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

by Lars Emmerich

  Ekman’s eyes locked on hers. He was clearly mulling something over. She returned his gaze without blinking.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I’m sure you saw the cut-rate goon squad waiting for us outside Headquarters,” she pressed.

  “I did,” Ekman said.

  She lifted her shirt to show him the bloody wound in her side. “Your doing?”

  He shook his head, looking tired. “No, Sam. I thought it was something you might have arranged for my benefit.”

  Brock’s jaw clenched. He shot Sam a look that said, just say the word and I’ll clock this jerk.

  “But shooting yourself in the abdomen strikes me as an improbable level of commitment, so I’m rethinking my theory,” Ekman said.

  “The guy had a switchblade,” Sam said. “And come again?” Ekman’s statement – that he thought she might be behind the team of heavies they’d encountered outside of Homeland – caught Sam by surprise.

  “You’ve made a big deal out of not knowing what’s going on,” Ekman said. “For the record, if that’s really true, you’re not the only one in that boat.”

  Sam cocked her head at him. “Frank, do you really expect me to believe that? You and Jarvis are thick as thieves.”

  Ekman snorted and shook his head. “Hardly. But I could accuse you of the same thing,” he said. “All of your running around, all of your outrageous insubordination to Jarvis, this business with the cops – it could all be an elaborate act. You two – or you three,” Ekman looked over at Brock, “could be into something together, and I could be the odd man out.”

  Sam was incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As a heart attack. But like I said, your knife wound has me rethinking things.”

  “Unbelievable,” Sam said. “How about my house getting blown up? Also an act?”

  “The bomb landed in your front lawn, not your house. And you were down in your basement stronghold, on the opposite side of the house, when it hit. So if I were going to engineer a ruse like that, that’s exactly how I’d do it.”

  “Are you serious?” Sam bellowed, awakening the slumbering passenger in the row in front of them. She felt herself becoming blinded by anger. She wanted to throat-punch Ekman.

  A glance at Brock told her that he was thinking along the same lines. The vein in Brock’s neck was bulging, and she could see him working his jaw.

  Ekman looked hard at Sam. It appeared to her as if he were trying to decide something.

  He arrived at his decision. “You asked something earlier,” he said. “You asked, who can you trust when the good guys are out to get you? Well, that’s a great question. And here’s another one just like it: who can you trust when your boss and your employee are crooked?”

  “Francis, I’m not on the take,” Sam said through clenched teeth.

  “Put yourself in my shoes,” Ekman said. “A few things don’t smell quite right in the Bolero investigation–”

  “Which I haven’t heard anything about,” Sam interjected.

  Ekman looked at her. “There’s a reason you haven’t heard much from me about Bolero, Sam. Jarvis has it locked down tighter than a frog’s ass.”

  “Irregularities?” she asked.

  “If Homeland accounts used to fund foreign activity count as ‘irregular,’ then yes.”

  Sam considered this. JIE Associates? Executive Strategies? They had both sent numerous payments to Everett Cooper, the dead Metro cop, and John Abrams, the dead CIA agent. But who funded the companies?

  “Seriously? Which accounts?” she asked.

  “I’m pretty sure of it,” Ekman said. “But I don’t know for certain, because I’ve been frozen out of the investigation. I don’t know the specific accounts.”

  “Then how can you be ‘pretty sure’?”

  “I have a mole,” Ekman said. “Don’t ask who.”

  “Your mole didn’t give you the account information?”

  Ekman shook his head. “Told me I’d have to ask Jarvis directly. Jarvis demanded the reports be delivered to him personally, paper copies only.”

  “You haven’t asked Jarvis about it?”

  “I asked. Jarvis played the need-to-know card.”

  “Frank, I’m having a hard time swallowing all of this. You’ve been in lock-step with Tom since all of this started last week.”

  Ekman snorted. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’ve been working my ass off not to clue Jarvis in on my suspicions.”

