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

by Lars Emmerich

  Kittredge was taken aback by the outright lie.

  His face must have betrayed his shock, because Quinn was looking daggers at him. It felt like Quinn’s crazy, mismatched wolf eyes were boring through him. Kittredge shuddered. Pure evil in there, he thought, working hard to restore passivity to his own expression.

  Fredericks’ nasal voice droned on. “We’re thankful that Mr. Kittredge has volunteered to brief the economic data during our meeting this afternoon.”

  What the hell? Kittredge hadn’t volunteered to brief anything to anyone.

  All eyes in the room turned to him, and he felt his face flush. He managed a wan smile and a small, nervous wave.

  “He’s one of our best,” Ambassador Wolfe said, a mostly-genuine smile on his face. “Pete, let’s go over the data afterwards.”

  It’s Peter, you ass. You’ve only known me for three years. “Sounds great, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Fredericks continued. “Really, the point of the whole thing is to show the economic benefits of the scale our companies can bring to the oil extraction operation here in Venezuela. We think the Venezuelans will ultimately be receptive, once they see how much they stand to gain through increased efficiency. And the infrastructure benefits go without saying.”

  Kittredge would never have guessed that Fredericks could have conjured or even memorized such a statement. Perhaps the hard-boiled gumshoe routine and the gruff exterior were just an act, meant to disguise a much sharper intellect than Fredericks had revealed during any of their earlier interactions.

  Impressive.

  Spooky.

  Just like Quinn. The giant of an agent could change in a flash between his bumpkin and philosopher affectations, and the vacillations between his normal-guy and murderous psychopath personas were lightning fast.

  The meeting at the embassy concluded uneventfully, though Kittredge suddenly found himself obligated to attend a mid-afternoon appointment with the ambassador to cover the materials for the briefing with the Venezuelan Economic Development Consortium. The consortium met at four thirty. Nothing like off-the-cuff diplomacy. Maybe that’s why it always seems to end up in violence.

  Kittredge was none too pleased at the prospect of preparing and delivering a briefing, as there wasn’t much emotional or intellectual space in his life at the moment to accommodate such a large responsibility on such short notice, but he reasoned that he eventually had to dive back into his life as an economic advisor to the ambassador. Might as well be now, he thought as the meeting broke up.

  Quinn shook his hand on the way out. “Pleasure to meet you this morning, Mr. Kittredge,” he said loudly.

  Kittredge looked askance at the feral-eyed assassin. In truth, Kittredge had met Quinn just shy of a week earlier, when the giant sociopath had taken a belt sander and a bag of salt to his lower back to extort what amounted to an oath of lifetime fealty to the Agency. Before Kittredge could voice the biting sarcasm that popped to mind, Quinn’s grip tightened like a vice around his hand.

  Kittredge took the hint. “Pleasure to meet you. And Mister Santos, too,” he said with an edge to his voice.

  Quinn winked and joined the flow of embassy functionaries and CIA operatives moving out the conference room door.

  Kittredge had a solid afternoon of work ahead of him preparing for the briefing he was apparently on the hook to deliver. He still had no idea who his audience might be, other than it comprised a vague collective the embassy people referred to as the Venezuelan Economic Development Consortium.

  There was something else on his mind, too.

  I’ve got to warn El Grande.

  He knew that the CIA wanted to kill someone in the VEDC, a person they called El Cucaracha. Kittredge had no idea who that might be, although during a recent conversation, Fredericks had thrown out a first name: Hugo.

  There were probably half a million Venezuelans named Hugo, so that wasn’t a terribly specific clue. And as far as Kittredge could tell, membership on the VEDC was a revolving door kind of thing on the Venezuelan side, with random local luminaries making haphazard cameo appearances at various events.

  None of that information had helped him narrow down who Fredericks’ target might be.

