Simple Simon (23 page)

“No listing, sir. I ran it up and down.”

“So, it was a mistake,” Lomax observed.

“I don’t think so,” Van Horn said.

“Why is that?”

“Because he got that number out of a page of KIWI ciphertext. From a magazine.”

From a what?
Pieces began to fly in Lomax’s head. Kimura. Vince Chappell. Betrayal by MAYFLY. And now KIWI. “Nels, from the top, tell me everything you know. Everything.”

*  *  *

Rothchild was at lunch, away from his office, when Kudrow stopped by and let himself in. The monitors glowed weak, and the darkness they could not defeat surrounded him like a shroud. At this moment he found comfort in the din.

He had come for that and to be reminded of his position.

Kudrow eased into Rothchild’s chair and felt the warmth it retained. He scanned the numerous controls associated with the systems, finding with little trouble the series of switches that Rothchild had once explained to him. The left switch first, and a picture window appeared on the large monitor before him, then the switch next to it, and an image flooded the window.

I can do this
, Kudrow told himself. Things could go wrong and still he could do this, could, with the flip of a switch, watch the President of the United States sit at his desk in the oval office and go about his business as if nobody was the wiser.
If you pick your nose, I have it on tape. If you call the Russian President, I have it. If you speak unkindly of a friend, I have it.

Art Jefferson might still elude him. Simon Lynch might still be out of his grasp. But not this.

I have this. And I will have them.

*  *  *

“So you decoded these two pages of KIWI for him,” Lomax said. “You don’t remember what they said?”

Van Horn shook his head. “Just the number when Art gave it to me Saturday. That stuck in my mind. And…”

“And what?” Lomax pressed. It was no time for reticence.

“Well, I remembered something from the Academy. A lecture I attended about a year ago, just before I took over Com. The guy giving this one talk went heavy on the anecdotes, and he was telling us how some of the people who develop codes put pieces of them in puzzles, and then put those puzzles in magazines, or textbooks even, with messages in them. It’s a test to see if anyone might see something they missed. He said that kind of thing has been going on since the sixties.”

“And…”

“Well, I remembered one thing from the pages of KIWI Art showed me. One was a photocopy, and down at the bottom was a page number, and, it looked like to me, the name of a magazine. Something called
The
Tinkery
.”

“And being the diligent agent that you are, you checked that out,” Lomax theorized.

“This morning. When I heard about the shootout I decided to do some checking. In case Art needed help.”

“Of course he needs help. So?”

“The page of KIWI ciphertext was placed as a puzzle over two years ago in this
Tinkery
thing. It’s one of those egghead magazines.”

If Lomax had been an egghead he might have been offended. As it was, he was far from offended. “Who placed it?”

“They have no record of it being placed,” Van Horn answered.

Okay, a phone number that didn’t exist, pulled from a puzzle that wasn’t placed, made up of the code now in use by every arm of the United States government. The day didn’t suck anymore, Lomax decided. It simply made no sense.

“Is any of this going to help?” Van Horn asked.

“Who the hell knows.” Lomax fiddled with the slip of paper Van Horn had given him. “Have you tried it?”

“No.”

Lomax picked up his phone. “What can it hurt to call a number that doesn’t exist?”

He pressed the eleven digits and, after a second, heard the first ring.

*  *  *

The buzz of the phone would never bring anything close to joy again, Pedanski thought as he waited through three rings. Just before the fourth, with the recorders and trace gear up and running, he picked up the receiver.

“Hi, you’ve reached the puzzle center,” he said, not even an attempt at enthusiasm punching his words.

“I’m calling about Art Jefferson,” the voice said before Pedanski could go on.

Oh, shit.

“Who is this and where are you?” the voice asked as though an answer were expected, part school teacher, part drill sergeant.

Pedanski froze.

“Hello…”

An indicator on the trace gear flashed, and Pedanski hung up. His breaths came in small eruptions, feeling like more air leaving than coming. A losing battle.

