Simon Sees

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “I need number three,” the grey-haired man said.

  “Working on it,” the technician said.

  They’d never gotten the chance to track the other target using this method. He’d been too cautious. Too wary. Whoever he was, he must have known that he was being watched. That had made him take extreme precautions. Enough that they had never been able to dust him, and had never been able to zero in on which helicopter he’d been aboard.

  East or south. Those were the possibilities now. All they needed was a direction. Then the remainder of the tracking operation could commence. How that was supposed to play out, the technician had no clue. He didn’t even know who had been dusted, just that it was a woman. And he had no idea where she was supposedly traveling, nor why her destination mattered. In essence, he didn’t care.

  But someone did. Someone with money. With power. This was a paying gig for the technician, and for his boss in the right seat at the front of the plane. The pilot was a contractor who would keep his mouth shut. Silence was currency, in their world, whether they were working above the skies of Idaho, or pinpointing a cartel boss for elimination by a rival. This, he suspected, was not so different. At the end of whatever this was, the technician was sure that someone, maybe many someones, were going to end up dead.

  “Scrub east,” the technician said, the spike on his display now tagged to the only remaining direction that was viable—south.

  “Scrub east,” the grey-haired man said into the satellite phone. “Go south.”

  He turned the unit off and removed the battery. Before landing, as the aircraft flew over rugged terrain, he would toss the device, letting it shatter into a thousand pieces on the rocky landscape.

  “Wipe your data,” the grey-haired man said.

  Behind him, the technician was already performing the cleansing procedure, electronically scrubbing any retained data on their equipment. When they landed, it would be as if they’d just been testing for harmonic anomalies on a new engine. Their job was done.

  * * *

  Nearly five thousand miles from the skies above Idaho Falls, Andrew Wyland sat next to an operator in a windowless room in the bunker-like basement of a low-rise building on the outskirts of London.

  “Do you have it?” Wyland asked the woman. She was maybe thirty, and stared at the massive screen before her through glasses that were fashionably small. Her fingers danced across the keyboard below the screen, one hand occasionally reaching to an adjacent trackball, precisely dialing in the device. “Well?”

  “Give me a minute,” the controller said.

  Wyland could have upbraided her for the way she spoke to him. But he didn’t. He was no Damian Traeger. The will to dominate others did not exist in him. The most he could express was impatience with a hint of annoyance. Neither, he knew, was enough to bend another to his will.

  “This is fairly important,” Wyland said.

  The controller ignored him and focused on completing the task she’d been given, which wasn’t an everyday request. But working for a subsidiary of The Traeger Group had afforded her a comfortable lifestyle—for doing nothing more than playing along when certain ‘requests’ came across her desk.

  ‘Pardon, but we need one of the satellites in the tracking constellation to be redirected.’

  It really wasn’t a request she could refuse. The Traeger Group had, a year ago, purchased the satellite firm which employed her. That gave them personnel, some prime London real estate, and eighty satellites which were designed to guide and track aircraft so that they couldn’t just drop off radar and disappear, as several had in years past, to the consternation of family members, governments, and, mostly, insurance companies.

  “I’m not trying to be pushy…”

  The controller looked away from the screen momentarily and locked eyes with Wyland. He was her boss, it could be said. A personal representative of the owner of The Traeger Group. But he had no idea what she was being asked to do.

  “You do realize I’m trying to pinpoint a helicopter and not a jumbo jet, yes?”

  Wyland said nothing, and the controller returned to her task, which, to the surprise of them both, yielded a result as soon she looked back to the display.

  “Blimey,” the controller said as she used the trackball to click a box around the bright red streak tracing across the map.

  “You have it?” Wyland asked, as shocked as she was.

  She nodded. “Thank goodness it’s cold. We might never see that heat signature against the desert floor.”

  That was the technology in use, locating and mapping the heat signatures given off by large planes as they raced through the air, usually against the backdrop of a cold ocean, where it was easiest for one to be lost forever. What she’d been able to do here, though, was thought beyond the capabilities of the satellites and their associated ground systems. But in the secure room, reserved for tasks usually contracted by governments and intelligence agencies, the controller had been able to locate a UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter with nothing more than the information that it was flying south from Idaho Falls in the western United States.

  “You said desert?”

  “It’s crossed into the state of Utah,” the controller reported. “And it’s descending. The heat signature is moderating.”

  Utah…

  Wyland processed that information. Utah was definitely south of Idaho Falls, but the helicopter could have turned. It probably even should have. If it was flying a straight course to its destination, someone was getting sloppy. Or over confident. Either would do for him.

  “Can you track it all the way?”

  The controller nodded. “It’s hugging the terrain.”

  “You’re not going to lose it,” Wyland said, worried.

  “Relax,” the controller assured him. “He’s not getting away from me.”

