“So you say.”
“If you’d like to do a thorough pat down, go ahead,” Sanders said, raising his arms a bit higher.
Emily knew that was a good idea, and completely warranted in a situation such as this. Except, this situation was not a typical law enforcement contact. This, as yet, was an unknown.
“You’re NSA,” Emily said.
“No,” Sanders replied, shaking his head as he let his hands lower. “I’m a friend.”
“Well, friend, do you have a name?”
“My name is Sanders. And you can put the gun and light away, Emily.”
“Maybe,” she said, keeping both right where they were. “But I’m not going to.”
Sanders knew he was going to have to set her at ease. Or at something which would approximate that. Possibly sharing that she was not a stranger to him might nudge the interaction in that direction.
“Your name is Emily LaGrange,” Sanders said, steam rising from a manhole cover behind him. “But for nearly three years you were Dana Perrin.”
Emily’s chin shifted ever so slightly upward with surprise
“You’re a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You recently traveled from Salt Lake City to Los Angeles to meet with the SAC there. Prior to that, she and a retired agent met with you in a cemetery outside of Chicago and gave you an assignment.”
Her weapon did lower somewhat now, though not fully off its potential target.
“You replaced Art Jefferson as liaison with the National Security Agency in the matter of Simon Lynch.”
Emily clicked the flashlight off and let Sanders meet her stare.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I told you,” Sanders said. “I’m a friend. To both you, and to Simon Lynch.”
“You know this because you’ve been shadowing me,” Emily said, taking a swing at a possible explanation for the man’s nearly intimate knowledge of her life as it had played out recently.
“Not in that way,” Sanders said. “But others have. You had company on your flight out of Minneapolis.”
Her stare narrowed down on Sanders. As if he’d just confirmed a suspicion she’d mostly discounted. One which had been roundly dismissed by those transporting her to meet Simon Lynch.
“It appears you already suspected that.”
“The fat man,” Emily said.
Sanders nodded.
“Who was he?”
“A nobody,” Sanders said. “A paycheck mercenary who serves a purpose for whoever is paying at the moment.”
“And who was paying him when he was tailing me?”
“Someone who wants Simon Lynch,” Sanders said. “Just like I do.”
Her weapon inched up ever so slightly at that statement. Sanders shook off her worry.
“Not for the same reasons,” Sanders said.
Emily considered the man for a moment. He’d made no threatening moves, and could have chosen to ambush her with violence, if that was his ultimate intent. Instead he was catching her off guard with words. With knowledge. And with stated desires. She was no longer worried about what he might do in her presence, and put her weapon back in its holster.
“He’s not safe,” Sanders said. “Once again, I imagine you already suspect that after your visit.”
“Look, you know things,” Emily said. “I don’t know how, but if you don’t start making this whole thing a lot clearer for me, I’m just going to arrest you and let the Bureau sort it out.”
“I don’t believe you’d do that,” Sanders said. “Because I doubt you trust your superiors any more than you trust me right now.”
He was right about that, she knew. Just as he’d been right about everything so far. She wondered how much more there was that he knew as gospel.
“So convince me why I should put any faith in you,” Emily challenged him.
“I’ve known Simon for twenty years,” Sanders said. “As much as one who’s never met him can.”
“That makes no sense.”
Sanders smiled to himself and ignored Emily’s verbal jab. It was because of him that Simon Lynch was where he was. He’d brought the boy to Pritchard’s attention as an extreme innocent, setting in motion all that followed, including his present state. And the danger he faced.
“My predecessor arranged for Agent Jefferson to turn Simon over to an entity that would ensure he had a good life,” Sanders explained. “A safe existence.”
“Safe?” Emily asked, her parroting purposely mocking. “A good life? You put him there and you think it’s good?”
“Not that place,” Sanders said. “They took him from what my predecessor had arranged.”
Emily studied Sanders for a moment, her stare narrowing down, judging the stranger. Lomax and Aguirre-Welsh had said as much at their cemetery get-together, that he’d been moved to a special facility that was admittedly an NSA operation.
“What agency do you work for?”
“None,” Sanders said. “We have no charter. No affiliation. No ideology other than what is right.”
Her doubt doubled on itself, visibly. Sanders flashed back to what Pritchard had told him on many occasions, recounting the simple dichotomy he used to break through the resistance of those vital to success of an operation.
“Agent LaGrange,” he began, paraphrasing his mentor’s words from memory, “do you believe there are forces within our government who carry out tasks for selfish, impure, even illegal motives?”
“I’ve met them,” Emily said. “So the answer is yes.”
“Are you so cynical, Agent LaGrange, that you cannot imagine the inverse?” Sanders asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Could not some people in positions of power or influence conspire for the greater good?” Sanders waited for her to respond or comment, but she didn’t. She simply stared at him, processing what he had said. “Our group is just such a collection of individuals. We intervene on behalf of extreme innocents when our actions will not jeopardize exposure of our group. Living to fight another day is our prime goal.”
