Simon Sees (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 5)

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “Yet it does,” Sato said. “As do your actions. And actions which are yet to come.”

  Goldov considered the man for a moment. He was playing a part, but for who, and for what purposes he could not discern. That lack of station, though, had not hindered him from providing information on Venn’s previously unknown benefactor. Information which he had relayed to his superiors in Moscow. It was this his American friend was hinting at.

  The time for hinting, though, was at an end.

  “You told me about Mr. Traeger’s involvement already, Arthur.”

  Sato smiled. “It appears you do trust me, Mikhail.”

  “For now.”

  Sato turned east before he was forced to drive into the heart of D.C. “You spoke of assurances a moment ago, Mikhail.”

  “Yes?”

  “I would like some assurance from you,” Sato said.

  The Pekingese growled and Goldov tapped it on the nose again. “What can I assure you of, my friend?”

  The instructions had come from Sanders not an hour before, the call waking Arthur Sato from a dead sleep. He’d been left exhausted by his duties at the State Department, acting as intermediary with countries whose citizens remained missing after the Markham Tower attack. His activities in support of bringing Simon Lynch to safety had been no less taxing. He’d thought his work in that arena had been complete, but his present engagement with the Russian intelligence officer proved that assumption to be incorrect.

  “Should action be taken against those who assisted Venn, certain parties would find it advantageous if no trace of such treachery remained.”

  Goldov smiled as his dog barked. This time he let the animal carry on with its snarling display of bravado. “Certain parties?”

  “I have nothing more to offer, Mikhail,” Sato said, cutting off any request for some quid pro quo. The man, he could sense, wanted to know more about these parties just referenced, but nothing in that realm could, or would, be revealed. “If you have to, consider it a favor to me that this request be passed along to those who might have influence over such things.”

  Mikhail Goldov silenced his dog again and stared at Sato as the man drove him back in the direction of his house. What had he said when he’d called him to request a meeting some thirty minutes ago? He had information on the young Russian figure skater missing and presumed dead in Baltimore and preferred to discuss it in person. That was a ruse, Goldov recognized immediately. As would anyone listening in on their conversation, which was likely. To him that meant the man was taking chances, though not because he wanted to—because he had to. Why that was still mystified the Russian.

  “Arthur, you would either make a terrible spy, or a wonderful one. I cannot decide.”

  “I’m just a lowly civil servant, Mikhail. Like you.”

  Sato pulled up in front of the Russian’s house and stopped. “Where do we stand on the assurance I seek, Mikhail?”

  “I suspect it is an unnecessary request,” Goldov told him. “It is unwise to leave a mess. But I will pass along your wishes.”

  “Thank you, Mikhail,” Sato said.

  “I would shake your hand, Arthur, but I might lose mine if I do,” Goldov said, petting his wary dog. “Good night.”

  The Russian stepped from the car and placed his pet on the ground, leading it up the walkway toward the house. Sato pulled away, driving through the dark. It would be morning in just a few hours. Things would begin happening then. The State Department diplomat did not know exactly what the sequence of events would be, but there was no turning back, he knew. They’d committed to saving Simon Lynch. People had already died in pursuit of that goal, and more would soon join them.

  As long as those who fell were deserving of their end, Arthur Sato had no problem with a body count. He’d gladly pull the trigger if it was his place to do so. In essence, though, he already had.

  “You have blood on your hands, Arthur,” he told himself. It was a sobering admission, but as he gave it voice, the man smiled.

  * * *

  The whispers began days ago when she’d returned to work from her off site assignment.

  She was fired… Got caught in an affair… Couldn’t handle the stress…

  No one had spoken the accusations to her face, both because none dared, but also because the nature of her former assignment had been widely suspected to be classified. Enough of RG Neurogenics’ work involved some level of government connection that such a restriction on the discussion of employee assignments was expected. Here, it both shielded Leah Poole from the direct contact with the caustic gossip, and it fed the same.

  But she cared not one bit. Not a single fiber of her being gave a damn about what anyone thought, or what they said beyond earshot. All that mattered to her right then was providing what the stranger had reached out to her for.

  Except, she wasn’t going to give him what he wanted.

  She’d arrived at work early, three hours before what would be the expected start of the workday, and passed through two interior security checkpoints, each secured by a combination of coded entries on a keypad and retina scans. Some power above in the company thought enough of her that she was still trusted, and she was going to push that trust beyond its limits with no regret.

  The NB compounds were stored in a chilled vault separate from any other product the company was working on. Cameras watched every move, but she was a known entity, and one of the very few staffers authorized to handle the precious commodity. After entering the proper code for the vault door, she prepared herself to move quickly, recalling the precise events which would occur once the heavy door was opened.

  There’s going to be a burst of condensation…

  That’s what she remembered, and that’s what she was counting on. The differential in both pressure and humidity would cause just such a reaction, as it had every time she’d entered the vault. It would only last ten seconds. Maybe fifteen. Then the air exchanger would kick in and equalize the atmosphere in the secure room, dissipating the fog which had developed and leaving the view open for any security officer who would be watching. The truth was, she doubted that anyone would care. She was just a scientist checking inventory.