  “Good,” Wyland said. “Once it’s down I want coordinates, and then I want you to forget that you did any of this.”

  The controller looked to him and allowed a smile. “Any of what?”

  Wyland nodded. She was being paid well, but her discretion was worth it. Money was often all it took to keep someone silent. If not, the threat of violence might become necessary.

  “Good,” Wyland said, then he watched with the controller as the heat signature she’d locked onto shifted to paler shades of red.

  “They’re slowing down. Descending more. They’re going to be landing soon.”

  Wyland smiled. It turned out, he didn’t need Jefferson after all. The man’s replacement had been quite accommodating and, with an assist from a little technical wizardry, was leading him right to the target.

  Hello, Simon Lynch…

  * * *

  They knew each other’s full names, but ignored that which was given at birth. To the other members of the group he was Lane. At the Department of Justice he was known as Michael Lane, Senior Investigator, Financial Crimes Division. He spent his days, and often his nights, writing briefs in legalese to justify charges and indictments against those who would seek to defraud others using the nation’s vast financial system.

  You’re a paper pusher…

  He’d thought of himself as that for some time. It was a necessary, if mundane, part of the legal process, but, the truth be told, he wanted out. Out of the box that was his office. He wanted to see a courtroom, argue before a judge, have a jury listen to him. That, he knew, and had known for some time, was unlikely to ever be the case. Being a litigator, one of the lawyerly types who climbed from the trenches and charged across the field toward an adversary, was not part of his future. His manner was not suited to such a thing. He was smart, but not quick. Turns of phrase were not his forte. He was a thinker.

  But as part of the group, he became a doer.

  The paymaster…

  That was his target. A name. A face and a reputation to put with a person. The world in which he conducted his investigations was populated by hundreds of enigmas who shuffled funds abou
t the globe. Sometimes they did so in hard currency, usually US dollars. But, if Sanders was correct, what his target was doing was making payments through the electronic banking system via so-called ghost accounts.

  The name was a misnomer, Lane knew. There was always a name associated with the account, even at institutions which prided themselves on protecting their customer’s information. Or at shadowy banking entities which skirted the law by allowing aliased owners. This was not the latter, Lane knew. From the information Sanders had given him, account numbers and institutions which he’d memorized, money was flowing through a pair of Spanish banks which were considered legitimate.

  Someone is fronting…

  That was Lane’s assessment. There would be a name associated with the Spanish transfers, but it would be a nobody. A cutout. Someone paid to stand in for the actual owner of the funds. They would make a tidy sum for doing nothing more than taking the fall should any legal issues arise. But even if they were put in jeopardy, with the threat of prison time hanging over them, they would not be able to talk their way toward leniency for one simple reason—they did not know the paymaster.

  All the front person was was insulation. A layer between a sham and reality. They were ignorant, but…

  “Not useless,” Lane said as he picked up the phone and dialed. It was a number from a case file on his computer screen. Details of an ongoing investigation involving drug profits laundered through a string of European businesses. Including several in Madrid.

  “Hello, my friend Michael.”

  The voice on the other end was bright and accented. It was early morning in the Spanish city where the Cuerpo Nacional de Policía was located, and Inspector Sergio Armendariz had likely been at his desk since dawn. The man was a beast, Lane knew, having worked, and, at times, tussled with him over the path of the investigation he’d been working on from the Justice Department.

  “I’m on your caller ID now, Sergio?”

  “So I can immediately put my English to use when you call. And you call often, my friend.”

  “I assure you I want this matter wrapped up as soon as possible,” Lane said.

  Eight months he’d been working behind the scenes on this investigation while FBI agents met with their CNP counterparts, colleagues of the man on the phone right now. Often there had been the feeling that the Americans were working without the full knowledge of their Spanish partners, and that dynamic had generated a good deal of friction. It was jurisdictional dick waving, Lane believed, but it had spilled over into his dealings with Sergio Armendariz, and he needed a decent relationship with the Spanish investigator to move his part of the case along.

  A case that would serve as his entrée to the information he needed to zero in on the paymaster.

  “Sergio, I need to trouble you for some banking information,” Lane said.

  The man across the Atlantic let out an audible sigh. “Michael, every case does not reach a successful conclusion.”

  “These are bad people, Sergio. I want to pursue every avenue to put them away.”

  “Even dead ends?”

  “If that’s where I have to go sometimes,” Lane told the man.

  He heard the clicking of keys. His Spanish friend was logging into his information system and pulling up the case he’d been assisting on.

  “I appreciate your help, Sergio.”

  “Of course. What is it you need?”

  Lane gave him the account numbers and institution information. “I need to rule a batch of funds out.”

  “And you came upon this information through…”

  It was a dance they’d done before, the give and take and, often, denial of information. And sources.

  “National technical means,” Lane said.

