Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

  Feist grabbed Stillman’s shoulder, locked eyes with him. They remained like this a moment without blinking, Feist studying his eyes and face. Then, just as abruptly, Feist released him and continued along the sidewalk. “Refresh my memory, mate. How’d you know the fag’s little boyfriend would be taking the Clipper?”

  Apprehension tingled Stillman, momentarily breaking his stride. Something in Feist’s tone disturbed him. He said, “What’s your point?”

  “Answer the fucking question.”

  Why the anger? What was he being accused of? “Thought I was perfectly clear about this. Ritter called Dobbs, said he was in Victoria and needed Michael to bring up his old passport. Why? What’s the problem?”

  “The little queer went up there all right, but nobody ever came within ten paces of him. Spent the day on a fucking park bench, he did. So, you tell me what’s going on.” Feist stopped, waiting for an answer.

  Well, that’s a relief. Easily enough explained. “So that’s what all this is about?”

  “All what’s about?”

  “This, this,” Stillman swept his hand from right to left. “All this spy movie bullshit you insist on playing. Not calling . . . meeting outside like this. . . .”

  Feist said nothing.

  “Ritter called just before you did. Just minutes ago . . .” letting it hang, waiting for his reaction.

  Stillman rubbed his arms for warmth, the chilly night air creeping through his shirt. “Wants to meet in my office, seven tomorrow morning.”

  Feist raised in eyebrow. “About?”

  “A trade. I get the formula if you leave him alone.”

  Feist cocked his head, a smile tugging the corners of his lips. “Well then, that solves everything, don’t it? You get what you want, I fold up the tent and leave. We’re finished. Done.”

  Lowering his voice, Stillman leaned closer. “No. It doesn’t end here. You know as well as I do, our friend knows too much. And, he’s been talking to the FBI.”

  Licking the corner of his mouth, Feist glanced around. “How’re you so sure about that?”

  Stillman recoiled. “You joking, dog?” Frowned a moment, then shook his head, bewildered. “That motherfucker’s been tight with them since the parking lot.”

  “Get to the point.”

  Stillman started massaging the back of his neck, working on the tense band of muscles, and stalling for time while he thought. “Lift up your shirt, let me see skin.”

  With a laugh, Feist lifted his sweatshirt, exposing his chest. “You know, if I was inclined to record this, I’d do better than something that archaic. As the person who hired me, you, of all people, should appreciate that. Now, as you were saying?” letting his shirt drop back into place.

  “He needs to be eliminated. Long distance, Avengers style.”

  Feist scratched the edge of his chin, shook his head. “I don’t know . . . had me heart set on retiring when I got back. Killing him’s a risk I’m not sure I want to assume at this point.”

  Stillman said, “Why not? It’s perfect. Far as anyone knows, he’s still a target. Say he ends up with a bullet through the heart like those others? The media already knows he was involved in those implants. Damn, dog, makes him a better target than ever.”

  Feist looked down at the sidewalk a moment, rocking back and forth, considering it. Several seconds ticked past. “Fifty thousand.”

  “What!”

  Feist kept his head down. “Don’t play fucking deaf on me. I said fifty thousand. Take it or leave it.”

  Anger flashed through Stillman. “Fuck you. You’ve been paid. The job was supposed be done in Victoria but you backed out.”

  Feist looked up. “And whose fault is that?”

  Stillman interlaced his fingers and turned his palms out, cracking his knuckles, doing something to lessen the urge to choke him. Fucking Feist! Fucking bloodsucker knew it was too late to hire someone else and was jacking him up for every damn cent he could. Let Ritter go and take the risk? No, couldn’t chance it. The only sure way of controlling the formula was to kill Ritter by morning.

  Stillman said, “It’ll be in your account by six tomorrow morning, but with the stipulation that if he’s not dead by seven-thirty a stop payment goes into effect.”

  Feist nodded. “He’s due at your place at seven, is he?”

  At least the bastard didn’t gloat.

  63

  NIGEL FEIST WAITED ANOTHER three seconds before clearing his throat.

