The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

  Kittredge had always believed that problems and challenges were often gifts that helped you think of new and better solutions, and you often ended up much better off for having dealt with them. But Peter Kittredge had never built himself a set of problems quite as prickly as this one.

  So what to do from here?

  He swilled his vodka. Fourth glass? Fifth? He couldn’t remember. He was getting hungry, and knew he would have to venture out for food before heading back to the hospital to sit with Charley. For the moment, though, he took comfort in the burn of the booze in his empty gut, and let his growing buzz buff a few of the jagged edges off of his fouled-up world.

  He briefly considered playing along with Dibiaso without telling his new Agency handlers, but quickly dismissed the idea. After all, Fredericks and Quinn had made him their reluctant guest precisely because they knew what he was up to. It was stupid to think that he could do anything without their knowledge.

  And what was Dibiaso’s rush, anyway? He had to know the situation with Charley, didn’t he? After all, they worked for the same damned company. Charley had given Dibiaso’s number to him way back at the beginning of this mess, eighteen lifetimes ago, so it wasn’t like they didn’t know each other at least a little bit.

  So that meant that Dibiaso’s hurry had a strong chance of being related to the attack on Charley. Which made Kittredge want to follow the string and see where it led.

  But he didn’t want to leave DC. Not with Charley lying in an intensive care ward with a smashed-in dome and a swollen brain. He wanted to be there when Charley woke up, to hold him, to hug him, to kiss his cheek. And to ask him what the holy hell was going on.

  His phone rang. The caller ID displayed a number that brought instant adrenaline. “What do you want, Quinn?”

  “Hello to you too, Peter. Hitting the bottle a little hard, aren’t we?”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Kittredge replied.

  “Fredericks and I have an idea for what to do about the Dibiaso text.”

  Kittredge made a dumb decision to play dumb. “What text?”

  Of course the Agency knew about the text from Dibiaso, but Kittredge was hoping for some clue about how they knew about it. Did they read his phone display via the video cameras planted in his apartment? Or were they tapped directly into his phone account?

  Quinn didn’t bite. “So anyway, as I was saying,” Quinn said, “we think you ought to scoot back down to Caracas for a while. Make the drop, pick up the payment. Bing, bang, business as usual.”

  “Sure thing, Quinn. I’ll just leave Charley in a coma, fly home, breeze into my office to pick up a few secrets, then hustle on over to make the drop while you and Fat Bill lurk in the shadows. I’m sure nobody will figure anything out, right?”

  Quinn laughed. “My, you’re a theatrical little gay guy when you’ve knocked back a few drinks, aren’t you? But yes, that actually sums it all up very nicely. We’ve taken the liberty of making plane reservations for you. Your flight leaves tonight.”

  Kittredge slumped back down into a chair and noticed that the sky had started to grow dark. He let out a heavy breath. “Well, why the hell not, then? I’ll do it. And you’ll pull me out of jail when I get caught during my little smash-and-grab at the embassy?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Petunia.”

  “My name is Peter.”

  “How could I forget? Clean yourself up, pack a bag, and I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. Food, hospital, airport. That’s our plan.” Quinn hung up.

  Kittredge cursed, gritted his teeth, balled his fists, and cursed again.

  Then he did what he was told.

  The flight to Caracas lifted off thirty minutes behind schedule. Kittredge’s buzz was rapidly turning to a hangover. He’d had a double vodka with dinner to help fortify himself for the view of Charley’s black eye and swollen head, and he was relieved to discover that his strategy worked well. Mild drunkenness was a perfectly viable and largely painless way to endure life’s difficult moments.

  Quinn had dropped him off at the airport, and handed him a slip of paper as he climbed out of the Range Rover. It was another telephone number. Kittredge rolled his eyes. Before he could stop himself, he had blurted, “What is it with you guys and your freaking notes? It’s like high school.”

  Quinn looked at him a moment, then burst into laughter. “What’s so funny?” Kittredge asked.

