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

by Lars Emmerich

  Kittredge’s eyes focused lazily on the tile pattern on the hallway floor, and he thought it seemed beautiful, sublime even. Why hadn’t he noticed this lovely, amazing tile work before? He really needed to slow down, and take time to enjoy the little things.

  That was his last conscious thought.

  16

  This must be a dream, Kittredge thought to himself as he opened his eyes. Fiery green eyes blazed back at him, close to his face, staring intently.

  She’s beautiful, he thought. A sign from the heavens to give up boys forever? He chuckled. He heard maniacal laughter, which couldn’t possibly be his own, but it stopped as soon as he stopped chuckling to himself.

  The woman said something, and the words were unintelligible but very funny-sounding. He laughed, and heard the maniacal laughter again, obviously from someone else, but once again it stopped when he stopped laughing.

  He felt a couple of sharp slaps on his cheeks, bringing focus to his consciousness, and the woman’s sexy, husky voice began to form recognizable words.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He lolled groggily, until another sharp slap made him alert and fully awake.

  “Name,” she repeated.

  Not this again, Kittredge thought to himself.

  He formed the intention to stand and walk away. It was then that he realized he was hogtied, his hands and feet tied together behind his back. He thrashed momentarily, but each tug of his arms or legs caused ligature burns on his wrists.

  “Tell me your name,” the woman repeated again. He looked at her, noticing her flame-red hair for the first time, thinking again how beautiful she was. Her face wasn’t angry, but neither was it patient.

  “Peter Kittredge,” he said, surprised at the way his voice croaked. “Where am I? Who are you?”

  “Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Special Agent Sam Jameson. Who is Avery Martinson?”

  Kittredge felt disoriented, but less frightened. He’d never heard of a CIA agent going by the title “Special Agent,” so he felt the odds of having to endure another torture routine were reduced significantly.

  “My head feels terrible. What did you inject me with?”

  “A little over-the-counter cocktail from an all-night pharmacy. Nothing to worry about,” Sam said. “Avery Martinson. Who is he?” she asked.

  “I’ve never heard that name.”

  Kittredge saw her nod at someone outside his field of vision. He felt a large boot press down between his shoulder blades, then felt a violent tug on the rope binding his wrists and feet together. He yelped as his back arched too far in the wrong direction.

  “No time for games, Pete,” Sam said.

  It’s déjà vu all over again, Kittredge thought. “My name is Peter. And I’ve never heard that name.”

  “But you’ve talked to him on the phone,” Sam said.

  “I really doubt it.”

  “There’s a cell phone inside your apartment. It’s still turned on at this moment. You used that phone to talk to Avery Martinson.”

  “I think you’re mistaken. I carry my phone with me everywhere,” Kittredge said.

  She nodded again to the person behind him, and Kittredge heard the rustling of feet on pavement, then felt a hard pull on his rope again.

  “Come on, people. Take it easy,” Kittredge said after the pain subsided. “I’m on the payroll at the State Department.”

  “Interesting,” Sam said. “But I don’t see how it’s directly relevant to the phone call to Arturo Dibiaso.”

  Holy shit, Kittredge thought. Dibiaso.

  “Nice poker face,” Sam laughed. “Tell me about your friend Arturo, and your recent conversation.”

  “I’ve never spoken to Arturo Dibiaso.”

  Sam looked dubious, and nodded to the person behind Kittredge again.

  “Wait!” Kittredge said. “Don’t pull on that rope again. I’m shooting straight with you.”

  “Sure doesn’t sound like it,” said a man’s voice from behind Kittredge’s back.

  “Go on,” Sam said.

  “I’ve never met Dibiaso, but we’ve corresponded by text.”

  “Frequently?”

  “Don’t you have my phone records?”

  “No. I have records for a burner account. And it was definitely a phone call, not text messages. The call was from one disposable phone to another one, owned by Dibiaso.”

