Dead End Deal (25 page)

As they continued on, he again was struck by how little he knew about the layout of Seoul. What would happen if they were forced to split up? He’d be right back in the same helpless situation. He asked, “Where are we?”

“This district?”

“Yeah. For starters.”

“This is Kangnam, the business district. My street is Yoksam-dong. See?” She pointed at a street sign in Korean characters. As if he could read them.

Five minutes later they turned off a brightly lit six-lane avenue into a narrow one-way alley smelling of rotten garbage and lit only by a single mercury vapor lamp. Cars were parked at various haphazard angles, squeezed into every possible inch of available space. Yeonhee pointed. “That’s my building.”

In the dim light Jon could make out a five-story brick building. “I thought the plan was to go to Gayeon’s?”

“It is. First I need some things. It will only take a minute.”

“Wait.” He gently drew her deeper into the shadows next to a brick building across the street from hers, whispered, “How long do you need?”

“Only long enough to call her, see if she’s home, and pick up a few things. You call the embassy from there.”

He didn’t like the idea of entering a building Park might have under surveillance. “Why not call her from here?” Meaning, out in the street.

Yeonhee nodded, “Good idea,” and pulled a cell from her purse, thumbed in a number, listened, frowned. “She usually picks up by now. Maybe she’s with her boyfriend and just not picking up, or maybe she’s out.”

Figures!
He studied the building, thought of Park. What were the odds he’d have it under surveillance? He pointed at her building. “Go ahead, check it out. If no one’s inside waiting for you, text me.” He held up his cell. “Ringer’s off.”

She leaned close, “Third landing,” kissed his cheek, then was off, weaving between parked cars, trotting across the street, up the stairs, through the double glass doors, her approach triggering motion-sensitive fluorescents in the small vestibule.

He watched the vestibule lights time out and die and expected to see a light appear in an apartment window when she entered, but the random pattern of dark and lit glass along the front of the building didn’t change. Well, maybe her unit didn’t face the street.

The cell vibrated. “SAFE” appeared on the screen.

From the outside, the building looked new. Inside, the hallway smelled of freshly poured concrete, bonding agents, fresh paint. No wall marks, no floor scuffs. Surprisingly, the front door of the building remained unlocked and there was no sign of a security system or intercom. Unimaginable for any condo in a major US city. Up a narrow flight of gray granite to a small landing for three doors, one of which was open with Yeonhee waiting in it.

The dominant color of her apartment interior was yellow. Yellow-striped curtains, a yellow futon with a large matching pillow on blond hardwood. In one corner a small electric stove with a teapot on the single burner. A free-standing rack fashioned from bare pipe and right angle fittings was crammed with clothes on brightly colored plastic hangers. The only bedroom contained a small wood cabinet serving double duty as storage cabinet and vanity. Louvered doors hid a closet, a standard door opened to a bathroom.

“Have a phone book?”

“Phone book? Are you kidding?” She dropped onto the bed, laptop on thighs, and started typing. A few keystrokes later she proudly displayed the number for the American Embassy, which he programmed into his Droid.

He nodded at her cell phone, “Why don’t you try your friend again while I call the embassy?”

His nervousness increased as each second ticked past. At any moment he expected a hard knock on the door and the echo of boots on the stairs. Melodramatic and blown out of proportion, for sure, but regardless, his anxiety kept increasing. The sooner they were out of here the better. Could Park have the phone company triangulate his cell? Now that he thought about it, the cell was GPS enabled, which was all the more reason to keep it off.

While Yeonhee made a call on her cell, he dialed the embassy, heard it click and switch to a recording: “You have reached the United States Embassy, Seoul Korea.” After listening to a menu, he pressed “1” for the American Citizen Services section. Another recording clicked on: “The section closes at 3:30 p.m. Please call back during business hours. For an after-hours emergency, please call 8324517.”

Shit!
He also programmed this number into the cell then dialed it.

“Citizens Emergency Center, Sunny speaking.” Sunny had a Korean accent.

Finally! “
I lost my passport. Who should I talk to about replacing it immediately? I have an emergency at home and need to get back soon as possible.”