  “You. Thinking you could ever survive as a spy. It’s hilarious.” Quinn cackled. His features crinkled comically, and his huge shoulders shook up and down. “When your dick isn’t getting you into trouble, your boozing picks up the slack.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You just made a comment about people handing notes to you. I assume you mean the old Venezuelan guy in the red scarf on the park bench, right?”

  Kittredge felt a little foolish, but not surprised. He had slowly resigned himself to the Agency having visibility into every one of his moments, and they had demonstrated their reach convincingly. Apparently his strange meeting with the old man on the park bench was no exception.

  “I think it’s probably obvious to you now that it wouldn’t be a good idea to dial the number the old man gave you,” Quinn said.

  Though the vodka placed a pleasant patina on Kittredge’s world, he couldn’t mistake the note of menace in Quinn’s voice. He bristled with alcohol-induced bravado. “Of course, Quinn. You and I. And Fat Fredericks. All the way. There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team.’”

  “That’s the spirit. And if you have any doubts about the right team to be on, Google ‘National Mall’ and see what pops up.”

  After clearing security, Kittredge had done just that. Apparently, an elderly man was the victim of a stabbing. Punctured aorta, the news report said. The reporter wondered, when would the district toughen up on crimes against tourists?

  Could this get any crazier? He had wanted to belly up to one of the over-priced bars at Reagan International, but his flight was boarding. He had hustled to the gate, plopped in his seat, and pushed the “call” button above his head the instant the captain turned off the seat belt sign as the jet turned south into the night.

  “Two vodkas, please,” he asked the visibly annoyed stewardess when she found his seat. “And a cup of ice.”

  16

  Monday morning arrived with a vengeance. Brock and Sam awoke to a ringing telephone. The clock read 4:30 a.m. This time, it wasn’t Sam’s telephone disturbing the peace. Brock groaned when he saw the caller ID: Major General Charles W. Landers. His asshole of a boss.

  “Morning, sir. What’s the good news?” Brock sounded far more charitable than he felt, an art military men mastered over years of dealing with inconveniences and annoying superiors.

  Brock listened for a while, then sat upright in bed. “Yes, sir,” Brock finally said through clenched teeth. “I’m on my way.”

  “What was that about?” Sam asked.

  “You,” Brock said, climbing out of bed. “Landers wants to talk about a moral problem I seem to have.”

  Sam was instantly livid. “That little prick. I’m going to murder Jarvis.”

  “I understand that our living arrangement came up in casual conversation with your superiors yesterday,” Brock said with forced civility. “Were you going to tell me about that?”

  “Shit, baby, I forgot all about it,” Sam said. “And it never occurred to me that those two ball-lickers would dime you out to your boss over something like this.”

  Brock disappeared into the small bathroom in the panic room, and Sam heard the shower. Several minutes later, Brock reappeared in his uniform, and leaned in to kiss her goodbye.

  “It’s four-thirty. What does Landers want at this hour?”

  “To screw with me. And, apparently, he feels he has plenty of ammunition.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Sam said.

  “We’re held to a ‘higher standard,’ and all that,” Brock said. “To the bureaucrats, ‘almost divor
ced’ is another way of saying ‘married.’ It’s complete chickenshit, and only a chickenshit boss would think about it for a second. But that’s Landers for you.”

  “Landers and Jarvis. I’m going to choke the life out of both of them,” Sam said.

  “Don’t forget Ekman,” Brock said. “Anyway, I’m sure it’ll fade away soon enough. Don’t sweat it.”

  “I forgot to tell you, that’s the whole reason they started digging into our lives. It was over your pending divorce, and you and I living together before it’s finalized. That’s why they started all of this, and the pretext for finding this supposed connection with Arturo Dibiaso.”

  “I’m sure you’ll crack the appropriate skulls. I’m due in Landers’ office by five-thirty.”

  He kissed her and started to leave, but she stopped him, thinking of something from the prior day’s events. “Baby, when did you first meet Fatso?”

  “Germany,” he said. “Why?”