  Charley, Kittredge realized. She must be talking about his burner. Kittredge had found it during one of his many attempts to return his apartment to some semblance of order. He was sure the phone was an artifact from another relationship in Charley’s life, but Kittredge had assumed it was a sexual relationship.

  “I think you’re on to my boyfriend’s phone,” Kittredge said. “Get my phone from my pocket, and you’ll see that I’ve only texted Dibiaso. We’ve never spoken.”

  Sam thought about it. “So both you and your boyfriend have a relationship with Arturo Dibiaso?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Charley worked with Arturo.”

  “What does Charley do now?”

  “Huh?”

  “You used the past tense. You said that Charley worked with Dibiaso. You didn’t say that they work together now.”

  Kittredge grew quiet, pensive.

  “Peter,” Sam said, “you have the look of a man who’s thinking about telling a lie. I’d recommend against it.”

  He looked at her closely. “You said you’re a special agent. What agency?”

  “Homeland.”

  “Doesn’t Homeland own the CIA?”

  Sam laughed. “One can be forgiven for thinking that. We own just about everything else. But no, Homeland doesn’t own the CIA. Honestly, I don’t think anyone in the government actually ‘owns’ the Agency.”

  “I belong to them,” Kittredge blurted. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt he could trust the hot redhead, even though she was currently giving him a wire-brushing.

  Sam looked at him, squinted her eyes, and cocked her head to the side. “That was an interesting choice of words. You mean you’re on the payroll?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Kittredge said.

  “Split the hairs for me,” Sam said.

  “I’m not getting paid. But I’ve struck a deal.”

  “Kiss your soul goodbye,” said the man’s voice.

  Kittredge strained to see the voice’s source. He glimpsed a tall, athletic frame and a handsome face.

  “You make me nervous back there. Can you untie me?” Kittredge said. “I’m playing ball and I won’t go anywhere.”

  Sam shook her head. “Sorry. We’re not sure we have all the players straight, and we always hedge our bets. Tell me more about the Agency. What do you do for them?”

  “I just started working for them. I don’t do anything, really.”

  Sam looked dubious. Kittredge saw her shoot a glance at the man behind him.

  “I mean, I had to do this briefing, but that was really just part of my job at the embassy.”

  “Do tell.”

  Kittredge told them about the recent meeting between the US ambassador and President Hugo Chavez. They pressed him for details on Fredericks, Quinn, and the nature of Kittredge’s relationship with them.

  “So you’re their bitch, for free?” Sam asked.

  Kittredge grimaced. “Pretty much.”

  “So you’re in trouble.”

  “I’m not in trouble. I have immunity.”

  “From prosecution?”

  Kittredge nodded.

  “For what?” Sam asked.

  It was getting very uncomfortable. Kittredge had no desire to admit his involvement with Exel to another federal agent. He thought the immunity letter from the Deputy US Attorney General would prevent prosecution by all federal agencies, not just a couple of them, but he wasn’t anxious to press his luck.

  “Seriously, Peter, you need to tell me what they have on you,” Sam said. “If they haven’t already made you do nasty things, y
ou can bet your ass that they will very soon. The Agency doesn’t play around, and they don’t pay much attention to the law, ours or anyone else’s.”

  “I’m painfully aware,” Kittredge said.

  “Spill it.”

  “I sold a few files to an oil company.”

  “Embassy files?”

  Kittredge nodded.

  “So they’ve got you for espionage.”

  Kittredge grimaced. “Sounds much worse than it was.”

  “Usually does.” Sam looked away, shook her head, and gnawed her lip as she thought about the situation. It’s still all about Dibiaso, she thought. He keeps popping up.

  “Where’s your phone?” she asked.

  “Front pocket.”

  She retrieved it.

  Kittredge found the feeling of her hand in his pocket to be mildly arousing, despite being tied up. Or maybe even because of it.

  “Password?”

  He told her, and she typed it in.

  She scrolled through the text messages on Kittredge’s phone.

  “Arturo Dibiaso was your handler,” Sam observed.

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you realize that you’ve been selling State Department secrets to the CIA?”

