Simon Says: Case of the Deadly Diamond Dupe

Simon Says: Case of the Deadly Diamond Dupe


By


P.J. Lawton



Simon says - - The one who makes no mistakes does none
of the work - - well, not much anyway.



I was grabbed up just as I was leaving my favorite
watering hole. They threw me in an unmarked windowless van
and in about 15 minutes had me situated in an old abandoned
warehouse down by the docks. Initially they didn't rough me
up just forced me to sit in a hard wooden kitchen chair
under a bright spotlight. There wasn't anything
particularly remarkable about the ones that snatched me,
just big guys in suits and topcoats. After about 10 minutes
a third guy came in and walked to the old desk situated a
few feet in front of me.


"Say pal," I said, "you want to tell me what's going
on here?"


"Shut your mouth!"


Leaning forward I replied, "No need to get nasty
buster, I just. . ."


Two sets of big meaty hands grabbed me and slammed me
back into the chair. Now, that really began to tick me off.
My name is Winston Simon and I'm a private detective. I was
already mad because I was picked up as easily as some two-
bit hustler. And anyway, I'm the one that usually handed
out the rough stuff.


"Now look you. . ."


"I told you to shut your mouth. Don't speak until
you're told to do so."


Steam was coming out of my ears by then. I watched him
take my Russian Varjag semi-automatic pistol out of his
briefcase. They had pulled it out of my shoulder rig when
they grabbed me. The Russian MR-445 Varjag Heavy Pistol was
chambered for .40 caliber S&;amp;W cartridges. The SPETSNAZ
Special Forces had developed the MR-445 for their use.
Unlike most of the other .40 caliber handguns with their
ten round magazines, my Varjag carried fifteen rounds. Five
extra rounds without having to change magazines could
sometimes make a big difference. That's one of the reasons
I was so fond of it.


"We know all about you Simon, with your big Russian
handgun and your smart mouth. Believe me, we're not
impressed."


I was beginning to take a major dislike for Mister
Bigshot over there. I sat there and gave him my dirtiest
look and no, he didn't appear to be too impressed.


"If you know what's good for you you'll tell us
everything you know about Isaac Wallman, or Walinsky
whichever way you know him.


The silence stretched for a few seconds, finally I
said.
"Oh, you were waiting for me to talk? Well pal, I have nothing
to say."


One of the goons behind me slapped me on the back of
the head snapping my head forward. Oh we want to play do
we, I thought? Now, I was really pissed. Sensing my
hesitation, Mister Bigshot motioned for one of the
goons.


"Go get the file on Sam Spade here. After he sees what
we have it might just open his smart mouth."


The one that hadn't hit me went out the door. I
figured it was time to make my play. Pretending a cough I
brought my hand to my lips. I felt the head slapping fool
loosen his grip a little. Standing to my left and a little
behind put him in the perfect spot. Swinging with all the
force I could muster, I elbowed him in the groin. He made
a sound somewhere between a grunt and a howl as he quickly
dropped to the floor in a fetal position. Mister Bigshot
stood there in shock with my Varjag halfway pointed in my
direction. That stupid move almost got him killed!


I reached behind to the small of my back and with
practiced ease brought out my hideout gun a Walther
P22 .22 caliber semi-automatic pistol. On the back strap of
my shoulder rig I had cut and placed a small leather
holster to hold the P-22. It would hang handgrip down and
barrel up far enough down my back so that a normal search
around the neck would miss it. It was also high enough that
a belt search wouldn't find it either. In less than a
second it was lined up with Mister Bigshot's right eye. He
quickly realized that with a gentle squeeze of my finger he
was a dead man. Raising his hands he yelled, "Wait, wait
Simon, we're the good guys."


"Look Simon," he breathlessly continued, "I'm agent
Smith with the Bureau of Homeland Security. We just want to
ask you a few questions."


With a grunt snort of disgust I said, "So, you're a BS
agent! Pretty appropriate I think. Do I look like some
type of terrorist? That's what you guys do right look for
terrorist? Well, I hate to break the news to you, but I'm
not one. I think I'll go home now, if you want to talk come
by my office tomorrow. I'm sure you know where it is."


With that I grabbed my Varjag from his clammy hands
and hustled out the side door that I had earlier seen. Just
as I thought, they figured I was a pushover and didn't
bother to guard the other exits. Typical Feds!


I was able to grab cab after a short jog-walk of about
three blocks. It was more of a walk than jog because my
right knee was made of plastic, a gift from one of Saddam
Hussein's misdirected Scud Missiles. Not only had the near
miss taken out my knee it also effectively ended my police
career. So, I had taken my meager savings and along with my
tiny Veterans Administration pension and purchased a
failing detective agency. That had been almost eight years
ago. Some days it seemed longer.