  To make matters worse, Quinn and Fredericks had revealed absolutely nothing about the method of assassination, other than to say that there wouldn’t be any violence. Puzzling. Not to mention contradictory by definition, Kittredge thought.

  This was all of more than passing interest to Kittredge, beholden as he was to each of the involved parties.

  No drama there, he thought wryly.

  He made his way through embassy security, and wound out onto Calle los Estanques, toward the unfortunately-named Cafe Ole. It was a long walk for lunch, particularly given the mediocre cafe fare, but lunch was only a peripheral purpose. He would have preferred to summon a taxi, but doing so would have signaled a different thing entirely.

  He ordered patacones, or fried green plantains, and a creamy lasagna known as pasticho Venezolano. Far too rich for an afternoon of intellectually involved work, Kittredge realized with a sigh, but El Grande’s contact instructions had been very clear. La Tizanda, a sickeningly sweet fruit smoothie, rounded out the order.

  As he took the order, the waiter spoke the magic words: “I hope you enjoy this meal very much, Señor.”

  Kittredge delivered his scripted reply. “I have no doubt that I will.”

  The waiter nodded, then disappeared into the kitchen.

  He returned moments later with Kittredge’s order. Tucked beneath the small plate of patacones was a small slip of paper. It contained an address, which Kittredge guessed would take five minutes to reach on foot.

  He ate quickly, feeling the rich, starchy foods expand in his belly. He’d have to talk to El Grande about a healthier order next time. He paid cash and left, walking as quickly as the gut bomb would allow.

  Kittredge reached the specified apartment building, and took the stairs to find the right apartment number. He knocked four times.

  He heard footsteps within, then a frail female voice: “Are you the television repairman?”

  It was the question he expected to hear. “No, but I passed him on the way up,” he said.

  The door opened to reveal an old Venezuelan lady, hunched at the waist and again just below the neck. She waved him in with a bony hand, tottered over to a radio, and turned the music on to cover their conversation.

  Kittredge cringed. He had always thought that Latin music was a caricature of itself, and being constantly subjected to omnipresent, droning beats beneath melodramatic wailing was one of the few things he truly hated about living in Venezuela.

  The old woman motioned him toward a chair. He sat. She pulled a second chair close to his and settled slowly next to him, leaning her ear toward him. He spoke slowly and clearly into her ear, suppressing his revulsion at the stale, senescent air that surrounded the ancient woman. “For El Grande: Agency planning unknown action against codename El Cucaracha, first name Hugo, during VDEC meeting today,” he said.

  She repeated his message three times, perfectly each time. He had no idea who the woman was, but her mind was in far better shape than her gnarled body.

  It was all very simple. Treason usually was. Uncomplicated, but definitely not easy. While the Central Intelligence Agency had encouraged Kittredge to maintain an ongoing relationship with the Venezuelan Special Services, Fredericks and Quinn had warned him in no uncertain terms about divulging operational details. Routine check-in, he would tell Quinn. It would have looked suspicious if he hadn’t gone. Something along those lines.

  “El Grande thanks you,” the old woman spoke into his ear.

  He nodded. “Give my regards to Maria.”

  The woman gave him a knowing smile. “Of course.”

  3

  “Caracas, then,” Brock said. “Any chance we can pack a few things first?”

  “Better to buy what we need than risk a trip back home,” Sam said. �
�Now that we’ve put our cards on the table with Jarvis, we have to watch our backs even more closely. Either we’ve cleared the air or doubled our exposure, depending on how big a bastard he is.”

  Dan grunted his assent, and Brock nodded.

  “I’ll get us booked,” Sam said.

  Dan protested. “Not a good idea to leave transportation trails back to you, boss.”

  “I agree,” she said. “That’s why this particular trail will lead back to our new human shield.”

  Dan nodded with a knowing smile.

  Sam sent Dan back to his office with a task: hack into Jeff Jensen’s computer account. She wanted to know what Jensen may have discovered before his untimely death a few days earlier.

