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

by Lars Emmerich

  “Helluva day,” the cabbie said. “I should be at the game.”

  Quinn finished the challenge-and-response ritual: “Are the Senators playing today? I’ve been too busy to keep up with their schedule.”

  The cabbie shut the door for Quinn and wedged his cab back into the growing DC gridlock. The two Agency men made small talk during the hour-long journey to the meeting place, a nondescript unit in a Falls Church condominium complex.

  Quinn had long ago stopped wondering how many such places the Agency maintained, but he was sure it was an impressive number. He had never used the same safe house for more than one operation. Dirty institutions do paranoia pretty damn well, he thought with an internal chuckle. He surmised that it also helped to have a bottomless budget and almost no public scrutiny.

  “Keep the change,” Quinn said as he exited the cab, loudly enough for the microphones hidden in the bushes to pick up over the traffic noise. It was never smart to surprise anyone at a safe house. He rang the doorbell twice and knocked once.

  Seconds later, Quinn heard heavy footfalls, and the door opened to reveal a portly, bookish fellow four hairs taller than five-seven. Another challenge-and-response sequence preceded Quinn’s entry into the dark eighties-era condo.

  “Whatcha got for me?” Quinn asked as he plopped himself onto a sofa that predated the condo by at least a decade.

  “The name’s Alfredson,” said the slightly rotund fellow with the academician’s face. “Thanks for stopping by. Don’t get much activity these days, with things winding down overseas.”

  “Winding down? We’re killing more people than the plague,” Quinn said.

  “By drone,” Alfredson lamented. “Not much work for the biologicals department anymore.”

  “Biologicals? I’m not getting paid nearly enough to haul that shit around.”

  “That’s what guys like you usually say,” Alfredson said, obviously sizing Quinn up and placing him in the appropriate mental category. “But you’ll probably want to pay attention. It’s a little nasty.”

  “So I shouldn’t mix it in my cocktail on the plane?”

  Alfredson didn’t laugh. “You shouldn’t open the package at all until you’re in the approved environment for the operation.”

  “Did you memorize that sentence just for me?”

  “And you shouldn’t open the exterior package, either, until you’re in the approved environment.” Alfredson looked stern.

  “You’re all business, aren’t you?” Quinn said. “Why all this trouble for syphilis?”

  Alfredson snorted. “Who told you this was syphilis?”

  “I assumed that since this is Operation Syphilis. . .” Quinn said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Fredericks,” Alfredson said, shaking his head. “He thinks he’s much funnier than he really is. This is definitely not syphilis, though it is a strain of a disease that is sometimes transmitted sexually.”

  “AIDS? No way will I transport that shit on a plane, I don’t care who’s asking,” Quinn said.

  Alfredson rolled his eyes. “It’s an engineered variant of Hepatitis C.” Noticing the relief on Quinn’s face, Alfredson said, “You shouldn’t be relieved. This stuff will kill you much, much faster, and there’s no drug cocktail around that will make any of the suffering go away.”

  Quinn let out a long sigh. Whatever happened to a good old fashioned knife hit, or a bullet to the temple? The world was going to hell. It was all satellites, germs, and remote-controlled drones these days. Quinn had the acute awareness that his was a dying breed.

  “Are you listening? This is important.” The germ scientist looked intensely at Quinn.

  “Sure, sorry,” Quinn said.

  “This virus causes cirrhosis of the liver. Normal Hepatitis C infection causes a similar result, but it acts slowly, over a number of years. We’ve tweaked the replication proteins to remove some reproductive inefficiency, and this particular virus acts several million times faster.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’re going to wipe out the human race?” Quinn asked.

  “No. It’s not possible. The disease kills too efficiently to spread that far. People don’t stay alive long enough to infect each other in large enough quantities.”

  “Like Ebola,” Quinn said.

  “Exactly.” Alfredson held out what looked like an expensive fountain pen. Quinn noticed the distinctive Montblanc logo. The letters HC were monogrammed in gold lettering.

