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

by Lars Emmerich

  If anything looked even slightly off, he would abort. Easy.

  The escalator disgorged its passengers at just below street level, and El Jerga climbed the short flight of stairs leading out of the man-made cave.

  His senses were on high alert. Years of training gave him eyes that instantly recognized and processed hundreds of things that average eyes never even noticed.

  Like the gringo agent stationed by the tree across the street. El Jerga could tell by the purpose with which the man studied the newspaper in front of his face. Normal men reading the newspaper on their lunch break had a far more desultory air about them. This man was on the job.

  El Jerga’s highly trained eyes also noticed the unmarked gringo sedan stationed half a block away.

  Sure, it was possible that these agents were here for a different purpose.

  But it was also possible that they weren’t.

  His instructions hadn’t included any mention of the extra help. And if they had, he would never have agreed. El Jerga worked alone, always and without exception. El Grande knew this, and El Grande knew to make it clear in no uncertain terms to any third parties he chose to involve. This was nonnegotiable.

  He crossed the street with the pedestrian light, and ambled unhurriedly over to the bench. He sat down next to the agent, and let a couple of quiet moments pass.

  Then El Jerga ripped the newspaper from the agent’s hand. “This is your only warning,” he croaked.

  The man rose and left without a word.

  El Jerga turned and waved to the men stationed in the sedan half a block down the street. The big car’s engine spooled to life, and the sedan roared past El Jerga. He couldn’t see inside the tinted windows as the car passed, but El Jerga was sure that the looks on the men’s faces were not friendly looks.

  He didn’t care. Today wasn’t going to be his day to die. A younger, more foolish El Jerga might have been tempted to put up with the uncoordinated changes to the plan, but he was far too wizened for that. One didn’t survive over a hundred killings by letting eagerness and zeal win out over solid trade craft.

  He spotted the other two agents across the street almost instantly.

  He was in a public place in broad daylight, unlikely to be killed or nabbed. And he was curious. So he decided to watch for a while.

  El Jerga put on his sunglasses, opened the newspaper in his lap, and pretended to read. He wasn’t even looking at the newspaper, though. His sunglasses were fitted with lenses that elevated the sight angle by twenty degrees, so that with his head hunched down toward the paper, he could still see directly in front of his position. His well-trained eyes watched the gringos enter and leave the Department of Homeland Security like busy bees flitting about their hive.

  Now that he had aborted his operation, El Jerga wasn’t certain what he was looking for.

  But he was certain he would know it when he saw it.

  Agh. This miserable town, Sam thought to herself as she exited the Homeland Security building two paces behind Frank Ekman, her boss. It annoyed her the way nobody ever looked at anybody else when they passed on the street. She wasn’t a social butterfly by any stretch, but she believed in giving other residents of Planet Earth – even, gasp, complete strangers – the courtesy of an acknowledgement whenever their paths crossed.

  But there were times when the outrageously annoying self-absorption of the DC citizenry came in handy.

  Because it was unusual for anyone to look at anyone else, catching someone’s eyes on you was almost always significant in Sam’s line of work.

  Like now, for instance. Sam’s eyes hadn’t even adjusted to the daylight when she felt someone else’s gaze on her. It was an energy thing, she had always thought. She could tell when someone beamed the energy of their consciousness her way.

  She turned to find out that her intuition was spot-on.

  In this case, it was a guy in a cleaning outfit, carrying a tray full of cleaning utensils. He didn’t carry himself like a normal cleaner. He didn’t ignore her like a normal DC resident. He didn’t leer like a normal alpha male.

  He looked at her like an agent.

  She grabbed Brock’s arm and charged into the street, causing cars to swerve and honk.

  “What the–” Brock’s question was interrupted by a close call with a large automobile. He had to jump out of the way of a taxi cab who applied his brakes a second too late. Brock saw the cell phone in the driver’s hand, then the irate look on his face, then felt Sam’s strong pull on his arm urging him onward, across the street toward the Department of Agriculture, and east toward the Smithsonian.

