by Allen Wyler
All this was running through Jon’s head when Jin-Woo’s cell phone rang. He excused himself from the room, leaving Jon and Yeonhee in awkward silence. Finally, Jon asked, “This guy of yours, tell me about him.”
She blushed and lowered her eyes to the slice of kimchi held between the tips of her chopsticks, then slowly replaced it in her rice bowl, set down her chopsticks, and folded her hands in her lap. “This is a problem, you see . . . he is an executive with Hyundai. He is what my girlfriends call a ‘good catch.’ He wants to marry me but I don’t know . . .”
“You love him?”
She immediately shook her head, paused, looked him in the eye. “How about you? Have you found someone or is this still too soon after Emily?”
Why did the question embarrass him? He stalled by exchanging his chopsticks for a sip of beer. “Wayne keeps encouraging me to start going out again, says I need to put that part of my life back together, but I don’t know . . . there’s this neighbor . . . I know she’s interested . . .” He looked at the bowl in his hand, replaced it on the table, “I asked her out but with what’s going on, I haven’t had a chance yet.”
He glanced at the door, looking to see if Jin-Woo was headed back in. When he didn’t see him he said, “May I ask you something?”
She blushed and nodded. “You may. And I may choose to not answer.”
“Do you and Jin-Woo,” with a nod toward the door, “have something going?”
With a dismissive laugh her blush vanished. Again, she looked him in the eye. “I’m sure people wonder because we work so closely together, but no.”
“Did you? When you were in Seattle?”
She sighed, dropped her eyes, and after a moment shook her head. “No. It was hard at the time because I was lonely and didn’t know anyone in Seattle and it was difficult for me speaking English all the time. With him I could speak Korean, which was a relief. But I really didn’t want to get involved with my boss. And I know he has girlfriends. A lot of Korean men are like that. It is accepted behavior. But I can’t accept that.”
Jon decided to change the subject. “Your fiancé. . . . tell me more about him.”
She picked up her glass of beer and sipped, taking more time than needed. “His name is Jung-Kyo, so you can call him that if you prefer. I don’t know if I’m going to marry him or not. If I do, it would help provide for my mother. She lives in the town I grew up in, Kyonggi-Do, a city south of Seoul.”
“So your father, is he not around?”
Yeonhee gave a bitter laugh. “He moved out when I was thirteen . . . to live with a younger woman. He and my mom never really divorced and he never assumed financial responsibility for us. It’s always been up to my mother to support us. She does people’s laundry for money.”
Seemed like everything he asked became uncomfortable. He tried for something less emotional while still wanting to learn more about her. “Us? You have brothers or sisters?”
“I have an older brother, but he can’t really help out because he has severe psychiatric problems. He’s calm one moment and then can be enraged the next. It makes it so no one will hire him. I have a younger sister, but she married when she was sixteen and is a baby machine—four children. It’s hard for her and her husband to provide for their own needs.
“I wanted to stay at home and help Mom, but two weeks after I graduated high school my brother went crazy and came after me with a butcher knife.” She shivered and paused to rub her upper arm. “I made it to the bathroom and locked myself in. The police came and took him away for a few days, but Mom would never press charges because he’s okay when it’s just the two of them.”
Yeonhee got a distant look in her eyes. “I realized I couldn’t stay at home any longer, so I came to Seoul to live with a girlfriend. I was lucky, found a job as a lab assistant. It paid enough money for me to start university. I still send money to my mom every month.”
“Have you ever asked your father to help out?”
She looked him in the eye. “I will never communicate with him. Never. Two weeks ago my sister called. My father’s in hospital. Liver cancer, she said. He’s going to die within two or three months. He’s my father and I know I should go see him, but I just can’t do it. Not after what he did to us.”
Jon decided to change the subject. “When we finish this project—”
The door slid back open and Jin-Woo stepped in. “Sorry. That was the hospital. I had to take the call.” He settled down on his cushion. “Where were we?”