  But she had to prepare for any risk.

  The vault door opened and Leah Poole stepped in, closing the door behind as the cold mist swirled. She moved quickly through it, to a cabinet in the corner. It was not locked. No security this far into the project area was necessary. She opened it, one eye catching a glimpse of the red light below the security camera resolving through the thinning condensation. As the space around her cleared, she reached into the cabinet with both hands and took what she needed.

  Two minutes later, after securing the cabinet and leaving the vault, she walked down the corridor, making her way back toward her office. Before she could reach that place of relative safety, she was stopped.

  “Leah…”

  RG Neurogenics’ Director of Biologic Security stood before her, smiling. He was a doctor, and wore a white lab coat, the same as her, giving the impression that the encounter was just an exchange between friends.

  It wasn’t.

  “Yes?”

  The director nodded toward her right hand, a small plastic sample tray held in it. And within that receptacle five small vials lay, each circled by a bright yellow sticker.

  “Access to NB has been curtailed,” the director told her.

  “On whose orders?”

  The director’s smile faded quickly. “That’s not a question you should even need to ask.”

  The government. The NSA. Warren. It could have been any of them. What was clear, though, was that she was not going to be allowed to take the samples of NB compound to her office.

  “I’ll take those, Leah,” the director said, holding out his hand.

  She hesitated, then handed the sample tray over. The director flashed a half smile and walked past her, making his way back to the vault.

  Her time was just about up, Leah k
new as she continued on to her office. If she wasn’t going to be fired outright, her superiors would simply make her ability to work impossible. She’d soon come to hate the place she once loved, the career she cherished.

  That didn’t matter, though. Only one thing did. As she entered her office and leaned against the door that closed behind her, she reached into the pocket of her lab coat and retrieved two vials, each bearing a bright yellow stripe.

  “To hell with them,” she said. “To hell with all of them.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes after stealing the two small vials, whose value could realistically be calculated at over a billion dollars each, Leah Poole pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and stepped from her car. The man who’d knocked on her door the previous night as she was about to head to bed stood waiting for her, just outside the entrance, a cup of coffee steaming in hand.

  “Mr. Porter,” Leah said. That’s how he’d introduced himself. No more information that that about who he was.

  But he had shared a story. About someone she’d cared for. Someone her career had been ruined over. Someone who needed her help. Desperately.

  “I wrote instructions,” Leah said, retrieving a small padded envelope from inside her coat and handing it to Porter. “Everything needed is inside.”

  “Did you have any trouble?” Porter asked.

  Leah smiled and shook her head. He knew it was a lie. She was going to be collateral damage, one among many in the entire affair. But she’d made her choice to help. They all had.

  “Thank you, Ms. Poole,” Porter said.

  He tucked the padded envelope inside his own coat and returned to his car. He had to get to the airport without delay. A plane was waiting there, but it wasn’t for him.

  Forty Four

  She was bleary-eyed as she turned onto the gravel driveway off Preacher Hill Road and followed it through the trees to the house that marked the end of their journey. So she believed.

  Kirby Gant came out the front entrance, screen door slapping shut behind, hurrying toward the van. Emily waved him toward the passenger side. A few seconds later she was out of the driver’s seat and Gant had the sliding side door open.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Some kind of withdrawal from the drug protocol,” Emily said.

  Gant helped Emily lift Simon from the car, each supporting one side as they walked him toward the house.

  “Wait,” Emily said.

  She withdrew, leaving Gant to fully support the nearly unconscious man as she ran back to the minivan and opened the passenger door, retrieving the device from the cup holder.

  “Is that…”

  Gant didn’t need to finish his question as Emily rejoined him, one arm assisting Simon again, her free hand holding the innocuous-looking cell phone.

  “It is.”

  They maneuvered Simon into the house and eased him down onto the couch. His eyes opened a bit more than half way and fixed on Gant.

  “Hi there,” the old hacker said.

  “Hi,” Simon replied, his voice clear but weak. “Kirby Gant, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You knew Art,” Simon said.

  Gant nodded, that shared connection between them bittersweet. “I did. He thought about you all the time.”

  Simon smiled. His gaze narrowed, lids almost closing where he lay on the couch.

  “Kirby,” Emily said, nodding toward the kitchen. He followed her there and watched her put the device on the counter. “Why did Sanders want me to bring this?”

  He told her. She didn’t say a word in those few minutes, and didn’t even when he’d finished.

  “He says it will work,” Gant told her.

  “Right,” Emily said. “And if it doesn’t he’s not here to suffer the consequences.”

  Gant considered that for a moment. “I trust him.”

  “I do, too, Kirby,” Emily said. “But that’s because I have to, not because I want to.”

  She looked back across the space to where Simon lay on the couch. They’d left the blankets covering him in the minivan.

  “Is there a comforter or something we can put over him?” she asked.

  “In the bedrooms,” Gant said. “Down the hall on the left.”

  Emily started that way, then stopped and looked back to him. “Make the call, Kirby. We can’t get him help while we’re sitting here.”

