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

by Lars Emmerich

  He was acutely aware that his briefing was a collection of almost-truths, assembled to manipulate Chavez and his administration into permitting American oil companies to plunder Venezuelan oil.

  One man’s almost-truth was another man’s blatant lie, and Kittredge mused darkly that Chavez was likely to throw them all out on their ears after just a few slides praising the “added value of vertical efficiencies” and the “game-changing cost savings made possible by a robust global distribution and refining infrastructure.”

  Pure horse shit. It was almost laughable in its transparent desperation. We just want your damn oil.

  It wouldn’t be the first time that the voracious American energy industry had come pounding on Venezuelan doors, and unlike many of his oil-rich counterparts throughout the world, Chavez was adept at rebuffing gringo overtures. In fact, Chavez was merely the latest in a long line of Venezuelan leaders who had thus far successfully held the northerners at bay.

  It seemed that this success was the motivation for whatever Quinn and Fredericks had in mind for the meeting. Kittredge had no idea what might be in store, but he was certain that if the operation was successful, it would bring a heavy cost for President Hugo Chavez, and possibly for his entire country.

  Kittredge hoped the VSS hadn’t shot their wad arresting the snipers, and had something clever hidden up their sleeves. He found himself rooting for the sworn enemies of his homeland, partially because he was himself a perennial underdog and thus cheered for the little guys as a rule, and partially because he thought Quinn and Fredericks were bastards.

  At the same time, Kittredge hoped that, should the VSS actually win this contest of wits and wills, the evidence wouldn’t point too directly back to his own participation on behalf of El Grande’s guerrilla VSS force. If they connected the dots, Kittredge knew, he would surely die a miserable, painful death, probably at Quinn’s hands.

  Perfunctories and flesh-pressing complete, the meeting began, and Kittredge soon found himself walking woodenly and self-consciously toward the front of the room, his title slide covering the enormous screen.

  He spoke too quickly, he thought, and his meager attempts at humor came off too rehearsed, but no one stopped him with questions or bullshit flags, and his uncomfortable moment in the spotlight came to an end soon enough.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kittredge,” President Hugo Chavez said. Kittredge had always thought Chavez’s voice was equal parts erudite and gangster, and it felt surreal to Kittredge to hear the imposing, menacing voice of Venezuelan defiance to gringo exploitation speak his own name.

  “We sincerely appreciate your work on behalf of Venezuelan and American partnership,” Chavez said.

  Kittredge blushed fiercely. He could have sworn that Chavez had a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. He was certain that Chavez’s words and tone held innuendo. He knows? Perhaps it was the exaggerated self-consciousness of guilt, but Kittredge couldn’t help but think that Chavez was aware of his multiple intrigues.

  He felt sweat forming on his brow, and hoped furtively that his discomfort wasn’t too evident. Jesus, what a mess I’m in, he thought as he took his seat.

  “But as I have made clear on many occasions in the past, I do have some concerns,” the president intoned, looking pointedly at the US Ambassador.

  “Yes, Mr. President, we are aware of your concerns, and hope to address them adequately,” the ambassador responded.

  “Yes, so you have said many times,” Chavez continued, impatience creeping into his voice. “But I am afraid that my concerns are quite fundamental, born of the demonstrated economic, political, and military aggression of which your country has been repeatedly guilty, both on this continent and others around the globe.”

  The ambassador shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. President, we always strive to create mutually beneficial partnerships with our allies and business partners the world over, and we are proud of our demonstrated commitment to human dignity and the right of self-determination–”

  Chavez’s harsh laugh cut off the ambassador’s response. “Provided this so-called self-determination aligns rather precisely with your own imperial ambitions. The moment it wavers, you abandon your precious democratic principles in favor of the ancient rules of power and coercion.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid I must vigorously disagree with your assessment–”

  “Yes, you must,” Chavez cut him off. “Because to do otherwise would be to admit the largest hypocrisy in modern history. Shall we speak of Guatemala? Panama? Cuba? Bolivia? Of the unfortunate accidents that befell their brave leaders when they resisted your greedy advances?”

  “Mr. President, there was never any relationship between those tragic events and the government of the United States of America. We are not a rogue nation of spies and thugs. We champion democracy, the rule of law, and the sanctity of individual liberties.”

  Chavez shook his head and donned a wan smile. “And yet again today, your actions make liars of you.”

  He nodded at an officer in the back of the room. A door opened, and an armed guard brought forward the four large American snipers Kittredge had seen in the embassy parking garage an hour earlier. Their hands were bound by cuffs, and their ankles were chained together.

  “Your men and their sniper rifles were deployed in our beloved city as instruments of peace, democracy, and liberty, I presume?” Chavez crossed his arms and sat back in his chair.

  A stifling, uncomfortable silence descended on the room like a heavy, damp blanket. All eyes, American and Venezuelan alike, turned to the ambassador. He looked old and tired.

  “I am afraid that our concern for safety has communicated the wrong message,” he said slowly.

  “I disagree,” Chavez said. “Sadly, your actions have communicated a truthful message, I think.” He rose, and with him, every member of the Venezuelan contingent.

