Dead End Deal (31 page)

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.”

G
ARY 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

“W
AIT! 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.”

“Here’s hoping the Canucks get so bogged down in bureaucracy you’ll sail through before they can stop you. Good luck.”

Fisher didn’t sound like he believed it.

“Mr. Ritter.” The thin Asian flight attendant who had welcomed him aboard hours ago smiled while handing him his black blazer. “Please put your seat in the upright position in preparation for landing.”

Jon accepted the coat, thanked him, complied with the request, stood up, and stepped into the aisle with a brief sensation of déjà vu from the flight over. The stern-faced attendant strapped into a bulkhead jump seat jabbed a finger at his vacated seat. “Sir, you must be seated. We’re on our final approach.”

Jon hurried past him. “Sorry, but if I don’t empty this bladder we’re both going to have a problem.”

After a few seconds in the lavatory, he cracked the folding door and peeked out. The flight attendant remained strapped into the jump seat studying a checklist, paying no attention to him. Jon opened the door and slipped into the narrow aisle, hurried to the stairs to the 747 main deck, and started down. At the bottom he stopped to glance round. First class extended forward to the nose of the craft. Behind him was business class, with the economy section beyond a divider. Next to him, two lavatories and a galley separated business from first class. A seated female flight attendant scowled. “Sir, you
must
take your seat.”

He nodded agreement and headed down the aisle toward the aft galley and rear toilets, where the economy section appeared only half full. The plane buffeted, throwing him off balance, slamming his right hip into a seat. He grabbed the seat back to steady himself and apologized to the occupant. Most of the passengers sat at the front of this section, so he continued to an empty seat at the rear of the plane, next to the last emergency exit. His ears popped again as he sat down and strapped in. Being back here instead of upstairs in his assigned seat would only prolong the inevitable, but at least it would give him a few additional minutes to think.

Jon waited for the plane to come to a complete stop before standing up and moving to the aisle. By craning his neck and standing on a seat he could see past enough passengers to notice anyone entering the cabin before passengers began to deplane. From the overhead speakers came, “Prepare doors for arrival.” Then, “Will all passengers please remain seated. There will be a short delay before being allowed to deplane.” No one sat down; a grumble rippled through the crowd.

Uh oh, here we go.

Mouth dry, palms sweating, he watched a flight attendant open the cabin hatch. Immediately, two suits and two uniformed Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers entered the cabin. The suits quickly disappeared up the stairs. The Mounties said something to the flight attendant before positioning themselves to each side of the cabin door. The flight attendant picked up microphone and announced over the PA system, “Sorry for the inconvenience, but we have a passenger in need of urgent medical assistance. As soon as this is resolved, you will be able to deplane. For any passengers needing to make connections . . .”

Bullshit.

Jon mopped sweat from his eyes with the back of his sleeve, sidestepped to the emergency exit, thought about what he was going to do, reconsidered, then grabbed the red handle, took one final glance forward. The Mounties each had one foot on the first stair to the upper deck, looking upward, apparently exchanging words with the suits on the upper level.
Wait any longer and they’ll search the entire aircraft
.

Jon yelled, “Fire. There’s a fire back here! Someone grab an extinguisher.”

Screams erupted. Passengers jammed forward into the narrow aisles. Jon tugged the red emergency handle but it didn’t budge.

He noticed a switch labeled ‘Manual’ and turned it, then threw his weight into the emergency handle, pushing in a downward arc. The door swung open, ejecting a Day-Glo yellow chute from the fuselage. As the distal end dropped to the tarmac the chute inflated into a slide. He called to the passengers jamming into the aisle behind him, “This way! Let’s get out of here!” before jumping feet first onto the slide.

50

J
ON’S FEET HIT THE
asphalt hard, then his butt, the momentum whipping his neck to the left and sending a momentary stinger down his right arm. For a brief moment he was too stunned to do anything but squint into the sun, so he sat still. Then the plastic chute jerked as another passenger jumped onto it. He scrambled to his feet and moved away just as a grinning teenager hit the ground in the spot he just vacated. Jon grabbed the kid’s outstretched hand and pulled him to his feet. “Move away from the chute!”

He glanced around frantically. He was on open tarmac and totally exposed to anyone watching from the plane or the terminal. On the other hand, the terminal contained miles of byzantine halls and potential places to hide. Fifty feet past the 747’s nose wheel were two dented metal-clad baggage doors to the ground level of the terminal.

He started running, burst through the swinging doors, ran a hundred feet before stopping behind a cement pillar to look around. Bare concrete halls led right, left, and dead ahead. Which way?
Choose one and get going
. He continued straight ahead, picking up pace again for half a block, turned down another hall for another hundred feet to a door marked STAIRS, threw his hip into the horizontal trip bar, and started up a bare concrete stairwell two at a time, shoes slapping metal, the noise echoing off the hard surfaces.
Christ, not too subtle
.

He stopped at the first switchback, listened, heard nothing but his own heavy breathing and his pounding pulse. Satisfied that no one followed him into the stairwell, he continued up at a normal pace while trying to calm his nerves and tuck in his shirt. He was sweating like crazy.

A half flight took him to the floor immediately above the ground level. He cracked the door, heard someone shout a command from down the hall followed by the sound of boots running on concrete. He shut the door and bolted back down the stairs, hit the ground level and was out the door he’d entered just moments ago. Around the corner off to his right came another voice. It sounded like it was heading his way. On his left, against to the cinderblock wall, was an aluminum storage freight container. He slipped behind it, then used the side handles to pull it as close to the wall as possible, sandwiching him in the narrow space. He stood perfectly still and waited.

Footsteps approached and stopped. A male voice said, “Delta tango niner.”

There was no answer.

The male voice said, “Roger that. Am at sugar whiskey three zero. Negative for target.”

Jon visualized a police officer with a microphone clipped to an epaulet and a curlicue wire to his ear. A moment later he heard the sounds of the police officer continuing his sweep of this area. Then he heard the bark echo off the hard concrete surfaces.