Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

  “Why I need to talk to him?”

  “Because I’m being set up. Framed. He’ll explain it to you since clearly you don’t believe me.”

  “No. You tell me.” Park continued to lean against the wall, arms casually folded across his chest, face expressionless.

  Jon took a moment to organize the story before starting with Lippmann’s murder and the Avengers’ threat. By the time he got to Feist’s call to the hotel room earlier in the morning, it was clear from Park’s face that he didn’t believe a word. In desperation, Jon said, “Please. Call Fisher. Hear it from him.”

  Park pushed off the wall, blocking the door. “You just admitted you were at the hospital early this morning.”

  This time Jon turned to the mirrored window to answer, making sure any recording captured his words. “Fuck no, I didn’t! I said I WENT TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM. I didn’t go further into the hospital. The nurse and guard wouldn’t let me get past the door because I DIDN’T HAVE ID. That was the only time since leaving late yesterday afternoon that I was ever near the medical center.”

  “Why didn’t you have your ID?”

  Park’s tactic seemed clear. Keep hammering and probing his story repeatedly from different angles, mining for inconsistencies and contradictions until he trapped Jon in a lie. At this point Jon wondered if he should simply give up on making the afternoon flight, stop the interview, and demand to speak to the American Embassy. Then again, if he could convince Park he was innocent, he still had enough time to catch his flight. Once he was out of Korea . . . He gave it one more shot with, “I was sound asleep when Dr. Lee called and said there was a problem and wanted me there. He hung up. That was it. By then I was upset and in a hurry. I got dressed and left. I didn’t even think about the ID.”

  “When did you lose it?”

  Jon realized this was a no-win interview, especially with his frustration building. He stopped pacing. “I told you, I don’t know. Just fucking call Fisher, all right?”

  Park raised his eyebrows. “He is here in Seoul?”

  Park seemed to be intentionally badgering him now, trying to provoke him. He drew another deep breath and shook his head. “I already told you that, too. He’s in Seattle.”

  “Then how can he tell me you were not in the hospital?”

  “That’s not the point. The point is he can tell you who killed the patients.”

  “Ah, so you admit patients are murdered?”

  Stunned, Jon stared at Park. The anger of a moment ago suddenly turned to raw fear as what just happened clicked into focus: instead of a fact-finding interview, Park intended this to be a confession. Jon raised a palm, the interview had gone far enough, he needed help. “We’re done here. Before I say another word, I want someone from the United States Embassy in this room with me.”

  Park shot his sleeves and straightened his suit coat. “Why you want that? You do something wrong?”

  “What don’t you understand about what I just said? I want to talk to the United States Embassy.”

  Park raised his palms in mock innocence. “You refuse to cooperate with an important investigation into the death of two Korean citizens?”

  Jon turned to the mirror again and spoke slowly and clearly. “I want it on record that I am a United States citizen being held against my will. I have requested to contact the United States Embassy. Before I say another word I want to talk to someone from our embassy. Also, for the record, my passport has been forcibly taken from me by Detective Park. There must be something in the Geneva Convention to cover this.” Then, pointing at Park. “I will be happy to answer this man’s questions once a representative from the US government is present.”

  Detective Park asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Yes I—”

  “Is okay? Good.”

  Jon heard the metallic clink of a lighter lid, the scrape of a flint wheel, the hard snap as the lid closed, followed by a deep exhale. He smelled fresh cigarette smoke as he continued to face the mirrored window, his back to Park. He could see Park’s reflection in the window, still blocking the door in an arrogant posture.

  Park said, “I know many things about your business in Seoul, Dr. Ritter. Many things. If you refuse to cooperate, I will make things uncomfortable for you.”

  Jon suspected Park intended to egg him on into more statements to use as contradictions, so he decided to not answer.

  After a moment of silence, Park said, “You not think so? I know you come to Seoul to experiment on innocent Korean citizens. This you do because the FDA forbids you do the same experiment in your own country.”