***


The next morning I was in my office with a cup of
coffee and the morning paper when the BS boys walked in. As
they came forward I casually reached under my desk and
gripped the butt of my Smith Wesson .38/357 revolver where
I had it attached with Velcro. It was a big powerful
handgun and had been my first weapon after leaving the
police academy.


I'll give Agent Smith his due; he knew exactly what I
was doing and quickly lifted his hand.


"Easy Simon, we just want to talk." Turning to the
other agent he pointed and said, "Wait outside and don't
let anyone come in unless I say so."


I could have told him he was wasting his time; I
hadn't had a visitor in more than a month. Instead, I just
sat and stared. I noticed him casing my office; he wasn't
impressed.


"Okay Simon, I'll lay it out for you. You do know
Isaac Wallman, right?"


I nodded my assent and said, "Yeah, I know Isaac, he's
a friend." I figured I could give him that much.


"Well, he's dead."


"What do mean dead, I just talked to him two days ago?
We're going to a game this weekend." I had known Isaac
Wallman for several years since I had worked a case for his
company, The Proctor Diamond Exchange. Silas was a courier
and I had ridden shotgun for him on a particularly large
diamond shipment. He was a good guy and we had become good
friends. I would miss him a lot.


"Yes we know when you last talked to him. Last night
about two hours before our little get together he was
killed in an automobile accident. What you probably didn't
know was that he was one of our agents."


He was right; I hadn't known that.


"Actually his name was Isaac Walinsky." He pronounced
it like E-sock. I had always heard him called I-zek. "He
and his wife were Polish Jews that immigrated here 15 years
ago. I guess he changed his name to better fit in."


I hadn't known that either. I guess there was a lot I
hadn't known about my late friend.


"We have been tracking a terrorist cell for several
months; he was helping us with it. Now that's where you
come in," he said as he tossed a small leather bag with a
drawstring top onto my desk.


I had seen that type bag before. I casually open the
top and poured the contents into my hand. Out poured
diamonds, hundreds of diamonds. I sat stunned for a few
seconds then I realized something. They weren't real! Oh
they looked real enough but I knew the Fed sitting over
there wouldn't have been so casual it they were real. They
must be glass or cubic zirconium. Carefully pouring them
back into the bag, I looked expectantly at Smith.


"Okay." I said, "Tell me what this is all
about."


***


For the next half hour he laid out what had previously
gone down. It had been a simple plan. First of all, the
BHS, Bureau of Homeland Security, had learned that the
Russian Mafia had some chemical weapons and were offering
them to a certain terrorist group for five million bucks.
The only stumbling block for the terrorist was that the
Russians wanted the five million in diamonds. Of course the
terrorist didn't have any diamonds. That's where BHS and
Isaac Wallman came in.


Word was put out to the street where the terrorist
networks were sure to hear that Isaac was on the take and
for the right money diamonds could be had. Isaac had been
contacted and the plan was put into motion. For one million
cash, he would provide five million in diamonds. Feigning
concern of exposure, Isaac had set up the exchange to take
place concurrently. The three parties would meet, the
terrorist would give Isaac the million cash, Isaac would
give them the diamonds and they would then give the
Russians the diamonds for the nerve gas. The BHS would then
sweep in and arrest all the parties. Simple right? I didn't
think so; too many things could go wrong.


Smith finished the story and we just sat there and
stared at each other. Finally I broke the silence.


"Okay, what has all that got to do with me?"


"We want you to take Isaac's place."


"What, you can't be serious!"


"We are deadly serious. In fact we have already leaked
that when Isaac contacted you two days ago he was bringing
you in as a partner. We think . . ."


"Where the hell do you people get off? You Feds think
you can just push and shove everyone around. Besides, what
was that little episode last night all about?"


"Last night was a test. We had to know if you were as
tough as your reputation made you out to be."


"A test? And I didn't even get to study. Did I pass?
You realize you almost died last night, right. That was one
of the stupidest moves . . ."


Waving me to silence he continued. "Yes, you passed
the test. In hindsight, maybe it wasn't the best move we
could have made. By the way, Agent Willis is really pissed
since he still can't stand very well."


"Gee, that's too bad! Next time maybe he'll pay
attention. Anyway I don't like anyone putting hands on me,
plus he slapped me. Nobody gets away with that!"


"Okay, okay, truce. We really need your help. The
United States Government needs your help. You were an
outstanding Army officer once, which must mean
something?"


He could see that I wasn't too awfully impressed.
"Yeah well, that was a long time ago. You've got to do
better than that."


