Dead End Deal (30 page)

Jung-Kyo folded his arms across his chest, making a big deal out of watching an overweight woman walk a miniature poodle along the street, demonstrating to Yeonhee his power and control over Jon’s destiny.

In that moment she realized how much he relished every moment of her dependency. Suddenly, she felt tired of the endless innuendos, the accusing looks, of having to explain every second she spent out of his sight. Her relationship with him simply wasn’t worth the effort to save it anymore. So, there was nothing to lose by giving him an ultimatum.

“Jung-Kyo, turn around and face me!”

He continued to watch traffic as if she hadn’t spoken a word.

She stepped closer to him and raised her voice, as if talking to a petulant child. “Very well, then this is how it will be. Unless you help him secure a passport, I will never see you again. You have three seconds to decide.”

He did not react, calling her bluff.

She took Jon by the hand and said in English, “Come. We’ll find another way,” and started leading Jon down the street.

Jung-Kyo caught up and grabbed her shoulder. “Wait.”

T
HE PHOTOGRAPHER’S TINY
shop was filled with floor-to-ceiling color portraits: brides, gowned graduates with mortarboards, anniversary couples, families. Some smiling, some serious, others staring wistfully into the distance. One glass case held several cameras for sale. Jung-Kyo introduced Yeonhee to the proprietor and then, without a word or glance at Jon, whispered something to Yeonhee before storming out the door. The studio, if it could be called that, was separated from the reception area by a sheet that doubled as the backdrop for portrait shots. Jon sat on a stool and stared into the camera lens.

The entire process took less than thirty minutes. The proprietor even accepted Visa, charging only five hundred dollars for the forgery and explaining that the charge would show up as a camera purchase. Jon ran his finger over the pages, marveling at the genuine look and feel, including a patina of travel wear and tear and immigration stamps from various Asian countries.

Yeonhee tugged his arm. “Come. You must hurry. Jung-Kyo will give you two hours before he notifies the police. That’s what he told me before he left, it’s his way to regain control of me. Hurry.” Then she was moving him into the street, flagging a taxi, opening the door, shoving him in the passenger seat, shouting instructions at the driver as the cab began the race toward Incheon.

J
ON WATCHED UTILITY
poles flash past and tried not to think of what would happen if he made it to the airport only to be captured again. He reached over and took Yeonhee’s hand in his. He wanted to tell her something, find some way to thank her. She gave a slight squeeze but didn’t look at him.

He wondered what she felt for him, if anything. But he settled instead on savoring each remaining second together in much the same way a death row inmate clings to each remaining minute of life.

A
VIDEO MONITOR
inside the international terminal listed flights in descending time to departure. A Singapore Air flight scheduled for Chicago in fifteen minutes. Too soon. Another one was going to Vancouver, BC in thirty minutes. The next flight to North America would not board for another three hours. Three hours: too much to risk. A Cathay Pacific to Hong Kong outbound in 45 minutes: again pushing his luck to the outer limits. The moment Jung-Kyo reported the falsified passport to the Metropolitan police, it would become worthless. But the moment the aircraft left Seoul airspace he’d be out of their jurisdiction. On the other hand, if the authorities where he landed knew he was traveling under a false passport, disembarking might become a problem. But he’d rather face charges of traveling with false papers than first-degree murder in Korea.

Except for one agent, the Singapore Air ticket counter was deserted because the passengers for the next flight were already boarding. At the counter he handed her his credit card and passport. “Any seats left on the Chicago flight?” he asked, trying to appear casual, like a seasoned traveler simply moving up a flight.

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

F
ROM 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.

J
ON 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.

F
URIOUS, 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. . . .