Frankie Aguirre and Art Jefferson - 03 - Simple Simon

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  * * *

  Two hours later, Art came to bed after turning the lights out in the guest room.

  “Is he?” Anne asked hopefully, rolling toward her husband.

  “He’s under the covers and it’s not even midnight,” Art said, sliding into bed and turning off the light on his nightstand. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, shining off their skin as Art pulled Anne close. “Staring at that rocker.”

  They held each other tight, Anne letting one finger trace random patterns through the hair on his chest. “It’s something familiar to him. Comforting, you know. What’s his name in the Peanuts always has his blanket. Pigpen, or Schroeder. I can never remember. But it’s the same thing.” She kissed his chest and said, “You did good, G-Man.”

  Art said nothing back. When Anne rose up on one elbow she saw that he was fast asleep.

  Chapter Ten

  The Spark

  Leo Pedanski had no sooner come into the Puzzle Center when Craig Dean was on his feet. The taller man’s hair, usually in a pony tail that at least made one wonder if he’d washed it recently, hung loose and dirty, strands and clumps going every which way. His eyes were open but glassy. He snatched his jacket from a cluttered table and pushed his lanky arms through the sleeves.

  “Where’s Vik?” Dean asked, his voice hoarse. He coughed and spit into a used coffee cup.

  Pedanski came no further into the room. He’d never seen Dean look this bad. “Man, you look absolutely toasted.”

  “Yeah,” Dean agreed through a yawn. He looked quickly around and tested three soda cans resting near the main console, choosing the one with the most heft and downing the remnants with a fast gulp. “So where’s Vik? He’s supposed to relieve me.”

  “We switched,” Pedanski said, coming past Dean, his nose twitching. “Man, take a shower, Craig.”

  Dean sneered at his illustrious leader. “Yeah, like fucking when do I have time for hygiene?”

  “Ease up, man,” Pedanski reacted. He checked the activity log. “Anything?”

  “What does the log say?” Dean asked sarcastically as he headed for the door, haste in his step.

  “Where are you going?” Pedanski asked innocently.

  “Fucking home, Leo,” Dean answered brusquely. “Where else would I go?”

  * * *

  Just one step into Art Jefferson’s office and Lomax knew that something was different about his number two. “You get lucky last night?”

  “No, I got some sleep,” Art said. Lomax took a seat and swung his feet onto the visitor side of Art’s desk.

  “How’s the Bell investigation coming?”

  “Slow,” Art replied. He took a sip from his coffee mug and made a silent offer to Lomax.

  “No thanks. Red tape trouble?”

  Art set the mug down. “More like red armor.”

  Lomax thought for a few seconds. “We could shake things up a little. Get the U.S. Attorney in on this.”

  “Breem?” Art’s head shook. “Give me a little more time, Bob. I’ve got other approaches to try.”

  “Have you talked to Simon yet?”

  “About the night? No, not yet.” Art stood from his chair, stretched, and leaned against the window ledge. “I know I need to, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to give us anything of use.”

  Lomax understood, and accepted Art’s estimation with a facial shrug made uneven by his scar. “Well, how would you like some interesting news on another front?” The SAC made a stabbing motion in the air.

  “Kimura?”

  Lomax nodded. “Seattle PD found a body all cut up. They ran it through NCIC. Kimura came up as a possible. Prints confirmed it. Exact matches to the ones found with Vince Chappell.”

  “Here? In the states?”

  “Go figure,” Lomax said as he stood. “Glad it’s not yours to figure out.”

  “Glad indeed,” Art confirmed.

  * * *

  Rothchild, as usual, had his ducks in a row, Kudrow thought, but some fairly substantial ducks they were.

  “There are some problems with your plan.”

  Rothchild frowned doubtfully. “Where?”

  “I can’t arrange a disappearance.”

  “Ah, gun shy after Mike Bell’s graceful entry into the picture.” Rothchild paused. “Or exit, I should say.”

  “My people can surveil, and when the time comes they can take. But no killing.”

  A pouty smile came to Rothchild’s face. “Who said you had to arrange it?”

  The power behind that statement became slowly apparent to Kudrow.

  Rothchild leaned far back in his chair, content, pleased with himself. “Do you think Alexander Graham Bell had any idea what he was creating?”

  Did your parents? Kudrow wondered alternately. “All right.”

  “Good.”

  “And the banks?”

  Rothchild smirked. “Their security is vapor.”

  “Jefferson’s files?” Kudrow pressed.

  “Do you know who designed the FBI’s computer firewalls?” Rothchild pointed straight up. “This is a two hour project, Mr. Kudrow. You say ‘go’ and this time tomorrow Special Agent Jefferson’s world will start a tumblin’ down around him.”

