Free Dead End Deal by Allen Wyler Page A

relationship. The point is, if we can’t find a safe way to continue our work and move it over to real patients, ten years of effort is going straight down the drain. Can you really accept that? I know I can’t.”
    Wayne made a fist and then opened his right hand, watching the movement, seemingly fascinated at all the little muscles involved in the action. Without looking up, he muttered, “No no, of course not. But if that snake agrees to do it, you know damn well there’s going to be a hidden agenda . . . some way to screw us that we haven’t even considered. It’s not like the guy’s a philanthropist. So, tell me this: what’s in it for him that would make him want to help us?” He sighed and waved off the question. “Forget Stillman. The question is: do you really think you could live with yourself if you went into industry? I, more than anyone, know your prejudice on this issue.”
    Good question. Jon sipped his new latte and considered the answer. Hard as it would be to climb in bed with Stillman, he couldn’t see any other way to salvage the past ten years. “I don’t see that we have another option. Hey, if you got a suggestion, I’m willing to hear it.”
    Wayne returned to studying his thumb nail. “Okay, but what about the Avengers angle? Sure, you can always say we complied with their ultimatum by shutting down our lab, but the note made it pretty clear; it said to stop work. It doesn’t give a lot of semantic leeway. I can’t see how moving to Trophozyme removes the danger.”
    “Here’s the thing . . . What if we can do it without anyone knowing?”
    Wayne gave a sarcastic grunt and shook his head. “Impossible.”
    “No, no, listen. What if we shut down the lab and move the project to a place the Avengers wouldn’t know about?”
    Wayne shot him a look of bemusement. “You’re joking, right? From everything I’ve read, and that’s a lot in the past twenty-four hours, they have sympathizers all over the world.”
    “True, but what if we did it in Korea?”
    Wayne’s face froze momentarily, eyes locked into Jon’s questioningly. Then he got it. “Jin-Woo?”
    Jin-Woo Lee. A neurosurgeon who spent a six-month sabbatical in Jon’s lab learning tissue culture techniques. During that time the two men developed a friendship.
    When Wayne didn’t answer, Jon became impatient and frustrated. He’d expected Wayne to jump at the idea, but instead . . . “We don’t have much time. Yes or no?”
    Wayne blew through pursed lips. “You’re serious.”
    “I take that as a yes.”
    Wayne swallowed and looked at his nails, then back at Jon, gave a slight nod. “In for a pound or whatever that ridiculous expression is. But I want it on the record I’m not wild about the concept.”
    “Good. I’ve already set up a meeting with Stillman for seven tomorrow morning. I called Jin-Woo and pitched the idea. He’s going to call me back in—” checking his watch “—about ten minutes. I booked a flight to Seoul for day after tomorrow.”
    Wayne shook his head in amazement. “You really are serious. What about this,” sweeping his hand around the room, “your job? Setting up a trial over there will take time. Can you arrange to have that much time off?”
    “With my injury, I’m good for a thirty-day leave of absence.” He smiled and absentmindedly fingered the wound again, rubbing along the healing suture line.

10

    S TILLMAN EXITED THE elevator onto the lush carpet of the lobby of the building in which Trophozyme offices were located at precisely 7:00 a.m. He definitely would’ve preferred for Jon Ritter to come to his office during regular business hours, say, after nine o’clock, so he could make the self-righteous prick wait fifteen minutes in the outer office in full view of staff, just to drive home the point that he was the one in charge and Jon was now dependent on him. But Ritter had insisted on meeting early. Surgeon’s hours. The good news was, by accepting such an early