“This is a fairy tale you’re spouting,” Emily said.
“And yet I know almost all there is to know about you,” Sanders said. “And Agent Jefferson. And Simon Lynch. Why would all this be of interest to me if I wasn’t telling the truth? Why would I be standing here with you, freezing in the night, if this was just some tale I made up?”
She didn’t have answers to the man’s questions. But she did have a question of her own.
“What is it you want from me?”
“I told you that, like others, I want Simon Lynch,” Sanders told her. “To give him true safety this time. Everlasting peace away from any and all who seek to use him, and harm him in the process.”
“You know everything,” Emily said. “Go get him.”
Sanders shook his head. “It’s not that simple. I don’t know where he is, and if I use the means at my disposal to attempt to locate him, it would almost certainly expose our group.”
“I’m no use to you,” Emily said. “I have no idea where he is.”
“I didn’t think so,” Sanders admitted. “But you can certainly provide some information on the facility.”
Emily half chuckled as the snow fell between them.
“Are you trying to recruit me to this group of white knights you’re part of?”
“No,” Sanders answered. “But you could help us locate him. Maybe not on your own, but with help.”
Suddenly it became clear to Emily precisely what the stranger was asking of her.
“You want me at risk of exposure so that you’re not. You sit behind the scenes and pull the strings and I’m left hanging in the wind.”
“Agent LaGrange…”
She stepped toward Sanders and put her face just inches from his. “I’ve been in that position before. No thanks.”
Emily turned and walked away.
“They’ll kill him,” Sanders said. “Our side will kill him.”
<
br /> She stopped and turned back toward Sanders.
“If the others seeking to take Simon make an attempt, the people responsible for him will not let him fall into the hands of any adversary.”
That statement struck a nerve, Sanders saw. Its weight fell hard on the woman who could be the key to saving Simon Lynch.
“Emily, I need your help.”
The night’s icy chill seemed suddenly deeper, Emily thought. She shivered within, from winter’s early visit, or in response to what Sanders had just told her.
He’s not lying…
That appraisal, as so many others had, came automatically. The part of her which had developed it as a survival instinct during her time as Dana Perrin had processed not only what the man had said, but also his demeanor. While the Emily LaGrange visible to Sanders, and to the outside world, displayed open doubt toward him, her inner self had softened that reaction.
“I don’t know what I can do for you,” she said, honesty, not resistance, fueling her response.
“You can locate him for me,” Sanders said. “For us.”
“I just said—”
“You might be interested to know that Agent Jefferson took a trip recently,” Sanders said, interrupting.
Emily studied the man. He was connected, she had no doubt. But whether the lay of the land was exactly as he stated, or whether that was some subterfuge to keep her from fully grasping who he was, and the entity he served, she didn’t know. If he was offering information, though, she had to at least consider it.
“I might.”
“Pittsburgh is a nice town,” Sanders said.
“I’ve never found that to be the case,” Emily countered.
It was Sanders now who moved. He walked toward Emily, stopping just short of where she stood. He’d offered her a morsel, one that might lead her to another, and another. Considering her tenacity, he could hope that, at the end of the trail, she would identify the location of Simon Lynch. It would require the help of others, but, as she’d suspected, he was unconcerned with widening the circle of knowledge, since she would be at the center. Not him.
Sanders reached into his shirt pocket and removed a card. A business card with nothing on it but seven digits. It was weathered and yellowed, and had been passed down by his mentor. He held it out so that Emile LaGrange could see it in a thin shaft of light sneaking into the alley from the streetlamp across the avenue.
“Call this number from a phone not connected to you, from any area code in the country. On the third ring press the number five.”
“Why would I call this number?”
“To tell me where Simon is,” Sanders answered. “I’m the only hope he has.”
It was a grand pronouncement, she thought. But the man seemed to fully believe it to be true. That didn’t make it so, though.
“Time isn’t on our side, Emily.”
Our…
He was thinking of her as allied with him. The truth was, she knew she had no real ally. Not in the Bureau, and not in this alley.
“Take it,” Sanders asked, inching the card closer to her.
Emily looked to the card, then back into his eyes.
“You can put that away,” she said. “My memory is good.”
Sanders slipped it back in his pocket and closed the halves of his blazer and overcoat.
“Enjoy Pittsburgh,” Sanders aid, then he walked past Emily and turned south where the alley met the sidewalk, gone from her view.
Pittsburgh…
Why would Art Jefferson go to Pittsburgh? He had no family there, she knew from devouring his file. No friends. No…
“Associates,” Emily said.
It was not entirely true that the man she was thinking of could be termed that. Not considering the history between Jefferson and him. But he was in Pittsburgh, and had been since his release from prison. That was a valid data point.
And he had it…
Emily jogged fast to the beginning of the alley, to where the sidewalk crossed it, looking quickly to the south. That was the direction Sanders had come from, and which he’d departed their meeting just a moment ago. But he was nowhere to be seen.
How does he know all this?
