Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “That is a problem. You might not make it through security, it’s a bottleneck at the moment. I can ask them to hold the flight, but only for two or three minutes.” Then with a charming smile, “Business or first class?”

  Hoping it would provide more incentive, he said, “First class. But I’ll take whatever’s available.”

  She typed into the computer, swiped the bar code edge of his passport through a reader on the side of the monitor, and waited. Ten seconds evaporated. She frowned, shook her head, shifted her weight to the other foot. And waited. What was taking so long? Had Jung-Kyo already called the police? Do they cross check passports with Immigration at the ticket counter? He turned to tell Yeonhee something but saw two airport police walking parallel to the counter, heading his way. He started to turn back to the agent but one of them made eye contact, so turning away suddenly would look suspicious. Be cool. You don’t know if they know . . .

  After an appropriate pause he busied himself with filling out a baggage ID tag. Heard footsteps stop nearby and felt two sets of eyes bore into him. They were talking in Korean, their voices aimed at him, loud enough for Yeonhee to hear. Beads of sweat sprouted from his forehead. Yeonhee said nothing.

  Finally, the airline agent said, “You’re in luck. Are you traveling together?”

  Jon shook his head and tried to smile. “No, just me.”

  Seconds started flying off the clock even faster, rapidly evaporating any hope of making the flight. Maybe Yeonhee drew the cops’ attention. Maybe they weren’t even interested in him. Maybe . . .

  “Jon . . .” Yeonhee whispered and clutched his arm in warning.

  “Please sign here, Mr. Ritter.” The ticket agent pushed a Visa charge slip across the counter but kept the credit card to compare signatures. He felt the two policemen step closer, their eyes on the back of his neck. He picked up the ballpoint and scratched out a signature.

  As the agent compared his Visa card to the slip, one of the policemen said something to her. As she answered Jon felt Yeonhee tense. The officer made another comment. After flashing a can’t-be-helped smile at Jon, the agent passed the policeman Jon’s passport. Jon turned to watch, as if only mildly interested, but quickly scanned the immediate area for an escape route. If need be, he’d make a run for it and hope for the best. The officer studied the document a moment before looking at Jon.

  Time to say something. “If you don’t mind, I need to catch this flight. My wife is very ill and I need to get home as soon as possible.”

  With a nod at Yeonhee, he asked Jon, “Does your sick wife know about her?” then said something in Korean into the microphone clipped to his epaulet.

  Jon decided to say nothing more until he had a better idea what might happen. The large clock on the wall showed only seven minutes until the flight would push away from the gate. Without a boarding pass there was no way he could make it. He shot the agent a questioning look. Could she hold it at the gate?

  She returned a regretful smile and shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing I can do until he returns your passport.” With that, she busied herself with the computer.

  Another minute blew past. He leaned closer to Yeonhee and whispered, “Anything happens, run. I go right, you go left. I’ll either meet you at your apartment or call you on your cell.”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Finally, the officer handed the clerk the passport and, without another word, turned and walked away, mumbling something to his partner. The clerk flashed another regretful smile. “Sorry Mr. Ritter, but the Chicago flight is ready to shut its doors. There is no hope of making it.”

  48

  FROM WHERE HE stood at the counter he could see the lines at the security scanners growing longer, making him want to scream or pound the counter in frustration. He glanced at the nearest monitor for the next possible flight east, regardless of the destination, and noticed one to Vancouver.

  “Any room left on the Vancouver flight?”

  She typed a few commands. “Aisle or window?”

  He laughed at the irrelevance. He’d take a spot in the baggage compartment if it’d get him the hell out of here. “Whatever’s available. Just get me on that flight.”

  She reran the Visa and ticket, asked the routine security questions about baggage, explosives, and firearms, then, “Any baggage to check?”

  “No, just carry-on.”

  She handed him a boarding pass with stern advice to hurry if he intended to clear security in time.

  His heart grew heavy as he and Yeonhee approached the first security checkpoint. He stopped and took her in his arms. “Thank you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

  She pushed gently him away. “Go! Or you miss your chance.”

  “Please, just two seconds.” He held her tightly, nose buried in citrus-scented hair. She relaxed, allowing him a moment before pushing away one final time.

  “Go Jon, or you miss the flight!”

  “Yeonhee, if I make it back home safely, I want to see you again. Okay?” He leaned in to kiss her lips.

  She kissed him deeply before pushing away. “Go! Good luck.” She turned and ran for the exit.

  JON SETTLED INTO soft leather, fastened his seatbelt, relaxed against the headrest with both eyes closed. Essentially he was now trapped. If Yeonhee’s fiancé tipped the police and they were monitoring the ticketing computers or had enlisted the airline’s help, they would know he just boarded this flight. In other words, he was a sitting duck. The only good news in this was the moment he entered the cabin the flight attendant shut and secured the door and the captain gave the announcement to prepare for departure. Eyes closed, Jon listened, waiting to hear the cabin door reopen and the sound of approaching footsteps. Instead, the plane began moving backwards, stopped, turned and started forward, away from the terminal.

