Simon Sees (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 5)

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  He would have champagne tonight. Just a glass, though. He needed to be clear eyed when the sun came up. Tomorrow was a big day. The big day.

  Tomorrow, the savant, Simon Lynch, would finally be his.

  * * *

  Sheila Reese heard the knock at her door just before seven in the evening and looked out the peep hole to see a man holding a box of donuts.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked Michael Lane as she opened the door, her gaze dancing about the neighborhood beyond him.

  “No time to send donuts,” Lane said. “So here they are.”

  Sheila eyed the offering, the onetime signal, then took the box and set it on a table just inside the door.

  “I thought it was over,” she said. “Everything.”

  “Apparently not,” Lane told her. He drew a breath, one obviously fueled by nerves. Maybe even fear. “I need your help. I don’t have a dead space, just a plain laptop in my car connected to a cellular hot spot. That’s all I can offer you.”

  “What’s going on, Michael? You look—”

  “Scared shitless? I am.”

  Sheila studied him for a moment. Thinking. She could easily tell him to take a hike. She’d done her part, as had he. No one held anything over them.

  But no one ever had. They’d both signed on to do what was right, and there was no signpost to mark when that stopped mattering.

  “Give me a sec,” Sheila said. She grabbed her jacket from a tree just inside the door. She had no children. No husband. Just a job she loved and the freedom to continue doing what was right. “Let’s go.”

  They went to Lane’s car. She took the passenger seat and opened the laptop waiting for her as he began to drive.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The Wilstone Place Hotel,” Lane told her.

  “And what are we doing there?”

  He glanced at her as he drove. “We’re going to steal a nuke.”

  Forty Two

  It was late, and Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Los Angeles Field Office Francine Aguirre-Welsh had been tethered to a desk at the Bureau’s D.C. headquarters for the entire day fielding calls from street agents and state police agencies who were responding to requests for information on the search for their rogue agent.

  Emily LaGrange was the target. Literally, Frankie knew. The powers that be had pasted a big bullseye on her, all in an effort to get Simon Lynch out of her grip.

  And into whose?

  Frankie had no answer to that, but the entire affair had a building stench about it. The same powers that had decided Emily LaGrange had to be sacrificed had assigned her to the menial duty she now was engaged in. It was punishment, or the beginnings of some more official sanction, for allowing Emily access to the Bureau files on Jefferson. Files that had given her the impetus, it appeared, to take drastic action on her own. Actions Art might have taken himself if…

  If he was still alive.

  “Excuse me.”

  Frankie looked up to see an agent she didn’t recognize standing on the opposite side of her metal desk. He held something in his hand. A slip of paper that had been folded over once.

  “What is it?” Frankie asked, eyeing the obvious note the agent had been tasked with bringing her.

  “A call came in for you a few minutes ago,” the agent said, passing the note over. “It was routed to the task force operator for you but…it’s personal.”

  Personal?

  It wouldn’t be her husband. He’d simply reach out on her cell. Who else who would send a personal message even knew where she was?

  “Thank you,” Frankie said, and the agent left her. She turned the note over and read what had been written down.

  Ed Toronassi called. Will be at Curtains for twenty minutes if you get a break.

  Ed? Eddie Toronassi? He had been partnered with Art in Los Angeles before Frankie had. He’d taken a bullet to the neck back then and spent the rest of his career at the academy teaching.

  “Eddie,” she said softly.

  If she remembered correctly, he’d retired to Florida a few years back. So what was he doing in D.C., and how the hell would he know she was here?

  ‘Will be at Curtains for twenty minutes…’

  Frankie took out her phone and searched for Curtains, learning that it was a bar three blocks from the Bureau’s headquarters. She was on the thinnest ice, but there was enough curiosity about the odd communication that she decided that a break was in order. Immediately.

  * * *

  As she’d determined, the bar was three blocks away. Frankie only made it two when she heard her name called. It wasn’t Eddie’s voice.

  She turned and saw the man standing in a bus shelter, eyeing her.

  “Excuse me? Do I know you?”

  Ezekiel Sanders shook his head and smiled. “Neither does Ed Toronassi.”

  Frankie walked toward the stranger, realizing that, whoever he was, some ruse had been orchestrated to get her away from headquarters. Away from those who might watch. Who might listen.

  “Who are you?” she pressed the man.

  “It would be best if I don’t say,” he told her.

  “Best for who?”

  “Both of us,” he said.

  Frankie looked up and down the block. They weren’t alone. Who could be in a major city, especially one teeming with individuals enmeshed in the organs of state power? But no one was close, and no one was paying attention.

  “You know who I am, you know who Eddie is,” Frankie said. “What else do you know?”

  “I know that you’ll be one of a few who will take the fall for what’s happened,” Sanders told her with no glee.

  Frankie had already figured as much. But how did this man know about any of this?

  “You’ll be allowed to retire with a full pension,” Sanders told her.

  “I’m still short on years,” Frankie informed him. “You must not be familiar with government work.”

  Again, Sanders smiled. “Allowances will be made. No one will want a fuss made once all this is wrapped up.”

