by Allen Wyler
A cab idled a few feet from the hotel entrance when Jon blew through the front door. He threw open the passenger door, asked the young driver if he spoke English. He did. Jon said to take him to the medical center, an emergency. The driver took him seriously, peeling rubber out of the stately circular drive.
The deserted windy street took them to the bottom of Walker Hill in record time, but they hit a red light and stopped. Jon glanced around. No headlights anywhere. He reached between the seats, pushed the driver’s shoulder. “Go! Go! Emergency.”
The driver glanced right then left then blew the red light.
How did he know? What have I done? Aw man, those poor patients. Jon’s gut felt sick with nauseating guilt, just shy of vomiting. Fisher warned him, damn it, goddamned warned him. Fisher. Call him.
Wayne too.
He patted his pockets. Shit! Forgot it. It was still back in the bathroom charging in the only 110 volt outlet that accepted US electrical plugs.
Then they were crossing the bridge over the Han River now, moving fast, the medical center looming ahead. A moment later the taxi entered the empty circular drive and screeched to a stop outside the dark front entrance, the meter showing 15,000 won. Jon threw 20,000 into the front seat, scrambled into humid night air, slammed the door. The automated glass doors didn’t open, so he tried the manual one to the right. Locked. Shit! The cab had already left.
A glowing red dot on the wall next to the door caught his attention: a card reader. There you go! He reached for the badge on the lanyard around his neck and came away with air. Aw shit, did he forget that too? Wait a minute . . . When did he last have it? Couldn’t remember. Matter of fact, couldn’t remember taking it off when he returned from the hospital earlier. But he must have. Shit!
He pressed his face to the glass and peered in at the dimly lit deserted halls in hope of spotting someone who might open the door for him, but saw only spacious marble floors and columns. Fuck fuck fuck.
Wait a minute, the ER. Go there.
He started running the path that bordered the main building, worried about the time his stupidity was wasting. Should’ve known the front door would be locked. Why didn’t he tell the cabbie to take him to the ER? Rounded a corner, saw the brightly lit ambulance bay with a glowing backlit sign in Korean characters. The automatic doors parted with a soft hiss as he approached. Five feet inside a security guard in olive drab paramilitary fatigues raised a hand for him to stop.
Jon blurted, “I need to find Dr. Jin-Woo Lee. He’s here in the building on an emergency.”
The guard studied Jon a moment before asking something in Korean.
Jon shook his head, “You speak English? I don’t speak Korean.”
The officer waved over a nurse, said something to her. She smiled at Jon, gave a quick bow. “Yes? May I help you?”
He was looking past her for signs to lead him to the elevators in the front lobby, but all signage was Korean characters. “I need to find the neurosurgery ward.”
She stood with hands clasped together at her waist. “I am sorry but these are not visiting hours. You are not allowed in.”
He glanced from her to the guard, back to her. “Please, I’m a doctor. I need to see Dr. Lee.”
“I am sorry, but you are not allowed in now.” And gave another bow, ending the conversation.
“Goddamn it, page Dr. Lee. Now!”
The guard eyed him while speaking rapidly into a microphone clipped to his epaulet, then stepped directly in front of the nurse, blocking Jon from further entrance into the main hospital. He said something Jon didn’t understand, then stood eye to eye for a moment. Suddenly the guard shoved Jon’s chest, windmilling him backwards. Jon regained balance thinking, little fucker’s stronger than he looks.
The nurse put a hand on the guard’s shoulder, spoke to him, then said to Jon, “The police are called. Either you leave now or you will be arrested.”
28
MAD, FRUSTRATED, not sure what to do next, Jon barged into his hotel room and flipped the wall switch. Nothing. The door clicked solidly shut behind him. Suddenly he was encased in dense darkness made worse from just leaving the hallway. He froze, the hairs down the back of his neck tingling with instinctive animal fear. Was Feist here? The call to the hospital . . . Feist knew he’d leave . . .