22
AT THE FAR END of the parking lot, Nigel Feist chewed slowly and deliberately on an unlit Maduro torpedo when Ritter exited the restaurant, followed by the doctor and the girl. Quickly, Nigel dropped the cigar into his pocket for later.
Rather than pay attention to Ritter and his friends climbing into the Hyundai, Feist watched the other bloke. There he was, still cloaked in shadows. Then Nigel was moving, heading straight toward him, hand pulling the guitar string from his pocket, both ends twisted into loops around wooden pegs, the perfect weapon to sneak past TSA inspectors to assemble on site. Feist slipped between two cars, coming up fast behind the Avenger, then looping the garrote around his neck while buckling the man’s knees, he dropped him down behind another car. The man struggled but everything happened so fast, he never had a chance. Nigel crushed his windpipe before he could even make a sound. Nigel held tight, fighting the struggling Avenger, keeping him back on his heels while his fingers clawed at the wire he couldn’t loosen. Nigel listened for the crunch of gravel that would warn him of anyone approaching as he patiently waited for his victim’s brain to die. Finally, the man became motionless but Feist kept the wire taut for three more minutes. He wanted to make sure he didn’t leave this guy alive. While he held on he listened to traffic and the random sounds of a densely populated city. Finally, he removed the wire, quickly rewound it, and stuffed it back into his pocket.
Nigel found an unlocked car farther down the alley, opened the back door, dragged the victim over, and slid him onto the seat. He fished out the dead man’s wallet and angled it in the dim street light for a better view.
Aw fuckin’ Christ. A fucking FBI agent. He just offed an agent of the fucking US of A. Stunned, frozen in place, his mind raced through ramifications. Fucking think!
Witnesses. Any witness hanging around? Carefully he scanned the surrounding office buildings and was relieved to see most windows dark. But on second thought, for someone to see him down here in the shadows, their interior lights would have to be off, so blacked out windows didn’t mean shit. Someone could be calling the coppers this very second. Christ, don’t just stand here.
Heart pounding, Nigel slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door. Fuck!
If the car belonged to a restaurant patron, the valet would have probably slipped the key above the visor. Ran his finger along the edge and sure enough, found it. He paused to think through his next move. Killing was not a part of the job he fancied. Hated it, in fact. But occasionally it was necessary to achieve what he was being paid for. But only after methodical planning. With this one he’d been forced to ignore this rule. First, Raymore’s senseless execution of Lippmann. Now this. Navigating a sea of bad luck was what he was doing. Made every damn move on this job riskier, testing the boundaries of good fortune, putting him at high risk of exposure. Killing a fucking federal agent could be an absolute game-changer. Certainly it could bring a shitload of grief down on him. He needed to do something quickly, but very carefully. This fucking job was spiraling out of control.
Hold on! Think. What the hell was this bloke doing here? Didn’t seem likely the FBI would assign an agent to protect Ritter. More likely they’d use Ritter as bait for an Avenger. That had to be it. Meaning his murder could be made to look like . . .
Nigel scanned the immediate surroundings one more time, concentrating on anything that could incriminate him. He saw nothing, thought about it one more time, just to be sure. No, nothing.
He glan
ced around, thinking, anything else to worry about? Certainly didn’t see anyone who might be a witness, but couldn’t tell about the surrounding buildings. He’d waited in the alley long enough to be confident it was deserted except for the valet who spent most his time inside the restaurant. He popped the car trunk, wrestled the FBI agent into it, then was on a main street driving to no place in particular, just racking up miles between him and the alley. Four blocks later he tossed the shredded cigar out the window.
Sweating still, heart pounding, he tried to suck saliva into his mouth. No go. Dry as the Gibson Desert. Killed a fucking FBI agent, he did. There was an upside to it, he thought. A stroke of luck, spotting him, for if he hadn’t, no telling what might’ve happened.
Time to quit, mate. Time to leave the business while you’re ahead. Fuck Stillman’s money.