  “That’s what will happen?” Frankie challenged him. “This is just going to be ‘wrapped up’? Will that be with a bow, or something like that?”

  Sanders didn’t take the bait she’d cast his way. She needed to vent, and that he could allow her. For a moment.

  “Art Jefferson was targeted,” Sanders said. “So, you’re in good company.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When you return home, an envelope will be waiting for you,” Sanders said. “It will have arrived through regular mail. Enclosed will be a memory card. On that will be an audio file of a phone call between the Attorney General and the individual who carried out the Markham Tower attack. He will be promising that he can provide the location of Simon Lynch to this individual.”

  Frankie hesitated for just a moment, absorbing what she’d just been told. “Excuse me?”

  “The recording was made by a source with connections to both the Attorney General and Art Jefferson,” Sanders explained. “It wil—”

  “Hold on,” Frankie interrupted. “A source with what? How the hell do you know any of this? How do you know Art, or me, or—”

  “Frankie, stop.”

  His admonition was quiet. Almost soothing. Its calm forcefulness had the desired effect. She stopped, and listened.

  “It will be from Rothchild,” Sanders explained. “That will mean nothing to you, but it will to the authorities when you turn it over to Director Chase. It is imperative, however, that you say nothing about this until you return home and open your mail.”

  “Why?”

  “Because certain people have to die first.”

  There was no way to diminish the ominous gravity of his words. Nor could she deny the questions which were posed by what he’d said.

  “Who has to die?”

  “Rothchild does,” Sanders said. “As does Simon Lynch.”

  Frankie had the immedi
ate urge to draw her weapon and take the stranger to the ground. But he seemed to fear that not at all. Whatever certitude he felt toward his actions, and her possible response, it came from a place free of worry. As if all he’d stated had been cast in stone and was beyond alteration.

  “Simon Lynch,” Frankie said.

  “Yes,” Sanders confirmed.

  “He’s going to be killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who’s going to kill him,” Frankie asked.

  “I am,” Ezekiel Sanders told her. “Again.”

  * * *

  Room 608 in the Wilstone Place Hotel faced the gleaming D.C. skyline and was occupied by a couple that arrived later in the evening. They were not married and had no luggage. The desk clerk grinned at the man who was very obviously getting lucky that night with the cougar he’d bagged.

  “Okay,” Michael Lane said as he finished quickly reading the profile written on Damian Traeger by a British magazine less than a year ago. “He’s rich, powerful, ruthless in business.”

  “And a creature of habit,” Sheila said. She’d found the online article on their target just as they were pulling into the hotel’s circular drive. “He preaches consistency. Claims he instantly adjusts to new time zones. He wakes at the same time every day. Goes to bed at the same time. Showers at the same time.”

  “Fine,” Lane said. “He’s a pretentious OCD Limey.”

  “Who’s going to be in the shower in eight minutes,” Sheila said.

  What she’d discovered, and was suggesting, began to register as a window of opportunity. A brief one.

  “He takes four-minute showers,” Lane said, recalling that bit of detail from the magazine profile.

  “That’s enough time,” she said.

  “Right,” he agreed, though time and access were two entirely different things. “And I get in his room how?”

  Sheila set the laptop aside. She smiled and put a hand on Michael’s cheek as they sat on the edge of the hotel bed. “You’ve had a bit too much to drink tonight, dear.”

  “What?” he asked, puzzled.

  Sheila stood and went to the room phone, dialing housekeeping as she eyed the clock. It was six minutes to ten.

  “Yes, hi, this is room six-oh-eight, can you send up a couple extra towels quickly? My friend made the smoothest move and dropped both bath towels in the toilet.” Sheila winked at Michael. “Thank you.”

  She hung up and held out her hand. “Give me your room card.”

  He passed it over and watched Sheila bend it in half, almost snapping the plastic rectangle into two pieces.

  “Here,” she said, handing it back. “You’re up.”

  “I’m what?” Michael Lane asked, standing. “What the hell do I do?”

  Everyone’s brain worked in different ways, Sheila Reese knew. Hers tended to form ideas and plans of action quickly. The man who’d been her handler for years was slower on the uptake.

  “Think it through, Michael,” she said.

  He did, and a moment later he understood. Whether it would work depended on his ability to be convincing when the moment arrived. A fair amount of luck would play a part as well. There was also the not small possibility that just because something was printed in a British rag that didn’t make it gospel. In the end, though, there was only one way to find out.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m ready.”

  * * *

  There was no time to waste. No time to worry about being seen. It was after dark in rural West Virginia and a strange minivan was pulling into the parking lot behind the local church. People would notice—if they looked. That was the only positive possibility that Emily could think of as she put the vehicle in park and turned the engine off—that people would be asleep in the houses across the street, or in those adjacent to the church property. Regardless, she had to move quickly.

  “Simon, I’ll be right back,” she said.

  He looked up to her from where he lay and nodded. His eyes were barely slits now. How much of that was from pure tiredness, and how much was caused by the effects of the NB booster he had not yet received, she didn’t know. But this appeared more than some state brought on by lack of sleep.