  The trip to the end of the taxiway seemed to take forever, but finally the captain goosed the engines, taking the huge 747 through a lumbering left turn onto the runway, accelerated, nosed up for one, two, three seconds before magically starting to climb. A huge wave of relief broke over him, making him suddenly aware of how tightly his jaws were clamped. He reclined his seat a bit, took a deep long breath, and considered his situation. From the armrest, he unfolded the personal entertainment center and rotated the screen to see their position, route, and miles to destination. For several minutes he watched the tiny plane icon rotate compass bearings until heading east over the Pacific Ocean.

  He’d made it! At this point it seemed doubtful they’d turn the flight back. On the other hand the odds were high that he’d have problems disembarking. Still, he’d rather deal with Canadian Immigration than the Seoul police. Best case scenario would be to somehow magically slip through Vancouver Immigration and hop a commuter flight to Seattle and be home in another twelve hours. That remote possibility made him giddy. But he knew the odds of that actually happing were slim at best. The worse case scenario would be for Immigration to nail him. Okay, so then what? Would they dump him on the next flight back to Seoul? Or would they arrest him? If so, that was still better than returning to Seoul.

  He needed to be pre-emptive, to stack the odds in his favor. How? Well, for one thing, he could use more information.

  “May I bring you something to drink, Mr. Ritter?”

  He glanced up at a male Asian flight attendant.

  “A scotch would be wonderful.”

  The console between him and the window seat contained an Airphone. He swiped his Visa through the reader and waited, using the opportunity to discreetly check out the passenger next to him. He’d been so intent on getting seated that he hadn’t paid much attention to the middle-aged Asian female in a business suit working furiously on a laptop. So far, they hadn’t said one word to each other, so he didn’t know if she was fluent in English. So he decided to shield his voice as much as possible. A dial tone finally came up, so he dialed Wayne’s number.

 
Wayne sounded like he was wakened from sound sleep. His free hand cupped around the phone, Jon turned away from his neighbor, lowered his voice. “Do me a favor, okay?”

  “Are you finally on a flight or something? I hear background noise.”

  “Yeah. On my way to Vancouver. But I need you to call . . .” he searched for the name, “Davidson? Is that his name?”

  “Who? The lawyer? It’s hard to understand you. Can you talk louder?”

  “No, I can’t,” although he raised his voice slightly. “And yeah, the lawyer.”

  “Palmer Davidson.”

  “Call him and lay things out for him. Tell him I’m flying to Canada and I don’t know what happens if the Canadian authorities arrest me.”

  “Christ, talk about living on the edge.” Pause. “Okay, I’m on it. That’s what, an eight-hour flight, and you have how much left?”

  “Not sure. We’ve been up maybe a half hour. How long you think you need?”

  “How should I know, I’ve never been faced with something like this before . . . two hours maybe. I don’t know how easy he is to get hold of. At the moment it’s early in the morning.”

  Jon realized the past hours were so intense, he totally lost track of time. “Two hours. Got it. Thanks. Call you then.”

  “Your drink, sir.” The flight attendant extended the drink tray from the armrest and carefully placed a paper napkin and glass of scotch on it.

  Jon swirled the ice in the glass and thought, step by step, through everything that transpired since the call from the parking lot the night of Gabe’s murder.

  FURIOUS, RICHARD STILLMAN dialed Feist’s cell. Not only had Ritter been lucky enough to escape custody, he was now fleeing the country. Lucky—that is for Ritter. Unlucky for him. If somehow Ritter managed to slip past airport security and make it across the border . . . Fuck! He didn’t want to think about it.

  Well, it would all be over within ten hours or so. He’d make damn sure the RCMP knew about Ritter’s counterfeit passport. The increased immigration surveillance since 9/11 would guarantee they would catch him. Then, because of outstanding charges in Seoul, they’d be forced to stuff his raggedy ass on the next flight back to Seoul, where Park and company could greet him with ear-to-ear smiles and a tube of K-Y Jelly. But just in case. . . .

  Feist picked up.

  “Yo, dog, we have a problem. Our friend just called Dobbs and he’s on a flight to Vancouver. Chances are he won’t get out of the airport, but on the off chance he stays lucky and he manages to slip by them, I want you here.”

  “Indeed! I’m on my way.”

  GARY FISHER ROLLED over in bed, picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

  A voice on the other end said, “According to Seoul Police, your man’s on the move.”

  He recognized the agent’s voice immediately. “Where?”

  “Caught a flight to Vancouver. His estimated time of arrival is six hours from now.”

  Sitting on the side of the bed now, phone in one hand, knuckling sand from his eyes with the other, Fisher began mentally sorting through options. His wife rolled over, propped up on an elbow, and raised an eyebrow at him. He motioned her to go back to sleep and headed toward the bathroom to close the door. “How’d we learn this?”

  “Apparently an anonymous friend dropped the dime on him. Claimed he’s traveling under a forged passport. Our Seoul police started checking but didn’t find out he boarded a flight until after it was airborne. By the time they could do anything about it, it was twenty minutes out and over international waters. The airlines told them basically to fuck off and deal with it at this end.”

