he’s not doing it stateside.”
Stillman glanced at the door again, a double check to make certain it was tightly closed. “The object of our little venture was to shut him down so he’d sell me the technique. That doesn’t mean take it offshore. He obviously didn’t get the message, so you’ll have to, ah, reemphasize it.”
“Right. Got it.”
“This time make sure he gets the message.”
“Korea, eh? Don’t much fancy their food, mate. They eat dogs, don’t they?”
12
FROM INSIDE THE darkened rental car parked a half block away, Nigel Feist watched Jon Ritter’s house, a small two-story clapboard on a modest lot of mowed grass and shrubs in need of pruning. Dutch Colonial was the random bit of trivia that popped into his mind.
12:12 a.m. The last light, an upstairs bedroom window, went dark an hour ago. Should be sleeping by now. Feist slipped from the car, hoisted a small black rucksack over his left shoulder, quietly locked the door, and was across the deserted street, past a line of parked cars and, without making a sound, into the shadowy driveway in less than 30 seconds.
He tugged pantyhose, similar to what he used in the parking garage, over his head, tore out two eye holes, and double-checked to make certain his custom flat black .22 caliber weapon was inserted firmly inside his belt in the small of his back and hidden under a loose-fitting black sweatshirt. Black jeans and black Nikes completed his outfit.
He moved along the driveway to Ritter’s back door, set his rucksack on the porch, worked his fingers into latex exam gloves, removed Night Owl Optics 1.0X Night Goggles from his rucksack, slipped them on, and tightened the headband and chinstrap to be stable, yet comfortable. Waited sixty seconds for his eyes to dark-adapt before switching them on. One final adjustment to the angle of the lenses and everything previously black became shades of green. The door lock was a Yale, nothing exotic or problematic, certainly nothing a security-conscious person would opt for. He quickly sorted through a set of picks and found the right one, slipped it into the lock, twiddled it until the tip resistance caught, then rotated the shaft. The deadbolt clicked. Feist reassembled the pick set, stowed it away, and hoisted the pack over his shoulder. Entering the kitchen, he left the door open in case he had to exit in a hurry, although he couldn’t imagine that would happen.
JON SNAPPED WIDE awake from a dreamless sleep, his heart hammering in his breast. Some primitive region of his brain was signaling that something was very wrong. What? He listened hard but heard only a soft swoosh swoosh swoosh of his pulse in his left ear. Yet still knew a sound had awakened him. What? There! A subtle creak. Nothing obvious. Then a rustle. Something out of sync with the usual random ticks of a house cooling at night. Suddenly it registered: someone was inside his house.
A jolt of adrenaline jangled his limbs. Get up! Don’t get caught defenseless.
He rolled left, slid out of bed, stood, mentally scanning the shadowy dark room for a weapon, his mind visualizing every detail not visible. One pass, then another. Saw nothing worthwhile. Almost frantic now, growing more aware of his nake
d vulnerability as each second blew by. There! In the glow of the clock radio was the dim outline of the phone. He grabbed it, thumbed the on button. The beep as loud as a thunderclap.
He was raising the phone to his ear when a metallic sound came from downstairs. Palm muffling the dial tone, he listened more closely but heard no other sound. Finally, he put the phone to his ear but the dial tone was no longer there.
“Light sleeper, are you, mate?”
He jumped, glanced at the phone in his hand. He’d recognize that voice and accent anywhere. The man from the parking lot.
The voice in the phone said, “Don’t suppose you’ve noticed the little red light goes on when the phone’s in use. That’s the reason I knew you picked up. Pretty canny of me, eh mate? Figured you was calling 911, I did. Was I right?”
Jon stayed frozen, phone to his ear, unable to say a word.
“Hear you ain’t taking us too serious, that you might even be planning to do something stupid. That true, you that stupid?”
Could he be reasoned with? Worth a try. “Listen to me. I have nothing to do with fetal tissue or abortions. Nothing at all. You have me confused with someone else.” Then he remembered the heavy flashlight in the bedside stand. Not much, but better than nothing.