  He’s dying…

  That thought popped into her head as she left the minivan and quickly crossed the parking lot toward the back of the church. She was in a race now, both to get him to a safe place, and to save his life. The latter depended upon help from another. Help from the man who’d sought her out and whom she now had no choice but to trust.

  That would come. First, she had to find what Kirby Gant had said would be waiting for her—a phone. Why Sanders had referenced the message she would be receiving she didn’t know, but it was certain she soon would.

  There’s an old shed…

  That’s what she’d been told. And just ahead she saw the small structure which butted up against the rear of the church. No streetlamps shined in the almost backwoods area, but a single light burned just above the back entrance to the house of worship, revealing a padlocked door on the shed. That was no obstacle, though, since what she’d come for was not inside.

  Next to the small outbuilding sat a simple metal trash can. Emily went to it and lifted the receptacle, shifting it to one side. A layer of bricks was arranged beneath to provide support for the can. She crouched down and examined the bricks, a trio at the edge of the base offset by an inch or so. They’d been moved.

  She pulled them up and scooped out handfuls of soil beneath until her fingers brushed flimsy plastic.

  A bag.

  She dug it out and found a smartphone sealed inside three bags against the elements. It had only been there a short while, but already mud had pooled where it was buried. Emily brushed the wet soil off and removed the device from the bags, casting those aside and leaving the can and bricks disturbed as she hurried back to the minivan.

  “I have it, Simon,” she said as she climbed in and started the engine.

  “Good,” he replied, his voice dry and thin. Like a whisper in the distance.

  “I’m going to get us to a safer spot and make the call,” Emily told him.

  She drove northeast on Interstate 79, leaving Elk Hills behind. Thirty minutes later she took an exit and pulled into a parking lot near an abandoned bus depot, killing the engine and the minivan’s lights so they wouldn’t be seen so easily from the highway.

  “Okay, let’s see where we’re going,” Emily said.

  * * *

  The ringing phone startled Kirby Gant. He’d just begin to doze off after spending the time since Sanders left staring out the front windows, half expecting some SWAT team to come pouring over the hills toward the house. He bolted up from the couch in the living room and hurried to the dining table where his phone lay next to the computer setup his visitor had left behind.

  “Hello…”

  “It’s me.”

  He recognized her voice. “Everything is good?”

  “He’s struggling,” Emily said. “You had a visitor. He said there’d be a message. First, tell me where I’m going.”

  “That’s part of the message,” Gant told her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sending you a picture,” Gant said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “He’ll know what to—” Emily stopped herself. “What’s going on?”

  Gant took the phone away from his ear and brought the photo up, attaching it to a text message before pressing SEND.

  “It’s on its way,” he said. “Just do what it says and…and I’ll see you.”

  * * *

  Silence followed the end of the call, but it was broken by a soft buzzing signaling a new message had been received. Emily opened it, a picture filling the small screen.

  What the hell…

  It was gibberish. Just a block of numbers and letters.

  1839947721PFLFGTE3668493216KLPFGBEPKW9865674005

  66829365403685943638)(5759376438505047638495058476


  63840473538305645859857659575940362273021854058740

  42083643849036354378302026436498362037463836538392

  76354763826328393643839293764547392032764639829942

  73937639800018373902092735456393203846498393746476

  62623836484945905056985474563838936026736430003263

  62534530326624222936363738881212121430578465489487

  72453637849849464784904764980622025200272532439850

  73535464747456465393023746404630640354395463840563

  89675937915777788842525263435079787978797907853243

  62432738654849463484904764662903764654945649352348

  17292364375498604024845654079059654976985673502016

  73879499432943964398649864949494941964941628394028

  83643840463437840458352653984504573452749457367439

  32638045735373038376438490457476498505674675950739

  78353903026254389450476365485490476476594647459437

  73984037354785904764845035555595639027850837695047

  98464846498690678403847590846498450947494904849849

  63438659690775529437659445223850565595393649363939

  31322056290639739346393528243334996797676343982363

  78365383432836538346438464846498352806097247507234

  26398404363740508325743904693047494379414652849584

  78363490365394363937639362920272574394723453749438

  38351274950670574653783403724527629364895946485946

  90221452089754300450576365484596369362920162539407

  78092304329687697643964398418419688807607640642306

  98743848754378478543067643986901260602106010606644

  87987587549875870554398404634543784940474354749393

  73638430474548404578465398393638494646749353294905

  HJUDKTENVODKLPPOEGFDMFOFGDKDKLNECBVVCJFDHDDFDFEYYQ

  Except…it wasn’t gibberish. Not to everyone.

  ‘Couldn’t look you in the eye, but he could crack a crypto system that took years to develop.’

  That’s what Lomax had said about Simon.

  ‘He’ll know what to do.’

  Kirby Gant’s instructions had sealed an understanding for her. An appreciation, even. This was code. The code Simon had broken. And she needed him to break it one more time.

  “Simon,” Emily said as she left the driver’s seat and crouched next to him. “I need you to look at this.”