Simon Sees

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he asked during one of the sessions he had with me,” Simon answered. “Not directly, but I could tell what he was thinking even with questions that only touched the periphery of the issue.”

  She’d been worried by what Simon had shared so far. Now, she was chilled by what she feared was still to come.

  “How much explosives are we talking about, Simon? I mean, how big would a device like this be?”

  “Using point one four one ounces of uranium two thirty-five, and two ounces of high grade shaped explosives, a blast equivalent to fifty tons of TNT can be achieved.”

  “Fifty tons?” Emily asked. Nuclear weapons were normally spoken of in terms of kilotons or megatons, referencing thousands or millions of tons of explosive power. But the much smaller amount was not inconsequential. From her academy days she recalled discussion of the Oklahoma City bombing. The Murrah Federal Building there had been nearly leveled by just under five thousand pounds of explosives. What Simon Lynch was speaking of was ten times that in terms of destructive power.

  “People have talked about a backpack nuke,” Simon said. “This is a cell phone nuke.”

  “What?”

  The question, a quiet expression of disbelief, slipped past Emily’s lips as a half gasp.

  “Yes,” Simon confirmed. “You could have a device like it in your pocket right now.”

  He quieted as traffic cruised by, speeding east and west across the heartland. A darkness settled upon him. The kind that came with the understanding of consequences.

  “And I gave it to Venn,” Simon said.

  “It was his theory,” Emily reminded him. “He already had it.”

  Simon shook his head. “He wasn’t sure about the angles. I confirmed those to him. His only other approach would have been trial and error.”

  “He made some damn huge error in Russia,” Emily said. “After you told him he was right, why would he do that?”

  “He’s a scientist,” Simon told her. “He had to prove it himself. He probably pushed an experiment past the point of gathering data to the point of actuality.”

  For the first time, beyond just some general desire to ‘possess’ Simon Lynch as a scientific asset, Emily was beginning to understand what this was all about. Someone didn’t just want Simon—they needed him.

  “Venn sold out to someone,” Emily said.

  Simon, too, had come to the same conclusions which his savior had. “He can’t give them what he promised anymore, so they’re going to get it from me.”

  Emily quieted, then looked to the man in the passenger seat. “That’s never going to happen, Simon. Never.”

  Beneath the blanket, she watched him begin to shiver. The heater had been on full blast for hours, and his clothes had mostly dried. Emily worried that the sudden dousing in the icy air had made him sick.

  “We’ll get you new clothes soon,” she told him. “In the morning.”

  Simon nodded and pulled the blanket tighter, curling up in the passenger seat. Emily pulled out of the parking space and accelerated out of the rest stop lot, entering the interstate heading east again across Missouri. Her schedule, their schedule, had been advanced by the attackers’ appearance at her farm. She’d thought the threat they posed had been left behind at The Ranch. She was wrong.

  They’re not going to stop, Em…

  No one was. Not where Simon Lynch was concerned. That terrified her, now more than ever. She’d begun this quixotic endeavor appreciating that there was some risk of failure. But now, with at least one very substantial success behind them, she was beginning to wonder if the ultimate success she’d imagined was truly possible. Could Simon Lynch ever be fully free of the forces that wanted him—or wanted him dead?

  Art Jefferson must have been confronted by the same questions as he crafted the escape plan which would bring Simon to freedom. But he hadn’t known how determined his adversaries would be. Emily did.

  ‘I’m the only hope he has…’

  What if Sanders was right? What if the nebulous entity he claimed to serve was the only hope Simon had for a better life? By his own admission his people had tried to do that very thing before—and had failed. But did that negate his desire to remedy the situation?

  You can’t trust him…

  She told herself that as she drove and Simon settled into a quivering sleep. For the moment it was true. But another moment might come when she would have to revisit that doubt. That was a possibility she could not reject outright, no matter how much it turned her stomach to do so.

  * * *

  Just after ten in the morning, Damian Traeger sat in a rental car procured for him by the private car service and took a cell phone from his pocket. He was parked in front of a convenience store, facing northeast, Baltimore some fifteen miles distant.

  He eyed the phone as he had several times before since his Russian bodyguards had procured it. Now, though, he let his thoughts drift back to the first time he’d seen it, in the very hands which had conceived what it held within. Stanislaw Venn had cradled it in his palm like some precious offspring, which Traeger thought was an appropriate simile for the device. The Russian had birthed it like his own child, nurturing the theories behind it from inception to the moment that Simon Lynch had confirmed their accuracy. The physical form which concealed it was ordinary, and the electronics within allowed the device’s usage as its appearance would suggest, as an ordinary smartphone. Only small portions of the inner workings had been sacrificed to allow space for the materials and mechanism which made it special. All this was shared by the physicist as he showed the prototype to his benefactor.

  He had shown something else, as well.