  Is this bullshit? Sam wondered. Or is there something to Ekman’s claim? It had never occurred to her that Ekman and Jarvis might not be on the same page.

  She did the thing that made her a fantastic investigator: she put herself in the other guy’s shoes. Sam realized that if Ekman really wasn’t aligned with Jarvis, or privy to Jarvis’ dealings, and if he really didn’t know whether Sam might be involved in something untoward, his behavior toward her really hadn’t been all that unreasonable. Especially if Ekman was trying to tap dance around Jarvis at the same time.

  Never attribute to malice what can just as easily be explained by ignorance. She didn’t recall who said it, but it had proven true enough in her experience over the years.

  Sam looked hard at Ekman. His gaze didn’t waver. Either he’s lying very well, or he’s not lying at all. She thought back to all the times she had put him on the spot over the past couple of years, and recalled the way his nonverbal signals – the blush of his cheeks, two blinks in rapid succession, his inability to hold eye contact – inevitably betrayed his discomfort. She saw none of those signals at the moment.

  “Suppose I suspend my disbelief,” she finally said. “Walk me through your week.”

  Ekman did. By his account, he hadn’t told Jarvis about his trip to the FAA to look over the flight records during the time of the bombing at Sam’s house, but Jarvis had somehow found out about the Fatso Minton connection. Jarvis had ordered Ekman not to disclose anything about it, to anyone at all.

  “So you hung me out to dry because you were ‘just following orders?’” Sam asked, incredulous.

  Ekman shook his head. “No way in hell would I do that. Jarvis told me that he would talk to you personally about the FAA development. I took it as further evidence that you and he were working together on something I wasn’t privy to.”

  “He didn’t tell me anything.”

  “So I gathered, based on our conversation this morning,” Ekman said. “I must have hidden my shock and dismay pretty well.”

  “You blended nicely into the furniture.”

  “I wanted to kick your ass for not standing up for Sam,” Brock interjected.

  “Again, think about it from my perspective,” Ekman said, looking at Sam. “It could all have been an act that you and Tom put on for my benefit.”

  “Do you still think I’m involved in something shady?”

  “Obviously, the Dibiaso link via Brock is problematic.”

  “Asked and answered,” Sam said.

  “You blamed it on coincidence. That’s a reed-thin argument.”

  “But it’s no less true. You said yourself that there were no other connection points between Brock and Dibiaso. And there’s nothing connecting me to Dibiaso at all.”

  “Except your name and address on Abrams’ nightstand, and your picture in the music box.”

  Sweet Jesus. Sam was stunned. How the hell does he know about the music box?

  Ekman smiled at her obvious surprise. “I’m not entirely the inept cubicle-warmer you sometimes mistake me for,” he said. “And you forget that I have access to a lot of DHS fiefdoms.”

  Of course. She shook her head. Her judicious use of numerous burner phones had kept Ekman from locating her, but she should have been more careful with Dan Gable’s end of their communications. It was entirely possible that Ekman had tapped Dan’s home and office lines.

  “And it was such an obvious blunder, not taking better precautions when you talked to Dan, that I thought it was part o
f the ruse.”

  Sam blushed, angry and embarrassed. Such a rookie mistake.

  Ekman looked at Brock. “And your constant pestering was tough to interpret, too.”

  Brock shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t ambiguous.”

  Ekman smiled. “Not in what you said. It was consistent with someone who wanted to dissuade us from connecting you with Dibiaso. But that just made me more confident that you were actually connected with Dibiaso.”

  Brock arched his eyebrows.

  “Until the sixty-ninth phone call,” Ekman went on. “Then I started to rethink my theory about your involvement. Guilty people don’t usually overplay their hand that blatantly.”

  “And what do you think now?” Brock asked.

  “Jury’s still out,” Ekman said. “But I’m showing you an awful lot of leg here. You should take that as a positive sign.”

  Sam looked thoughtful, then nodded. “I do. But as you say, the jury’s still out. What about Jarvis?”