  “I know it was Germany, but what year? They seemed really hung up on the exact timing of when you met Fatso.”

  “Late 1997, early 1998 maybe. I don’t know for sure. Anyway, why do they care about Fatso? I haven’t seen him for years. And I get kind of sick of those jokes he always sends.”

  “Maybe you should leave me his number and address. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “Okay. Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  She smiled at him and pulled him in for a kiss. When he pulled away, he said, “I don’t care what the bureaucrats say. Having you in my life is worth any price.”

  “I love you too,” Sam said. “Come home for lunch. Let’s roll around naked.” Brock smiled, kissed her again, and left.

  “And punch Landers in the throat for me,” she yelled as he disappeared up the stairs.

  Sam had just started to doze off again when her phone rang.

  “Jesus, Dan. It’s five a.m. No wonder Sara wants a divorce.”

  “Did she say that to you?” Dan Gable asked.

  “No, but I can tell. You’d better get your act together. What are you doing in the office at this hour?”

  “The bomb guys called. Definitely an American-made guidance kit, and it’s definitely the American version.”

  “You mean it’s not an export version?”

  “Nope. One of our own. And Ekman asked about you already. Wants you to stop by his office when you get in, which he hopes is sooner rather than later.”

  Sam groaned. “Great.” So much for catching up on a little more sleep.

  “Hi Francis,” Sam chirped with manufactured cheer as she walked into his office. She took pleasure in the look of annoyance that crossed Ekman’s face. She didn’t know why she pushed his buttons. Maybe it was because at times, he struck her as a bona fide douchebag. She hated douchebags.

  Without a word, he handed her two pieces of paper. Each page had two columns. The left column contained what looked like times, arranged vertically in chronological order, and the right-hand column was full of what looked like map coordinates. “What am I looking at?” Sam asked.

  “One page is Arturo Dibiaso’s cell phone position data. The other page is from Brock James’ phone. Look closely, and you’ll see why Mr. Jarvis and I are concerned.”

  Sam looked closely at the numbers, and her heart sank. The position coordinates overlapped at multiple points, down to the second decimal place, for up to thirty minutes at a time.

  It was clear that Brock and Dibiaso had spent some quality time in close proximity to each other.

  She felt a lump form in her throat, and tears welled. She turned on her heel and walked out of Ekman’s office, determined not to let him see her cry.

  17

  Kittredge awoke to the airliner’s cabin lights coming back on near the end of the redeye flight to Caracas, and some sort of inane announcement blaring over the PA system. The stewardess’ nasal voice sounded like a bugle in a dumpster, and it clanged around viciously inside his pounding skull.

  He smacked his lips and sensed the disgustingness of his breath. Did a rat die in my mouth? He felt awful, head spinning and heart pounding from the solid day of drinking. He hadn’t slept long enough, and he awoke smack in the middle of a horrible hangover. He was certain that he smelled like a distillery, with the prior day’s liquid courage off-gassing through his pores.

  Fighting incipient nausea, he gathered his bag and trundled off of the airplane amidst the gaggle of passengers, feeling like livestock. Livestock with a crushing headache.

  He passed a bar en route to the airport exit, and stopped briefly for a Bloody Mary to put a little bit of a shine back on. He couldn’t possibly endure what lay ahead while fighting a hangover, he reasoned.

  Constitutional complete, he stopped in the airport bathroom to brush his teeth, and picked up a coffee to go on his way to the taxi stand.

  Caracas wasn’t a large city by modern standards, but the cabbies knew where to find fares at four in the morning, and it didn’t take long before Kittredge was on his way back to his Caracas flat for a shower and a change of clothes. And maybe one more little drink to keep his nerves in check.

  Kittredge noticed headlights in the rearview mirror and turned to see a black SUV driving behind them. “Are we being followed?” he asked the cabbie.

  The cabbie flashed a toothy grin. “Si. By many cars. And also we are following many cars.”

  Everyone’s a comedian.

  “You are nervous, Señor? Maybe you have diamonds in your pocket? Or you are espia? A spy?” The cabbie laughed. “Or maybe paranoico. Watch too many movies, eh?”

