Simple Simon

Chapter Ten The Spark

Leo Pedanski had no sooner come into the Puzzle Center when Craig Dean was on his feet. The taller man’s hair, usually in a pony tail that at least made one wonder if he’d washed it recently, hung loose and dirty, strands and clumps going every which way. His eyes were open but glassy. He snatched his jacket from a cluttered table and pushed his lanky arms through the sleeves.

“Where’s Vik?” Dean asked, his voice hoarse. He coughed and spit into a used coffee cup.

Pedanski came no further into the room. He’d never seen Dean look this bad. “Man, you look absolutely toasted.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed through a yawn. He looked quickly around and tested three soda cans resting near the main console, choosing the one with the most heft and downing the remnants with a fast gulp. “So where’s Vik? He’s supposed to relieve me.”

“We switched,” Pedanski said, coming past Dean, his nose twitching. “Man, take a shower, Craig.”

Dean sneered at his illustrious leader. “Yeah, like fucking when do I have time for hygiene?”

“Ease up, man,” Pedanski reacted. He checked the activity log. “Anything?”

“What does the log say?” Dean asked sarcastically as he headed for the door, haste in his step.

“Where are you going?” Pedanski asked innocently.

“Fucking home, Leo,” Dean answered brusquely. “Where else would I go?”

Just one step into Art Jefferson’s office and Lomax knew that something was different about his number two. “You get lucky last night?”

“No, I got some sleep,” Art said. Lomax took a seat and swung his feet onto the visitor side of Art’s desk.

“How’s the Bell investigation coming?”

“Slow,” Art replied. He took a sip from his coffee mug and made a silent offer to Lomax.

“No thanks. Red tape trouble?”

Art set the mug down. “More like red armor.”

Lomax thought for a few seconds. “We could shake things up a little. Get the U.S. Attorney in on this.”

“Breem?” Art’s head shook. “Give me a little more time, Bob. I’ve got other approaches to try.”

“Have you talked to Simon yet?”

“About the night? No, not yet.” Art stood from his chair, stretched, and leaned against the window ledge. “I know I need to, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to give us anything of use.”

Lomax understood, and accepted Art’s estimation with a facial shrug made uneven by his scar. “Well, how would you like some interesting news on another front?” The SAC made a stabbing motion in the air.

“Kimura?”

Lomax nodded. “Seattle PD found a body all cut up. They ran it through NCIC. Kimura came up as a possible. Prints confirmed it. Exact matches to the ones found with Vince Chappell.”

“Here? In the states?”

“Go figure,” Lomax said as he stood. “Glad it’s not yours to figure out.”

“Glad indeed,” Art confirmed.

Rothchild, as usual, had his ducks in a row, Kudrow thought, but some fairly substantial ducks they were.

“There are some problems with your plan.”

Rothchild frowned doubtfully. “Where?”

“I can’t arrange a disappearance.”

“Ah, gun shy after Mike Bell’s graceful entry into the picture.” Rothchild paused. “Or exit, I should say.”

“My people can surveil, and when the time comes they can take. But no killing.”

A pouty smile came to Rothchild’s face. “Who said you had to arrange it?”

The power behind that statement became slowly apparent to Kudrow.

Rothchild leaned far back in his chair, content, pleased with himself. “Do you think Alexander Graham Bell had any idea what he was creating?”

Did your parents? Kudrow wondered alternately. “All right.”

“Good.”

“And the banks?”

Rothchild smirked. “Their security is vapor.”

“Jefferson’s files?” Kudrow pressed.

“Do you know who designed the FBI’s computer firewalls?” Rothchild pointed straight up. “This is a two hour project, Mr. Kudrow. You say ‘go’ and this time tomorrow Special Agent Jefferson’s world will start a tumblin’ down around him.”

He had come through, as expected, and Kudrow felt almost sorry for Art Jefferson. He was an innocent, but an innocent in the way of a higher purpose. A purpose Kudrow was going to achieve, no matter what.

“Go.”

In his office, with the small hand of his German-made wall clock sweeping toward the eight, G. Nicholas Kudrow picked up the last stack of briefs he had to peruse and initial before he could take leave of the Chocolate Box for the night. He scanned the cover summary of each, some from State, some from DoD, and some from CIA. Anything and everything remotely related to the work done by Z had to be looked at and judged unworthy of further concern by Kudrow.

The State briefs, relating to communications failures in Asia, he signed off on first.

The DoD’s, one report of a relay satellite in need of repairs, was dispatched with next.

Those from Langley he began, signing off each as he read, before the third in a stack of five made him stop and take a closer look.

Kimura? She was in the country, if the Seattle Police Department and NCIC were to be believed. But why? Why would her Japanese controllers risk sending her here? They already had MAYFLY, Kudrow knew. One dead CIA agent and a handful of other mishaps was proof enough of that. So why have her come to the States?

Her own initiative, Kudrow theorized. Her fetish for, as one analyst put it, ‘fatal sex Yankees’. No. No way. Her controllers would never have allowed it. She was an asset to them, a sick asset to be sure, but a master at getting information out of the unwilling.

Kudrow leaned forward, elbows on the desk, one hand scratching his head while the other held the report close. After a moment he looked off toward a wall of plaques and photos. You have MAYFLY. What could you want that you would send her…

And in that instant, in one flash that brought Kudrow slowly back in his chair, he knew. He had the answer, not only to the question he had been asking, but to one plaguing him now for some time. “You’re here for KIWI,” he said to the empty confines of his office, then smiled and added, “And how did you know it was available?”

He continued smiling as he lifted the phone.

“Section Chief Willis.”

“This is Kudrow. I need you to redirect some surveillance resources from our young friend.”

A pause as Willis shuffled some paper. “To where?”

Kudrow told him as he gladly signed off on the last of the CIA briefs.