Turn around and leave? No, that would mean turning his back to the room. He dropped into a crouch, ready to spring at the slightest sound or perceived movement. And waited.
Slowly, his eyes adapted to the weak light, bringing with it familiar shapes: the beds, the dresser, the partially open drapes. Were things as he left them? He didn’t see what might be the shape of another person in the room. Aw shit, the room doesn’t have power without the card key in the holder.
Embarrassed at his paranoia, he cracked the door enough to insert the card. Immediately, the room lights flickered on, blindingly bright. With one hand still cautiously holding the door open, he scanned the room one more time. Just in case. No, no one else here.
His cell was where he remembered putting it. But his ID . . . wasn’t. Did he have it when he came back to the room? Had to think about that . . . He took it off when he hung it in Jin-Woo’s dressing room locker but did he put it back on after changing from scrubs to street clothes? Couldn’t remember, probably because the act was so trivial it didn’t warrant a memory. Still . . . not knowing left an uneasy queasiness festering. He glanced around the room, checking details, looking for things out of place.
The cell showed two missed calls, both from Jin-Woo. He highlighted the last one, punched send, walked to the window, and opened the drapes wide. Something about the expanse of city lights and empty streets felt calming. Slightly. The connection clicked through.
“Jon!” Jin-Woo sounded breathless.
Jon didn’t like the sound of his voice. “What the hell happened?”
“Both patients dead.”
“Dead?” His stomach dropped out. Both knees weakened. How could that be?
“Dead,” Jin-Woo repeated.
“How? I mean, what happened?” He leaned against the plate glass for support as fireflies danced across in his vision.
“I do not know.” Jon could hear other excited voices in the background of Jin-Woo’s end of the conversation.
“I tried to—” He took a deep breath and dropped heavily into the club chair, knocking over a small table in the process.
“The police are here. Asking many questions. I don’t have answers.”
Feist. Had to be. “What—”
“They demand immediate autopsy.”
“But—”
“I call back.” The line went dead.
Paralyzed with disbelief, Jon tried to process Jin-Woo’s words, his mind flooded with questions, each fighting the other for dominance. Maybe it wasn’t Feist. If so, what could possibly have gone wrong? The patients were doing so well when he checked . . . Bullshit, it had to be Feist’s work.
Fuck fuck fuck!
Fisher needs to know.
He scrolled through the programmed numbers, highlighted Fisher’s cell, thumbed send, listened to the hollow echo of cyberspace until Fisher picked up. Jon started straight into the story: Feist’s call, the trip to the hospital, Jin-Woo’s report. Fisher listened without interrupting. When Jon finished, Fisher backtracked through the sequence, point by point, making sure he understood exactly what happened. Not that the story was complicated.
Fisher said, “Okay, look, right now my big concern is to get you home safely. Feist is fucking with you, killing those patients. Fifty to one you’re the real target. What I haven’t told you is I have an agent watching your back. Had him on your flight over. Right now, he’s your immediate asset. Here’s what I want you to do. What time’s it there?”
Jon checked the bedside clock radio. 2:59. “Early morning, about three.”
“Guy’s name is Phelps. Gene Phelps. I’ll get hold of him soon as we hang up and have him come to you. What’s your
room number?”
Jon’s mind blanked. “Hold on,” and checked the number on the phone. “Seven thirty five.”
“Seven thirty five. Got it. I’ll send him up soon as I reach him. In the meantime, get your ass on the first flight out of there. Doesn’t matter if it’s Chicago or Atlanta, just get the hell out of Korea. Phelps should be up there within a half hour. I’m sure you’re not going to have to leave before then. He’ll stick with you all the way out to the airport. We can handle this better if you’re on US soil. Understand?”
Jon thought about the patients, their families, Jin-Woo and Yeonhee. “But, I can’t just leave.”
“Think not? You want this fucker to off you next?”
Point well taken. Still . . . he was torn. Just leave without a word?