  The desk clerk glanced up from the magazine discreetly below counter level. “Oh, sorry.” His face reddened as he pushed out of the chair. “May I help you?”

  “Room please,” Feist answered with a noticeable twinge of Midwestern American in the double oo. He wore black jeans, a black leather jacket, a Harley Davidson cap, and polarized Oakley wrap-arounds in spite of the late hour.

  The clerk nudged a computer keyboard closer. “Smoking or non-smoking?”

  “Tell you what, my friend,” with a conspiratorial glance around the deserted lobby. “Third-floor room, middle of the building wouldn’t be available by any chance, would it?”

  The young man shrugged. “Dunno. Lemme check.” A few keyboard strokes later and, “You’re in luck. One’s available.” Then, more strokes. “How many nights you want?” As if this were a five-star hotel rather than a fleabag economy.

  “One.”

  “Cash or credit card?”

  Feist withdrew a wallet from his pocket. “Cash.”

  “Okay, but I need to make an impression of your credit card for any incidentals.”

  Leaning closer, voice lowered, “Hey, bud, here’s the deal. I plan on entertaining a special friend and I don’t want to leave any trail her husband might track. Understand?” Straightening up, he pulled a hundred-dollar bill from the wallet, folded it lengthwise, handed it over. “I guarantee there’ll be no incidentals. But you can hold on to this, just to be sure.” Up went a questioning eyebrow.

  With a blasé nod, the clerk pocketed the bill. “In that case, we can ignore the credit card for now.”

  Feist let the door click shut behind him, painting the room in weak streetlight shadows. He stood motionless, waiting for his vision to adapt. Slowly the outlines of the bed and dresser became distinct. Without turning on a light, he dropped his heavy black duffel on the foot of the queen-sized bed, without a sound moved to the window, squatted on his haunches, sighted across the street at the office building.

  A moment later, he returned with the duffel. Still working only in anemic streetlight he assembled his favorite sniper rifle, a high powered SSG-2000 with noise/flash suppressor and telescopic sight. Nothing better. Combat proven in Afghanistan.

  He raised the window only far enough to poke the suppressor out and sight across the street. Although Stillman’s office lights were out, enough streetlight filtered through the windows for him to see the faint outline of a desk and bookcase through high-grade telescopic sight. He nodded to himself, satisfied with the angle this room gave. Daylight would provide perfect illumination to take the shot. With a wry smile Feist withdrew the rifle. Eight hours from now this clusterfuck would be done with and his first day of retirement would begin.

  64

  IT’D BEEN ONE BITCH of a night, Stillman mused, as he paced, waiting for Ritter to arrive. Last night, after his talk with Feist, Nikki was still spread over the sheet, waiting to finish what the phone call interrupted. Fat chance! The last thing on his mind by then was sex. When he didn’t show any interest, she started nattering on, asking what was bothering him. Women! Always delving into relationships, emotions, and what ifs. All that Dr. Phil crap. Why couldn’t they just let things be?

  Eventually, she stormed out in a snit.

  Fine. Gave him some peace and quiet, time to think things through.

  Carefully, he worked back over the chain of events and still saw nothing that could even remotely link him to Lippmann or the Seoul murders. Sure, he’d signed a budget for a clinical trial,
but so what? Far as the records showed, there hadn’t been any clinical trial. Certainly not the disaster Ritter ended up with. Lee Jin-Woo and Ritter enjoyed a well-documented association stretching back years, so Ritter’s visit to Seoul had nothing to do with Trophozyme. Now, if someone gunned Ritter down after a illegal entry into the States, so what? What did any of that have to do with him? As a matter of public record, Ritter was an Avengers target.

  And as far as his association with Nigel Feist, Feist had an established security consulting business and worked with numerous corporations. Why not Trophozyme?