  Then she got to work. She inserted her government ID card into her desktop computer’s Common Access Card receptacle. She typed in her personal identification number and watched the blue whirly disk spin on the screen while the ancient Dell paperweight shuffled electrons around inside at glacial speed.

  No fewer than seven warning panes popped open, ranging from threats of dire consequences for attaching portable storage media to the government system, notices that use of the computer system implied consent to search, notices of an overdue flu shot, and even a high-wind warning from Wednesday.

  Sam shook her head. She had no idea why a windowless building full of clerks needed real-time warning of gusty winds. Each inane announcement required her acknowledgement, after which the spinning blue asshole, as she called it, returned again to mock her impatience.

  I hate this freaking place, she thought for the thousandth time.

  She stayed at Homeland because it was on a very short list of places where she could pursue her calling without getting thrown in jail. She loved hunting down the world’s bastards. It was okay when justice involved a jail sentence for them. It was also okay when it involved a more permanent solution.

  Sam clicked around until she found what she was looking for: Francis Ekman’s government travel credit card information.

  In what was universally regarded as a sweetheart deal struck between the bankers running the credit card companies and the ex-bankers running the federal treasury, all government travel expenditures were to be accomplished using a commercial credit card. Individuals were personally liable for all expenses until the government got good and ready to reimburse them, and may the gods help you if you didn’t fill out your forms properly.

  It was a huge hassle, and Sam didn’t blame Ekman for sloughing the task off on her for several of his recent trips. She had resented playing travel agent on his behalf, and had given him an earful, but she had exacted instant revenge by storing all of his information for a rainy day.

  Like today.

  She booked three one-way trips to Caracas on his card. One was for a man and a woman pulled from the inactive alias list in the Homeland database. The unused legends had the names Thomas Brownstein and Tricia Leavens. Thomas was to fly to Caracas via Charlotte, while Tricia’s reservations were for a direct flight from DC.

  She booked Francis Ekman’s ticket as well, using his own name and following the same itinerary as Tricia’s. She placed Ekman in the seat directly in front of hers. Better to keep an eye on him.

  She didn’t book him under an alias for a simple reason. She wanted to advertise his presence, either as deterrent or invitation to any bastards lurking within Homeland’s ranks. Sometimes you had to stir things up in order to get them to settle down.

  It took well over half an hour to book the flights, the unfortunate consequence of a bespoke multimillion dollar travel system commissioned by Homeland. The system had half the functionality of the online tools already available to consumers, and it worked at a tectonic pace, when it wasn’t down for weekly maintenance. It was one more reason Sam disliked the lumbering, incompetent, insipid government she served.

  By the time she had finished, Brock was snoring on the couch in her office. She printed the tickets, then nudged him awake.

  She picked up her phone and punched the hot key for Ekman’s office. “Hi, Patty. Just wanted to let Frank know that we’re leaving in an hour.”

  Brock heard Patty fuss in the background.

  “Sorry, can’t say where we’re going. Security and all.”

  More fussing.

  “Sorry, Patty, I also can’t say whether he’ll need an overnight bag.” Sam made some sympathetic noises, then hung up.

  She led Brock back to the elevators. They went down to the building’s dank basement, and wound their way through the warren of dark cement hallways to what Homeland agents euphemistically referred to as the Travel Agency.

  Its formal name was the Field Documents Branch, and it was one of the few government offices that knowingly employed convicted criminals. Forgers, to be exact. They’d all served their sentences and subsequently chosen to use their powers for good rather than evil. Or, as they often joked, they wanted to work where they could do some serious damage to humanity.

  “Hey, Ron,” Sam said as she recognized a familiar face. “Got a few minutes?”

  “Anything for you, Sam,” he said.

  “It’s not Sam today. Meet Tricia Leavens,” she said. Then she looked at Brock and said, “This handsome fellow is Thomas Brownstein. We just need you to work your magic for us. And I’ll apologize in advance that we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Everyone is,” Ron said. He cross-checked the aliases in the database of unassigned legends, then checked Brock’s military identification card.