  “No I haven’t.” Kittredge felt a flash of anger. “Dibiaso works for Exel Oil.”

  Sam laughed. “Man, you are wet behind the ears, aren’t you? Dibiaso is an alias used by Avery Martinson. Martinson might not be his real name, either, but he’s definitely an Agency guy.”

  Sam wrote Dibiaso’s phone number from Kittredge’s cell phone. “Different account than the burner he used when you guys carpooled together,” Sam said to Brock.

  Another thought struck Sam. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?” she asked.

  “Charley Arlinghaus.”

  “I know him,” Sam said.

  Kittredge looked at her. So did Brock.

  “We sat through a class together a few years ago. Charley’s Agency, too.”

  “So I gather,” Kittredge said.

  “You didn’t know that before?”

  “Something did seem a little off,” Kittredge said.

  Sam laughed. “You’re a train wreck.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Kittredge clammed up. He figured he’d said too much already.

  Sam tried a long shot. “Some people thought that we worked for the Agency, too,” she said, motioning toward herself and Brock. “They tried several times to kill us. Yesterday, most recently. We think they had Venezuelan ties.”

  She watched Kittredge’s face very closely. She saw worry and fear flash in his eyes. “You know something about that, don’t you?” she asked.

  Kittredge blinked several times.

  “You’ve already told me the answer,” Sam said. “May as well just skip the games and tell me the details.”

  “Charley’s in a coma in DC. I think because he’s CIA.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  Kittredge told her everything. But he didn’t tell her that he knew who’d done it.

  “You know who’s responsible, don’t you?” she asked when he’d finished his account.

  “No,” Kittredge lied.

  “I think you do. Otherwise, you’d have told me all about how inept the police are, about how in the age of ubiquitous airport video surveillance there must be at least one tiny little lead they could follow up on. Something along those lines. That’s what you would have said, if you weren’t hiding something from us.”

  Kittredge closed his eyes.

  Brock spoke up. “Dude, these people are trying to kill us. If you know something, we’d love it if you just told us. But we have all day, and Sam has a mean streak. And I don’t think anyone will hear you scream.”

  Kittredge looked around, becoming aware of his surroundings for the first time. He saw nothing but scrub brush.

  He felt utterly exhausted.

  He certainly didn’t care about protecting the CIA, and he barely cared about protecting the VSS.

  He really only cared about protecting Maria. And himself.

  But he didn’t want to fight.

  “The VSS,” he said quietly.

  “Who?”

  He told them about El Grande and Maria and their burgeoning guerrilla war against the gringos.

  Sam let out a long breath. “Peter, it seems to me that you’re in a bit of a predicament. Honestly, I don’t know how that’s going to work out for you.”

  He nodded. His eyes looked weary.

  “Does our little chat mean that Homeland has their hooks into me now, too?” Kittredge asked.

  Sam shook her head. “Not necessarily. I’d prefer you to consider me an ally. I think you could use a friend without an agenda.”

  Kittredge chuckled. “People keep offering me their friendship. Hasn’t worked out terribly well so far. And everyone has an agenda.”

  “Have it your way. Just the same, you should probably consider my offer. I’m one of the good guys.”

  Kittredge snorted. “Just like the CIA.”

  “Hardly,” Sam said. “And whether you realize it or not, you’re very much in need of an exit strategy.”

  Kittredge shook his head, his expression tired and downcast. “I’ve been informed that there is no such thing.”

  “Bullshit. There’s always an exit. It’s just not always pleasant.”

  “Or healthy,” Kittredge observed morosely. “There’s really not any room in my life for another secret relationship.”

  “Your call. Take care of yourself, Peter.” Sam and Brock got up to leave.

  “Wait a minute!” Kittredge protested. “You can’t leave me here!”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. A hundred paces south is a silver sedan. You probably don’t remember, but you hot-wired it, at least as far as the fingerprints are concerned. Good luck with that.”