Fisher obviously sensed his indecision. “Think I’m joking? Let’s review what just happened. Your friend Lippmann is shot to death while some shithead’s telling you he’s going to do the same to you if you don’t shut down. So, what do you do? You go right ahead and do what he told you not to do. Tell me: what’re the odds two patients just up and die within seconds of each other on the night of surgery?”
Fisher was right, of course. “I know . . .”
Fisher continued, “Feist called you, for Christ’s sake. Knew where you were and your room number. It should be clear to you: unless you want to be next, get your ass on a flight out of there. You’re dead meat until you’re home.”
“Okay, okay.” Jon’s mind was beginning to function again. “What about Wayne?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll look after him.”
Jon scanned the room, mentally packing. He could call Jin-Woo and Yeonhee from the airport. “The guy’s name again, the one you’re sending up?”
“Phelps. I know I don’t need to tell you this, but don’t open your door without checking who’s there. Oh, and don’t put your eye to the door’s peephole without first turning off the room light. Got it?”
Jon reached Wayne at his office and broke the news. It took a moment for Wayne to totally process it, but when he did he said, “Holy shit.”
Jon told him to get out of the lab. “Go home. But before you do anything, check in with Fisher. I’ll feel a hell of a lot better if he knows where you are.”
“What about you? What are you going to do?”
Jon agreed with Fisher’s plan. Okay, sure, he’d feel guilty for leaving Jin-Woo to deal with all the blowback, but realistically what good could he do other than provide moral support? He certainly had no influence with the Tyasami hospital administration and, in fact, had been doing research in an institution where he held no privileges, so that point might work against him. He said, “I’ll get hold of Jin-Woo and let him know what’s happening. I’m worried for him. Then I’m out of here first flight I can get.”
Wayne sighed. “What a mess.”
“I know. Sorry, if I knew—”
“If you need me for anything, I’ll be home soon as I can get there.”
Jon tried Jin-Woo’s cell but it rang through to a recording in Korean. Because the female voice spoke a language he didn’t understand he couldn’t be sure he’d reached the right number, so called again. Same voice, same recording, so this time he left a message for Jin-Woo to return the call. He stood at the window to organize his thoughts.
When would Phelps arrive?
He opened the United Airlines website on the laptop but couldn’t find a way to rebook an existing ticket, so powered off the computer. He remembered a leather-bound portfolio of important numbers in the center drawer of the desk, found the direct line for United Airlines and called, but after ten rings it rolled over to a recording. He tried Jin-Woo’s cell once more. Again, no answer. He thought about calling Fisher but had nothing new to say. Plus, he didn’t want Fisher distracted. Instead, he paced and waited for Phelps.
The phone rang. He jumped on it.
Fisher said, “Haven’t been able to get hold of Gene yet, but I’ll keep trying. You booked a flight out of there yet?”
“No. They’re not answering the phone. But I checked online and nothing’s leaving in the next couple hours anyway.”
“Just go to the airport and get re-ticketed at the counter. Soon as I reach Gene I’ll call you. When he gets there get the hell out of there.”
Jon hung up, checked the clock again. The minute hand didn’t seem to be moving at all. Why wait for Phelps? Why not go ahead and shower, shave, and leave?
Freshly showered and dressed, he tossed his clothes and shaving kit into the suitcase without bothering to fold anything, then returned to the window to fret. He really should tell Jin-Woo he was leaving. After all, he, Jon, was ultimately responsible for the disaster he now had to deal with. He dialed the number but once again it rang through to the answering service. Not answering calls really wasn’t like him. Even when tied up in surgery, Jin-Woo had the circulating nurse answer his cell and relay messages.
He called Wayne, who was now at home with Michael. Knowing he was safe made Jon feel better. Slightly. Then, checked his watch again. Where the hell was Phelps?
He began to wonder, how did the Avengers find out? He and Jin-Woo had been so careful to disguise their actions. The patients were admitted under a false diagnosis, the surgeries scheduled as Parkinson’s cases. The only people who knew what they were really doing were Fisher, Stillman, Wayne, Jin-Woo, Yeonhee, and Tyasami’s CEO. Unless, of course the CEO told someone. But that didn’t make sense. Jin-Woo? What would he gain from that?