  “What do I do with this thing when the time comes? Do I stab him with it?”

  “No. This is a normal pen. You hand him the box,” Alfredson said, brandishing a Montblanc pen case. “The virus is skin-permeable, and it’s embedded in the felt. When he removes the pen, the virus seeps into his body through his fingertips.”

  Quinn shook his head. “You bastards are evil.”

  “You should talk,” Alfredson said.

  “Touché. Shouldn’t we be wearing a breathing thingy right now?”

  “Not necessary. The virus is chemically bonded to the felt, and will only break free by abrasion. Just keep the case closed, and keep it in its wrapping paper until the time comes.”

  Quinn shivered. “This freaks me out.”

  “I thought you were a steely-eyed killer,” Alfredson chided. “Just keep the thing closed until it’s time, and you’ll be fine. Everyone around you will be fine, unless you let them paw the interior of the pen case.”

  “If you’re wrong, I will hunt you down,” Quinn said.

  Alfredson smiled. “If I’m wrong, you won’t have time to hunt me down.”

  “What if he doesn’t open the pen case?”

  “Then I guess we hire a real assassin,” Alfredson said.

  Quinn erupted in laughter. “A real assassin. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks.”

  22

  Peter Kittredge was drunk again. He had left the bank’s safety deposit room, which used to contain every last ounce of silver Arturo Dibiaso had paid him, but now contained just a note from “BF” promising safekeeping of the ill-gotten bounty. Kittredge had bellied up at the nearest bar, serious about drowning his sorrows.

  “BF” was undoubtedly Bill Fredericks, and after a brief emotional meltdown that had caused bank patrons to stare at him, Kittredge had vowed to find a way to make Fredericks pay for the innumerable indecencies he’d inflicted over the past forty-eight hours.

  Fredericks and Quinn had tortured him and broken into his DC apartment to install hidden cameras.

  And they had probably also trashed the Venezuela flat that he and Charley Arlinghaus shared together.

  Charley. In his anguish over the missing silver, the missing skin on his lower back, and his ransacked apartment, Kittredge had momentarily forgotten about his lover of two years, who was still in a DC hospital, lying in a coma.

  The Agency goons had been the ones to inform Kittredge about the incident, which made him wonder whether they weren’t behind that, too. He felt a sudden, desperate urge for an update on Charley’s condition, but couldn’t work out a way to get more information without alerting Fredericks or Quinn. And at the moment, Kittredge felt that he would rather murder both of them than have a conversation of any sort.

  Kittredge waved to the bartender and was ready to shout out his order above the growing din of the Monday afternoon crowd when he felt a clap on his shoulder. “Hi, Peter,” said a now-familiar voice.

  “Fredericks.” Kittredge slurred.

  “You should slow down, Pete.”

  “It’s Peter, asshole.”

  “Right. You should let up on the booze, Peter Asshole. You have work to do, and I don’t have time to dry you out.”

  Kittredge’s annoyance reached a boiling point. “I’m not doing a damned thing for you, Bill.”

  “That’s the booze talking,” Fredericks said with a smile. “Of course you’re going to do things for me. Have you forgotten our little written arrangement? I’m sure you remember – it gave you immunity from
punishment for your capital crime of treason.” He paused for effect, then said, “With a couple of tiny strings attached.”

  “Strings?” Kittredge bellowed. Fredericks shushed him.

  “Strings?” Kittredge started again in a more subdued voice. “You’ve put my boyfriend in a coma, torn up my apartment, and now you’ve robbed me!”

  Fredericks shook his head, laughing. “You give me way too much credit. And you’re accusing me of robbing you? That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? I mean, did you really think we were going to let you keep the money you earned by spying?”

  He has a point, Kittredge realized.

  He felt his anger subside a bit. Fredericks did have him over a barrel, to be sure, but things could be much worse. He could be facing a trial for treason, for example. It occurred to Kittredge that in the current context, doing a few odd jobs for a decidedly disagreeable CIA case officer wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  At least until I can figure out how to turn the tables.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “What do you want?”