  Gant nodded and took his phone out. This wouldn’t be the last call he would place with it, but it was akin to pulling a trigger. The next time he used it, it would be little different than pulling the pin on a grenade. A big grenade.

  * * *

  Damian Traeger stood at the window of his hotel and watched the morning light hue the Potomac a brilliant gold. He’d just completed two calls. The first, from Angelo Breem, had relayed the location where Simon Lynch had just arrived. The second Traeger had placed, informing his people of that very location. According to the team leader they would be ready to make their move by mid-afternoon.

  In seven or eight hours, his quest would be complete. He’d have the savant. Simon Lynch would belong to him, as much as one person could belong to another. It was not slavery, per se. It was simply the way of the world. The way of his world, Traeger corrected himself.

  What I want, I make happen…

  If any mantra could be his, it would be that.

  He had to leave soon to be in position to receive his prize, but first he had to arrange for safe passage from the country which had, itself, forced the savant into servitude.

  “I’m listening,” the pilot answered, no necessity to even wonder who was calling.

  “You’re in position?” Traeger asked.

  “Buffalo Niagara International,” the pilot informed him. “Jett Aurora Aviation. Private terminal, North Airport Drive. No Customs or TSA.”

  Traeger wondered how much that bit of magic had cost, though the amount didn’t concern him. Leaving the United States with Simon Lynch and a working example of Venn’s device was all that mattered in the near term.

  “I’ll notify you when we are inbound,” Traeger said.

  He packed quickly, slipping the device into his coat pocket. In ten minutes he was on the road, cruising north out of D.C. He felt a pang of impatience but forced it down. He’d waited this long to acquire the savant. By the end of the day he’d have Simon Lynch, and would be jetting east across the Atlantic. Months ago he’d prepared a property north of London to receive the priceless man, and the mind within. There, as had been done by the Americans, he would be put to use. Exploited, to use a more appropriate term.

  That would all come. The first domino had fallen long ago. The rest were now toppling with increasing speed. Success was within sight. He had conquered yet again.

  “Life is grand,” Damian Traeger told himself as he drove. “Bloody grand.”

  Forty Five

  Emily stood at the side of the front window, peering out past the edge of the curtains. Her shirt was pulled up over the grip of her pistol, easing access to it. A quick reach behind and she could have it in hand.

  “Only a couple hours of light left,” Gant said. He sat next to Simon on the couch, watching the man’s breathing move the blankets covering him, the motion seeming to slow with every passing hour.

  “I know,” Emily said.

  Darkness would not be their friend. Night would allow any attackers who would certainly come to do so virtually unseen.

  “I still don’t understand why we don’t just get out of here now,” Gant said.

  Emily was ready to reply. She never got the chance.

  “Bait isn’t bait unless it’s noticed,” Simon said.

  Gant and Emily both looked to him and smiled.

  “Bait makes itself known,” he added.

  “Correct,” Emily said. “I’m glad you’re still with us.”

  “Yeah,” Gant agreed. Mostly. “But things don’t usually turn out well for bait. The big fish eats
the fat old wiggly worm.”

  Simon pushed himself up, attempting to sit. Gant helped him, keeping the blankets pulled tight.

  “Emily…”

  “What, Simon?”

  “I know what we have to do,” he said. “I don’t think I can make it.”

  “Yes you can,” she said. “And if you can’t, we’ll make Kirby do some manual labor for the first time in his life and carry you.”

  Gant shook his head and laughed softly. “Try lifting an eight-bay ninety terabyte server rack, pre two thousand and ten size. Not the slim crap that you can find today.”

  “What a rough life you’ve had, Kirby,” Emily said. She shifted her attention back out the window.

  Immediately, she saw movement.

  “Get ready,” she said, the seriousness of her voice like a claxon sounding. Gant hesitated now that the moment had come. “Kirby, get ready!”

  Emily reached behind and took her pistol in hand, fixing her eye on the spot where the slight shift behind a bush on the slope had been seen. There was a definite shape there. And a few yards to the left of it was another. And another.

  ‘Pull the—’

  Shut the fuck up!

  Emily quashed the caustic memory. No more would she allow it quarter in her thoughts. She was done with Louis Hayward. Done with guilt. Done with caring what anyone thought. She’d done the right thing.

  And she was going to do it again.

  She moved to the door as Kirby helped Simon to his feet, the blankets that had warmed him shedding like old skin. Emily grabbed the door knob and opened it quickly, just a foot, leaving the screen door closed as she raised her weapon and squeezed off three shots in the direction of the figures she’d seen on the hill.

  * * *

  “Fire from the house.”

  That was the report that the team leader heard from his observation element. He was a hundred yards back, moving with the entry element, and heard the shots plainly. No one would bat an eye at the sound in the area. Enough tin cans and old melons were blasted from fenceposts on a daily basis that a few rounds mattered not at all. If they’d even been noticed. The bowl of hills which encircled the house would contain all but the loudest report. His team’s suppressed weaponry would hardly register a dozen yards away.