  “My opinion? He’s bent.”

  “Anything you can pin a warrant on?”

  “Nope. Crooked doesn’t equal stupid. He’s frozen me out of the key information.”

  “Lending credence to your theory that he’s on the take,” Brock observed.

  “Yep.”

  Sam looked at Ekman. Trustworthy? Telling the truth? Possibly. But maybe not. On the one hand, Ekman had no poker skills, and the absolute lack of his usual “tells” made her inclined to believe his account. On the other hand, trusting him went against Rule Number One: trust no one.

  She decided to stir the pot a little bit.

  “Dan’s submitting warrant paperwork today,” Sam said.

  “On whom?”

  “You and Jarvis,” Sam lied.

  Ekman didn’t blink. “On what grounds?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “You mean you won’t say,” Ekman corrected.

  Sam nodded. “I won’t say,” she agreed with a smile.

  She watched Ekman carefully. He looked tired, but not worried. That was significant.

  “I suppose being named in a warrant was a likely consequence of staying close to Jarvis,” Ekman said.

  “Or, a likely consequence of getting your hands dirty,” Sam pointed out.

  Ekman laughed. “Or that. Fortunately, my hands aren’t dirty.”

  Sam was inclined to believe him. Conditionally.

  “Tell me more about the thug team in front of DHS,” she said.

  “Not mine. I’m not even convinced they were pros.”

  “The guy with the knife was pretty good,” Sam said.

  Ekman glanced at her side and nodded. “Or maybe you’re slowing down as you get older,” he teased.

  “Me? Never. Still a ninja, even in my thirties.”

  “She kicked my ass yesterday,” Brock offered.

  “Where did you go when we split up?” Sam asked.

  “I saw you guys dive in to the Agriculture building, and I went back inside Homeland,” Ekman said. “I picked up a car from the motor pool and drove to the airport.”

  “Were you followed?”

  “Not that I know of. But my field skills suck right now,” Ekman said.

  “Too much time behind a desk,” Brock said. “I have the same problem.”

  Sam extended her hand. “Frank, I’m not yet positive, but I think we’re in this together. Unless I learn something that takes me in a different direction, I have your back.”

  Ekman eyed her warily. “Such a resounding vote of confidence.” He pondered some more. Then he smiled and shook her hand. “Don’t screw me over.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Unless you screw me over,” Sam said. “Then all bets are off, and God help you.”

  The long flight finally ended. Ekman, Brock, and Sam all exited the plane separately to reduce the likelihood of detection.

  Brock wore a ball cap he bought from a teenager on the plane. The hat’s brim was curled upward at the end, and Brock wore it sideways on his head, along with a pair of aviator sunglasses he never left home without. He strutted off the plane.

  Half a dozen passengers later, Ekman deplaned, undisguised.

  Sam brought up the rear. She wrapped herself in a blanket, wore a dark scarf over her hair, and asked for wheelchair service. She hunched forward in the wheelchair and kept her eyes low as the steward wheeled her up the jetway.

  It didn’t take her long to spot the goon: tall, tough, standing against the far wall, staring intently and looking anything but nonchalant. Clown.

  The spotter looked right past her. It was impossible to tell if he saw her and had simply done a good job of hiding his recognition, but Sam would have been surprised if that were the case. He didn’t give off the vibe of a top-tier professional.

  The three of them took separate cabs, with separate intermediate destinations, and planned to rally at a popular all-night internet café in downtown Caracas at midnight. It didn’t leave them with much time, but the extra precautions were necessary. Caracas was a tough town, and they needed to be careful. Hunters became hunted in the blink of an eye.

  13

  The telephone, loud and insistent, awoke Dr. Javier Mendoza from his slumber. A glance at the clock told him it wasn’t yet midnight on a Friday night. Against his better judgment, he reached for the phone.

  “Doctor Mendoza,” said an authoritative voice on the other end of the line. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Who is this?”