“Oh, a lost passport. That happens all the time. You need to speak with one of our Consular officers. I’ll contact the night duty officer and ask him to ring you back. Is this your number?” Obviously her phone had caller ID.

He checked the battery icon again. Lower. “Yes, but my battery’s about dead. Can I call you back in a couple minutes? How long will it take?”

“You’re in luck. I just checked the roster. The officer of the evening is Clark Bundy. I’ll page him, see if he’s still in the building.” The line clicked to hold.

Yeonhee smiled. “I go see if Gayeon is home and just not answering. She does that sometimes when a boyfriend is over. Okay if I leave you here for a few minutes?”

He had momentary panic. “Just across the street, right?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re not back in ten minutes I’ll wait outside. Same place as before.”

A deep, resonant voice came over the line. “Bundy here. To whom am I speaking?”

At last! Someone in authority who could help. “Oh man, am I glad to talk to you. I just lost my passport and have an emergency at home. I need to fly out soon as possible.”

“No sweat. Happens all the time. You’d be surprised how often.”

The sound of papers rustling in the background along with an East Coast accent caused him to picture Bundy at a perfectly organized desk, ballpoints and paperclips in an Ivy League school coffee cup—Dartmouth perhaps—a career diplomat, product of wealthy State Department parents. A slight echo in Bundy’s voice made it sound like he was on speaker-phone, probably so he could take notes while speaking.

“By any chance have you previously registered with our agency?”

“You mean the Seoul Embassy or the State Department?”

“Either. But it’ll be quicker if you registered with us.” Then a tap-tap-tap as if Bundy was aligning a sheaf of papers.

“No. The only contact I’ve had was with Homeland Security when I applied for my passport in Seattle, years ago. Does that count?”

“Then this is just a short visit? You don’t work here?”

“No, just a short visit.”

“Right. Well then, here’s what you need for a reissue. Proof of US citizenship, a couple of two-inch-by-two-inch color photographs, and fifty-five bucks to cover the application fee. Can you handle that?”

He mentally ran the list. Photos and money shouldn’t be a problem. “Proof of citizenship . . . well, that could be a problem. Will any photo ID do? I have a bank card, driver’s license? I mean. . . . I have a very serious problem at home. I need to get back soon as possible.”

The clink of a pen being dropped into a desk organizer. “No, nothing short of your birth certificate will do. Have someone stateside overnight it and we can start the process tomorrow.”

A knot formed in Jon’s gut. By now Park probably had the entire Seoul police force searching for him. He needed to get out of the city tonight, not in two or three days. “That’ll take at least two days. I don’t have that kind of time.”

“Sorry, these are Federal regulations. No exceptions. Especially since nine-eleven.”

A wall of bureaucratic bricks and mortar was just built. “You mean to tell me there’s not some sort of emergency visa you can issue so I can go home? Can’t I supply the papers after I get there? Look at it this way,” he said, scouring his mind for some shred of persuasive argument. “All those documents should be on a computer somewhere from when I was issued the original passport. And when I arrived and went through passport control. Can’t you find the record of that?”

Bundy didn’t respond, making Jon afraid this conversation was doomed, so he added, “Also, I have the return portion of my airline ticket. Think about it. The airlines checked my passport before they let me come over. Right? Doesn’t that prove I had my passport a couple of days ago? Can’t you do some sort of computer check, make sure one was issued to me?”

“Sorry Mister . . . ?”

“Ritter. Jon Ritter.”

“Mr. Ritter, I can’t bend the rules.”

Jon sucked a deep breath and decided to come clean. “Okay, let me explain something. I’m a surgeon. I was invited here to advise on a medical matter. Which I did, but unfortunately some problems were encountered and the patients died. I have no idea what happened, but the police now accuse me of murdering them. They tried to force me into signing a confession. I didn’t sign because I’m innocent. But they’re trying to railroad me. I beg you: help me out here.”

The heavy silence from Bundy’s side of the call cinched the knot in Jon’s gut tighter. “Look, verify this. I’m being set up for something I didn’t do. Neither one of us has time for all the details, so call Special Agent Fisher at the Seattle FBI field office and he’ll verify everything I said. I’ll give you his number. Got something to write with?”