  He had come through, as expected, and Kudrow felt almost sorry for Art Jefferson. He was an innocent, but an innocent in the way of a higher purpose. A purpose Kudrow was going to achieve, no matter what.

  “Go.”

  * * *

  In his office, with the small hand of his German-made wall clock sweeping toward the eight, G. Nicholas Kudrow picked up the last stack of briefs he had to peruse and initial before he could take leave of the Chocolate Box for the night. He scanned the cover summary of each, some from State, some from DoD, and some from CIA. Anything and everything remotely related to the work done by Z had to be looked at and judged unworthy of further concern by Kudrow.

  The State briefs, relating to communications failures in Asia, he signed off on first.

  The DoD’s, one report of a relay satellite in need of repairs, was dispatched with next.

  Those from Langley he began, signing off each as he read, before the third in a stack of five made him stop and take a closer look.

  Kimura? She was in the country, if the Seattle Police Department and NCIC were to be believed. But why? Why would her Japanese controllers risk sending her here? They already had MAYFLY, Kudrow knew. One dead CIA agent and a handful of other mishaps was proof enough of that. So why have her come to the States?

  Her own initiative, Kudrow theorized. Her fetish for, as one analyst put it, ‘fatal sex Yankees’. No. No way. Her controllers would never have allowed it. She was an asset to them, a sick asset to be sure, but a master at getting information out of the unwilling.

  Kudrow leaned forward, elbows on the desk, one hand scratching his head while the other held the report close. After a moment he looked off toward a wall of plaques and photos. You have MAYFLY. What could you want that you would send her…

  And in that instant, in one flash that brought Kudrow slowly back in his chair, he knew. He had the answer, not only to the question he had been asking, but to one plaguing him now for some time. “You’re here for KIWI,” he said to the empty confines of his office, then smiled and added, “And how did you know it was available?”

  He continued smiling as he lifted the phone.

  “Section Chief Willis.”

  “This is Kudrow. I need you to redirect some surveillance resources from our young friend.”

  A pause as Willis shuffled some paper. “To where?”

  Kudrow told him as he gladly signed off on the last of the CIA briefs.

  Chapter Eleven

  Deep Water

  Two taps, timid almost, sounded on Brad Folger’s door.

  “Come on in.”

  Leo Pedanski pushed the door inward, letting light from Folger’s secretary’s office flood into his own darkened work area. “Mr. Folger?”

  A lamp at t
he end of a short couch came on, revealing Folger stretched out in repose, his hand coming back from the switch to a bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a short draw of the smoky brown liquid.

  Leo Pedanski closed the door and took a few steps toward the assistant deputy director. “Mr. Folger, are you okay?”

  Folger pulled himself into more of a sitting position against the arm of the couch and chuckled before taking another quick drink. “You ever make a mistake, Pedanski?”

  “A mistake?” Pedanski said, puzzled.

  “Yeah, like you do something that was wrong, and you almost get caught, and you wish to God you’d never put yourself in the situation that allowed it to happen. A mistake. You know.”

  Pedanski eyed Folger carefully. An odd expression flavored his appearance, like he was afraid, but not afraid. “Sure. A mistake. I’ve made mistakes.”

  Folger nodded. The bottle of Jack Daniels hung loose in his hand. A splash of the liquid dribbled out onto the carpet. “My advice, Pedanski, you fess up to them when you make them. Don’t let nobody save your ass.” The bottle came up for a long swallow this time. Folger said nothing for a moment, then pushed himself up on the couch and put the bottle aside. He sniffled and looked to Pedanski, casually, as if the normal course of events was that he should offer some drunken advice to a subordinate. “So, enough about me. What can I do for you?”

  Pedanski could only manage a slack-jawed stare for a few seconds, then said, “Um, it’s, uh, Craig.”

  “Dean?” Folger asked, eyes squinting in the weak light.

  “Yes. Something’s up with him. I mean, we’re all screwed up by what’s going on. The schedule. KIWI. Everything. But he… I don’t know. He’s not himself. This is beating up on him worse than the rest of us, I guess.”

  “Ah, well…”

  “Maybe he needs a break,” Pedanski suggested.

  Folger shook his head. “It’s a nice thought.”

  Pedanski understood. He was asking the wrong person. The right person would have said no anyway. “Yeah. Well…” He glanced at the bottle. It was a third gone. “Well, I gotta get back downstairs and fill Vik in before I split.”

  Folger looked away and nodded.

  “You’re all right…right?” Pedanski checked one more time.

  Brad Folger again chuckled. “I can neither confirm nor deny the truthfulness of your inquiry.”

  A quizzical cock tilted Pedanski’s head. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Folger said, resignation in his voice. “Just practicing.”