Telling himself that he wasn’t hyperventilating, that he was just scared, that he should breathe slower, Pedanski very precisely maneuvered his fingers over the keyboard hooked to the trace system and pulled up the information on the number that had just called them.

It said it belonged to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Sh-i-it.”

Chicago Field Office.

Pedanski managed a swallow between the rushes of air ebbing in and out of his lungs.

Office of the Special Agent in Charge.

“Oh, God…”
Deep, deep, slow breaths.
But telling wouldn’t do. Pedanski grabbed a bag that still held the remnants of day old donuts and dumped it onto the floor, then put it over his mouth and breathed in and out, doing so for more than a minute before the rise and fall of his chest edged toward normalcy.

Oh, man, this is out of control. Mr. Folger was right.

But for Folger to be right, it would mean that someone else had to be wrong. Dead wrong.

*  *  *

Art had made one stop at a discount electronic store before choosing a motel near O’Hare International, and once in the small second floor room with its two twin beds he plugged in the tape player and set it next to a chair by the window.

“Simon,” Art said, patting his lap. “Come here.”

“Daddy’s gonna sing.”

“Yes he is,” Art affirmed, and helped Simon into a comfortable position, cradled in his arms. The shades were partly open, and he could see downtown in the distance, the buildings dotted by lights that shaped them against the black sky.

“Daddy’s gonna sing,” Simon said expectantly as he nuzzled his head close under Art’s chin.

Art reached over and pressed the play button.

“
Wander boy, wander far, wander to the farthest star…
”

Simon’s thumb crept into his mouth. His eyes closed as the song continued.

The words, though, were lost on Art. His attention was elsewhere. On the events of the day before. And on what he was beginning to see in the near future.

At first he had thought Pritchard simply one piece of an attempt to wrest Simon from him at Pooks’ apartment, but that possibility he soon decided made little sense. Too much show was involved. The story, good and evil players, walking the man downstairs only to have him warn of someone in the apartment.

If anything the confluence was chance. That was what Art believed. It was what he had to believe.

“
Wander boy, wander far, dreams are what you’re made of…
”

And the woman who had nearly killed him, or who he’d nearly killed. Which, he didn’t know. He did recognize her, though, from supporting information in the Chappell file. Keiko Kimura. In the States, as Lomax had told him. Closer than that, he had learned first hand.

She wanted Simon.

So did someone else.

Or were they all one?

The tape droned on, to simple humming now, and Simon’s breathing took on the rhythm of sleep, slow and deep.

Art could not sleep yet. Staring out the window, eyes fixed on the speckled skyline, he thought of what Pritchard had said.
They’ll never stop looking.

Pritchard, discounted as an enemy, now only a cryptic unknown, albeit one Art was having less trouble believing than before Keiko Kimura nearly killed him and Simon. His fanciful declarations now seemed not just possible, but plausible, and the only part of that that troubled Art was that he wondered if it was the case that he wanted to believe so much that his better judgment was being ignored.

Or could it be as Pritchard said. Good existing with evil. It was a given in dogma. Why not in the institutions that governed everyday life?

Faith in man.
Art thought it an odd concept in this situation, different than faith in himself. Different, yes, but he believed. He had to.

He could not let Simon exist as a pawn his entire life, always running. Whatever his life was, it should not be that.

And as the night wore on, and the constant of Simon’s breathing soothed him, Art looked down upon the quiet, innocent face that lay against his chest, and he understood what was at stake, and he knew what he would do when the new day dawned.

Marked

Of all places, they met in a toy store, Pedanski arriving looking like death not even warmed over, and Folger with wonder plastered on his face as they strolled down the aisle where video game cartridges were conveniently placed at eye level for a nine year old.

“Don’t tell me,” Folger began. “You know this aisle well.”

Pedanski actually smiled. It did not feel right. “Vik’s pulling half of my shift.”

“Sounds good,” Folger said. “Listen, thanks for listening the other day. I know I shouldn’t have dumped all that—”

“This has to stop,” Pedanski said, cutting Folger off, a crack in his voice. He turned toward a row of game cartridges and took a box covered by colorful, action packed art in hand and tried to pretend that he was really interested in the drivel presented in small print.

