when a village woman happened by with her son, a kid about eight or ten. Hard to tell with Asians.
Slowly the woman backed away, shielding her son with her body.
The kid said something to his mother. Louis had no idea what, but he lowered his gun because the kid looked terrified. He couldn’t shoot them. But he raised his fingers to his lips to warn them not to blow his cover. The woman nodded and took off with her kid.
A quick surveillance of the area told Louis that he had landed in the People’s Garden. He could see lots of manicured green grass, some sort of garden park with flowers, fountains, walkways, even a footbridge—right on the banks of the Yesong River. Although he couldn’t see enemy troops, he could hear the din of their armored vehicles on the move toward Highway 1 to Kaesong. His heart sank because it meant Chop Chop and company were miles away by now. They had given him the slip.
Louis crawled out from under the tree. He had no idea where the other crew members were or where the plane went down. He hoped they’d made it to the sea where allied patrol boats could pick them up.
He made his way on his belly toward the river’s edge. Villagers were walking about, but Louis’s attention was fixed on a small fleet of boats. They were clearly Chinese because they were painted green with red trim, and the pilot’s cockpit was camouflaged as a large white waterbird. He also noticed that the pilot was actually peddling.
Louis positioned himself at the base of a large bronze lantern. Over his shoulder was a statue of a rider on a horse facing the other way. Maybe Chop Chop. This was his region, his town, his people. Louis steadied his weapon at the patrol boat emerging from the low bridge. It passed noiselessly in front of him, the troops playacting normal, like it was a typical day in the park. He had studied the movement of the previous boat, so he knew it was going to round the island, then head downriver. And as soon as it did, he’d open up with everything he had.
In a matter of seconds, the patrol boat rounded the island. Louis tracked the pilot in his crosshairs. Plug him then blow enough holes in the port side to beach the bastards. Do the same with the next one just nosing its way under the bridge. He knew he’d go down, but he’d take a lot of Reds with him. Slowly he began to squeeze his finger.
“Hey, what the hell you doing?”
Louis froze.
Over his shoulder were two North Korean cavalry regulars on horseback. He rolled on his back with his gun raised.
“It’s a hockey stick.”
One Commie got off his mount and grabbed Louis’s gun barrel.
Louis squeezed off two shots, but the soldier didn’t flinch. Probably wearing a bulletproof vest.
“What the hell you think you’re doing?”
“I think he’s been in the sun too long,” the other soldier said, taking Louis’s gun out of his hands.
After two years of duty Louis knew some Korean.
“What he say?”
The mounted soldier shrugged and took hold of the reins of the other’s horse. “It’s all right, folks,” he said to the small crowd of villagers that was gathering. “You can leave.”
“Poor guy,” one of the peasants said. And he took a picture of him with his camera.
Louis held his arms high in the air. “Go ahead, shoot me, you Red bastards. Get it over with.”
Louis thought about making a run for the water, but either they’d nail him in the back or the gunners in the duck boats would get him. The gook on the horse radioed for support while the other kept interrogating him.
“Can you tell me your name, sir?” The soldier took Louis’s arm and inspected his wrist.
They were trying to steal his watch. “Louis Martinetti. Corporal. US41349538.” They’d have to shoot him before he named his company and location.
“Some uniform,” the first soldier said. “Pretty old.”
“Go to hell,” Louis said.
“Mr. Martinetti, where do you live?”
Louis looked defiantly at the small crowd. Some took photos of him to show their relatives a real American POW. In the distance he heard sirens, and his heart leapt up. An air raid. U.S. planes were approaching, and they’d blast these animals to smithereens. But nobody seemed concerned. They just mumbled and shot pictures.
“It’s a medical tag. Alzheimer’s,” said the first Commie, still trying to steal his watch.
Louis did not resist. He had nothing else to lose. But he’d hold tight when they brought him to the Red Tent. He’d die before he’d reveal anything about the mission. And if he ever got out alive, he’d finish it.
The soldiers began to lead Louis away, when from the mob of peasants a woman burst forth.
“Dad!” She ran to the soldiers and took Louis’s hand. “I’m sorry, officers. We were in line for the swan boats, and he just wandered off. I’ll take him, he’s fine.” Then to Louis, “Dad, you’ve got grass stains all over you. What’ve you been doing?”
Louis looked at the woman, and for a long moment he had no idea who she was.
72
TO CELEBRATE THE END OF THE trials, the GEM Tech clinical team and executive administrators met at the Red Canyon Resort Hotel, a rustic but grand hundred-year-old lodge located near Bryce Canyon and Capital Reef on Route 12. It had been selected for its privacy and because it was located within driving distance of the splendid canyon and Rocky Mountain scenery crisscrossed with endless hiking trails and whitewater rapids. It was also near Gavin Moy’s ski condo.
Although people had arrived on Friday, the official opening of the conference was Saturday at noon with a formal kickoff luncheon and talk, followed by the clinical investigators’ meeting behind closed doors for the FDA strategy session.
Nick’s overriding impression of the conference was the expense. Little had been spared. GEM had flown in sixty people from various parts of the country—execs, medical officers, marketing VPs, legal staffers, clinicians from outside the company, as well as the twenty-three clinical physicians who, for nearly two years, had headed up various trial sites. They had rented out half the lodge and the adjoining Mountain Lion Room, where later in the day the principal investigators would determine the final application report to the FDA. In the balance lay the hopes and fate of millions of Alzheimer patients, their families, and caregivers. Also billions of dollars.
The afternoon began with a five-course meal served in the elegantly appointed Ponderosa Room, where a SWAT team of waiters had assembled. Dinner consisted of leek and potato soup, carpaccio of tuna, salad greens, a choice of filet mignon, salmon, or lobster tail served in elegant presentations, assorted spring vegetables, and fancy Italian desserts. There were the finest wines from Napa Valley as well as endless bottles of Taittinger champagne. Table conversation sparkled with talk of skiing in Utah versus Gstaad and Chamonix, diving on the Great Barrier Reef, trekking in New Zealand’s Milford Sound, the comparative virtues of Mercedes and BMWs.
It was an afternoon of well-decorated egos assembled in celebration of scientific success, of historic possibilities, and, of course, high personal rewards. While the setting and glittering promise were very alluring, Nick could almost hear folks calculating how many millions they were about to make in the next few years. If the projection of GEM’s bean counters was accurate, the value of Nick’s own shares would top ten million dollars in two years, maybe twice that when the European markets opened up. Then there was Asia, the Middle East, and the rest of the world.
What ate at him was how all the others would react once, with the backing of Brian Rich, Paul Nadeau, and Jordan Carr, he dropped a bomb.