I saw his shoulders slump a little. "There is a bounty
set aside for capture of terrorist. If you help us get
these guys I will see that you receive a substantial
reward."


"Oh yeah, just what do you consider substantial for
putting my life on the line?"


"Let's say five figures. Is that substantial
enough?"


"Good enough!"


He got up and moved to the door. "You'll be contacted
to set up the swap. Once we get the word we'll position
everything. It's too dangerous to wire you, but we will
have you covered. We will place our new SMS-120 Pro Series
Shotgun Microphone Sets at two locations in front and back
of the building. Once we hear the exchange take place we
will move in. I am confident that everything will work
out okay."


With that he moved out the door. I am glad he's
confident I thought. After all it's not his butt that's
going to be on the line.


***


While waiting for the contact I decided to formulate a
little back up plan. I placed a call to TJ's cell phone. TJ
was Tommy James a Metro Police Detective Sergeant. He was
my old partner and my best friend.


He answered in his usually charming growl. "James.
What do you want?"


"And a nice day to you too Mister Police
Officer."


"Hey Sherlock, what's happening?


"Hey TJ, I need some assistance." I quickly filled him
in on what had happened and what was going to go down.


"Okay Simon, I've got your back. You just be careful.
You know how the Feds work. They'll use any one or any
thing to get what they want. Just let me know where and
when. Later Dude."


I felt much better after our little talk. It always
helped to have a little Guardian Angel looking over your
shoulder. Of course at six feet four and 260 pounds TJ
wasn't exactly little and he sure as hell wasn't any
angel.


About five minutes after talking with TJ my phone
rang.


"Simon."


A slightly accented voice spoke. "You have the
diamonds, yes?"


I figured I had better play this one straight. "Yes, I
have the diamonds."


"Be at the old riding stables on Country Lane at 11:00
P.M. Make sure you are not late."


"Okay pal, you just make sure you have my money. Small
unmarked bills, got it?"


"Do not worry; you will get your money. Remember 11:00
P.M.


"Will the Russians be . . ." I was talking to a dead
phone. I guess I'll just have to wait and see, I
thought.


I called TJ and then the feds and gave them the info.
Now, all I could do was wait, only eight hours to go. I
stretched out and took a nap.


***


At exactly 11:00 P.M. I pulled to a stop at the
entrance of the old abandoned riding stables. I would like
to have gotten here earlier for a quick look-see but I
didn't want to get in anyone's way. A quick glance about
didn't show me any signs of the Feds. I sure hope they
weren't held up in traffic or something. Exiting my car I
started casually walking toward the light I could see at
the end of the row of empty stalls.


Standing beside the doorway of the last stall situated
in the shadows was an Arabic featured fellow holding a mean
looking Kalashnikov AK74 Assault Rifle. I had seen the AK74
before up close and personal and I didn't particularly like
them but I had great respect for what they were capable of
doing. The sentry motioned with the rifle for me to enter
the stall. It wasn't a stall at all but what must have been
at one time the stable office. Inside were three men
sitting around an old table.


Facing me as I entered were two men that had to be the
Russians. Both had the big ugly dark Slav features. On the
table in front of them was an ice chest cooler, the size
made to hold a six-pack. Sitting on the near side with his
back turned slightly toward me as another Arab. His hand
was casually placed on a slim metal attach? case also on
the table. The hairs on the back of my neck were tingling
as I walked to the other empty chair. I didn't like having
that other Arab behind me. A trusting fellow I wasn't.
With my hand partway in my jacket near the butt of my
Varjag pistol I stopped beside the empty chair.


With a growl I said, "Tell the doorman to come inside
where I can keep an eye on him."


"Do not be alarmed Mister Simon, he is simply there
to ensure that we are not disturbed." The Arab spoke with a
slight British upper class accent, the same voice I had
heard earlier on the phone.


"Being disturbed is not what concerns me. I'm not
going to ask again!"


Just them the smarter looking of the two Russian
thugs chimed in. "Yes. Do as he says. I also wish to be
able to see." I guess a light bulb in his pea brain
suddenly came on.


With a wave of dismissal the Arab shouted something in
what I assumed was Arabic. The outside man stepped through
the door and positioned himself along the outside wall, his
dark angry eyes never leaving the table.


Slipping into the waiting chair I reached in my pocket
and withdrew the black velvet drawstring bag and lightly
placed it on the table. "Just how are we going to do this,"
I asked?


The Arab spoke first. "Why don't we all show our wares
at the same time? Then if all is satisfactory we can make
the exchanges."


"Da," the Russian said while reaching for the cooler.
A man of many words he wasn't.