  El Jerga watched the other agents watch him. His instructions had been to make contact with a man dressed in cleaning crew garb. That particular agent was still out in front of Homeland, now doing a terrible job staying nonchalant while he tried to steal glances at El Jerga on the bench across the street.

  That particular agent wasn’t the problem. It was the others that were the problem. They were out in force, poorly disguised and distinguishable even to a casual observer.

  It was a mature situation, El Jerga realized. He wasn’t sure whether he was the object of all this attention or not. What he knew for certain, however, is that he had thrown a wrench into someone’s well-oiled plan. He had aborted his mission in the heart of the gringos’ defenses.

  It was the only choice he could have made. He would have words with El Grande over this, that much was clear.

  A flash of red exiting the building caught his eye. A tall woman, gorgeous legs, flame red hair burning in the sunlight. And her tall, athletic male companion at her side.

  Her.

  And him.

  El Jerga saw the other agents turn as one to look at her. Amateurs.

  He looked back at the woman, and realized that she had made him. He watched her charge across the busy afternoon street, boy toy in tow, narrowly escaping an early death by automobile.

  He pulled the newspaper back up by his face, but it was futile. She knew. He could tell by the way she looked at him.

  El Jerga waited until the pair had crossed the street and continued away from him on the sidewalk. Then he rose, folded the newspaper under his arm, and joined the gaggle of agents in pursuit of Special Agent Sam Jameson.

  “Walk quickly but not in a hurry,” Sam said.

  “What about Ekman?” Brock had lost sight of him in the crowd and confusion.

  “Can’t risk dragging him along.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “We’re being stalked. The cleaner outside the Homeland entrance, and that person over there.” She nodded her head diagonally and to the left, pointing toward a bench.

  “The businessman?” Brock asked through clenched teeth.

  “No. The guy with the newspaper.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just do. One more behind us.”

  Brock turned to look, but she gripped his hand and twisted his forearm to keep him pointed straight ahead. “Don’t look. It’s rule number one. Use reflections to see behind you.”

  They walked past a bus stop, and Sam used the reflective plexiglass to confirm her suspicion. “Kid with a Walkman, eyes boring holes in the back of our heads. Newspaper guy is following, too. Turn left here.”

  They ducked into an alcove leading to a Department of Agriculture service entrance. Locked.

  Sam fished into her wallet for a keycard, which she swiped through the receptacle of the electronic door lock. It beeped, turned green, and unlocked.

  “Nice,” Brock said.

  “Sometimes living in a police state comes in handy,” Sam said. “But usually only when you’re the police.” She shut the door behind them. “Unfortunately, there’s now a record of me visiting this building. But that can’t be helped now.”

  They promptly got lost in the labyrinthine building full of clerks. “So this is where they pay farmers to grow inedible corn?” Brock asked.

  “And where they pay them to
grow nothing at all.”

  “This place is huge.”

  “Your tax dollars at work.”

  “Or not.”

  Sam stopped a passerby. “Excuse me, sir. How do we get out of this building?”

  The man pointed toward a long hallway. “Double doors on the left down there. Go to the end of that hallway, then take a right. Find more double doors on your left about halfway down, and go up the stairs. Two flights. Turn left out of the stairwell, then take the third right after you pass the trades and tariffs compliance unit. Can’t miss it.”

  “Sure. Right. Thanks,” Sam said. No help whatsoever. Guess we’ll have to wing it.

  They walked down the hallway and through the first set of double doors. Sam reached into her bag and pulled out a ball cap and sweater for Brock and a scarf for herself. “Rule number two of running for your life,” she said, “is to always leave a place as someone different than the person who arrived.”

  She stooped, rounded her shoulders, and walked with a limp, leaning on Brock’s arm. “We categorize people by more discriminators than we can consciously comprehend. It’s best to change as many features as possible.”