It was crazy, she thought, the explanation he’d offered. Some collection of do-gooders operating within the crushing bureaucracy of multiple government agencies. The idea bordered on lunacy.
But still, he had knowledge that he shouldn’t. That he couldn’t have. Unless…
“Leave it,” Emily told herself as the snow dusted her. “Leave it for another day.”
If it ever came to that, she could deal with Sanders. But it would be on her terms, not his.
She turned north and made her way back toward her building, leaving her coat open, pistol within easy reach. She wasn’t afraid of the man she’d just met, but there were others out there. Others whose presence Sanders, somehow, had confirmed. Like the pudgy man. And if someone was paying people like him to watch her, she wanted to be ready if observation ever moved toward action.
That same level of awareness would have to hold true not just where she was, but where she was going. She’d purchase an airline ticket online as soon as she reached her apartment, and, in the morning, would be on her way to western Pennsylvania. Taking Sanders’ cue might be a risk, but doing so didn’t have to serve only the stranger’s purpose. If the person she suspected was there to be found, spending some time with him might very well serve her purpose as well.
Eighteen
Andrew Wyland sat alone in his office near 10 a.m. London time, his laptop open, a video image playing on the screen. A single earbud was nestled in his right ear, connected wirelessly to the computer. He was watching, and listening, through a secure satellite connection as the helicopter approached the target.
“Twenty seconds,” the Blue Team Leader reported.
Blue Team. Red Team. Green Team. The collection of former soldiers and security contractors had coalesced into a highly structured unit, their skills honed to near perfection. Those skills might have brought Jefferson in to aid their effort, but that was not to be. This, though, was going to be.
Wyland had chosen the view from the Blue Team Leader’s helmet mounted camera to follow the operation. This was the entry team. The men who would breach the actual building where Simon Lynch was housed and extract him. The Red Team’s job, which would have been completed already, was to encircle the facility and neutralize any sentries standing watch outside. Green Team was the extraction element, ten minutes out, which would arrive to transport the Red Team members once their target was safely aboard the Blue Team helicopter.
That was the plan, Wyland thought, as he watched the grey and green hued images, night vision cutting the darkness in the American wasteland.
“Door open,” the Blue Team Leader announced.
A second later, Wyland was watching as the man thousands of miles away leaned out and scanned the desolate terrain racing up at the descending helicopter, the outlines of a building just resolving in the near distance.
“Target in sight.”
Wyland leaned forward, watching and listening to the continuing reports from the team leader as the helicopter landed and the entry team hustled out. They moved smoothly toward the building in twos and threes, focusing on the main entry point, barrels of their suppressed weapons sweeping left and right as they scanned for any remaining resistance.
“Breaching.”
The team stepped back against the front wall as a charge was placed on the door. Wyland heard a series of fast clicks and then a large BOOM accompanied by a flash and a pulse of smoke. Hardly a second later the entry team was moving, pushing through the door which had been blasted from its stout hinges.
“Inside.”
Wyland’s view was that of the main entry group. Others would split off to handle any resistance on the periphery within the building, but the team leader and two others were charged with getting to Simon Lynch and securing him. Alive.
<
br /> That was a real fear, Wyland knew. Would the Americans let their prize slip from their grasp, or would they act with cold self interest and ensure that if he was not in their service, he would be in no ones.
In the background, as they progressed through the facility, Wyland heard the muffled report of gunfire, bursts of suppressed shots being taken. Every single round that was fired had to be precise. Especially any in proximity to their target.
“Residence wing.”
It was the middle of the night. Chances were that Simon Lynch would be in a private room. They’d had no inside access to the facility to know the precise location of where he lay his head each night, but the best estimations, based upon the known layouts of similar iterations of the structure, had placed him at a ‘likely’ spot within the building.
More shots sounded. In the periphery of the image transmitted from the team leader’s helmet camera, Wyland saw a human shape topple following a quick flash of gunfire. Directly past that neutralized threat, a door stood in the way of progress.
“Interior breach.”
Wyland saw the team leader reach toward the door handle and place a charge directly next to the lock plate, adhesive holding the compact explosive device in place. He withdrew quickly with the other two in his element, ducking around a corner. Once more, a series of fast clicks preceded the blast, and, once more, the team leader moved quickly to exploit the breach.
They were through the door and moving down a hallway through a cloud of residual smoke. A door was closed on the left. This door, Wyland knew, they could not chance opening with a breaching charge. What lay on the opposite side was too precious.
Another member of the team stepped past the leader and into Wyland’s view, a short, heavy battering ram in hand, his stubby assault rifle slung. He swung the ram against the lock side of the door and the barrier snapped, swinging inward.
The team leader moved fast, the view filling with images of two people. One, a man, sat in a chair, and the other stood oddly rigid just behind him. Fast pulses of gunfire erupted, the muffled report echoing as the standing figure wobbled, then fell backward, rigid as a board.
“Stop!” the Blue Team Leader ordered.
Simon Sees Page 15