Neither political nor religious, Nigel worked only for the money, taking any client who would pay. As a child, his family had struggled financially, leaving him to believe you best estimated a person’s wealth by the location of their house. The wealthy built on the hilltops with panoramic views. The poor rented in flood plains with a view only of the neighbors’ loo.
Growing up poor left him with a huge hunger for money, but not to the point of greed. Greed, he believed, was a major cause of bad judgment. Despite his financial advisor’s words, he had enough now to live in a modest home on Mulholland Drive, a collection of expensive watches, and a garage filled with classic Harleys. In fact, right now he longed to be home instead of in fucking Seoul working this fucking job. Fuck the risk. Fuck working for buggers like Stillman. Soon as he got back to LA he’d roll the flathead out of the garage and begin the cross-country motorcycle trip he’d fantasized about all these years.
Assuming of course, he could dump this fucking FBI agent and avoid capture. Survive this one last job and be done with it.
Feist turned off a busy street into a residential neighborhood of row after row of cookie-cutter concrete apartment buildings, each one distinguished from its neighbor only by a large block letter and number on the upper right-hand corner. Very few windows glowed at this hour of night. Feist figured a big-assed complex like this would be a perfect place for a parked KIA to go ignored until the trunk stank enough to draw attention. Might be a couple days. By then he’d be long gone and done with this fucking job.
After wiping clean all interior and exterior spots he might have touched, he locked the doors and started walking in the general direction of the business district. Three blocks later he dropped the car keys in a drainage ditch. He’d cover at least two more miles before flagging a cab to take him to the center of town. From there it would be easy to double back to the restaurant and retrieve his piece of shit rental cycle.
23
THE INCOMING CALL ON Stillman’s cell didn’t identify the caller, so he figured it had to be Feist. He stepped to the door to his office, scanned the cubicles in the immediate area to confirm they were empty and his secretary hadn’t yet arrived. Satisfied, he closed the office door before answering with a simple, “What up, dog?”
“Ran into a bit of a snag, mate.”
“Hold on.” Stillman angled the Venetian blinds to minimize the risk of being lip read by someone with binoculars in a neighboring building. “I’m back. What kind of snag?”
“You dead certain this connection’s secure?”
Stillman laughed at Feist’s paranoia, but at the same time he appreciated it. It paid to be cautious when it came to these things. “Yes, but just to make sure, no names.”
“All right, then.” Feist hesitated. “That tail on our friend? A government man is what he was. Federal.”
“What?”
“A fucking FBI agent, he was.”
Several things flashed through Stillman’s mind, all competing for dominance. He paused to sort them out, selecting the most important. “You said was. The use of past tense, is that intentional?”
“Right-right.”
“Government, huh. You say FBI. You sure about that?”
“Oh yeah.”
Stillman thought about that and smiled. This could be a very good sign. The FBI would be tailing Ritter for only one reason: they swallowed the initial bait planted the night of Lippmann’s murder. Perfect. The Avengers would be blamed just as long as he and Feist were careful enough to leave nothing to point back to them. “Does that surprise you?”
Feist hesitated again. “No. But what it does do is increase the risk of this job. And the bad news for you is this means a twenty percent surcharge that’s neither negotiable nor delayed. I want it paid up front, now, meaning it appears in my account before I do any bloody more work.”
“Understood.” Stillman’s smile broadened. The extra cost? Chump change compared to what the formulation would net. “I’ll wire it immediately. Same account?”
“Right.”
“Settled. New subject: you good to go as planned?”
“If the payment’s in my account, I am.”
“Excellent. Stay in touch.”
Stillman set the phone on the desk and leaned back in the swivel chair. A week at most and, if things went a planned, Ritter’s clinical trial would be a disaster, something the Koreans would never let see the light of day, and Ritter’s technique would be his. When the time was right, and that would be soon, Trophozyme would apply to the FDA for the first-ever human stem cell implant to reverse Alzheimer’s disease. He expected to get quick approval. After all, he would argue, it was previously reviewed and accepted by the NIH. This would place Trophozyme in the forefront of a huge, lucrative market. Too bad Ritter hadn’t jumped at the chance to be chief medical officer. Would’ve been nice to have him on the team. Oh well, we all make mistakes that ripple through the rest of our lives. This, in fact, could be a pivotal point for my life. Stillman grinned at the thought.
