by James Kent
Swann swiped his card again and walked in. Sally, the short, efficient secretary greeted him with her usual friendly smile. An immaculate five-foot-nothing looking up at a scruffy six-foot-four-inch powerhouse. She had a ‘thing’ for Swann; she liked his straight-forward, no nonsense approach. Especially to women. He could be charming and well-mannered if he felt so inclined, which wasn’t all that often – well, almost never if she were really honest about it. He has the subtlety of a steel nail, or a concrete block. It is what it is. She knew that. So perhaps she was deluding herself.
Swann was feral and dangerous. She liked the sound of his voice, like gravel or hardscrabble, the way he moved. Silent like a panther. She liked his aloof and mysterious nature, his gritty, ramshackle look that somehow worked no matter what he was wearing (or maybe not wearing! she thought). Pity he never seemed to notice her in the way she wanted. She even liked the ugly scar that ran under his left eye, and she wondered about the story it might tell. After all, Swann had been in many fights, and often in hostile and dangerous places with very nasty people. She knew that. So it was hardly surprising that his body would have visible marks left, like a map of his violent past.
Swann smiled at her, the taught skin around the scar wrinkling slightly. ‘You’re up early!’ he said, in answer to her greeting. Swann had a lot of respect for Sally who was far more than just a secretary to Simms. She was more like a highly skilled and trusted adjutant or an auxiliary who ran a tight ship. She was officially a Secretary-Management Assistant with medium-level security clearance, having access to nearly all employees’ activities. She also managed the so-called “human resources” department. Sally therefore had a finger on what everyone was doing within the jurisdiction of the local Bureau office, including who was “in-the-know” about Operation Grim Reaper. She knew what it was, but she was kept in the dark about the sordid details. She didn’t want to know.
Sally was slight, but no pushover. She smiled again at Swann and told him the team were waiting for him in the main office, past the bullpen, second on the right. He knew the way.
2
Simms’s Office, Federal Building, L.A.
Swann entered without knocking and quickly looked around the cold, spartan, dimly-lit office that resembled a Soviet-era interrogation room in the basement of the Lubyanka. It always amused Swann that Simms’s harsh, ascetic tastes were so legendary, he never thought to hang a single painting, photo, mirror, award, certificate or any other decoration on the walls or anywhere else; no family photos, no flowers, no ornaments of any kind; nothing on his desk but neatly stacked papers, three pens in a tidy row – red, green and blue, with green always in the middle - and other office paraphernalia neatly arranged; four chairs, a desk, dim lighting and no heating. He’d probably remove the paint off the walls too if he could, thought Swann, yet a photo of Stalin wouldn’t be out of place either. Maybe he has one hidden in his desk drawer.
Simms was very to-the-point and austere despite Sally’s heroic attempts to brighten the place up with flowers that always seemed to disappear soon after, vase and all. Perhaps one day she would find a collection of vases hidden somewhere. A mountain of vases in a dark closet. Strangely, Simms was very finicky about his dress and appearance; he wore a perfectly trimmed and waxed moustache which he dyed black, a bright red bow tie – the only concession to color - and a three-piece Italian suit and leather shoes as he sat with an erect posture at his desk. Behind his back, he was jokingly referred to as “Inspector Hercule Poirot”, of Murder on the Orient Express fame; the original television version, played by David Suchet.
But Swann liked Simms; he respected his razor-sharp, penetrating intellect. They knew and understood each other, despite their many mutual differences and frustrations. They’d already done a lot of ‘business’ together under Simms’s “Reaper” program. That’s one way of putting it. ‘Business’ . . . ‘wet jobs’. How else would you put it? wondered Swann. If ‘together’ was the right word when Simms just sat on his tiny ass behind his desolate, sterile desk and Swann did all the heavy lifting at the pointy end. But Simms was a tad creepy too, like he could just as easily be a well-tailored undertaker working all through the night with Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor playing loudly in the background. Or a smiling assassin in an expensive tuxedo who would throw a hissy fit if he soiled it with the slightest smudge from his victim’s blood. Maybe something not right in the head. Swann sometimes wondered if Simms had even had a mother. Or was he found as a baby in a cardboard box by a wandering vagrant near some fetid stream? Kind of like Moses, but without the wisdom.