  With the bathroom door now closed and the light on, he checked his face in the mirror. Stubble and bags, more than ever with the bags. “Do the Canadians know about this?”

  “Unfortunately, they do.”

  “Shit!” The odds of Ritter reaching Seattle just zeroed out. “Thanks. Keep me informed.”

  Fisher hung up. Bad news. If the Canucks shipped Ritter back to Korea, his only viable lead for finding the Avengers would evaporate. He couldn’t think of an argument that might change the Canadians’ mind even if he knew who to call. For starters, laws concerning entering Canada under false papers were rigid. The fact that Ritter was charged with a capital crime and was fleeing custody only compounded the problem. The only strategy he could think of was to somehow warn Ritter, but he had no way of contacting him. Drive up to Vancouver International to meet the flight? What good would that do? Damn it. Essentially, Ritter was hosed. Back in the bedroom he retrieved his wallet, returned to the bathroom, and dug through it for the scrap of paper with Dobbs’s phone number scribbled on it. If anyone knew how to reach Ritter it’d be him.

  Dobbs answered immediately, sounding wide-awake. “It’s Fisher. Sorry to call this time of night, but we have a problem.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t know any way to reach Jon, do you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I just received word he’s on a flight to Vancouver. Know anything about that?”

  A tell-tale hesitation, followed by, “No. Why?”

  Dobb’s answer sounded like a flat-out lie. Why? Just then his cell phone beeped for another incoming call. A quick check of caller ID showed it coming from an unidentified number. Let it roll over to voice mail? On the other hand, nobody called this time of the morning unless something was important. “Hold on, got another call coming in.”

  He answered, “Fisher.”

  “It’s Jon Ritter.”

  Whoa. “Great timing. We have a problem. The Canucks know you’re coming.”

  “Figured as much. That’s the reason I’m calling. I need some advice.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “First of all, I got a lawyer lined up on your end. Will that be any help in this?”

  “No. Because this is what’ll happen. Canadian Immigration knows you’re coming in under counterfeit papers. They’ll have the Mounties take you into custody the minute you step off that plane. Once that happens, you’re a dead duck and there’s nothing anyone can do to help you. The one catch, however—and this is a legal technicality—until you actually pass through Immigration, you’re considered in international limbo, meaning you’re neither in Canada nor Korea. Literally. This, in turn, means the Canadian legal system can’t deal with you until you’re legally in Canada. But what they can do—and this means they won’t have to deal with the paperwork—is put you right on the next flight back to Seoul.”

  “But what about due process? I’ll get screwed if I’m sent back.”

  “They couldn’t care less about that. That’s not their problem. You entering their country illegally is their problem.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You’re not listening to me. The key to this is to find a way to avoid the Mounties. Get it? And don’t even think about asking for ideas because we never had this conversation. You got, what, maybe six hours to come up with something. Bribe a crew member, maybe. Hell, I don’t know . . . just find a way to get off that plane and back to the States without getting caught.”

  49

  “WAIT! BEFORE YOU hang up.” Fisher’s news was so unnerving, Jon almost forgot the purpose of the call. “You still out to nail those assholes?”

  “The Avengers? Absolutely. Why?”

  “I think I have some things that might help.” He explained implications of Stillman setting him up to meet Feist, and then explained the suspected connection between Stillman and Sandra Nolan.

  Fisher said, “Hold on. Maybe I’m slow, but I don’t see how this fits into anything.”

  “Think about it. NIH knew about the Avenger threat immediately. How did that happen? Someone had to tell them. Who better than Nolan? She’s on the Council.”

  “Council? What’s that?”

  Jon realized he was ahead of himself and backed up. “When you apply for grant money from NIH, a group of independent scientists, called a study
section, reviews it. If it’s good and makes the cut, Council decides who actually gets money and how much. The point is, Stillman knew we were approved before that information was ever made public. Meaning, he had to have inside information. The only way he could get that is if someone on Council leaked it to him.”

  “Okay . . .” Still not sounding sold on the idea.

  “Then you have to ask yourself how NIH knew about Gabe’s murder so quickly?”

  “No problem there. It made national news.”

  “Right. But the point is, how did they link the murder directly to me? The only thing they might’ve known was Gabe Lippmann may have been murdered by an Avenger. Any other details were never released to the press.”

  “But they gave you the ultimatum and you must’ve mentioned it to people.”

  Ha! Precisely the point. “I didn’t and that wasn’t in the papers. They should never have known.”

  Fisher thought about that a moment. “Okay, I see where you’re going with this, and you might have a valid point.”

  “Okay, so humor me by checking Stillman’s cell phone records, see if he talked with Nolan—cell phone, landline, whatever—but check it out. You have the date of the murder. See if anything corresponds to that date. Sure, she’s on the Trophozyme board so could have a gazillion reasons to talk to from him time to time, but look for calls around that specific date. Back that date up by two weeks and that’s the date council awarded us funding. In addition there’s the Feist part in this. Look for calls between Stillman and cell phone numbers and then run those numbers. Feist has to be in there. Stillman must’ve called him a couple times these past two days in Seoul. Make sense?”

  “We’re already on that.”

  “Check with you later. If I get through Immigration.”