  “Pretty unusual for a military guy to get a Homeland alias,” Ron observed. “Usually some extra paperwork involved.”

  Sam smiled. “Usually,” she said with a wink. “But there’s not always time for that.”

  “Right,” Ron said. “Sometimes you gotta get out there and crack skulls, and catch up on the trivia later.”

  Sam loved her occasional interactions with people like Ron, people who understood the bigger picture. Without them, nothing at the Department of Homeland Security would ever get done.

  Ron motioned Sam and Brock toward the camera, and they took turns posing for their ID photos. Twenty minutes later, they each had a driver’s license, passport, library card, credit and ATM cards, miscellaneous receipts to stuff in their wallets for authenticity, and a fact sheet detailing their fake lives.

  All of the items looked worn and used, an extremely important touch often overlooked by amateurs.

  The fact sheets were made out of a strange paper that felt thin and brittle.

  “The usual routine,” Ron said. “Study the legends until you can recite them in your sleep. Then you can either burn the paper or eat it. But probably not both.”

  Sam chuckled. “Thanks, Ron.”

  “And I’m required to harass you with the usual warning that you’ll have to account for all of your expenditures at the end of the op, blah blah blah.”

  Sam smiled. Ron’s healthy perspective on the bullshit was not unexpected, given his background.

  “You’re also supposed to turn in your personal credentials to me,” he said.

  “Yeah, silly us. We must have left them in our other pants,” she said.

  Ron winked. “I know how that goes. Never know when you’ll find yourself with a strong need to be someone else. If there’s an audit this afternoon, I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

  Sam gave Ron a hug and thanked him, and she and Brock left the field documents office.

  “I love this spy shit,” Brock said. “Where do we get our ninja stars and exploding pens?”

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “We spend all our money hiring people to write emails to each other.”

  They rode the elevator back up to her floor, and made their way to Dan’s office. They found him hunched over his computer keyboard, glancing quickly between his two large screens at windows full of what looked to Sam like machine language.

  “Can you see the Matrix?” Brock quipped.

  “I like the blonde,” Dan
said. Esoteric movie quotes were apparently a universal guy thing, Sam thought.

  “Hate to interrupt the fraternity boy handshake,” she said, “but have you made any progress working on the Jensen thing?”

  “Sure have. It was actually pretty easy. I was able to convince the network administrator that I had a legitimate need to see Jeff’s files.”

  “Unheard of,” Sam said.

  “Well, I also bribed her. She’s a big chocolate lover. Emphasis on big.”

  “Good work. Learn anything?”

  Dan described how Jeff’s coworkers had slowly taken over his crime scene investigation case work since his death, and how one of them had commented on a set of partial fingerprints. The other CSI had received the results, but was unable to decipher the origin of the partial prints.

  “Gotta be the partials from the music box at Phil’s,” Sam said. Dan nodded. Sam had illegally lifted the music box from Phil Quartermain’s apartment moments after discovering that the DC Metro investigator’s throat had been slit. Homeland CSI Jeff Jensen had agreed, after Sam applied the right leverage, to run forensic tests on the music box outside of normal channels.

  Jensen’s examination had produced a set of partial prints that couldn’t be immediately matched, but Jensen had apparently entered the partials into the database for further analysis. The mainframe did in a matter of days what it would have taken several million man-hours to do manually: overlay the fingerprint fragments in hundreds of different locations and orientations on top of every individual fingerprint in the database, until it found a match within a reasonable confidence. It was a grueling process that took enormous computing power, and it didn’t always result in a match.

  In this case, Dan explained, the computer had found a match. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the record is sealed.”

  “Balls,” Sam said.

  “That was my reaction, too.”

  “So we’re dead in the water? I mean, opening sealed records requires months of haggling with lawyers and other bottom feeders.”