  With that, Sam stuffed a phone number into Kittredge’s pocket, untied one of the loops binding Kittredge’s hands and feet, and walked away, Brock’s hand in hers.

  17

  Dr. Javier Mendoza’s weekend was well on its way to being ruined. He’d been awakened in the middle of the night, brought under armed guard to the Hospital de Clinicas Caracas, and asked to assess a patient with a very particular disease, one which Dr. Mendoza had studied for years.

  Hepatitis.

  He’d thought the entire ordeal was highly unusual and extremely unnecessary, until he had met the patient.

  President Hugo Chavez.

  “El Presidente has extremely advanced hepatitis, resulting in cirrhosis.” Dr. Mendoza’s own words sounded surreal and otherworldly even as he spoke them to the crowd of medical and security personnel gathered around the jaundiced leader’s hospital bed.

  The room felt horribly closed-in to Mendoza, which was yet another byproduct of his barely-controlled anxiety. The effect was certainly exacerbated by the blackened windows and the dim light.

  “How long?” asked His Excellency.

  “I have never seen such a virulent strain. My most conservative estimate of its reproductive efficiency is over a million times greater than a normal hepatitis virus. I’ve never even read about anything like this before. Ever.”

  “How long do I have?” Hugo Chavez repeated.

  “Señor Presidente, we will do everything in our power to slow the progress of the disease. There are drugs we can try, and we will have to see how your body and the virus respond.”

  “Of course, Dr. Mendoza. That’s why you’re here. But I want to know how long I have, if you can’t kill the virus.”

  Mendoza wasn’t skilled at delivering bad news to patients. The extreme discomfort was one of the reasons he built his career in an entirely different direction. He didn’t enjoy working with patients, and he certainly didn’t enjoy telling them that they were about to die.

  He shifted his weight, and closed his eyes several times. “At this
rate of reproduction, we have only days,” he said.

  18

  Brock and Sam headed back into town from the deserted field where they’d taken Peter Kittredge for a chat. Brock drove the pickup truck they’d stolen from Kittredge’s apartment complex, and Sam rode shotgun.

  They’d left Kittredge in possession of the proceeds of their second larceny, a silver sedan, and figured that by now, the somewhat hapless would-be spy had likely worked his way loose of the rest of the ropes tying his hands and feet together.

  “What now?” Brock asked.

  “Great question. I think we need to phone a friend,” she said. She turned on the disposable phone she’d purchased in the international terminal in DC. She’d turned it on just once before, to text a contact number to Dan Gable in case of an emergency.

  As the phone timed in, Sam ruminated.

  Arturo Dibiaso was Avery Martinson, an Agency asset.

  Also in the CIA lineup were Tom Jarvis, Charley Arlinghaus, and the late John Abrams.

  Reluctantly orbiting the CIA periphery was Peter Kittredge. He wasn’t on the Agency’s varsity team, that much was certain, and he was double-dipping. Sam wasn’t sure whether or not Kittredge had taken money from the VSS, but she got the sense that his ideological leanings were certainly more sympathetic to the Venezuelans than the Agency goons who’d roughed him up and invaded his life.

  Charley Arlinghaus was in a coma, byproduct of the Agency’s sub rosa war against the Venezuelan Special Service.

  John Abrams was extremely dead. He had unsuccessfully hidden his VSS affiliation from his Agency coworkers, which had proven hazardous.

  Everett Cooper was also dead. He was the Metro DC cop who had attempted to kill or kidnap Sam at the Abrams crime scene. He was also the guy whose brains had been splattered all over her wall by the Metro Internal Affairs officers. IA was wise to his illicit additional employment. Cooper was working for the Venezuelans, alongside Abrams.

  And that brought her to Tom Jarvis. Behind the dull bureaucratic exterior was one hell of a crooked guy. He really worked for the Central Intelligence Agency. The Agency had planted him inside Homeland as their resident mole, to keep an eye on developments in the world’s fastest-growing bureaucracy, to protect Agency turf and funding from being overrun by the zealots atop Homeland.