  She practiced her gait as they wound their way through the huge, dark office building, and had perfected a consistently inconsistent shuffle by the time they finally found the front entrance.

  Daylight assaulted their eyes again, and they turned west, back toward Homeland but one full block north. They headed north across the street, this time at a crosswalk, and found themselves in the long, manicured garden of the National Mall. “Slowly,” Sam said. “Gawk like a tourist.”

  “I’m going to miss my flight.”

  “Don’t worry,” Sam said. “Francis will pick up the rebooking fee.”

  “Besides,” she said a few paces later. “If we screw this up, we won’t be in any shape to catch a plane anyway.”

  7

  The sun hurled angry photons at Kittredge from its late afternoon perch, which combined with the humidity and his nerves to produce uncomfortable pools of sweat on the small of his back.

  By his own standards, he had done a poor job preparing for the briefing with the Venezuelan Economic Development Consortium, but it had been good enough for the ambassador. The old politician had seemed distracted, as if he knew the meeting was little more than pretense, and had approved Kittredge’s presentation with uncharacteristically few changes.

  Kittredge had taken a short, brisk walk around the embassy to calm his nerves, a decision his uncomfortable perspiration caused him to regret. It made his scabs itch, and he would have to change his shirt.

  He made his way back to his office inside the embassy, dressed in a clean shirt from the hanger behind the door, straightened his tie, and took several deep breaths.

  Showtime.

  He faked a confidence he didn’t feel as he walked to the embassy garage, an underground parking facility full of the armored cars that conveyed the ambassador and a few select minions around one of the world’s most dangerous cities.

  Kittredge was surprised to see four large security men with sniper rifles gathered in a tight semicircle near the limousines. And he was dismayed to find Fredericks at the center of the semicircle, issuing terse instructions to the armed heavies.

  Kittredge felt a flash of anger. “I thought you said no violence,” he said to Fredericks without preamble.

  The gunmen looked at him curiously, and Fredericks laughed icily. “I’m sorry, Pete. I must have forgotten to ask for your inputs.” The sarcasm was thick. “As a highly trained economist, do you have any further thoughts on the operational arrangements I’ve made?”

  The gunmen sniggered, and Kittredge flushed. “Actually, yes,” he said. “I didn’t agree to be part of a shootout.”

  “Let’s revisit our arrangement,” Fredericks said. “You actually agreed to do whatever the hell I tell you to do. So give your little talk when the time comes, and otherwise, feel free to shut the fuck up. If I decide to put a round through someone’s head, that’s what’s going to happen, regardless of how your inner child feels about it.”

  Stunned and speechless, Kittredge left. He wandered over to join the group of diplomats and functionaries waiting to be seated in their assigned vehicles.

  Quinn arrived seconds later, and pulled Kittredge aside. “You’re riding with me, little buddy.”

  This is going to end poorly, Kittredge thought.

  The motorcade spilled out of the underground parking facility and made its way down the winding road from the US Embassy toward Urdaneta Avenue.

  Holy shit, Kittredge thought. Are we going where I think we’re going?

  “What is going on?” he asked Quinn.

  Quinn chuckled. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

  Familiar buildings passed by the windows, and Kittredge’s alarm grew as the parade of diplomatic vehicles cruised through traffic. His pulse began to pound and his stomach filled with butterflies as he realized what their destination must be.

  El Palacio de Miraflores.

  The workplace of the president of Venezuela.

  It loomed large at the end of Urdaneta Avenue. The motorcade stopped at the gates of the palace.

  Kittredge’s mind racing to connect the dots.

  El Cucaracha.

  Hugo Freaking Chavez?

  “What is this? What are we doing here?” he asked Quinn.

  Quinn smiled. “Every once in a while, a man has the opportunity to alter the course of history,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “As I said, welcome to the big leagues.”

  The motorcade remained stopped at the presidential palace’s front gate for almost fifteen minutes. Kittredge couldn’t see around the vehicles in front to discern the cause of the delay, but he was certain it related to security.