  Venn was a narcissist. As much as a balding Russian scientist with teeth to match his potato-heavy diet could be. His belief in his superiority was obvious from the first moment Traeger had met the man, long before he’d constructed the then unproven prototype. Then he had displayed a sort of educated arrogance, telling the potential money man of the asset that the Americans had at their disposal. Only later, through a combination of Venn’s face-to-face video conference and information provided by the source, American Bob, had a name been attached to the asset. But Simon Lynch, though he was integral to the maturation of Venn’s project, was never seen by that man to be above him in any way.

  “You tipped your hand,” Traeger said as he tapped the screen and opened the phone app, a keypad appearing.

  Venn had done the same thing in the den of his house south of Moscow. Four numbers, he’d said. That was all it would take to activate the device within the phone. Either entered directly, or after calling the phone and entering the digits once a voicemail prompt was heard.

  He’d even demonstrated, using the very phone which Traeger now held, pressing one number, then a second, then a third, stopping there as he smiled at his guest and the bodyguards who’d accompanied him. Entering the final number of the coded sequence would create a sizeable effect, Venn assured Traeger—once the theory was confirmed.

  His actions there were telling, Damian Traeger now knew. The prototype, though unproven, was built using the calculations which the savant had ultimately validated. It was viable. As was the code.

  “You thought much of yourself,” Traeger said, recalling the first three numbers that Venn had entered—8, 3, and 6. Looking at the virtual keypad on the device, with groups of letters assigned to each number, it did not take anything close to brilliance to determine what the final digit would be. “V-E-N and…”

  He would enter the full code, with the final 6 to complete the spelling of the physicist’s name, in a moment. First, he had to dial a number. A number which would connect to another phone. One identical to the one he held.

  That was one of the few surprises in this entire enterprise, Traeger thought. Venn had shown him one device, but he’d constructed two. That was a delightful bit of news his bodyguards had shared after paying a visit to the scientist’s widow,
the woman now sharing a space in the afterlife with her husband.

  Damian Traeger dialed the number and listened on speaker as the second phone some fifteen miles away rang. He could have used his ordinary phone to do what had to be done, but there seemed some specialness to doing so with the other half of the identical pair. After the fourth ring a beep sounded, indicating the voicemail system was active.

  “V,” he said as he entered the number 8. “E. N.”

  Traeger paused there, much as the Russian had when inadvertently giving his benefactor the keys to his kingdom. He smiled lightly and fixed his gaze to the northeast.

  “N,” he said, and pressed the final digit, a 6, and waited for show to begin.

  Thirty Five

  The Markham Tower in downtown Baltimore was a forty-story office building housing more than seven thousand workers and clients on a normal business day. At four minutes after ten on a late fall morning, a telephone left by Damian Traeger in a vacant eighth floor office he’d arranged to visit the previous day hummed after ringing four times and then exploded.

  The blast instantly vaporized the building and everything above street level five-hundred and eighty feet from the point of detonation. Fourteen thousand men, women, and children disappeared in a pulse of energy that spread destruction, and death, for nearly half a mile in every direction. Those structures which weren’t erased from existence in the immediate vicinity of the explosion were left shattered and smoldering. A thousand feet out not a window was left unbroken, and the blast wave, funneled up streets radiating from where the Markham Tower had stood, focused its destructive force on thousands of vehicles, tossing cars and buses and trucks into smoking piles that would block first responders for days to come. Further out, the injured streamed from offices and hotels and apartments, some burned horribly and others suffering from blast-induced crush injuries.

  The crack and roar of the detonation rolled across the landscape, and those who came outside and looked for the origin of the sound soon saw an ominous cloud rolling skyward from downtown Baltimore. Not as large as what many had seen from documentaries on nuclear explosions, it nonetheless signaled an event of unprecedented devastation. Communications links which had survived the attack were quickly overwhelmed by people attempting to reach loved ones and friends. Television and radio stations stumbled as vital electronic hubs in the vicinity were overloaded by electromagnetic energy, the circuits literally frying.

  For hours, chaos reigned as the government, the media, and the citizenry began to come to grips with the deadliest terror attack ever to take place, not only in the United States, but anywhere on the planet.

  From his vantage point a safe distance from the horror, Damian Traeger watched the mini mushroom cloud rise above the city. He did not smile, but he was not displeased in any way. His reaction was more in response to the realization that, in his hand, he held an object of incredible power. It was true what his late assistant had said about terror groups wanting such a thing. A suicide bomber could simply make a plane disappear from the sky over an ocean, leaving no trace. Harbors and ports could be obliterated. Economies would be brought to their knees.

  All those things were possible, as was the opposite—nothing happening because those who wished the power to remain unavailable would pay for that to be. That ‘new normal’ he would grant—for a price. Much would have to be worked out so that he was insulated from actions by governments eager to shut him down, but the horror he could bring to bear by releasing the genie from the bottle would be enough to ensure their compliance, he believed.

  Still, he had one example of the device remaining. Only he knew that, but, soon, if the threats he could make were going to be believed, he might very well need more to offer further ‘demonstrations’. For that, he would need Simon Lynch.

  He was ready to move on that front now. He’d placed his first marker on the table to show how serious he was—and how dangerous he could be. This singular action he’d just taken, though seen by many, was intended for just one man at the moment. A man he would be visiting very, very soon.