  Holy shit, this is coming apart at the seams, Kittredge thought. He looked quickly between the two prominent figures in the room, and couldn’t stop himself from turning to Fredericks and Quinn for some clue as to whether this uncomfortable exchange was part of the plan. Or maybe it was the wheels coming off of the plan.

  The two CIA agents’ faces held inscrutable expressions. If they were surprised at the turn of events, they certainly didn’t show it.

  “Mr. President,” the ambassador said, speaking loudly to recapture the room’s attention, “may I please extend my personal and official apology for this gross misrepresentation of our intentions and sentiments?”

  Chavez turned to face the ambassador, gazing upward to regard the tall American. His eyes searched the ambassador for a long moment.

  Then they communicated tacit permission to continue.

  The ambassador took the cue. “My tenure here in your beautiful country has included many difficult moments, and to my great embarrassment and chagrin, this meeting has become one of those difficult moments.”

  Chavez nodded.

  “But it is my sincere hope,” the ambassador continued, “that this unfortunate misunderstanding might mark an inflection point in our relationship together, a turn toward renewed trust and partnership.”

  Chavez smiled. “It could certainly be such a turning point,” he said in a low tone, “if this were at all a misunderstanding. But I find it to be yet another symptom of an inescapable truth. Your interest is not in our best interest.”

  Chavez took a step toward the door, and his entourage made ready to follow, but the US Ambassador placed his hand on Chavez’s arm.

  The Venezuelan president stopped, sizing up the tall American.

  The ambassador reached into his pocket, and pulled out a gleaming, cylindrical object. “Mr. President,” he said in a grave tone, “on behalf of the three hundred million men, women and children of the United States of America, may I at least present you with a small token of our gratitude and goodwill?”

  The room waited in awkward anticipation while President Chavez considered.

  After a s
hort eternity, he nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly, and the beginnings of a knowing smile crept across his face.

  Kittredge wondered whether Chavez had something up his own sleeve. Perhaps another result of the warning Kittredge had sent through clandestine channels to El Grande.

  Or, perhaps Chavez simply felt he had cornered the Americans, and was relishing the moment. It was impossible to tell.

  The ambassador opened his hand to reveal an exquisitely crafted writing pen. “Those are your initials, sir, written in twenty-four carat gold, symbolic of the untarnished and radiant partnership we hope to create together with you and your great nation. May we move forward together toward greater understanding and cooperation.”

  Chavez hesitated, and looked at his head of security. After receiving a nod of affirmation, Chavez took the pen. He held it carefully, turning it over and examining its craftsmanship.

  “I thank you for your generosity,” he finally said. “And it would please me greatly if your words prove true. As a starting point, I hope it comes to pass that our two great nations grow to respect each other’s sovereignty and dignity.”

  The ambassador produced a black rectangular pen case from his other jacket pocket, opened it to reveal the empty interior, and pushed it toward Hugo Chavez, holding it in both hands.

  Chavez took the invitation and placed the pen in its plush accommodations inside the beautifully crafted pen case, using his thumb and forefinger to snap the pen into its place, feeling the thick, soft fabric as the pen settled deep into its groove along the length of the case.

  The ambassador and the president shook hands to a smattering of tentative applause, which grew to a halfhearted clatter before dying out altogether.

  Kittredge glanced at Fredericks. Perhaps Kittredge imagined it, but he was certain that Fredericks’ face held the beginnings of a smug smile.

  8

  El Jerga watched two of the agents follow his quarry inside the large Agriculture building, pausing to gain access by swiping a badge in front of the electronic lock. He surmised that it would be far too risky to try to follow the gringos inside. He had no badge to get in, and an altercation was likely, which would probably take more time than simply going around the outside.

  So that’s what he did. But he had underestimated the building’s size. It was as big as a city block. He broke into a jog on his way toward the tourist destinations on the other side of the edifice.

  He turned his reversible jacket inside out, donned a fedora, put headphones in his ears, and intentionally added a little more spring to each step of his gait. In his mind, he heard echoes of his dead uncle: if you can’t change everything about your appearance, you should at least change a few things.

  As El Jerga rounded the corner onto Jefferson Avenue, his trained eye took in the mass of tourists, many moving in gaggles behind guides brandishing brightly colored parasols. If the pair had made it through the bowels of the edifice and emerged into the mass of humanity, it would be extremely difficult to find them. The job would be made far easier by the girl’s bright red hair, but she would undoubtedly have made adjustments to hide that aspect of her appearance, if she was half as competent as El Grande had said she was.

  El Jerga knew that the redhead and her tall male companion had probably emerged from the huge building well before he had made his way around it, and the odds were slim that he would be able to catch sight of them. But he might catch a lucky break. And I suddenly have time on my hands, he thought, shaking his head again at the gaggle of amateurish goons running surveillance around what was supposed to be a very quiet operation.

  He scanned the length of the mall, putting himself in his quarry’s shoes. It would be easy to melt into a group of tourists, but such groups moved very slowly. Their disguises would have to be very good to avoid detection so close to the locus of their initial discovery by the large surveillance team.