  “Not true.” Jon started to add more but stopped. Don’t say another word.

  “I know you do this work without hospital okay.” Park paused to let this new bit of information sink in. “I know you put something in those patient’s brain. I know the patients now dead.” Another pause. “These are things you want American Embassy know about? I think not.”

  Park stepped closer, pointed a finger at him. “For these reasons you must consider your situation very very carefully. Very carefully.” Park gave a self-satisfied nod. “I come back in few minutes with cup of tea. This give you time to consider. I not be so patient next time. Oh yes,” he pointed to the paper on the table. “Read confession carefully. You sign. Things will go much better when you sign.” His English was worse, as if trying to make Jon believe he had trouble with it. “You sign, I make sure you treated good and tell American Embassy you here.”

  Jon heard the door open, then footsteps. He looked up to see two muscular guards enter.

  Park said, “Oh, yes, security guard in Emergency Room remember you very well. He sign statement he see you in hospital. Westerners in a hospital in middle of night are very obvious.”

  The door latch clicked shut. The guards assumed parade rest, one to each side of the door. Why were they here in a room this small and secure? There was no need for even one. But two? Shit!

  32

  THIRTY MINUTES later Park opened the door. The guards stepped out so he could enter. They closed the door, leaving Jon and Park in the cramped room. Park looked at the unsigned confession on the table. “You refuse to sign?”

  “You’re not listening, so I’ll say it again: State Department. I’m not doing anything until someone from the State Department is standing here to advise me. And a lawyer. Maybe both.”

  Park gave a what-do-I-care shrug. “You wait long time, then. Day. Week. Month. No matter. I wait too.” Without another word, Park left the room and closed the door. This time taking the guards with him.

  Now alone in the room with his back to the two-way glass, Jon fished his cell phone out on the off chance something had changed since the last time he checked. So far he hadn’t been able to get a signal and suspected the room was shielded. Maybe he could get a signal from a different room . . . maybe a bathroom? Worth a shot.

  He tried the door but, as suspected, it was locked. He pounded on it with the flat of his hand. No answer. Pounded again with more insistence. Several seconds later the door cracked open and a guard peeked in. Jon pressed both hands against his stomach and moaned. “I need to go to the toilet,” and pointed to his groin to clarify the point.

  The guard studied him a moment before grudgingly opening the door wide enough for him to step into the hall and glance around. To his amazement, the other guard wasn’t there, leaving just him and the one guard alone in the hall. The guard motioned him to go left and Jon began slow crouching steps as if in pain. Muttering Korean, the guard shoved Jon’s shoulder. Jon stumbled into the wall, glanced back at the guard, noticed a matte black gun in a hip holster. Without a second thought, he knew what he should do. Gave another moan and twisted around, knees bent and butt against the wall, hugging his gut. “How far?” he asked.

  The guard pointed to a door with a sign in Korean characters, then stepped away, eyeing him with suspicion. Grimacing, Jon gasped. The guard grabbed him by the collar and tugged him toward the door. Using
the momentum of the tug, Jon lunged, wrapped his right arm around his shoulder and, putting all his weight into it, drove him hard into the opposite wall, heard a grunt and gasp of air leaving his lungs and the guard went down onto his knees, but not before Jon had the gun out and the barrel against his head. He pointed at the door. “Open it.”

  Eyes wide, the guard nodded.

  “Inside.”

  The guard stepped in. Jon shut the door and flipped the latch, started trotting down the hall, dumped the gun in a trashcan and kept going, frantically trying to reconstruct the route to the basement. But he’d been in a mental fog when Park brought him up to this floor so he had no idea which way to go. He continued along the hall looking for an exit sign or elevator. The hall dead ended into another. Jon turned left and ended up face-to-face with a uniformed cop coming the other direction. Without missing a beat Jon asked, “Where’s the elevator?”

