Simon Sees (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 5)

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  But…

  “Gant leaves everything behind,” Sanders said. “Does that seem like an impulsive move?”

  “It does,” Porter agreed.

  “Unless it wasn’t,” Sanders said. “What if he already had this planned?”

  Porter thought on that, understanding where Sanders was going with the suggestion.

  “A safe house,” he said.

  “More than that,” Sanders said. “A refuge. Someplace he could live undetected. Alone or not.”

  What was being suggested was much bigger than a quick run for safety. And would require more time to plan and execute than Emily LaGrange had spent with the old hacker.

  “You think Jefferson was financing this refuge,” Porter said.

  “In anticipation of getting Simon Lynch out somehow, I do.”

  “Gant would have to go with them,” Porter said, warming to the logic. “He’d be an immediate suspect in aiding Jefferson if that all went down.”

  “Exactly,” Sanders confirmed his line of thinking. “LaGrange is simply filling Jefferson’s shoes.”

  “That’s where she’s heading,” Porter said.

  “Maybe,” Sanders responded. “If Gant shared the location.”

  “You think he’s bailing on helping her and going underground on his own?”

  Sanders shook his head. “He’d have to ensure it’s viable. That no one has stumbled upon it. It would have all been planned for Jefferson, not her.”

  Porter thought, nodding. But his agreement soon turned grim. “You know, if we’re thinking this…”

  “The other side is, too.”

  ‘The other side is us…’

  That bit of terrible wisdom his mentor had shared was meant as a warning. But, Ezekiel Sanders thought, in this instance, it might also present an opportunity.

  “Did you find it interesting when Mr. Lane shared that the report on Jefferson’s suicide had made it all the way to the Attorney General?”

  “No,” Porter answered, recalling the almost offhand remark when they’d first gathered on the frigid coast of Maine. “Is it interesting?”

  “Considering their history, I find it very much so.”

  “I’m not following,” Porter told him.

  Sanders explained his thinking. And his plans to exploit the situation—if it could be confirmed.

  “You’re putting a lot on Lane to pull double duty on this,” Porter cautioned.

  “No. Sato will have to handle the confirmation end of things.”

  Porter’s head cocked slightly as he processed just what the man was suggesting, the moment of contemplation broken by the jiggling of the bathroom’s doorknob.

  “Almost done,” Sanders said loudly.

  The person beyond the door withdrew.

  “If you use Sato for this, to do what you’re thinking, we’ll be exposed.”

  Sanders didn’t agree. Not entirely.

  “Not exposed,” he corrected. “But certainly compromised.”

  “That will be the end,” Porter said. “Of all this.”

  “I know.”

  “And that’s worth it to you?” Porter pressed. “Simon Lynch is worth it?”

  Sanders nodded. “He is.”

  Their group, which had existed for decades, was about to perform its last functions in the name of what was right, and what was good. If it was going to end, it had to be so that another would survive.

  Thirty Eight

  There were a thousand things that needed to be done. Calls to be made. Meetings to be conducted. But United States Attorney General Angelo Breem needed to be alone. Just for a while. For no other reason than he needed a drink. A serious, stiff drink to settle his nerves and allow him to press forward as if this was just another investigation.

  But it wasn’t. He would never admit it to her, but Fay Pressman’s words had unnerved him. Yes, he had power. Enough power to make her life miserable. But she wasn’t wrong when she suggested that someone would latch on to some very peculiar pieces of the situation someday, and would do their damnedest to fit them into place.

  A goddamn puzzle…

  That was how this all had started so long ago. With the Lynch kid solving a puzzle. Now, tentacles of that distant event were converging and threatening to make Angelo Breem’s life a living hell.

  Fuck him…

  It might have started with Lynch, but it could end with him, too. All that needed to happen was a Bureau tactical team stumbling upon his location. Maybe LaGrange resists. Bullets fly. The right people die.

  That was probably too easy an end to hope for, Breem knew. Maybe.

  His security detail pulled into the driveway of his home in suburban Arlington, one of the agents assigned to his detail opening the back door of the SUV and letting the man out.

  “We’ll head back in an hour.”

  The head of the detail nodded at the Attorney General’s directive and watched the man walk up the brick path to the front door. He took up a position next to a small shelter at the corner of the property nearest the house. Two others did the same at points in front of and behind the classic white colonial. Their presence was augmented by a security system which, in essence, turned the home into a pleasant fortress.

  But humans made errors, and technology could be exploited, or defeated outright, and when Angelo Breem entered his house and made his way to the kitchen, he learned that through first-hand experience.

  “My former assistant missed some data points which very clearly point to you,” Damian Traeger said, lifting the cup of coffee he’d made using Breem’s expensive cappuccino machine. He sat at a rustic breakfast table, sipping and smiling at the man who seemed frozen in the doorway between the great room and the kitchen. “You are the source. You are my source.”

  Breem stood staring at the man. The man who was not a stranger. One did not work in the upper echelons of government or industry without knowing the name, and the face, of Damian Traeger, different as it appeared at the moment.

  “He is no longer working for me,” Traeger said, draining the diminutive cup and setting it down on the bright oak tabletop. “So we’ll ignore his failings and focus on you.”