  One thing, however, did nag him: the possibility Ritter might double cross him by handing over an incorrect formula. How would he possibly know ahead of time if the formula was the real one? There was no way to guarantee results with tissue cultures. Even more troubling was that he never considered this possibility when negotiating the agreement. Okay, sure, the day Ritter embarked for Seoul, the formula was sealed in a safe deposit box that neither party could access until the terms of the agreement were fulfilled. But what insurance did he have that Ritter placed the real formula in the safe? Had to rely solely on Jon Ritter’s integrity for that. Then again, it seemed totally out of character for Ritter to be so devious. In fact, Ritter would be a setup for the perfect patsy. Jesus, he hoped to hell he’d made the right decision.

  He came to the office at six but hadn’t been able to concentrate enough to accomplish a damn bit of work. And settled for scanning the Wall Street Journal and the online news feeds.

  RITTER AND FISHER ENTERED the building at seven o’clock sharp, took the elevator to the fifth floor, and exited onto worn carpet where a tall, lanky man in a loose-fitting suit stood waiting. The man asked, “Dr. Ritter?”

  “Yes.” Jon didn’t recognize him.

  The man looked past Jon, perhaps searching for anyone else accompanying them. “I’m with Trophozyme security. Dr. Stillman is waiting for you.” He turned to Fisher. “You are?”

  Fisher proffered his credentials. “Special Agent Gary Fisher. I’m with him.”

  The man nodded at the ID, apparently neither surprised nor impressed. “This way.”

  NIGEL FEIST RACKED AN armor-piercing jacket round into the chamber, stabilized the rifle bipod on the window ledge, sharpened the telescopic focus on the corner of Stillman’s desk before double checking the firing angle. He covered approximately eighty percent of the office, the only reasonable areas someone might occupy. Stillman stood beside the desk, his back to the window, Jon Ritter slightly to Stillman’s left, the two of them talking. Feist didn’t recognize the man just inside the closed office door, hands in his pockets, watching but not speaking.

  AS THEY ENTERED THE office Jon saw Stillman push out of his desk chair and come around the desk, hand outstretched as this was a routine meeting, his smug arrogance infuriating.

  Stillman said, “Good to see you, Jon.” Then to Fisher: “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Not bothering to show credentials this time, Fisher stated, “FBI Special Agent Gary Fisher.”

  Stillman nodded slowly, digesting the news. “I see.” Arms folded, Stillman sat on the corner of the desk. “I’m not sure I understand. What’s with having the FBI present at a business meeting? Is there something I should know, Jon?”

  Boiling anger suddenly blanked out the meeting strategy he and Fisher had discussed earlier, making it less than five seconds for Richard Stillman to punch his button. His mind went blank with furious raw anger. He blurted, “You’re an asshole,” and immediately regretted the words as sounding so . . . immature.

  Stillman laughed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t get it. You asked for this meeting, Jon. Perhaps Mr. Fisher can justify his presence at what should be a business agreement. If you are unable to do that,” now looking directly at Fisher, “I suggest you leave us to our work.”

  Jon shook his head. “No. I brought him as a witness, to make certain he hears what I have to say. You,” pointing at Stillman’s chest, “are responsible for Gabe’s murder and the murders of two innocent old men in addition to my friend Jin-Woo. All for what, more money?”

  SITTING CROSS-LEGGED ON a pillow, the SIG Sauer flash suppressor stabilized on the window sill, Feist sighted, double checking the shot in case Ritter moved. Things were heating up, he could see, with what appeared to be Ritter shouting, flailing his arm. Stillman pushed off the corner of the desk and squared his shoulders, his back filling the right half of the window. Feist increased pressure on the trigger, ever so gently squeezing it while holding his breath to reduce any movement before completing the shot.

  “WELL GUESS WHAT,” JON shouted. “The day after I was discharged from the hospital, I sent a manuscript to Science that detailed the formula. You see, that’s what Gabe would have wanted. When he was murdered, I wanted to leave something of his to be remembered, and this was it. He despised your type, the way your greed contaminates academic research. You make me sick. People like you destroy medical research as a calling. You don’t give a shit about scientific objectivity or rigorous discipline. You create a need for treatment instead of a treatment for a need. And if your product turns out to be ineffective, you simply find another reason for selling it. You even joke about it: call it putting lipstick on a pig, or shining shit. You see human suffering as nothing more than the prime ingredient of a good business plan. You’ll do anything to get a return on investment . . . Yes, I wanted to be the first to do this on humans, but my goal wasn’t to make a ton of money.

