Frankie Aguirre and Art Jefferson - 03 - Simple Simon

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “I…” Cool, cool, oh, shit, no…

  The LHS bounced, and Kudrow slowed to match the road’s condition, the headlights sweeping the desolate path ahead. Dean looked out the back window again.

  “They’ll wait at the road,” Kudrow said. “To make sure we’re not disturbed while we talk.”

  “Mr. Kudrow, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said, not pleading yet, even though the urge to was almost overpowering. Apologize, express remorse. Come clean. No. Not yet. He has nothing. Noth—

  The micro cassette player Kudrow pulled from inside his jacket brought an abrupt end to Dean’s self reassurance. “Are you aware how far surveillance technology has come?”

  Dean stared at the silvery player, the brand name almost bringing a smile to his pained face.

  “Rock Creek Park, not far from the planetarium,” Kudrow said to freshen Dean’s memory and lower his resistance. His thumb hovered over the PLAY button as he spun the wheel with his free hand, guiding the car into a circular bald spot in the forest, a turnaround for construction vehicles that maintained the park’s network of primitive interior roads. As the car stopped, Kudrow looked hard at Dean and asked, “Would you like to hear what you said to Mr. Atsako last night?”

  The young eyes, tired, defeated, looked away.

  “Or see the pictures?” Kudrow challenged further.

  Dean had no reason to consider the option at any length and shook his head. Kudrow slid the player back inside his jacket and flipped a switch on his armrest. The latches clicked. “Get out.”

  Dean hesitated.

  “Your new life begins tonight, Mr. Dean,” Kudrow said in a calm, yet firm voice. Reassuring, he thought with some satisfaction. “Your treachery has cost a great deal. Both in dollars and in some lives.” He noted that Dean actually flinched at that. It was a touching, but futile flash of humanity. “And that was from MAYFLY. If you had succeeded in giving your friends someone who might have broken KIWI, well…the consequences would be unimaginable.”

  Silence held Dean. What could he say? Should he tell Kudrow that money had been his motivation. Money? Cash. A growing bundle stashed, of all places, in a shed behind his brother’s farmhouse in Iowa. Nothing he could say could change what he’d done. He was suddenly sorry beyond words, and fought to hold back the tears.

  “So now, what happens?” Kudrow continued. “I’ll tell you. You and I will get out into the fresh air, and we will have a talk. You will tell me everything. Everything about what you’ve done, and what you are still to do. About this contact you are supposed to meet Saturday. About what you were going to tell her.”

  A sniffle got past Dean’s resistance. He dragged his coat sleeve across his nose and nodded.

  “And then, Mr. Dean, you will be gone.” The young, now read eyes, turned worried and locked on Kudrow’s. “A new identity, son. Your Japanese friends won’t be too happy with you for failing. And certain people on our side either, if things should get out.”

  “No jail?” Dean asked weakly.

  Kudrow shook his head in complete truth. “No jail.”

  Dean could hardly believe it. He’d always expected that, if he were caught, it would mean a long time, if not life, in a solitary cell in a federal institution somewhere. Not a new start. He couldn’t finger his emotion right then. Relieved was closest he could come, but that was not strong enough. “I’ll turn the money over.”

  “That goes without saying. Now…” Kudrow opened his door. “Shall we have our talk?”

  Dean followed Kudrow to the clearing in front of the car. They stood facing each other, talking for almost an hour, the deputy director asking frequent questions and the youthful cryptographer answering every one to the best of his ability. Dean never became boastful of what he was able to accomplish, but the atmosphere was actually becoming cordial.

  He was quite surprised, then, when Kudrow removed a pistol from the pocket of his overcoat and pointed it at him.

  Kudrow said nothing at first, watching instead as Dean took a half step backward, and as utter shock hardened his expression. “I have to thank you for your cooperation,” Kudrow said, then lowered the pistol a bit and shot Dean in the left knee.

  “SHIT! AHHHH!” Dean collapsed on his right side and pulled his shattered joint to his chest with both hands over the wound. Blood trickled between the fingers and spilled onto the ground.

  “But I’ve never trusted the Hollywood depiction of moments like these. I’ve always figured that a person who has a gun pointed at them and knows they’re going to die would fight to survive. Rush their would-be executioner.” Dean pushed with his good leg, scooting his body toward the trees, frightened eyes wide and watching Kudrow follow. “I would.”

  “Don’t, Mr. Kudrow!” Dean pleaded, a wave of pain twisting his face into a wincing mask of agony.

  “I come here often to walk,” Kudrow told Dean. “There’s a crevice about a hundred feet into the woods. That way. A few shovels of dirt and some dead wood tossed in, and no one will find your body.” Kudrow pointed the pistol at Dean’s face, his finger on the trigger, feeling the steel, bringing another hand up to steady the weapon, breathing, breathing, breathing…

  “There was no one following us,” Dean said through the pain, as if it were some timely, salient point to make.