“No confusion at all, mate, none at all. Consider this your final warning. Keep at it, someone’s going to die. You needn’t want that to be you, would you?”
Jon was quietly sliding the bedside drawer open when the phone went dead. Three seconds later the front door latch clicked. Jon quickly re-established a dial tone, punched 9-1-1, told the dispatcher he had a house intrusion in progress, gave his address, dumped the phone in the charger, grabbed the heavy flashlight, and moved to the open bedroom door. The man might outweigh and out-muscle him, but at that moment Jon felt he had enough raw adrenaline-fueled rage to beat the bastard’s head to a pulp.
Pulse pounding, breaths coming too hard, he crept past the door and listened. He heard only the soft hum of the fridge one floor below, the silence heavy and profound, like the forest when birds suddenly stop singing. Now what? He crept into the hall.
At the top of the stairs, he listened harder. Still nothing. Maybe the Aussie was gone. Still . . . Jon crept from the landing down one step, then two, another pause, more silence. Three steps from the bottom he paused again to scan the immediate area in the weak streetlight through the windows and the half-open front door. A slight breeze chilled his arms. The Aussie had obviously left, leaving the door open. Jon exhaled relief, went to the threshold, looked out at a car driving past. No one out on the sidewalks.
The instant Jon closed the door he sensed someone next to him. The Aussie said, “Over here, mate.”
Suddenly, the room lights clicked on, blinding him. A bolt of lightning slammed his flank, exploding nausea and pain into his gut, doubling him over. With a gasp, he dropped to his knees and gagged back vomit.
The Aussie knelt down, face to face with him but with pantyhose squishing his features into a fleshy blob. “Got ourselves a big fucking problem, you and me. Told you to stop work but you don’t fucking pay attention, now do you.”
The pain and nausea continued, making it hard to hear the words, much less pay attention to their content. Jon gasped, unable to move or defend himself. Is this how I die?
“Final warning, mate. Do not persist to fuck with us. You should know you can’t bloody well let out a silent fart without us knowing. So don’t even try. DO I MAKE MESELF CLEAR?”
Over the pain, Jon sucked enough air to wheeze, “Fuck you!” then rolled onto his side, his eyes level with the bottom stair, expecting a kick in the side, covering his head, but nothing came. After a few moments he opened his eyes. Strange, he expected to see feet in front of him. He rolled over to look in the other direction, but he was alone. Struggling onto wobbly feet, he staggered to the porch to sit and wait for the cops.
13
INSIDE THE DARKENED Taurus, Nigel Feist watched a blue Caprice park in the bus stop directly across the street from Ritter’s house. A man stepped out, slammed the door, walked briskly across the street to Ritter’s front door, leaving the car blinkers flashing. A copper. A metallic blue SPD cruiser had arrived a half hour ago, making this new arrival most likely a detective. Feist speed dialed.
Stillman’s sleepy voice answered. “What up, dog?”
“All done. I reckon he got the message this time.”
“Anything I need to know?”
Feist laughed, assuming this was Stillman’s oblique way of asking if he’d killed him. “No. Everything’s the way you want it.”
“Excellent.”
“Appears I’m done, then. But just to make sure, I’ll stand by for a day or two. You should know for certain by then, from the sounds of it.” Hated Korea, he did. Didn’t much fancy chasing Ritter across the Pacific to Seoul. Preferred to end this nasty business right here and now. Aggressive, pushy little buggers, them Koreans. The Jews of Asia, they were. Worse than the fucking Chinks when it came to business. No ethics, the whole lot of them. “And just so’s we’re clear, the meter’s still running for every day, right-right?”
“Christ, Nigel. Try thinking of something other than money for once in your life.”
“Right, I’ll use you as me fucking role model.” Feist clicked off and dropped the phone back on the seat. Time to get some rest.
SPECIAL AGENT FISHER said, “One more time. Run through his exact words,” before taking another sip of overcooked 7-Eleven coffee. The paper cup gave it a bitter cardboard flavor that was just shy of disgusting. But it was caffeine.