24
JIN-WOO WAS ALREADY outside in his idling Hyundai when Jon walked out of the hotel lobby at 7:02 the next morning. As Jon climbed into the passenger seat Jin-Woo wished him good morning. Jon detected an unusual note of excitement in his voice, a departure from the usual monotone.
Jon awoke two hours earlier in spite of downing an Ambien before slipping into bed. It wasn’t just the time zone change that accounted for the premature awakening. The anxiety over what they were about to embark on began yesterday, intensifying with each preparatory step completed. The stomach butterflies had been in full force when his eyes abruptly opened at 5:00 a.m. Today they’d start the cultures. Two days from now, they’d implant the first two patients. The surgery would probably be the easiest step in the entire experiment. The most difficult part would be waiting the next four months before they could do the first tests to evaluate any change in the patients’ dementia. Right now, he needed to stop thinking about the future and focus on all the little details leading up to surgery. If things went as they usually did, once they actually began culturing the cells, his anxiety would be pushed aside by his intense focus.
As they drove Jin-Woo seemed more animated, quick with little nervous laughs and small attempts to crack jokes in spite of the cultural differences in humor. His looser mood helped ease Jon’s edginess. More importantly, it helped convince him that Jin-Woo would put forth the same effort as Wayne. How could he ever repay him?
Rush hour traffic was relatively light, allowing them to breeze along, covering the usual fifteen-minute trip in just over eight. Jin-Woo drove into the huge concrete garage behind the medical center, parked, and led Jon through a damp, musty basement to a windowless steel fire door. From there they took the stairs to the first floor, went down a hall, turned right, and were at the front door to Security. They entered a small reception area. Behind a laminate counter stood an officer with nicotine-stained teeth and a bad brush cut. After a few words from Jin-Woo, the officer raised a section of counter and motioned Jon to follow him to a small room with a straight-backed chair. Immediately behind the chair was draped a blue sheet as a backdrop. Jon
sat. The officer checked the display on the digital camera, adjusted Jon’s head slightly before snapping a head shot. Within a minute Jon’s face was embedded on a bar-coded plastic ID card dangling from a lanyard, the entire procedure consuming less than five minutes. This security card provided Jon access to all areas, except a few restricted regions within the medical center, day and night.
While retracing the path to the garage, Jin-Woo explained, “This card is your key to the entire building. You must wear it at all times. If you not have it on, where security can see it, and they see you, they will make you to leave building.”
They cut across the garage to an unmarked steel fire door into the largest rectangular building of the medical center complex. Embedded in the cement wall to the right of the door jamb was a card reader with a glowing red LED. Jin-Woo nodded at Jon’s ID card. “Go ahead, try it.”
Jon swiped the card through the reader slot. A slight pause, followed by a metallic snap of a lock, and the red LED turned green.
The heavy door opened into an echoing, concrete hall with the disgusting smell of animal feces and dried food pellets. A half block of concrete hall took them to a no-frills freight elevator protected by a heavy steel mesh door so well counterbalanced Jin-Woo could raise it easily with one hand. Once inside, Jin-Woo lowered the door and pressed five.
As soon as they stepped off the elevator Jon recognized the entrance to Jin-Woo’s lab two doors down. To the right of the door jamb was a stainless steel plate, a speaker, a number pad, and a glowing red light. Jin-Woo punched six numbers into the pad and hit the pound sign. A computerized voice responded. Jin-Woo spoke slowly and clearly into the speaker grill. The door lock clicked.
“Voice recognition,” Jin-Woo said proudly. “Very good security, I think. I installed it two months ago. We will program your voice soon as cultures begin.”