  Kudrow shook his head and squeezed the trigger four times.

  When he was able to lower the pistol more than a minute later he was surprised, utterly astonished at how easy killing a man had been.

  * * *

  Five men sat around a poker table, cigar smoke wafting upward into a fan whose wasted motion only served to circulate the fumes for later inhalation. Each man held five cards, and each had chips before them, some in neat stacks, some in tilted and fallen piles. One man, the dealer at the moment, had far more chips than any other player. And he was smiling, teeth clenched on a stogie.

  Two players folded, then a third after examining his hand long and hard. That left the dealer just one challenger.

  “I’m waiting,” the dealer said jauntily. The others at the weekly game knew him as Mr. Pritchard.

  The challenger, setting his cigar in a flat metal ash tray, tossed two blue chips into the pot as a door opened behind Mr. Pritchard. A young man entered and leaned close to Pritchard’s right ear. “There may be a situation developing.”

  “In a minute, Sanders,” Pritchard said, and the young man retreated out of the room. “Is that a call?”

  The challenger nodded and laid his hand on the table. Three queens and two fours stared into the whirling, smoke-shrouded fan blades. “And you?”

  Pritchard’s smile never waned as he laid a pair of eights on the felt.

  “That’s it?” the challenger said, shock turning to laughter an instant later. “You stupid son of a bitch.”

  “Had you going, didn’t I?” Pritchard said as the challenger scooped up his winnings.

  “You get joy in bluffing, don’t you, Pritchard?” one of the men asked.

  Pritchard left his trash cards on the table and stood, blowing smoke toward the fan. “I’d rather have four aces. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  His cigar clamped firmly in one side of his jaw, Pritchard left the smoky room and found Sanders waiting in the hall. “Go ahead.”

  “A situation may be developing,” Sanders repeated.

  “You said that. Where? And what’s the involvement?”

  “It’s coming from inside and it involves an extreme innocent,” Sanders elaborated.

  Pritchard removed his cigar. “An extreme innocent?”

  Sanders nodded. He knew what that characterization would mean to Mr. Pritchard, what weight it would carry.

  “You’ll watch the situation closely and let me know,” Pritchard said.

  “If we wait, sir, it may be too late,” Sanders said, every bit of seriousness he could manage thrown into his tone.

  Pritchard, though, met him with his own brand of ser
iousness, a stare that had melted the toughest of men where they stood. “Nothing, Sanders, I repeat, nothing, is worth rushing into. Nothing.”

  Sanders swallowed and accepted the dressing down with a deferring nod. “Yes, sir.”

  The cigar found its way back between Pritchard’s surprisingly white teeth. “Extreme innocent, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  Pritchard considered that through two puffs. “In the morning, Sanders. Get the particulars to me. I’ll bring it up with the boys.”

  A somewhat re-inflated Sanders nodded crisply. “Yes, sir.”

  The young man hurried off down the hall. Pritchard watched him, admiring the eagerness, thanking whoever was up there that people like Sanders had chosen his side of the fence to play on. There were enough on the other side already.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pebbles

  Art Jefferson came into the kitchen Friday morning, eyes tired, wanting coffee and answers. The former was waiting for him on the counter, along with a granola bar for breakfast. In search of the latter he sat in the nook across from his wife, who stared out the window at dawn breaking over the garden.

  “Is he still asleep?”

  Anne nodded and sipped at her own steaming cup of coffee, caffeinated unlike his, though that hadn’t kicked in yet.

  “I need to ask you something,” Art said, and Anne turned his way. In her robe and barely awake, he felt awful having to probe her, but he had no choice. “Do you think Simon remembers what happened that night? Enough to tell me if I asked him?”

  Hands wrapped around the warming mug, Anne’s mind worked behind quiet eyes, through the mental gears, coming up to speed. “Art, have you looked at his cards?”

  “His cards? Not really. But what—”

  “He doesn’t use E’s. In anything he writes he doesn’t use the letter E. The most common letter in the alphabet. Do you know why?”

  He’d asked a tired woman a question and he was getting what he deserved. “No, why?”

  “I don’t know. If you ask Simon, he can’t explain it, but it still is part of how he functions.” Anne sipped slow and set the mug down. “Not everything can be explained. Don’t expect too much.” She might have said ‘Don’t push too hard,’ but what she had seen develop between Art and Simon made that unnecessary.

  It wasn’t how Art wanted to start the morning. But less than hopeful had more wiggle room than hopeless. “I’ve got to try. For his sake.”

  Anne was about to take the mug in hand again when the tone of Art’s statement struck her. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  Art took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Babe, you’re the doctor. Give me some pointers. I’m used to questioning bad guys and not giving a damn about their feelings.”

  “Make him comfortable.”