  “Go home. Sober up. I’ll call you.” With that, Fredericks was gone.

  Kittredge wandered slowly back toward his apartment, in no hurry to face the disaster that awaited him. They had left almost nothing untouched, and had gone out of their way to break his and Charley’s belongings, as if they were making a point.

  Fredericks hadn’t actually denied ransacking their place. He had merely accused Kittredge of giving him too much credit. Kittredge fumed anew, cursing that smug torturing deviant Quinn, and that fat bastard Fredericks.

  An ocean breeze whistled through the mountain valley, gaining strength, and the Caracas air grew chilly. Kittredge stuffed his hands in his pockets. Two slips of paper grabbed his attention, and he pulled them out to examine them.

  One had a US telephone number written on it, followed by the words “XOXO, Quinn.” Go to hell, Quinn.

  Kittredge examined the other slip of paper. It contained a Venezuelan number. It was given to him the previous afternoon, on the park bench in the National Mall, by the old man in the red scarf. Whom Quinn had subsequently killed, Kittredge thought with a shudder.

  Quinn and Fredericks were fantastically horrible people, Kittredge decided, and they badly needed someone to kick their asses for them. A good ass-kicking restores an appropriate level of humility, which a man could easily lose when he tortures and kills other people for a living.

  To hell with both of you.

  It was likely due to the combination of his rage, inebriation, and the pervasive but incorrect sense that he didn’t have much left to lose, but Kittredge felt emboldened. He pulled a few centimos from his pocket, stopped at the next pay phone, and dialed the Venezuelan number.

  His heart pounded as the phone rang, and he felt himself sobering up with each passing second. He imagined the potential ramifications if Fredericks or Quinn caught him.

  And there was a very good chance that they would catch him, he realized.

  He had nearly lost his nerve, and was just about to hang up the phone when a voice came on the line, sealing his fate. “Buenos noches. We have been waiting for your call,” the man said.

  “Buenos noches,” Kittredge replied. “I, uh—“

  “Do not speak, Peter Kittredge,” said the man at the other end of the phone line. “Do not go back to your apartment. Throw away your cell phone. Take the Red Line to the Santa Marta station. Wait for a man in a John Deere hat. He will ask you a question. The answer is five-thirty.”

  The line went dead.

  Kittredge did as he was told, with one exception. Instead of throwing away his cell phone, he placed it in the safety deposit box at the bank. That made it impossible for Fredericks and Quinn to track him using the phone, but it also left his options open.

  When he opened the deposit box, he was surprised to discover a pound of silver in the place where, hours earlier, there had only been a note from Bill Fredericks.

  I want off of this crazy ride, Kittredge thought, thoroughly and hopelessly confused.

  But he knew that was impossible. His ride was just beginning.

  23

  Quinn sat folded uncomfortably in his airline seat in sardine class, doing his best to ignore the shrill voice of the flight attendant amplified by the tinny speaker inches from his head. He hated flying.

  More accurately, he hated riding in an airplane. Quinn was a pilot himself, and he loved flying himself around, though he didn’t fly airplanes big enough to make the trip from DC to Caracas. The Agency had an impressively large fleet of aircraft, but the powers-that-be had not yet seen fit to check him out in anything larger than a Cessna Citation.

  And despite their ridiculous budget, they’d never spring for business class tickets, so Quinn sat with his huge frame wedged into the undersized seat in coach class with the rest of the human cattle.

  He was in a characteristically expansive mood. While his job required continuous travel and he rarely stayed in one place for more than a few days at a time, it did afford him plenty of mental down time.

  It was both blessing and curse. Some Agency assets found themselves sinking further into a black hole of their own making, with drug and alcohol abuse and other mental instabilities an all-too-common occupational hazard.