‘I’m sure you know everyone here Swann, so I’ll get straight to the point,’ said Simms after shaking Swann’s hand with a weak, reluctant grip. Swann’s huge hand swallowing it whole; he could have crushed it like a bug. Simms was a very direct man too, despite his tiny handshake, like he had no time or energy for niceties. He hated people touching him. He was at least a foot shorter than Swann who nodded to the three other men in the room. Agents Tom Henderson, Gus Gifford and Marcus Holbrook all nodded back as Swann took a seat in front of the window overlooking Veteran Avenue and the imposing building housing the office of the Consulate General of the Czech Republic. All three were members of the Reaper Group. Agents Henderson and Holbrook were responsible for domestic terrorism, with overlaps in other areas, while Agent Gifford specialized in cyber-crime and ran a small team of trusted investigators. He also studied languages, and had a Classics degree to compliment his other degree in computer science.
Swann was the only one not dressed in a suit, tie and shiny shoes. He looked like a bum by comparison, like he’d just parked his skateboard out in the hall and kept hidden a half-smoked roach behind his ear, obscured by his disheveled hair. But they all knew that looks can be deceiving.
‘Cool joint!’ said Swann as though it were the first time he’d been there, ‘I like what you’ve done to it,’ The three agents sniggered.
Simms ignored the sarcastic jibe. ‘We’ve just had a tipoff from the Langley boys; an unusual ping on their Eastern radar,’ continued Simms in his sharp, clear voice like cut glass, ‘You may recall, some five years back, we lost track of one Vito Hernandez Silva, known colloquially as “Diablo”; he ran a terrorist cell down south for a while, specializing in kidnappings and people-smuggling for foreign prostitution rings . . . we thought he must have been bumped off and replaced, or fallen in a ditch somewhere after his outfit was destroyed and most of his gang rounded up or killed in the raid by our boys, because he suddenly went quiet, fell off our radar for the next five years; we all thought he wasn’t a problem anymore . . . I wasn’t so sure.’
‘I remember him,’ replied Swann, ‘so what’s the urgency? You got me out of the sack at six in the morning to tell me some cretin no one gives a shit about anymore is ringing his buddies? Who cares? Go get him again only this time, don’t let him get away.’
Simms glared at him for a few seconds, then replied, ‘You’ll see.’
‘So, shoot,’ prompted Swann. The other agents stayed silent, waiting for the punch line.
‘Well, I was right,’ Simms continued, ‘This so-called “Diablo” ‘aint dead after all, and it appears that he’s resurfaced here, out of the blue.’
‘Resurfaced where?’ asked Swann.
‘Stateside.’
‘And?’
‘According to Langley’s closest Chinese source, whose name I won’t mention, but you, Swann, can probably guess, he’s been cozying up to the North Koreans of all people,’ explained Simms, ‘he got wind of it from one of his own contacts deep inside the DPRK who passed it on to him as a minor ‘oh, by the way, here’s something weird’ type detail, but gave no specific information on how he got onto it, whether it was some kind of email contact or what . . .’ He paused, then said, ‘The NSA also got a surprise drop on his old cell phone here, exchanging encrypted messages with someone in South Korea who was in contact with someone inside Dear Leader’s foreign intelli
gence agency, their so-called Bureau 121, responsible for cyber warfare . . . they managed to break into it, quite easily as it happens, which is itself a surprise, and it made disturbing reading.’
‘Obviously getting careless. But I like his attitude!’ said Swann with irony. ‘Keeps his head down for five years, lets us think he’s dead and buried, and then reappears out of nowhere trying something completely unexpected. Nice! So where do I fit in?’