  Breem gave a quick glance behind, toward the front door he’d come through just a moment ago.

  “There is no safety there, Mr. Attorney General,” Traeger said. “Your security detail can save you from me, but they cannot save you from yourself.” Traeger stood, the heavy chair grating across the floor as it slid back. “You are a prosecutor. What are the charges you will face? Does treason come into play?” Traeger shrugged at his own question as he came around the table and approached Breem, stopping just a few feet from the much shorter man. “I am not a foreign government, but your interaction with Mr. Venn could leave you vulnerable in that respect. Certainly there are laws you’ve violated regarding dissemination of materials vital to national security. It would seem anything in Mr. Lynch’s head would count as that.”

  Breem didn’t respond directly to anything Traeger said. He was still taken aback by the man’s mere presence. They’d never met. Never spoken. The only contact between them was through the elaborate relay of information the Attorney General had established after making covert overtures to the man.

  Why did you do it, Angelo?

  Breem challenged himself with the question, even though he knew the answer. The answers, actually. But how had Traeger found him?

  “What data points?”

  “Pardon?” Traeger said.

  “You said your assistant missed data points,” Breem said.

  “I did. Very telling data points. One in particular.”

  Dammit…

  “Jefferson,” Breem said.

  Traeger smiled at the very correct guess.

  “What my assistant failed to grasp was that the source’s insistence that Jefferson knew where Mr. Lynch was being housed was indicative of some motive beyond the source enriching themselves,” Traeger explained. “Enriching yourself.”<
br />
  How much had he squeezed out of Traeger, both to arrange access for Venn and to give up Jefferson? Just under a million dollars, all in cash, squirrelled away by a ‘friend’ who’d acted as an intermediary.

  “How much of your earnings has Miss Lewis spent already?”

  Breem’s gaze went wide at Traeger’s question. It was as if the man was in his head, trolling his thoughts for that could be used as knives to twist in his side.

  “I suspect quite a bit,” Traeger said. “How much have you paid her over the years, Mr. Attorney General? With your own money? A hundred thousand? Two? Women such as Miss Lewis do not come cheap…if they cum at all.”

  Traeger allowed a light chuckle, the humor of his quip made all the more enjoyable by the pure rage that was boiling in Breem’s stare.

  “You can’t possibly know about—”

  “Your whore?” Traeger interjected. “Once I had you, connecting the buxom lass who collected your payments to you was hardly a challenge. You understand, yes, American Bob? Or is AB sufficient, since you share initials with your alter ego.”

  Some secrets still existed in this world, but it was more difficult with every passing day to secure them. Angelo Breem, who’d been too cute by half in using his own initials, knew now that when a man like Traeger truly wanted to know something, he would find a way. The resources he had at his disposal rivaled the intelligence services of many European nations, and he had no checks on what he could, or would, do.

  “I must ask, though, was it about the money, or about him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When our Russian friend can’t get access to Simon Lynch, he receives a mysterious contact saying that such a thing can be arranged for a price,” Traeger said. “Soon after I finance this arrangement, very soon after, I am made aware of a possible way to actually get to this brilliant savant. You offered me something I didn’t ask for.”

  Angelo Breem swallowed perceptibly. He was beyond scared. The manner in which the man was reading him, dissecting his actions, and his motives, had turned his blood to ice as it flowed through him.

  “You pointed my people to Jefferson because you saw a chance to exact revenge on the man,” Traeger said. “He bested you in Chicago when Simon Lynch first came to be known. You expected him to resist. You expected him to be killed. But you did not expect him to take that satisfaction from you by his own hand.”

  “He knew,” Breem said. “I just thought you would…”

  Traeger shook his head, ending the man’s pointless explanation. As it turned out, with Venn’s unexpected death, Simon Lynch’s value shifted from the state of ‘want’ to ‘need’. With that, Jefferson, too, saw his own stock rise.

  “He might have known, if he’d had more time,” Traeger said. “He had help, you know.”

  The look on Breem’s face made it abundantly clear that he did not.

  “My poor man,” Traeger said. “So blinded by your hate for Jefferson that you couldn’t see what he was doing. And with whom.”

  Breem thought for a moment, breathing hard through his nose, trying to calm himself as he let the mental files he retained on Jefferson open in his head. Events. Dates. Associates. Nam—

  Associates…

  “Kirby Gant,” Breem said.

  “Yes,” Traeger confirmed. “Rothchild, though, would be the more appropriate name to link to him considering the electronic wizardry he performed for Jefferson. And for Agent LaGrange.”

  Breem was genuinely stunned by that revelation.

  “How do you know that?”

  Traeger reached to the kitchen counter and pressed his index finger down on the cold surface. “Do you know what a kill switch is, Mr. Attorney General?”

  Breem felt the hair prickle at the back of his neck at the ominous term. The sudden rise of his discomfort was obvious.

  “Relax, Mr. Attorney General. I’m speaking in technological terms. Sensitive computer systems have such things. A physical button, or a simple keystroke, which will permanently wipe data with the simple touch of a finger. Systems I possess have such a switch. So did those operated by Rothchild.”