"No problem," I said. I gently opened the drawstring
and poured a handful of diamonds out onto the tabletop. I
noticed the eyes of my two new Russian friends shining
almost as brightly as sparkle of the diamonds. There was
also a slight smile on the Arab's face.


With a flick of his finger the Arab snapped opened the
attach? case. Inside were stacks and stacks of twenty-
dollar bills. I guess my eyes started shining a little
brighter too.


By now the Russian had the top off the cooler. Now,
that was a sight that scared the hell out of me. Inside
were six vials fitted in a Styrofoam holder. I saw that
there were two types. Three vials were labeled GB and three
were VX. GB I knew from my military training was SARIN, a
deadly nerve agent. The other was worse; VX was also a
nerve agent but was of the persistent type. In other words
it would hang around for a long time making decontamination
much harder. By and large, they were both very nasty
fellows.


Hoping that my Fed friends were listening I said, "So,
that's what nerve agents look like. GB and VX, must be some
bad stuff."


"Enough talk! Time for exchange," more words of wisdom
for the Russian.


Just then the sound of a loud speaker blasted the
stillness. "Federal Agents! We have you surrounded. Come
out with your hands up."


The Russians looked fearfully about. The Arab didn't
seem phased as though he had not even heard. With a glint
in his dark eyes he yelled something in his own language.
The Arab by the door brought the AK74 up and started
firing!


The burst of heavy bullets hit the Russians full force
flinging them backward away from the table. They hadn't had
a chance. I on the other hand had been partially prepared
for something like this for I had not at all trusted the
Arabs. As the AK74 started it pounding I shoved back and
attempted to dive away from the table. I didn't quite make
it.


In the middle of my spectacular dive one round managed
to find its mark. It struck me in the back of the left
shoulder just at the edge of my body armor. Luckily it
didn't hit anything vital, just went clean through and
logged in the backside of the front of my Kevlar vest. It
hurt like hell. I had forgotten how much I hated being
shot. The force of the round along with my own momentum
threw me forward and partially behind an old musty bale of
straw.


Unexpectedly there was a loud bang and the AK toting
Arab flew across the floor. He had a hole big enough to put
a fist through right in the middle of his chest. The shot
must have come from a Barrett .50 caliber Sniper Rifle with
thermal imaging sights. Those sights were powerful enough
to see through these thin walls and the Barrett was more
than capable of breaching them.


The other Arab must have realized this also for he
attempted to hide behind a set of metal I beam posts. I
didn't think that would help and I guess he didn't either.
He turned and aimed a Mac-10 automatic toward the table.
I hadn't noticed he had a weapon but I had been a little
busy trying to put my big butt behind this little straw
bale. It took me a few seconds to realize what he
intended.


Shouting something in what sounded like gibberish but
I'm sure was his own language he prepared to fire. He was
aiming at the cooler of nerve gas! If he shot up that
cooler all hell would break loose. He and I and a whole
bunch of other folks were going to die. I guess that's what
he had in mind but I was not quite ready for that just
yet.


I had been bleeding pretty heavily but I didn't know
how weak I had gotten until I tried to lift my Varjag to
line up my shot. I couldn't hold it steady and was waving
it all around. I figured what the hell and just started
pulling the trigger. I must have sprayed the 15 rounds all
over the place.


I supposed luck is better than skill for four or five
rounds found the mark, in this case the screaming Arab and
shoved him backward. He landed on his rear end against the
far wall. I tried to eject and insert a new magazine just
in case but when I got my eyes focused I saw that it wasn't
necessary. One of my bullets had hit him just above the
bridge of the nose, entering at an upward angle and taking
out the top and back of his head. He was very, very
dead.


Suddenly I was exhausted, mentally and physically. I
somehow managed to get my cell phone out and speed dialed
TJ's number. In one second he answered.


"Hey Sherlock, you okay?"


"Just barely pal; I'm hit but I'm not sure how bad.
Hurts like the devil though. Tell the Feds that the area is
secure and not to shoot me when they come in. I got enough
holes in me as it is." I heard him yell something and in
less than a heartbeat the doors were busted open and a
swarm of Feds hustled in.


My words were getting slow and quiet. I really
couldn't hear TJ anymore, partly because of the noise the
Feds were making and partly because I was going into
shock.


"Hey, Hey you hang in there, I'm coming to get you," TJ
shouted into the phone.


"Okay buddy, I'm not going anywhere. Come and get me,"
were the last words I managed before the phone slipped from
my fingers and my eyes gently closed.


I later learned that TJ had rushed in picked me up and
carried me out to the waiting ambulance. People said he was
yelling like a madman to folks to get out of his way as big
tears ran down his cheeks. You had to love the guy, the
big baby.


End