‘Read the decrypts first and then I’ll tell you,’ replied Simms as he passed a blue Manilla folder over to Agent Henderson to distribute the copies inside. He added, ‘you will also note that Silva still has a tight group of loyal protectors and bagmen, dirty-job men, most of whom are known to us . . . three of whom worked for Silva before, before the raid five years ago; I’m sure Holbrook and Gifford at least will recognize their names: Pedro Torres, Buck Dolan and Clyde Decker; three nasty bruisers, Torres and Decker especially,’ he paused as the two agents nodded, then he added, ‘something’s afoot Swann, although we don’t think Silva’s got very far as yet . . . it appears he’s putting out feelers to our dear friends in the DPRK via a contact in Seoul with the possible intention of carrying out a cyber-attack of some sort, at least that’s what it looks like, but we want it neutralized before it goes any further. Gifford’s team are already on it this end, but we want these assholes dealt with, their end. Hence the urgency Swann!’ he said with a hint of venom.
Swann smiled, but said nothing in reply. The folder was tied shut with a red string wound around a rivet on the front and was marked CLASSIFIED MATERIAL. It was stamped with Simms’s name and undersigned by him as having the authority to distribute to other cleared individuals. But he had already decided that this was going to be a secret “Reaper” job, off the books. Henderson untied the string and opened the folder, then he passed three copies between the others even though Holbrook and Gifford already knew most of what they contained. Simms sat there silently, staring at the four men as they started reading; his fingertips pressed together, forming an open fan.
After two minutes of reading the messages and the enclosed abbreviated analysis, Swann knew what he had to do before being told. Henderson gathered up the copies again and placed them back in the folder, tying it shut and passing it back to Simms.
‘So,’ said Simms, ‘we get a hit on this screwball’s cell phone here in California; Needles of all places, some four hours east of here. Some hick town. Then nothing for weeks until another ping and a strange email trail that originates in Nevada, first in Boulder City, just outside of Las Vegas, then on-going hits on his phone and encrypted emails further north, some other random one-horse town I’ve never heard of. Then back to Boulder. Some signed off under the name “Putorius Furo” whoever the hell that is. Has he changed his name or something? Or is this other dude working on his behalf? Not sure what all that’s about, but it needs checking out. I’m guessing he just passed through Needles, in this State, on his way north because there’s an obvious trail in that direction.’ Simms stopped and thought for a moment, looking down at his pristine desk, then he continued, ‘Must be a small base in both places in Nevada because he’s been going back and forth. He may have settled in Boulder for the meantime, but probably not for long, knowing this dude . . . we’ve got a short window before he moves on someplace else altogether where we may never find him again.’ Simms looked at Swann who understood the implications of what was being said.
‘Sounds like he’s keeping as low a profile as possible, hanging out in small towns, doing his business online, then packing up and moving on to the next one where no one knows him and before anyone can get a fix,’ added Henderson. ‘But he must have a main base somewhere,’ he added.
‘Undoubtedly.’ Simms continued, ‘So who or what is “Putorius Furo”?’ he asked. ‘That name, . . . have we heard it before?’
‘Means “smelly thief”,’ replied Gifford, ‘or “stinking thief” to be more precise. It’s Latin. I think it also means “weasel”. And no, we haven’t as far as I’m aware.’ Everyone turned to look at him. ‘The advantages of a Classical education, I guess,’ he said with a self-satisfied grin, no doubt because he had been educated at Stanford.
Simms spat back at him, ‘I’m aware of that you bloody moron! You think I don’t have a Classical education? Who is it? That name hasn’t appeared before in connection with this other asshole as far as I’m aware.’
Gifford shrugged and said nothing more.
No one spoke for a few moments, then Simms broke the silence and said, ‘But there’s something else strange about it . . . something’s not right.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Henderson. Swann looked at him then back at Simms.
‘Why would someone as careful and sly as this snake suddenly start using a different handle on his old cell, the same phone we locked onto years ago and which lead us right to him?’ asked Simms. ‘Something’s off about that.’
‘I agree,’ said Swann, ‘It does sound strange.’
‘I mean, he can’t be that reckless surely!’ Simms added. ‘Anyway, whatever. Maybe it’s nothing.’
‘His choice of hangouts sounds a bit weird too,’ commented Holbrook, ‘Why Boulder City and this hick town further north? There’s nothing there, other than Las Vegas in between.’
‘Maybe that’s the whole point,’ replied Swann.