  “Ah. The eyes in the sky used by the snoops on the ground.”

  “Something like that,” Lane told the Spanish investigator.

  More keys were clicked. Seconds of silence passed.

  “You need a name?”

  “If you have it,” Lane said.

  “Maria Oliveras,” Sergio said. “But I doubt an eighty-year-old widow is your drug kingpin.”

  “Eighty?” Lane said, feigning disappointment.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “All right, Sergio,” Lane said. “You’ve made quick work of that for me.”

  “Your snoops do not discern,” Sergio said. “They gather. Like a fishing net which snares inedible fish.”

  “I’m sorry to waste your time, my friend,” Lane said.

  “If you come to Madrid we can waste it together at a bar.”

  Lane laughed. “I will buy the first round.”

  “Yes you will!”

  “Goodbye, Sergio.”

  “Adios, Michael.”

  The connection clicked off. Lane put the handset back in its cradle on his desk. He hadn’t written what down that he’d been told. That first and last name—Maria Oliveras. But with that, and her age, and the banking information, he knew he would be able to find what he needed that, hopefully, would lead him to the paymaster.

  First, though, he needed to buy a dozen doughnuts. All chocolate except for one.

  Eleven

  Cockiness…

  That label she’d given to the execution of the security protocols rattled through her thoughts again as weak light filtered through the hood. She could not make out any details of their course in the nearly blacked-out cabin of the helicopter, but she was reminded of one fact which had escaped her back at the hangar.

  They’re doing this in daylight…

  Darkness was always where one wanted to operate covertly. Even with technical means which could pierce the night, the limit of prying eyes was always preferable.

  Maybe, though, it wasn’t simply that those she’d come into contact with were being cocky. Perhaps, she thought, they had just settled into a place of laziness. Or…

  Or this Simon Lynch isn’t all that special after all…

  She had to entertain that possibility. That the man she was soon to meet was at the center of a ring of protection because of who he’d been, not who he presently was. His stature, his usefulness, might have waned over the years to the point that those who were tasked with ensuring his safety were now only going through the motions. If that was the case, this assignment was going to be more of a dead end than she’d anticipated.

  “Down in one,” one of the Blackhawk’s crewmembers said, his words audible through the headset that had been placed on her as she was belted into her rear facing seat.

  They were landing. Emily felt the helicopter slow abruptly, its nose, which was behind her, pitching sharply before settling toward level again. A trio of solid, soft thumps signaled that the aircraft’s landing gear had made contact with the ground. It was a smooth surface, she thought. Concrete, not rough earth. They’d reached a developed landing site, which meant, even if it was located somewhere remote, some effort had been made at improving it.

  Stop, Em…

  She had to remind herself to stop gathering data points. In the life she’d recently left, information such as what she was sensing would have been squirreled away as potentially vital intelligence for ongoing investigations or subsequent prosecutions. This was neither. It was something, but her role required no such diligence. She simply had to do what had been asked of her, check the proverbial boxes, and get on with her life as best she could.

  The door of the Blackhawk slid open and hands reached at her, removing the safety belt and the headset as the rotors spun slower, its engine powering down. They were going to wait for her.

  Em…

  It was a difficult habit to break. Emily forced herself to stop mentally gathering the minutia that surrounded her present situation. She focused instead upon the hands guiding her from the Blackhawk’s cabin. Both feet landed gently on concrete, solid grips on each of her biceps as she was led away from the helicopter.

  “We’ll have that hood off you in just a moment, Agent LaGrange,”
one of those guiding her said.

  Emily nodded beneath the thick, dark fabric. She was ready for the thing to be removed. Was ready to get on with what she’d come to do. And was eager to be done with what was increasingly seeming like a pointless endeavor.

  * * *

  “Outstanding,” Damian Traeger said, a thin smile aimed across his desk at the assistant who’d delivered to him what was needed to move forward on the most consequential endeavor.

  “Preparations are already underway to ready the teams to move,” Wyland reported.

  “They need to be sharp,” Traeger reminded the man. “There won’t be a second chance.”

  Wyland nodded. He’d thought this through a dozen times. And that was just since they’d pinpointed the location of their target six hours ago.

  “They’ll have several run throughs before they go,” Wyland told his employer.

  Traeger considered that, making a mental accounting of the costs associated with what was about to happen. Construction. Safe houses. Personnel. Aircraft. Bribery. Added together, the amount would be substantial.

  But more than worth it. With Simon Lynch under his control, he could reproduce what Venn had set out to craft. Reproduce again, and again, and again. Or not at all. The choice would not be his—it would belong to those who would face the terrible prospects of what the Russian physicist had turned from theory into actuality.

  All that, though, would come. An array of actions and results were required first. Damian Traeger could authorize that to begin right now.

  But he wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

  “This is your operation, Andrew, and the decision to execute it will be yours.”