Simple Simon

Chapter Eight The Fixmeister

Sixty feet below the Headquarters-Operations Building of the National Security Agency, in an office lost amidst a vast subterranean labyrinth, a man who did not exist sat before several computer terminals and schemed as the need arose. That was his job.

Those few who had access to him called him Rothchild.

He was a man of unimpressive features, slightly below average in height, slightly above in weight, and somewhere shy of forty in years. His thinning hair was a dark brown, and he favored gray slacks and button-up long sleeve shirts, but no tie. Ties were out. He had nightmares about being hanged from a creaking gallows while magpies stared at his swinging body. The thought of anything looped around his neck brought on cold sweats. Yes, ties were definitely out.

He had no driver’s license, no social security card, no recorded fingerprints, no information of any kind pertaining to him stored anywhere in any file cabinet or electronic databank. No pictures, no birth certificate, no medical or dental records. He was not married, had no children, subscribed to no magazines or newspapers, did not enter the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes. Once each month an envelope with 200 fifty dollar bills was delivered to his office. His ‘salary’. If he needed more, he knew how to get it. He lived in a modest apartment for which he paid the rent in money orders each month. Gas and electricity were paid for by the landlord.

He did have a phone, but not from traditional sources.

Rothchild had not ‘been’ anything traditional for seven years. Not since G. Nicholas Kudrow had had him killed.

Of course death, like existence, was little more than the manipulation of information. One could become dead at any time and continue breathing. It was simply a matter of ability, and, sometimes, resources. Death certificates could appear from laser printers and be affixed with official signatures that would never be questioned. Accident reports in the computer system of a large police department could be ‘corrected’. Rothchild, in his previous life, had once gone boating on the Chesapeake and never returned. Lost at sea, another inexperienced sailor swallowed by the waters. That was what the records said, and records didn’t lie.

And so Rothchild was now just Rothchild, either last name or first, employee of no agency, department, or entity. Rothchild existed as vapor, and performed as a tool, taken out when something needed fixing. And something again needed fixing.

There was no knock before the door opened. Kudrow entered quickly, with some haste Rothchild noted, and planted himself a few feet away, hands folded behind his back. The room was dim, the light of the displays washing it a pale blue and bringing a near black tint to the Deputy Director of COMSEC-Z’s glasses. Rothchild sipped from a can of Pepsi and swiveled his chair toward Kudrow.

“It’s Jefferson, isn’t it?” Rothchild asked with full confidence that he was right.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Kudrow said, his voice controlled to the point of flatness. Rothchild was the only man he feared.

Rothchild grinned and whipped his eyes briefly at one of the displays. “The President did her doggie style last night. Wanna see?”

Kudrow shook his head. The Secret Service might have looked politely away, but not Rothchild. That he could look at all was no mystery. Wires especially were not mysterious. If something, be it an innocent phone call or the most intimate of digitized video imagery, traveled over a wire, or as a radio signal between stations, anywhere on the planet, Rothchild could intercept it. Uncle Sam had made sure that he could without even knowing that he was. Only KIWI vexed Rothchild, a small favor Kudrow was grateful for.

“You know, her body came back real fine after that baby,” Rothchild commented, wanting Kudrow, the ever faithful husband and father, to just sneak a peek, just one peek, so that he might seem human. But the offer found no takers. Rothchild cocked his head with mild regret, set the Pepsi aside, and pointed himself back to his main display. “So, what do we need to do with Special Agent Art Jefferson?”

Kudrow stepped behind Rothchild as his fingers began to work the keyboard. Information, the basics at first, concerning Art Jefferson scrolled on the screen. “He needs to be separated from a young man.”

“Simon Lynch,” Rothchild said. “Autistic. You know, I met an autistic guy once in a class. The prof brought him in. He could play the piano, the sax, French horn, violin. You name it, he could play it. But he never finished a song. Just couldn’t do it. Vivaldi or ‘Mary had a little lamb.’ Couldn’t finish. Strangest damn thing. That and the way his tongue hung out of his mouth like some limp dog dick.”

“What can you do with Jefferson?” Kudrow asked, forcing away the mental image generated by Rothchild’s crass description.

“I only have the basics so far,” Rothchild explained, his eyes darting left and right over the data draining down the screen. “Phone numbers, medical history, bank balances, blah blah blah. I’ll need more to work something up.”

“When?”

Rothchild thought, squinting at the screen, the data reflected as bright raindrops on his glassy blue eyes. “I’ll let you know.”

“It needs to happen soon.”

Rothchild looked up at Kudrow, the big man, the powerful man, and smiled. “I’ll let you know.”

Kudrow turned away first, and swore he could feel Rothchild’s eyes on his back even when the door had closed behind and he was walking down the hall.