Folger stopped mid-aisle and stepped up close behind Pedanski. “What happened?”

“Just another call,” Pedanski said. He replaced the box and took another. His eyes were puddled, and his hand pushed them up awkwardly and wiped the gathering tears before they could fall. “I didn’t plan on this when I came to Z, when I came to work for Mr. Kudrow.”

“None of us did,” Folger concurred.

A small furry creature on a jet powered tricycle zoomed over rocky terrain on the box Pedanski focused on now. “What you told me was happening to the FBI agent…”

“Jefferson,” Folger prompted while Pedanski sniffled.

“That shouldn’t happen.”

Folger’s eyes drifted to the far end of the aisle, past a young boy trying out a new game on a display set right at his level. Price was mentioned nowhere. It was not for him to consider. Others would worry about that. “A lot of things shouldn’t happen.”

“Well,” Pedanski began, thumbs tapping on hollow cardboard, “I’m done with it. I’m out. I’m leaving.”

“You can’t,” Folger said, looking back to Pedanski now. When he’d spilled his guts to the younger man in the Puzzle Center, confessed his and Kudrow’s sins freely, there was one he’d left out. “He won’t let you.”

“And how can he stop me?”

“He can kill you. Just like he did Dean.”

A shudder burned through Pedanski’s upper body, and he slowly turned toward Folger. “He what?”

“He killed him. He shot him because he said he was selling information to someone outside. Espionage.” Folger felt his right eyelid begin to shake and put a pair of fingers to it. “That can carry the death penalty, you know.”

It was a weak attempt at humor, not even gallows humor. Induced by nerves, by fear.

Craig?
Pedanski should have heard what Folger said and been rocked with disbelief. He was not. He could believe it. He could see Mr. Kudrow doing just that. And what frightened him more, about himself as much as any potential threat, was that he could have imagined Kudrow doing this even before the present situation developed. And he had respected him for that dedication to a cause.

Now he reviled him, and a little piece of the naïveté in his own makeup.

Leo Pedanski’s thumbs suddenly pressed hard on the game box, collapsing it upon itself, his fingers digging through from the opposite side, punching through the thin shell until he ripped it completely in half and let it fall to the floor. It felt good.

But not good enough.

“Fuck him,” Pedanski said in a voice that gained resonance deep in his chest. “I want to see him hurt.”

“I understand how you feel,” Folger said. He truly did. And the anger, beyond being healthy, as almost everyone who’d ever had difficulty expressing the emotion had been lectured, allowed focus on a target for the desired wrath that one could dream of. If only dream of.

But Folger sensed, saw in Pedanski’s profile, in the stony flex of the jaw muscles, in the glassy sheen over the one eye visible, in the unseen grinding of the teeth, that he was doing more than dreaming. He was visualizing what pain he could inflict on G. Nicholas Kudrow as if he really was going to do it.

Pedanski showed Folger his face in its full, furious glory, and said, “I want to hurt him. I want to ruin him.”

“How, Leo? He’s made himself clean. He always has. You and I, we’re civil servants who can make a lot of wild claims, but we have nothing concrete to back those up. Hell, I’m on the edge, drinking at work. For all I know he already may have psych reports on me that say just that.”

Pedanski thought, his mind working as it did when tricking algorithms to vex the most determined cryptanalyst, passing over what was useless to consider, looking not only at the likely path of the equation’s potential, but at the less likely, and the unlikely. And the simply nonexistent.

The back door.

If you can’t beat ‘em
, a drunk in a bar had told him once,
get someone else to beat ‘em for you.

“Rothchild,” Pedanski said, no revelrous joy in his voice, no satisfied glint in his eye.

Folger thought he understood and shook his head. “He won’t help us. He sold his soul to Kudrow long ago.”

“Maybe he’d sell it again,” Pedanski suggested, and through the machinations of Folger’s expression, his eye steadying even, he could see that this time he truly did understand. But that did not erase the doubt or alter reality.