Everyone sat there for a few moments digesting everything. Swann looked out the window, at the bright sky-glow of dawn that gave each day its hope. Then Simms piped up again, ‘Our official focus of course is normally restricted to this State, but since you, Swann, are an itinerant officer of the law and sometime bum who resides here, and who nobody knows about or cares about, you’ve got carte blanche to nail the sucker on the quiet, anywhere else he sticks his damn head up.’ Simms continued rather bluntly, ‘we want you to track this sinister little bastard down and deal with him once and for all; his current accomplices too, including this “stinking weasel” guy whoever he is. And find out where their main base is if they’ve got one . . . you know the drill Swann, no loose ends, nice and tidy . . . we don’t have the time or patience for, ahh, “niceties”, if you know what I mean.’ Simms paused for a second, then said more quietly as though he might be overheard, ‘I don’t want local law enforcement anywhere near this, Swann, so keep a low profile, which I know is next to impossible for you! It’s a Reaper project, which means discretion and care . . . if you get my drift.’
‘Sure, but why not just tip off the Nevada boys anyway and let them handle it themselves, like officially?’ asked Swann. ‘It’s safer. Keeps your hands clean. Keeps everyone’s hands clean. And who cares about your Reaper outfit? Dumb idea anyway. The Nevada boys have the manpower after all, and he’s currently on their turf which puts it out of your jurisdiction.’ Swann is always careful to emphasize the fact that he is not, strictly speaking, working officially or formally for the FBI, Simms or anybody else. He keeps plenty of daylight in between them. And he likes reminding Simms of that. Swann works for himself, and farms out his time on contract. Take it or leave it.
‘You know why!’ replied Simms sharply. ‘First of all, since this asshole is still on the federal law books as a violent hostile and you’re a pain-in-the-ass freelancer, of sorts, he doesn’t need to be on anybody’s turf for you to deal with him!’ He paused and then continued after thinking about what he was going to say, ‘And secondly, you know as well as I do that they’ll screw it up! They’ll arrest the prick and then it’ll drag on through the law courts for months while he sits on his hands and laughs at us because he’s got another fancy-pants lawyer keeping him out of jail and dragging him off to one of these treasonous so-called “sanctuary cities”! To hell with that!’ Simms always spat venom whenever that particular subject came up. Yet it was precisely that reason that he had formed the “Reaper” program in the first place and why he had tried to recruit Swann into joining it. But Swann hated being tied down.
Unfortunately f
or Simms, he was reliant on guys like Swann who had their own codes of ethics, their own rules of engagement. People like Swann were rare, but extremely useful for sorting out irksome and unruly individuals who had become major on-going thorns in the side of law enforcement agencies where the usual legal channels ended up being paralyzed by political correctness and stupid rules that favored the criminals. Unleashing Swann, on the other hand, was kind of like taking the lid off Pandora’s Box: Once the lid comes off, there’s no putting it back on until the storm is over. Setting Swann loose on someone always reminded Simms of the famous line from Mark Antony in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, “Cry Havoc! And let slip the gods of war!” A sight to behold.
Swann thought for a few moments, saying nothing as he looked out the window again, the bright blue virgin sky a perfect backdrop beyond the large building opposite. Then he turned to look at Simms, ‘I’ll need everything you have on him, his last known whereabouts, his known associates, his last known cell number, his pet dog’s name, what size shoes he wears. Everything. And I don’t want any blowback from other departments when I happen to break some of their pansy-assed politically correct rules of engagement . . . that’s non-negotiable. This is off the books and if anyone finds out about it, you wear it because I’ll just walk away!’
‘You have my word, as always,’ replied Simms; ‘Agents Holbrook and Gifford here will get you what you need since they were involved in the original takedown of Diablo’s gang and have been working with our pals over at Langley already, independently of Reaper, after they tipped us off. So, the plan is, we’ll sort it and then sanitize it to keep the politicians and the press happy. Usual procedure. Yes, completely off the books. Henderson will be your point man here at the Bureau for anything else you need when you’re in the field, and of course Sally will always be available for urgent contacts, day and night.’ All three agents nodded. ‘If you need special weapons, documents or anything else,’ continued Simms, ‘Holbrook and Henderson will sort that too.’