  “The rocker only worked for a night,” Art reminded her. “What’s comforting to him?”

  She kissed his hand now. “I think you know.”

  It took him a minute to realize she was, as usual, right.

  * * *

  Far later than usual, Brad Folger arrived at his office in the Chocolate Box and learned that he was needed immediately in Kudrow’s office. He told his secretary to let the boss know he was on his way, then went in his office and downed two shots of whiskey behind closed doors.

  A few minutes later, feeling bolder if not better, he entered Kudrow’s office without knocking and sat on the couch, far too casually for his own good.

  “Glad you could join us today,” Kudrow said, swinging his chair to face his assistant. “How was breakfast?”

  “What, Rothchild have my office wired, too?” Folger gave the office a mock visual inspection. “How about yours?”

  For now Kudrow would let the insubordination pass. For now. When all was again right with the world, Bradley Folger would be promoted out of Z on Kudrow’s recommendation. A nice, cushy spot somewhere in S, probably, overseeing security reviews. Or maybe T-Com. Somewhere, anywhere, just no longer here.

  And after that, a car swerving out of control as he crossed the street one day. Who knew what could happen when one started his or her day?

  But for the moment, Folger would have to join the team. “Brad, you’ll be replacing Dean in the Puzzle Center until this affair is cleared up.”

  Still pressed into the cushions, Folger’s manner became instantly less cocky. “Why?”

  “Craig Dean is no longer with us.”

  Folger began to sit forward. “Why?”

  “Our Mr. Dean was selling the store out from under us, Bradley. He gave away MAYFLY, and he was about to do the same with KIWI.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “A leak,” Kudrow said. “Dean was it.”

  “Bull,” Folger said, coming to his feet and pacing once in front of Kudrow’s desk before facing the man, taking on the appearance of an animal that wanted to fight but knew better. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I’ll make the tapes and photos available to you, if you require proof. And aside from those he admitted it to me, last night.”

  Five feet separated Folger from his supervisor. He wondered if the contempt could be felt at that distance. He fervently hoped so.

  “He was about to give KIWI away whole,” Kudrow said, making a minor effort to convince Folger.

  “He doesn’t know KIWI whole. None of them do.” Folger gestured to a Picasso reproduction to the right of the Lichtenstein. “You’re the only one who has it whole, in that safe.”

  “He had an idea who might.”

  “And just who was he going to…” Folger’s words trailed off. “Had?”

  Kudrow brought his hands together, fingertips touching, just below his chin. “You know, it wasn’t that difficult. I was surprised.”

  Folger’s jaw went slack, his mouth suddenly as dry as cotton. “Nick, what have you done…”

  “Do you know what the real lesson from all this is, Bradley?” Kudrow mused. “It’s that people can be manipulated just like the machines Rothchild plays havoc with. Dean taught me that. He was a willing participant in his own demise until just before the end, and he didn’t even know it. You tell a machine what to believe, like Rothchild does, and it believes it. And people believe the machines. If you give a person something to believe in, they will, even if it’s a lie.”

  Folger backed toward the door. “Oh dear God, what have you done?”

  “People and machines, Bradley,” Kudrow observed. “The similarities are striking.”

  The thick, soundproof door stopped Folger, or he would have kept backing until his eyes could no longer see Kudrow. Then he would have run. But never, never now, would he turn his back on this man.

  “Are Mary and the children prepared to live without you?” Kudrow inquired, then added before Folger could respond, “Or will they visit you in prison? What is the going sentence for running down an old woman when you’re drunk, Bradley?”

  “So…it’s an outright threat now.”

  “It’s manipulation,” Kudrow corrected to his own preference. “I made that unfortunate accident go away, Bradley. If it comes back, you will be on your own.”

  The devil was calling in his chits, Folger saw. And what else would the new prince of darkness do? “Who else are you going to kill, Nick? Simon Lynch, once you have your hands on him?”

  “Me? No. We need to know some things from him, and, oddly enough, thanks to Dean we’ll have the means to get what we need. Beyond that…”

  All Folger could do was shake his head and ask himself over and over again how this had all happened. How had it come to this?

  “Now, Brad, Patel has had a long night. He’s stayed over into your shift.” Kudrow picked up a file folder from his desk. “If you don’t mind, I have some reading to do.”

  Folger watched Kudrow sit and go about his reading as if all was as it should be. He slid to the side and opened
the door, backing out, surprising Kudrow’s secretary by hurrying past like a runner out of the starting blocks.

  * * *

  Already Breem was visualizing the larger office, the Georgetown residence, black tie events, but a question from Deputy United States Marshal Peter Kasvakis interrupted his pleasant interlude.

  “All right, Breem,” Kasvakis began. “Why us? Why use my warrant service teams? You could have Lomax call him into his office and that’s it. No guns, no nighttime raid.”