  Kittredge didn’t answer. He rode along in silence, and the cabbie dropped him off presently at the apartment he shared with Charley Arlinghaus. “Bye bye, Señor Bond,” the cabbie said after counting the paltry tip Kittredge left him.

  He climbed the stairs to the third floor and opened the door to his flat.

  What the hell?

  It looked like a war zone. Pictures hung at odd angles on the walls or lay shattered on the hardwood. Every book they owned was strewn on the floor, and Charley’s beloved bric-a-brac had been tossed and shattered. The kitchen cabinets were wide open, and the floor looked like the aftermath of a Greek wedding. Shards of dishware covered most of the tile floor.

  “Bastards,” Kittredge repeated over and over as he surveyed the damage. He made his way slowly into the bedroom, where all of their clothes lay in a pile on the center of the bed. Every drawer had been removed from the dresser, and nothing remained hung in the closet. The master bathroom was similarly destroyed, with the contents of every pill bottle in the medicine cabinet now floating in the toilet.

  Kittredge moved a pile of clothes and sat down heavily on the bed. Would calling the policia do any good? Would it make any sense? And which department would he even call? No fewer than four jurisdictions laid claim to this section of Caracas, a remnant of the 1989 Venezuelan decentralization that gave rise to a number of entrepreneurially-minded police entities that all competed with each other. Venezuela was a terrible place to be the victim of a crime.

  And it wouldn’t have surprised him if one of those police units was behind the redecorating effort.

  He debated telling someone at the embassy, but quickly realized that the last thing he needed was embassy attention on his recent activities.

  Looks like I suck it up, he concluded.

  A thought struck. What if Charley came home and found the place like this, and decided he had to get out of the country? It wasn’t entirely implausible. It might even account for the lie Charley told to his bosses. If he had gotten himself into a compromising position that led to his apartment being ransacked, he probably didn’t want to jeopardize his position at Exel by letting the cat out of the bag.

  But that wasn’t a new revelation. Charley obviously lied to his bosses for a reason. It was a dumb lie, too, one that wouldn’t stand up to even a cursory investigation. His dad in a DC hospital? It would take les
s than a minute to disprove the claim.

  Or maybe it was completely different than that. Maybe Charley was running from Exel Oil. Maybe he hadn’t called them at all. Maybe he had just fled, and they caught up to him in DC.

  Or, more likely, Exel had someone waiting for him. It wouldn’t take Nostradamus to figure out that Charley would likely make a stop at home before setting out on the lam.

  That was an interesting scenario. Maybe Exel was the key.

  But that still didn’t solve the riddle of how Quinn and Fredericks found out about Charley’s attack as quickly as they did.

  The Agency and Exel. . . Are they in bed together? That would certainly explain a few things.

  Kittredge sifted through the pile of clothes on the floor to find something clean to wear, located a towel, and showered. Moments later, he made his way down to the street for his one-mile walk to the US embassy.

  It went like clockwork. No one at the embassy had heard about Charley’s attack, which made Kittredge wonder whether Jim Bishop was full of shit when he said that he had heard about it from the embassy duty officer. But it worked to Kittredge’s advantage, as he wasn’t badgered by endless questions about Charley’s condition, how the attack happened, or if the police had any leads. He was able to slip into his office without much notice from his coworkers.

  He was senior enough to get his own office, which was really the random detail that made his brief and unsuccessful foray into espionage remotely possible. He shut the door, turned on his computer, and inserted the thumb drive into the USB slot.

  That was highly illegal, of course. Every computer belonging to the US State Department flashed a warning screen on login that wagged a virtual finger in users’ faces, warning them against inserting portable disk drives into government-owned computers.

  For one thing, computer viruses often lurked in thumb drives. For another, using thumb drives made it relatively easy to do what Peter Kittredge was about to do.

  He downloaded the week’s message traffic on high-level economic developments with the Chavez government and its various quasi-governmental arms.