  “And guess what, Richard. The manuscript was accepted. I’m sure you realize what that means for you, but in case you don’t immediately see it, let me spell it out. The submission date was three days ago, which means that what I’m giving you today is already a matter of public record. And that invalidates any chance for anyone—especially you—to patent it. So go ahead, use it, here you are,” throwing the papers into the air.

  Stillman’s face grew crimson over the several seconds it took to sink in. He stabbed a finger at Jon. “No, dog, you’re fuck—”

  The window exploded, spiderwebbing into shards of flying glass. Stillman jerked forward, turned, and fell across his desk.

  Fisher yelled, “Get down,” knocking Jon to the carpet.

  Seconds passed with nothing but the sound of traffic outside the broken window. Jon crawled to where Stillman lay motionless on the desk, saw an entrance wound in the back of the chest in what he expected would go straight through his heart. He palpated for the carotid artery but didn’t feel a pulse. He looked at Fisher. “He’s dead.”

  65

  ONE WEEK LATER

  THE KNOCK ON THE door jarred Jon from staring out the window. He realized he was gazing at the same view as the night of Gabe’s murder. Wayne stood in the doorway dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and sharp tie. Always the snappy dresser. “How’d the call go?”

  Jon sighed, leaned back in the chair, set his right foot on the open lower desk drawer. “Not well. Seems that the funding was pulled before the money was officially awarded us, so it’s gone. By now, a grants and contracts office at another university has it.”

  “That’s depressing as hell.” Wayne picked up manila folders on the only other chair in the office, dropped them on the floor, sat down, crossed his legs.

  “There are a couple bits of good news. Jin-Woo’s medical center had enough political juice to squelch any publicity on our work there.”

  “So you’re saying no one knows about it?” Wayne smoothed the pants over his knee, sharpening the crease.

  “Correct.”

  Wayne sighed. “And Feist?”

  “Vanished. Hasn’t been seen since he returned from Seoul. Fisher suspects he may have slipped out of the country on another passport and is back in Australia by now, but no one knows. Not that they have any proof of his involvement in the shooting. Like everything else, it just stands to reason.”

  “Fisher still thinks he intentionally shot Stillman?”
>
  Jon nodded. “From where I was standing—after all, Fisher should know—that’s what their ballistics indicates. Especially with it centered so perfectly through his heart.”

  Wayne nodded solemnly. “You said there were two bits of good news. What’s the second?”

  “Detective Park had their geeks enhance the video surveillance that was recorded the night the patients were murdered. They were able to verify that the person entering the building with my ID tag wasn’t me.”

  “That mean you’re cleared of the charges?”

  Jon nodded. “I’m cleared of the murder charges. Don’t know if they’ve pressed charges for the escape.”

  Wayne asked, “Any way to find out?”

  “Not for a while. Maybe never. Not unless there’s a compelling reason to.” Jon checked his watch, realized he better get moving. He stood, shrugged on his sports coat.

  Wayne looked puzzled. “Where you going? Don’t we have a meeting scheduled in five minutes?”

  “Sorry, forgot to tell you I need to cancel. I’m heading out to the airport.”

  Wayne’s puzzlement increased. “What’s up?”

  Jon stood next to an empty baggage carousel outside of Immigration, watching weary travelers file out of the sliding glass doors in ones and twos, some obviously familiar with the airport, others glancing around to orient themselves. Then Yeonhee appeared, a black purse in one hand, a duty-free bag in the other. He waved. She caught his eyes with hers and beamed and quickened her pace. He moved closer to the exit. Then she was in his arms, hugging him. He hugged her back, then leaned down and kissed her without even realizing what he was doing. With a smile, she pulled him closer and kissed him more deeply.

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