He and Jon Ritter were sitting in the front seats of Fisher’s blue Caprice, across the street from Jon’s house, while an FBI technician finished examining the back door and kitchen for fingerprints. Green glowing digits from the dashboard showed 5:11 a.m. The sky hinted an impending dawn.
Dog tired, Jon decided the terrible coffee was only worsening the sourness corroding his stomach, so he replaced the cup in the holder. An oily sheen on its surface reminded him of the news clips of the Gulf disaster. He noticed his fingers trembling and rubbed them against his jeans to stop it, but the shaking remained. Probably the result of a perfect storm of fatigue and caffeine on top of having the shit scared out of him. To say nothing of a huge heap of angst at the apparent ease with which the Aussie entered his house in the middle of the night. If there was ever a case for owning a dog. . . . How long had the bastard been there? Jesus, he could’ve crept the stairs and put a bullet through his head. But for whatever reason, he didn’t, preferring instead to play mind games with him. Why?
“Jon?”
Fisher just asked a question, he realized. Which was another thing . . . the FBI not warning him . . . “What?”
“Take me through it again. What caused you to wake up?”
Ritter palm-wiped his face and blew an audible breath. “I don’t know, a noise maybe. Something. I’ve been through it so many times I don’t know for sure. I woke up, was all. And knew someone was in the house.”
“And when you heard his voice you knew it was him? Same guy as before?”
“Yeah.”
Jon massaged his temples and pinched the bridge of his nose, yawned and rubbed at the fatigue irritating his eyes. Maybe catch some sleep on the flight to Narita, take along some Ambien just to be sure, although he hated those mental cobwebs it left behind.
Fisher said, “I don’t get it. Why threaten you the second time?”
Jon found Fisher’s need to rehash the same damn questions over and over irritating. They weren’t covering anything new and the interview was quickly becoming a waste of time. “Like I said last time you asked, I don’t know. And the more you push, the more I’ll probably fabricate.” He shrugged. Well, it was the truth.
“See, that’s not the feeling I get. There’s something going on I don’t know about. What?”
And there it was. The fandango they’d been dancing since Fisher’s first question. Tell hi
m about Korea? Maybe it wasn’t illegal but it was bound to piss off the FBI agent. He didn’t need that on top of everything else. But how did the Avengers learn about the plan with Trophozyme? Was his office bugged? Shit. Better to confess to Fisher than be killed by one of those crazies.
Jon glanced out the smudged window at a slice of Puget Sound sandwiched between two houses, with the sky indistinguishable from water, both still black, the picture reminiscent of Ketchikan. If he were ever asked to describe Hell, he’d say take a look at Ketchikan and you’ll have it. No way in, no way out, other than boat or airplane. At least that was it when he lived there.
“We’re going ahead with the study.” He thought about the next forty-eight hours and amended the statement with, “Maybe.”
“What!” Fisher did a double take. “This little detail just happened to pop into your head now, after going through this, what, three times?”
“Hey, lighten up. I’m purposely keeping it quiet.” Jon explained the possibly of implanting four patients in Seoul, well away from the Avengers’ radar.
Fisher sat wedged in between the seat, door, and steering wheel, half sideways, one arm over the wheel, the other over the seatback, staring at him hard. “Are you out of your mind? You seriously think you can pull off something like that without them finding out? Didn’t tonight’s little episode teach you a damn thing?”
Too tired to argue, Jon wearily hung his head. “Okay, sure, I’m out of my mind. Call it whatever. But you’d make the same decision if you were me. This is my whole life. Everything. For ten years I’ve lived it. Wayne too. We bled every ounce of energy we had into this project. I can’t just turn my back and walk away. Especially now, with Gabe’s . . .” He choked on the word, murder, and swallowed, unable to actually say it.
Fisher’s oppressive silence made Jon feel the need to buttress his defense with, “In four months I’ve lost the two people who were most important to me. So yes, I know the risks but I’m willing to take them.” He glared at Fisher until another wave of exhaustion swept through him, making him turn back to the view out the dirty window.