  “Agent First Class Vicente Monteverde. An officer will arrive at your door shortly. Open the door for him. He will display a badge, and ask you to accompany him. Bring your medical kit.”

  What Mendoza wanted to say was that he hadn’t seen patients in years, that he was a research doctor and was certainly not an emergency physician, and that he didn’t have a medical kit to bring along. But Mendoza tended to stammer when he was confused, flustered, or surprised, and he was unable to say those things at the moment. His stream of partial thoughts didn’t communicate his concerns well at all.

  “Dr. Mendoza, please answer the door,” Monteverde said.

  On cue, the doorbell rang.

  Mendoza collected himself en route to the front entrance. He calmly explained that there must be some mistake, that he wasn’t an emergency doctor, that his role as a highly specialized research pathologist was generally incompatible with midnight calls.

  The agent calmly explained that Mendoza should shut up and get in the car.

  Mendoza glanced at the man’s badge, at the sidearm in its holster on his belt, and at the official-looking sedan parked at the curb, and decided compliance would be best.

  “Give me a minute to get dressed.”

  The car ride was short. It ended at a familiar hospital, one Mendoza had visited many times over the years in the course of his work as one of Venezuela’s leading hepatic pathologists.

  The walk through the hospital’s innards was also short, and the agents led Mendoza through a door he had never previously traversed. It led to a well-appointed hallway, still with a hard linoleum hospital floor but flanked by carpeted walls adorned with paintings and pictures, softer lighting, and muzak streaming from overhead speakers.

  So this is where the upper crust goes to die, Mendoza thought.

  “We would like you to examine a patient’s chart,” one of the agents said.

  “This couldn’t have waited until morning?”

  A cold glare gave Mendoza the answer.

  “Symptoms?” Mendoza asked, their footfalls echoing down the empty corridor.

  “Vomiting, fever, abdomen painful to the touch,” the agent recited.

  Mendoza nodded. “Icterus?”

  The agent looked puzzled. “What’s that?”

  “Jaundice. Are the patient’s eyes or skin yellowish?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Dark urine?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to check the charts. Turn here.” The agent poin
ted to a smaller hallway on the left, then to an open doorway into what was clearly a physician’s permanent office. Medical texts sat strewn atop the desk, and a tired-looking resident in scrubs greeted him, folder in hand.

  “Blood tests?” Mendoza asked.

  “Si,” the on-duty resident said. “Elevated ALT.” Alanine aminotransferase was an enzyme; its presence in high concentrations frequently indicated a disease for which Dr. Javier Mendoza’s expertise was entirely appropriate, and frequently necessary.

  “Budd-Chiari syndrome?”

  “Negative. No blood flow obstructions at all.”

  “CT scan?”

  The resident handed still photos to Mendoza, who looked at them briefly before issuing his verdict: “Are his affairs in order?”

  “Hardly,” the resident said. “You’ll understand when you meet him. Come this way.”

  Mendoza followed the resident down the long hallway, past a bank of vending machines, and into an elevator. They rose two floors, then exited, walking quickly past heavily armed security guards posted at the entrance to a hospital room.

  It took Mendoza’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light in the room, and the patient’s face came into focus slowly.

  When it finally did, Mendoza’s jaw dropped, and the hepatic pathologist found himself stammering once again.

  14

  The all-night internet cafe was still humming at just after midnight when Sam arrived. Ubiquitous connectivity wasn’t yet a Venezuelan norm, and there was still a sizable segment of the population whose homes weren’t wired, leading to a steady stream of clientele for the cafe. It didn’t hurt that they sold coffee around the clock, which made the customers just as wired as the computers.

  Sam picked a spot in the back of the cafe and positioned her chair so she could watch both the customer entrance and the employee access to the kitchen, and did her best not to worry about whether Brock and Ekman had encountered any trouble along the way.

  Her own journey from the airport had been uneventful, which was a welcome relief. The wound in her side hurt like hell, and she wasn’t much in the mood for another altercation.