  “What are you talking about?” Breem challenged the man. “He was prohibited from using computer equipment outside our supervision.”

  Traeger smiled. “Your naivete becomes more precious and annoying by the second. Laws, Mr. Attorney General, and the breaking of such, are why you have a job. For the time being.”

  The threat didn’t even need to be implied, Breem knew. What Damian Traeger knew about him would ruin him and send him to prison—if revealed. He had to keep that from happening. Somehow.

  “Rothchild utilized his kill switch,” Traeger said. “My people discovered as much when they visited the little sanctuary he maintained this morning.”

  “He can be dealt with,” Breem said, offering something he assumed Traeger would approve of. “Kirby Gant can be put in a federal hole so deep he’ll never see daylight. Or talk. About anything or anyone.”

  “That might be useful,” Traeger said. “If he was not gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “He destroyed his data and fled,” Traeger explained. “Evaded his watchers and went into the ether.”

  “Watchers? We weren’t monitoring him.”

  “I know,” Traeger said. But someone was. His people had noticed evidence of a presence in Rothchild’s hideaway. A presence which had beaten them to the location, indicating they were aware of his activities. Combined with other curious information, such as word from one of his bankers concerning a non-existent transfer of funds inquired about by a Spanish bank, he had come to the conclusion that another entity was engaged in an effort to zero in on Simon Lynch.

  “How did they… How did you…”

  “Find his little hideaway?” Traeger finished the stuttered question for Breem. “A man walks from his apartment to another nearby on a frequent basis, it becomes noticeable to those who would notice such things and be aware of associations.”

  Dammit…

  Breem understood now. By pushing Jefferson on him, Traeger, and his people, had dug further. They’d pieced together bits of the dead agent’s past, including his interactions with Kirby Gant. On parole, the man was no harder to find than any other individual who paid rent and possessed a bank account.

  But who else would be interested in Gant? That was the thing truly terrifying Breem. Was some other agency investigating him? Was it related to Jefferson? Because if that were true, anything that involved Jefferson could, if properly pieced together, lead to him.

  “Considering Rothchild’s physical appearance,” Traeger surmised, “it was a fair guess to assume he was not visiting a lady friend.”

  “Look, we have to keep this contained,” Breem said.

  “That’s your concern,” Traeger said. “Not mine. I’ve already made my statement.”

  Breem puzzled at the man. What statement?

  “There is that naivete again,” Traeger said. He cocked his head slightly at Breem. “Baltimore.”

  God, no…

  “Yes,” Traeger countered, reading the man’s unspoken reaction.

  Breem gasped a breath, a hand coming to his mouth. He dashed past Traeger and reached the kitchen sink just in time to throw up. He reached up and ran water past his face, the vomit swirling and disappearing down the drain. After a moment to compose himself he straightened and looked back to Traeger.

  “Baltimore is only the first,” Traeger said. “Mr. Venn was quite prolific in his production of the devices before his unfortunate demise.”

  Breem’s ashen face went a few shades paler, much to Traeger’s inner satisfaction. It was a lie, of course, but it only needed to be believed by the corrupt American official.

  “Do you wish to see other little mushroom clouds bloom?” he asked Breem. “Such devastation, much of which can be laid at your feet for arranging contact between Mr. Venn and Simon Lynch.”

  He had the urge to vomit again, but
there was nothing left to come up. His stomach spasmed where he stood, facing the man putting the screws to him.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m surprised you have to ask,” Traeger answered.

  Breem knew exactly what the man wanted. Who he wanted.

  “I don’t know where she has him,” Breem said.

  “With all you have at your disposal, I doubt the certainty of your conviction,” Traeger said. He stepped toward the shorter man, looking down into the Attorney General’s trembling gaze. “Find him. Quickly. And give that information to me.”

  Angelo Breem had no ability to resist. To wield his authority over the man would only unleash scrutiny upon himself.

  “How will I reach you?” Breem asked.

  “Contact Mr. Holman at the Wilstone Palace Hotel. I’ll expect a location within forty-eight hours.”

  “Two days? I can’t get what you—”

  The man that Traeger had been, and which he kept inside like a sheathed dagger, erupted, his right hand seizing Breem by the throat and forcing him backward over the sink, the stench of bile rising from the deep bowl.

  “Forty-eight hours is not forty-eight hours and one minute,” Traeger said, his voice dripping with coiled fury. “You can tell time, yes?”

  United States Attorney General Angelo Breem nodded against the choking grip that held him.

  “People who have thought me incapable of violence have learned otherwise,” Traeger said. “As you now are in a very small measure.”

  Traeger released his grip and Angelo Breem dropped to the floor next to the sink, on his knees, looking up at the man as he rubbed his stinging neck.

  “Tick tock, Mr. Attorney General,” Damian Traeger said. “The clock is running.”

  Angelo Breem watched the man, the intruder, make his way toward the back of the house. He’d defeated the alarm on his way in and would already have a way out through the back yard planned to avoid his modest security detail. The man was formidable. Capable. Dangerous.

  And the Attorney General of the United States had willingly sought to do business with him.