  No, they would need to move away from the area more quickly than that, El Jerga decided. Doing so inconspicuously wouldn’t be all that hard. They would probably move unhurriedly with the crowds while searching for faster conveyance.

  Taxicabs were probably out of the question. Hailing a cab drew attention, and it often took many attempts. It would be far too conspicuous.

  So they would probably take public transportation. There were two bus stops within three hundred meters of the corner, one on each side of the boulevard, and it looked like maybe a third bus stop was situated further down the mall on the far side of the street.

  There was also a metro entrance nearby, just a few steps from the grand, stately entrance to the Department of Agriculture. Too obvious, El Jerga concluded, and they would have to get lucky with the train timing, because the agents who pursued them through the building would undoubtedly try the subway station first.

  That left the bus stops, El Jerga surmised. It would again require a bit of a lucky break with the bus arrival time, but it was probably their best option for escape.

  But which stop? Each was about equidistant from the large building’s front entrance, and none of them appeared any more crowded than the others, so there didn’t appear to be an inherent physical advantage to choosing any particular one.

  It’s down to the timing, El Jerga realized. He made his way to the nearest bus stop, scanning carefully for signs of the pair. Finding nothing but old people and hipsters, he turned his attention to the bus schedule posted on the kiosk wall.

  El Jerga studied the routes and time charts carefully. It was tempting to get in a hurry in situations like this one, but El Jerga’s experience had taught him that a slow and methodical approach was almost always fastest. After a full minute’s study of the schedule, he concluded that the next bus would arrive at the stop across the street.

  He didn’t cross immediately. Instead, he waited with the crowd on the eastbound side of the boulevard, but studied the commuters at the bus stop across the way, on the westbound side.

  They won’t be standing together, he coached himself. If anything gives them away, it will be their focus.

  His intuition was correct. He felt the intensity of her probing eyes from across the street.

  She had done a remarkable job of altering her appearance, especially an appearance as striking as hers, but it wasn’t enough.

  The eyes always give people away. Having made her, he turned away, watching the street corner for the arrival of the bus.

  He heard it before he saw it, and studied its movement as it rounded the corner. He judged the speed of the bus, concluding that the light at the crosswalk would align perfectly for his purposes.

  El Jerga folded into the throng of pedestrians crossing the street with the light, arriving just in time to join the tail end of the line of passengers climbing aboard the westbound bus.

  He hadn’t yet spotted her companion, but that didn’t concern him.

  El Jerga was certain that he was in line directly behind Special Agent Sam Jameson.

  Sam climbed aboard the bus and made her way to the back. She was careful to choose a side-facing seat tucked behind a bulkhead plastered with advertisements, which minimized her exposure to prying eyes boarding the bus.

  She was nervous. Not because she was being pursued – that was becoming routine for her. Rather, she was anxious because she and Brock had parted ways for the moment. Traveling together out of the hot zone of surveillance activity raised their profile to an unacceptable level, and they’d made the difficult but necessary decision to take separate routes away from DHS headquarters and the nest of agents into which they’d apparently blundered.

  They had known that their trip to Homeland entailed a degree of risk, and the time they’d spent getting their act together after talking with Jarvis was time the opposition had apparently made good use of.

  She cursed their bad luck. If things had gone according to plan, they’d have been in and out of the Homeland building in less than half an hour.

  But Fatso Minton’s grisly murder wasn’t p
art of Sam’s calculations, and his brutal death required her to scrap her plan entirely. She’d caught a lucky break with Dan scoring a location hit on someone in Dibiaso’s network, but following that late-breaking lead had necessitated a trip to Caracas. Making the Venezuela arrangements had slowed them down, and she had spent far longer inside the DHS building than was healthy.

  Still, Sam was surprised by how quickly the net had closed in around her and Brock.

  It was tempting to assume that Jarvis was behind the rapid appearance of the surveillance team, but that was just one of many possibilities. Lots of Homeland people had seen her and Brock, and they’d traveled directly from their home, so any of the DC Metro police goons still on the Venezuelan payroll had ample opportunity to pick up their trail. It could have been any one of dozens of different people who called in the spy team.

  The surveillance agents were loose and sloppy, and Sam had made them almost instantly. That was a clue into the resources available to whoever was pursuing her, but it wasn’t a dead giveaway.

  The odds didn’t favor it being an Agency team. They were usually sharp. Not infallible, of course, but at least competent.

  There were various elements within the eleven agencies that DHS had recently absorbed which had surveillance and “direct action” teams of various skill levels. But if the team in front of the DHS building belonged to any of those agencies, they had certainly brought their junior varsity to this particular game.

  It was almost certainly not anyone from the DHS Counterintelligence unit. She knew them all. And while they weren’t all great agents, they were better than the clubfooted team of gawking amateurs she’d just shaken from her tail.

  That led her to doubt that it was Jarvis pulling the strings, because as a deputy director, he had access to much better talent. But ruling out Jarvis was a thought she entertained very cautiously. It could very well be that Jarvis couldn’t afford to reveal himself in the process of keeping tabs on her. It would have been a dead giveaway if Jarvis were to use any of the top-tier assets on his roster.