“I have news for you, Dr. Ritter. Bad news. We already know all about the incident. Park contacted us immediately upon your escape. That alone, by the way, makes you a felon in the Korean justice system.”

“But I—”

“Before you get worked up any further, let me explain the facts of life. Park has issued a warrant for your arrest.”

Jon was floored. Then immediately realized he shouldn’t be. What had he expected? “On what charge?”

“Our equivalent of first-degree murder.”

Blood drained from his head, making the room spin. He leaned against the wall for support and slid slowly to the floor.

Bundy added, “You have a huge problem. Park isn’t stupid. He knows you can’t leave the country without a passport and he probably notified Immigration the minute you escaped. Then he notified us. He probably figures we’re the first people you would contact, so he demanded we notify him the minute you do.”

“If you talked to him you know exactly the type of person he is. I swear he’s trying to close the case by pinning it on the first person he can, regardless of what really happened. That’s me.”

“Personally, I believe you. But the fact is we can’t reissue a passport without the proper paperwork. With you being a fugitive now, there’s nothing we can do that might be construed as obstructing their legal system. And that includes issuing you a passport even if you were able to submit the proper documents.”

Jon felt like vomiting. He tried to think of a persuasive argument but knew that a government bureaucrat had little flexibility when it came to bending the rules. And without knowing any possible legal loophole to apply to his situation, Jon couldn’t think of an argument to change Bundy’s mind. He punched the pillow next to his right hip. “You’re saying you won’t raise a finger to protect a US citizen in a foreign country?”

“No. What I’m saying is that until your situation is resolved, we can’t help you flee the country. End of story. Being in a foreign country, as you are, you’re subject to the laws and justice system of that country. There’s nothing we, meaning the State Department, can do to change that. Certainly we won’t smuggle you out of Korea in a diplomatic pouch if that’s what you’re asking.”

Self-righteous prick
. “Why not? I mean, you do it all the time for spies and political dissidents. Why not an innocent citizen?”

“C’mon, you can’t be serious. Your situation is entirely different. You’re
not
an intelligence operative, for one. In addition, you
are
a US citizen who happens to be a murder suspect and, to make matters worse, several hours ago you engineered an armed escape from police custody. All we can do is work within our parameters to protect your legitimate interests and ensure that you are not discriminated against. We will, of course, provide you with a list of local attorneys for your defense. We can visit you, and will certainly contact your family and friends back home. But that’s as far as we can, and will, go in this matter.”

An even stronger wave of nausea hit. This call. . . . “Are you tracing it?”

Bundy gave a sarcastic snort. “Hardly. We’re State, not CIA, and we’re certainly not on the payroll of the National Police. So, no, we aren’t.”

“Are you recording this?”

“I was until I learned who you are. Apparently the machine developed sudden mechanical difficulties and stopped working, maybe, oh, five minutes ago. Damn Samsung equipment.”

This lessened Jon’s anger at Bundy. Perhaps he wasn’t just being an asshole. “Look, here’s the deal: I’m not about to turn myself over to the police. Not after what I went through earlier. Park isn’t interested in facts. All he wants is a fall guy for a murder I didn’t commit. I know who did and told Park his name, but he won’t listen. Give me a break, tell me what to do.”

Bundy audibly inhaled. “Listen carefully, Ritter. You tell anyone you heard this from me I’ll deny it.” Bundy lowered his voice. “What kind of connections do you have here?”

“I’m not following.”

“I’m referring to go-to people who can get things done that might not quite be kosher.”

Jon’s frustration spiked again. Had Bundy not listened to a word? “That’s the point. I don’t know anyone here who can help. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Sounds to me like what you need is a passport. Not necessarily from the State Department.”

Took a second to click. “Got it.”

Bundy said, “Let me know if you want that list of lawyers,” before hanging up.

39

S
EEMED LIKE IT
took an act of the United Nations to finally get through the bureaucracy, but finally the translator handed Fisher the phone, saying, “He’s fluent.”