  Damian Traeger pocketed the cell phone and started the car. He pulled out of the convenience store parking lot, driving past increasing numbers of people gawking by the roadside at the horror spreading across the northern sky. The drive ahead of him was not long, and once he reached his destination he would have to wait.

  American Bob would not be home. Not yet. But he would be.

  Thirty Six

  It was just before eleven in the morning in Laconia, Indiana, when Emily LaGrange walked back to the motel from the general store and found Simon Lynch sitting on the edge of the room’s second bed with the shotgun on his lap.

  “Simon…”

  She closed the door of room 12 behind and set the bag of clothes she’d purchased for him on the floor. One of his hands lay atop the shotgun, gripping it, finger rubbing slowly along the edge of the trigger guard as he stared intently at the TV droning just a few feet away.

  “What’s wrong, Simon?”

  He looked to her without saying a word, then focused on the television again. Emily tracked his gaze and, for the first time, saw the devastation in the heart of Baltimore, a helicopter shot from a distance showing a silent scene more than reminiscent of September 11th.

  “I didn’t want to listen anymore,” Simon told her. “So I turned the volume down.”

  “What is it?”

  He looked to her, and within a few seconds his reply became unnecessary. Her eyes registered that she, too, had made the inevitable conclusion.

  “Jesus,” Emily said. She turned her attention fully to Simon now, her gaze shifting between his and the weapon he cradled.

  “There are thousands of people dead,” Simon said. “Because of me.”

  Emily shook her head. “You didn’t do that.”

  “Whoever did was only able to because of me,” he countered. “They said there’s no fear of fallout. There’s no radioactive contamination. That’s Venn’s device. The one I made possible.”

  “Simon, stop…”

  He locked his gaze with Emily’s and took the shotgun in hand, flipping it so that the stock was clamped between his knees, the muzzle pressed against his chin. The finger which had stayed along the trigger guard now slipped within, ready to make the weapon fire.

  “Put it down, Simon.”

  Her plea was calm. Inside she was anything but.

  “Why would you do this?”

  “Art died to protect me,” Simon said, a skim of tears laying a sheen upon his eyes. “But I was the one who should have died. If I die, this ends. All of it.”

  Emily shook her head.

  “It never ends, Simon,” she told him, and he seemed truly puzzled by her words. Emily lowered herself onto the threadbare couch near the old motel room’s door and regarded him with a look that was both knowing and apologetic. “You’re special, Simon, but you’re not the cause of this. The people who couldn’t let you live a normal life are.”

  “You’re shifting the blame,” Simon said, his finger trembling against the thin curve of steel which could end his life with a simple application of pressure. A pound, maybe. That was all it would take.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Emily said. “You think people like the ones who kept you at The Ranch stop when their star subject is gone? I can guarantee you that right now, this very second, there are people in our government trying to figure out how to replace the capabilities you brought to the table just in case they can’t get you back. Arrogance finds a way, Simon. Evil finds a way.”

  ‘Could not some people in positions of power or influence conspire for the greater good?’

  Sanders’ question struck here right then as she watched Simon consider his future. The ‘greater good’ he referenced was an abstract concept. What Emily saw before her was concrete. Simon Lynch had no faults. His soul was pure. His heart untainted. Yet he was acknowledging a guilt that was not his to rightly bear.

&nb
sp; Simon Lynch was the greater good in the flesh, Emily thought. Maybe Sanders was of a like mind. That would explain his reappearance in the man’s life after two decades. After hardly more than forty-eight hours with him, she understood what the pull was that would keep one interested. That would make one care.

  “The truth is, Simon, if you end your life, nothing changes. Choosing to live is the victory you deserve. Doing the right…”

  ‘Pull the trigger!’

  Emily let the momentary flash of memory pass. She swallowed hard and made herself focus on Simon.

  “Doing the right thing is never wrong,” Emily said, completing her thought.

  Simon absorbed her words. There was sincerity in them. Maybe even truth. Weighing that against the terrible scene on the television he sought some balance. Or something that would tip the scales toward the promise of living.

  In the end, nothing was a guarantee. Not in the abstract canvas of life. Existence was not an equation. Nor was culpability. It might feel like that, he knew, but then, for him, most feelings were a new thing. And he didn’t yet know how much he could trust them.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said.

  For a second, Emily’s heart sank, imagining failure, and the horror which she was about to be witness to. Then, though, Simon eased the shotgun away from his chin and set it on the bed next to him. He took the remote which also lay there and turned the television off.

  His choice to live, to go on, should have brought her relief. But it did not. Not in total. The moment she’d just shared with him, instead, had brought to the surface once again the terrible choice she had been forced to make. Her own instance where doing the right thing was her only option.

  And it had almost ruined her.

  “I’ve killed before,” Emily said. “Before The Ranch. I killed so I didn’t have to kill another.”

  Simon didn’t say anything. He just listened. It seemed to him that Emily needed someone to do just that. Maybe because no one had without also adding judgement to the exchange.