  The cop stopped, sized him up, replied in Korean.

  Jon gave him a friendly tap to the shoulder. “That’s okay. I’ll find it,” and kept moving, fighting the urge to run, but knowing that would only draw attention. At last, an elevator. He punched the down button. Come on, come on.

  Footsteps approached. He froze, face forward, eyes on the crack between the elevator doors. The footsteps stopped. He could feel the presence of someone next to him. Have to do something. Jon turned to a lanky, weathered face in horn rims and charcoal gray suit. Jon nodded. “Morning.”

  The man returned the nod just as the elevator dinged. The elevator door clattered open and Jon nodded for the man to enter first. Two uniformed cops already inside stepped aside to make room. Sweating, Jon followed him in and checked the panel of buttons. The ones for floors one and minus one, which he assumed to be a basement, already glowed. He faced forward and waited for alarms to start ringing or shouts. The doors closed and the cage started down. The man asked, “You American?”

  Mind racing for an excuse, Jon turned to him, hand extended. “Jim Laing, Seattle Police. Sorry, didn’t know if you spoke English.”

  They shook hands. “Yung, Chen-Wa, Seoul Metropolitan.” He eyed Jon a moment. “Your badge, where is it?”

  Jon stared back at him in a bewildered moment, thinking, game over. Felt all three sets of eyes now drilling into him now and sweat streaming from his scalp. It clicked . . . should be wearing an ID badge, probably with VISITOR on it. Jon looked down at his lapel, felt along his neck, checked his blazer pockets. “I . . . don’t . . . know . . . It was here . . .” He probed his neck again in case they issued lanyard rather than clip-on tags.

  “Who you with?”

  Shit! Gave the only name he could think of: “Park. Detective Park.”

  The cage jerked to a stop and the doors slid open, exposing a marble and glass lobby with a ceiling of tinted glass and armed uniformed guards manning a pair of metal detectors similar to those used in airports. Jon’s stomach knotted. Now what? He stepped out and asked Yung, “There a Starbucks nearby?”

  Yung scratched his jaw contemplatively. “Out the front door, go right. Two blocks down.”

  Jon smiled, “Thanks.”

  33

  JON HURRIED toward the first door he saw as if late for an appointment, brushed past the first, then the second guard, then was pushing through the heavy glass doors into heat and smog. Just in case Yung was watching, he turned right and picked up pace. How soon before Park discovered his escape? Surely, by now, he knew. Why no alarm?

  Soon as he thought he was out of sight of the lobby, he started trotting, scanning the area dead ahead for a subway station or taxi, saw nothing, so just kept on moving. A half block later he noticed a cab stand across the street. The traffic light changed, giving him a break in traffic. He broke into a flat-out run, crossed over and headed for the first cab in line, threw open the door, jumped into the back seat.

  “Airport! Hurry!” He stabbed a finger at the street to make sure the cabbie understood, slammed the door, glanced back the way he came.

  The cabbie, arm draped across the top of the seat, turned to him. “Kimpo, Incheon?”

  “Incheon.” Jon struggled to keep panic from his voice. Shit! “C’mon, let’s go, I’m in a hurry.”

  Jon slid down in the seat and dialed United Airlines on his cell. From this compromised angle he could see trucks and buses passing in the opposite direction. Bad time of day for trying to leave Seoul. Traffic was already beginning to coalesce into the usual quagmire.

  A female answered in Korean.

  “United Airlines?” Jon asked.

  “United Airlines,” she confirmed in English. “May I help you?”

  “What’s the next flight from Incheon to the United States?”

  “What city?”

  “Doesn’t matter . . . LA, San Francisco, whatever.”

  “Hold, please.”

  He became aware of a siren approaching from behind, slid left to peek between the seats at the rearview mirror but couldn’t see the cabby’s eyes. If he pulled over . . .