  * * *

  It was either very late or very early, depending on one’s nocturnal perspective, when Craig Dean parked his five year old Toyota pickup in a lot at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., and jogged across Sixteenth Street to Rock Creek Park. He stayed north of the golf course and followed Rock Creek south, thankful for the lights of the night maintenance workers patching the remnants of winter’s wear on the greens.

  He continued south, taking the foot trail past Military Road, where he turned right, lest he end up smack dab in front of the Park Police Headquarters, and followed a branch of the trail toward the horse center, stopping somewhat short of the facility, right where a crumpled beer can lay to the right of the path.

  “In here,” a voice said, startling Dean when he knew he shouldn’t be. The fatigue, he told himself. It was getting to him. The hours at work, the time spent setting up this latest endeavor, and the worry.

  “Where?” Dean asked the darkness among the trees.

  A few branches shook. Dean stepped between the shrubs and followed a man in dark clothing deeper into the foliage. Beneath a barren tree, the Asian man turned to face Dean.

  “Your contact is here.”

  Dean looked around, surprised to the point of horror. “Here?!”

  “Not here, you fool. Here. In the country.”

  “Oh. I wrote down the information.”

  The Asian man’s expression soured. He held out his hand, waiting for Dean to put the information in it. When he did, the Asian man folded it twice and ripped the paper into slender shreds.

  “What…”

  The Asian man grabbed Dean by the shirt, bunching the material in one fist, and shaking the remains of the paper in the other. “Never write something down! Never!”

  He had a good eight inches on the Asian man, but there was no doubt in Craig Dean’s mind who would win a fight. “Sorry.”

  The strips of paper became a wad in the Asian man’s hand, which he dropped in a pocket as he released his grip on Dean. “Saturday morning, ten o’clock. Here. There is a bench on the path by Miller Cabin. Your contact will be there.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “She will know you,” the Asian man answered with a correction. “You tell her what she wants to know then.”

  Dean nodded. “Yeah. Ten. Got it.”

  The Asian man gestured with a toss of his head for Dean to leave. He backed toward the path, watching as the Asian man turned and waded into the black foliage with hardly a sound.

  “Fucking ninja,” Dean commented. Once on the path he walked faster than he had on the way in.

  * * *

  “Smile,” Georgie said from a hastily chosen position a hundred feet west of the trail, just off the foot path from the planetarium. Through the long lens of his camera, Craig Dean jogged north toward the path along Military Road. The shutter clicked softly, repeatedly, until the film ran out.

  Several minutes later, Ralph approached from the south, a small bag in hand. “I stepped in horse shit.”

  “Good,” Georgie said. “How close did you get?”

  Ralph opened the bag and removed a cassette. “Close enough.”

  * * *

  The respite lasted but a single night.

  Art heard it first, around two, restless mumbling now instead of the broken melody, and when he sat up in bed Anne was still out like a light. Someone should sleep, he thought to himself, and gingerly got out of bed and went to the guest room.

  The light by the bed was on, and Simon sat on the edge of the mattress, covers folded haphazardly down. The red rocker had been for naught, Art was thinking when he saw something on Simon’s lap. It was a magazine, the one Simon had with him the day Anne and he coaxed him out of the basement.

  Art sat next to Simon on the bed. “What are you reading?”

  “Simon is reading puzzles.”

  “Puzzles,” Art said softly, bending his neck to see under Simon’s mop. As he did he glanced at the page the magazine was open to, then the glance became a look, and the look a stare of near disbelief. The page, covered by a jumble of numbers and letters, was familiar. Shockingly familiar. “Can I look at that?”

  A single rock forward, then the magazine slid toward Art. Simon’s head twisted away.

  Art lifted the magazine, took a look at the cover to get the title, and then focused on the page in question. As he did he realized it was more than familiar; it was nearly identical to the sheet found on Mike Bell’s body. A twin, except maybe for the specific numbers and letters. The format was the same.

  He handed the magazine back to Simon and asked, “Can you do this puzzle?”

  Simon blinked several times, in a series of spurts, and said, “If you solve this puzzle call one-eight-zero-zero-five-five-five-one-three-nine-eight and tell the operator that you have solved puzzle ninety-nine you will then be issued a prize.”

  What? Art touched the page. “This says all that?”

  “The puzzle says all that.”

  What the hell kind of puzzle is this? Art asked himself, wondering next if there might be a similar message on the paper recovered from Mike Bell. “Wait here, Simon. I want to show you something.”

  Simon watched the big feet walk away. Art was his friend. If Art told him to wait, he would. Simon knew to listen to friends.

  Back a minute later, Art leaned his briefcase against the dresser and remove
d a sheet of paper from the hardcopy of the ROMA file. He sat again next to Simon and laid the paper on the young man’s lap, covering one jumble of numbers and letters with another. “Is this a puzzle, Simon?”

  The green eyes played over it, blinking, looking, blinking, until it made sense. Until it became words. Three words.