Yeonhee? Same thing.
Wayne? No way.
Stillman? No, that didn’t make sense. He was the one. . . .
Or did it?
29
BY 5:45 JON was coming unglued. Jin-Woo hadn’t called and wasn’t picking up his cell. Nothing from Gene Phelps, and not even a call back from Fisher.
Screw it. Leave.
Couldn’t tolerate being holed up in this damn room one moment longer. He needed to head for the airport and make flight arrangements at the counter. Time to go. He put his hand on the doorknob but didn’t open it. Was Feist outside, waiting for him? He turned off the lights and peered through the security hole at a distorted fish-eye view of empty hall. At least, that small area was empty. But what about down the hall in the elevator alcove?
Jesus, get a grip.
He took a deep breath, opened the door, and was down the hall pulling his suitcase, just short of running. In the lobby he approached the reception desk manned by a pimply, thin young male with thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses. The man bowed. “May I help you?”
“Can you rearrange airline reservations?”
The guy appeared lost. “Rearrange.”
Jon tried to explain but the receptionist didn’t understand. With a smile and a bow, “One minute, please,” and vanished through a discreet door in the darkly stained walnut paneling behind the desk.
A moment later, a plump, middle-aged woman with a round head, square glasses, and short black hair emerged through the doorway. “May I help you?”
Jon asked the question again and to his relief, she nodded. “Yes.”
He slid his ticket across the black granite counter. “I have an emergency at home and need to move my return flight up to today, soon as possible.”
“Certainly. I will see what I can arrange. Please, have a seat in the lobby.” She swept a palm toward a grouping of ornate red velvet chairs. “I’ll fetch you as soon as I have an answer.” Her speech carried a slight British accent.
Unable to sit, Jon paced, stealing glances at the two doormen waiting patiently outside, ready to open a car door or hoist luggage into a trunk. The sky hinted of impending dawn.
“Mr. Ritter?” The smiling woman waved him back to the counter.
“Yes?”
“At this moment I am unable to obtain a confirmation for you, but there is a possibility of a flight to Seattle this afternoon, leaving at seventeen hundred for Seattle through Narita. Is that agreeable?”<
br />
An eleven-hour wait. Seemed like an eternity, now that he was anxious to leave. But, he reminded himself, sitting in an airport lounge was probably safer than waiting here. “Nothing sooner?”
She shook her head. “Not unless you wish to fly through Chicago.”
“When does that leave?”
“Fifteen hundred.”
Two hours earlier, but ultimately it would result in a Seattle touchdown hours later than the direct flight. “No, that won’t work. What about San Francisco, Portland, Los Angeles?”
“All booked.”
“Okay, I’ll take the Seattle flight later today.”
She began typing on a keyboard. He watched, unable to keep from glancing over his shoulder to scan the lobby for Feist, Fisher’s warning eating away at him. He asked her, “How soon will you know?”
Eyes on the monitor, she said, “Most likely it will take an hour or so,” then glanced at a delicate gold Seiko on her wrist. “Our café opens at six-thirty. That is not too far away. I suggest you have breakfast and when you finish, check back with me.”
Jon scanned the front doors again, coaxing himself to calm down, that he was only making the anxiety worse. “That’ll work. I’ll be back.” Which was worse, waiting here, out in the open, or back in his room? Might be safer to just pack and get out to the airport, but he had a few things to tie up before he’d leave.
“Very good, sir.”
Back in his room, suitcase next to the door, Jon flicked the TV to CNN Asia on the off-chance of catching a story about the dead patients, but they cycled through the same old stories and video clips as earlier. Feeling the need to talk to a friendly voice, he called Wayne.
“There’s a good chance I can change my ticket to this afternoon. I’ll let you know soon as I find out.”
Wayne said, “Want me to pick you up at the airport?”
“No,” Jon tried for a joke, “Michael might get jealous.”