  Quinn had tried those on for size, perhaps just to see whether he enjoyed embodying the cliché, but he had ultimately decided to take a more philosophical approach to things. Drunkenness, he discovered, was frequently followed by a hangover, and he failed to see the point of the cycle.

  So he became something of a savant-assassin, reading widely from all sorts of subjects, to occupy his capacious brain during the frequent periods of inactivity that came along with his job. It also helped him to come to grips with the heinousness of his chosen profession, which required that he inflict pain, suffering, and death on his unfortunate subjects.

  Earlier in his career, he had spent time trying to convince himself that his targets deserved the fate he brought them, but he had learned over the years that his employers, and even his nation, didn’t quite occupy the moral high ground they claimed. Were some of the poor bastards really bad people? Unquestionably. Did that mean they deserved their death at his hands? Maybe.

  But it was largely a useless question. The fact was, Quinn killed them because he could kill them. The Agency ordered him to kill people, only because they could order him to kill people.

  And they thought up bullshit ideological euphemisms to justify these murders only because they could justify them, and the public – or Congress, or whoever happened to express a passing interest in the disgusting underbelly of statecraft – chose to believe the bullshit because they had the luxury of believing it.

  Except in the rarest of circumstances, when bloody failures became too public to ignore, nobody really had to account to anyone but themselves for the savagery. So savagery had become an instrument of quotidian utility, which also made it prosaic and unremarkable.

  Quinn’s dogged self-education had rapidly disabused him of the notion that his employers used assassins to protect the US Republic and The People. Really, the Agency was far less an extension of state interests than business interests. The functionaries he’d killed over the years were frequently employees of foreign governments, but they met their end only because they proved too recalcitrant to get out of the way of American Enterprise.

  In short, Quinn assassinated people mostly because they hindered corporate profits. It wasn’t an uplifting truth, but it was impossible to look honestly at the situation and arrive at any other conclusion.

  “Economic terrorism,” one author had called it. The author knew whereof he spoke – he had been an Agency asset for a couple of decades, and had personally trained Quinn, before a Saul-on-the-road-to-Damascus-like conversion compelled him to unburden his soul in a tell-all book.

  So it didn’t take much in the way of mental gymnastics for Quinn to arrive at the conclusion that he owe
d his trip to Caracas to the desire of a particular oil company to expand their portfolio of oil fields into the state-controlled Venezuelan countryside, and the desire of the Agency to help.

  It wasn’t quite right to say that the CIA was infiltrated by powerful economic interests. It was far more correct to say that the CIA was created, sustained, and populated by such interests, at least at the policy levels.

  Still, it was highly unusual for Fredericks to throw Curmudgeon’s name around, as he had done during their recent phone conversation, and it was even more unusual to hear anything at all about the Intermediary. The latter was supposedly some ultra-deep, ultra-connected operator with a godlike grip on the big levers of commerce and policy, but Quinn wondered whether the guy even existed.

  But he wouldn’t be surprised if there was such an animal lurking behind the curtain. Individual worker bees in the Agency hive might be ideologues fighting for truth and God and justice, Quinn had discovered, but the big boys didn’t give half a damn about those things. It was all about greenbacks.

  And he was okay with that. Life was nothing if not the continuous process of consuming other life. But for the chlorophyll, the little guys who turned sunlight into energy, just about every other living thing on the planet stayed alive only by destroying other living things.

  Quinn didn’t kill people to eat them, of course, but he recognized the role of death in life, and he wasn’t too squeamish to do his part.

  In fact, he usually enjoyed it.

  And why not make a living doing what you enjoy? Sure, he’d never tell his grandmother how he snapped bones and sliced throats for a paycheck. But in the dark corners of his soul, he liked who and what he was.

  That made Quinn at least a sociopath, and probably a psychopath.

  He didn’t mind. Everybody has a little space to fill, he thought. If the robber barons found him useful enough to keep him on the payroll, all the better. He was happy to lead an interesting life doing enjoyable – if horrific – things.