  As the siren grew louder the driver edged the cab to the curb and slowed to a crawl. Jon moved across the seat to the curb-side door, figuring if they got stopped by the cops, he’d run for it.

  “Sir,” the telephone voice said.

  “Yes.”

  A police car, blue lights flashing, shot past, not even slowing. Jon craned his neck and watched it disappear into traffic.

  “—flight leaving for San Francisco in sixty minutes. Are you at the airport now?”

  “No, but I’m heading there.”

  “If you intend to take this flight you’ll need to check in at least thirty minutes before departure. Don’t forget you need to deal with Security.”

  Jon gave her his name, asked her to hold a seat, thanked her and disconnected, leaned forward and prodded the driver’s shoulder. “Hurry!”

  The driver nodded, then, to assure Jon he understood, turned into the outside lane, cut off another taxi, and gunned it while the other driver leaned on his horn.

  Time raced on with minutes slicing to a fraction of normal, the illusion magnified by repeatedly checking the minute hand of his watch as they hit one obstacle, then another. He could feel his heart beating anxiously in the center of his chest: making any hope of catching the flight impossible at their present rate of non-progress. Forty-seven minutes until the 747 shut its doors. Fucking Seoul rush-hour traffic . . . No way. But, he assured himself, there was always another flight out. He’d take anything. How soon before Park notified the airlines? And what would the airlines do if he tried to board a flight?

  They hit a red light.

  And waited.

  Just as the light changed to green the flatbed truck directly in front stalled. The truck driver goosed the engine but flooded it. Next came the sound of the truck’s starter grinding away without the engine catching. Horns honked. Angry shouts. The cabby shot a glance over his left shoulder, yelled something Korean to the truck driver, cranked the wheel left, peeled rubber into the oncoming lane, blew through the intersection just as the light was going red again.

  In spite of himself, Jon checked his watch. Forty-five minutes to go and still not clear of the downtown core of congestion. No way in hell they’d make it now. He called United once more and asked for the next flight, found one to Denver departing one hour after the San Francisco flight. The next one after that was his Seattle flight, as if it made any difference. Right now he just wanted to be airborne before airport security closed the door to him. If they hadn’t already.

  Finally, they hit the six-lane east/west highway, but the three lanes out of Seoul clotted into one mass of bumper-to-bumper steel, exhaust fumes, and frayed tempers. Engine idling, they waited for traffic to start again.

  And waited.

  Forty minutes until the Denver flight.

  Jon prayed to the god of air travel.

  THE TAXI BRUSHED the curb in front of the international terminal ten minutes before the flight’s scheduled Denver depa
rture. Jon threw enough won into the front seat to cover the trip plus tip, bailed, and started running for the door.

  A large display in the main departure lobby showed the flight on schedule, the words BOARDING NOW flashing next to a gate number. Five minutes to make it. He decided to shortcut the ticket counter for the departure gate, hoping somehow to get through the security check-points without a boarding pass and buy a ticket at the gate.

  Ahead, an impossibly long line of travelers were clearing the security body scanners one by one. He cut into the front of the line and spewed profuse apologies to the irate businessman he bumped. But instead of waving him into the scanner, the security cop, a dour-faced airport cop, stepped in front of the entrance and raised his hand. “Passport.”

  Jon glanced around as if the officer was addressing someone else, which was ridiculous, because the cop was staring right at him. Jon swallowed. “I lost it. Look, here’s my picture ID and driver’s license.” He handed items to him.

  The cop held up a hand. “No good. Passport please.”

  Jon grappled frantically for a convincing story to allow him through security. “Officer, please. This is an emergency. My flight’s leaving. I can’t afford to miss it. Here, check out my ID.” Once more offering it.

  The stern faced cop motioned him to move away from blocking other passengers. “Step away from the line.”

  Jon didn’t move. “Please, listen to me.” And glanced through the scanner at the people streaming toward the departure gates and, for one insane moment, considered making a break of it. Could he become just one more traveler in the crowd?