  The picture became clearer seconds later. Large men dressed in black, hands cuffed behind their backs, were paraded slowly along the length of the motorcade from back to front by their Venezuelan captors. The snipers have been arrested, Kittredge realized. And the Venezuelans were making a show of it.

  El Grande knew exactly who the Agency was after. Kittredge’s warning, delivered to the old woman earlier in the afternoon, must have been effective.

  His heart began to pound anew, and a fresh tsunami of adrenaline hit his veins. What if Quinn and Fredericks figure out that I’m the leak? He was certain that they could turn on him in a heartbeat, just like the animals they were.

  His mind raced. He felt an almost desperate need to understand whether Quinn suspected him of warning the VSS. “We’re blown,” he said in a worried whisper.

  Quinn’s face remained calm and relaxed. “Have a little faith, man. This isn’t our first day on the job.”

  “But the snipers–“

  “Seriously. Chill.”

  Had they planned for this? Perhaps the snipers were supposed to be discovered by Venezuelan security personnel. That would mean that his warning to El Grande hadn’t been so effective after all.

  Kittredge bounced his knee up and down nervously as his mind churned, and the motion shook the large armored Suburban.

  Quinn put a huge paw on Kittredge’s knee and squeezed in a vice-like grip. “Get ahold of yourself,” he said. “You’re one of us now, so it’s time you started acting like a pro.”

  There was another uncomfortable possibility, Kittredge realized. “We could be walking into a trap.”

  “Sure. But probably not,” Quinn said. “Governments don’t kill each others’ ambassadors.”

  “Last I checked, I’m not the ambassador,” Kittredge said.

  Quinn chuckled. “Good point. Maybe you’re screwed.”

  “What do you mean, I’m screwed? I thought we were in this together.”

  “Look, Peter. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s working like clockwork so far. Almost boringly predictable.”

  “Are you crazy? Shouldn’t we be turning around and going back to the embassy? They just arrested
the snipers!”

  Quinn shook his head. “Really, dude, relax. We’re going to a friendly little meeting. Stand up and do your dog-and-pony show and click through your slides. Pretend you’re the Fed chairman and spew some of that meaningless bullshit you economists are so in love with, then get back in the car and go home. That’s it. That’s all you have to do.”

  Kittredge looked up at Quinn, into the huge assassin’s feral, mismatched, wolf-like eyes, and felt both calmness and fear. The calmness came from knowing that, on this day at least, he was ostensibly aligned with an eminently competent and endlessly ruthless force of nature. Quinn was an anomaly, a mountain of a man with exquisite training and zero moral compunction, a good man to have on your side in a fight.

  But Kittredge was afraid of what his alliance might make him, how it might already have altered him. He knew that his deal with the devil, as Quinn himself had termed it a little under a week ago, couldn’t possibly leave him untainted. His physical and psychological injuries at the hands of the Agency might someday heal, but he wondered whether his soul wouldn’t be indelibly altered.

  He was also afraid because he knew that his partial alliance with both sides made him equally vulnerable to both sides. Either the VSS or the Agency could suddenly find his services no longer useful. Regardless of which side might make that determination, it was certain to be an unhealthy proposition for Kittredge.

  The standstill at the presidential palace gate finally ended, and the motorcade moved forward slowly.

  They were, it seemed, on their way to do mortal harm to Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela.

  President Hugo Chavez looked much taller on TV. Maybe the camera angle was always engineered to make him larger than life, Kittredge mused during the long, drawn out exchange of official pleasantries that marked the start of the Venezuelan Economic Development Consortium meeting.

  Kittredge took his place in the procession of American embassy personnel as they advanced slowly to shake hands with Chavez and his long line of aides and functionaries. Kittredge recognized a few of the faces in the Venezuelan party from his embassy interactions over the years, but he had never before attended a meeting of such import, and he was working hard to keep his nerves under control.