Brock looked at Sam, uncertain. Sam shrugged, equally at a loss. They’d paid a small fortune to the crooked little charter agency for the sole purpose of avoiding situations such as this one.
But there weren’t many options. Sam produced her Tricia Leavens passport, and Brock gave his fake passport to the officer as well.
The officer looked over their passports carefully. He turned to Brock and Sam, a meaningful look in his eye, and said in perfect English, “I understand you are in somewhat of a hurry. Sadly, it is sometimes difficult to process matters such as this in a timely fashion.”
“Passport matters?” Sam asked with false innocence. It was clearly a shakedown. She was inclined to make the little guy work for it, but they didn’t have time to mess around.
Brock produced cash from his wallet. Greenbacks. The officer took them without a word, and without thanks, then looked expectantly at Sam. She shook her head.
The officer raised his eyebrows and shrugged, as if to say “I’ve got all week.”
Sam capitulated, paid the bribe, and cursed under her breath as the Panamanian officer left the plane.
Seconds later, the captain returned. “It looks like we are ready to be on our way,” he said cheerfully.
27
El Jerga opened the hotel room curtains and methodically rearranged the furniture to place the desk within view of the window opening. The aged front desk clerk had looked askance when El Jerga demanded a room with a southerly view – to the south of the cheap hotel was the ass end of a grocery store, picturesquely appointed with overflowing garbage dumpsters and haphazardly stacked wooden pallets – but El Jerga didn’t offer any explanation.
He needed the southern exposure in order to provide his antenna with clear line of sight to the geosynchronous satellite positioned over the earth’s equator. He attached the antenna to the laptop’s USB port, and waited half an eon for the computer to power up, and another epoch for the communications software application to open.
This time he’d cheated and written his password down. He’d reached the limit of his capacity to memorize random strings of numbers and letters. He was aware that some people did such things as a kind of mental sport, but El Jerga had no desire or aptitude to join their ranks.
His password was accepted, and he destroyed the small slip of paper he’d written it on. He opened his browser and a peer-to-peer chat client, logged into another password-protected chat room, and waited.
Two minutes passed. It wasn’t like El Grande to be late. Then again, El Jerga realized, he really had no idea whether El Grande had ever truly been the person on the other end of their clandestine computer-facilitated meetings. It could have easily been one of El Grande’s minions who’d acted as a transparent go-between.
Didn’t matter, really, as long as the money continued to show up in his account. El Jerga’s bank was located in the unlikely island location of Vanuatu, a joint British and French protectorate until 1980’s Coconut War brought independence – and the freedom to become one of the world’s last true bastions of anonymous and private banking. Swiss accounts were for future convicts. El Jerga didn’t plan to become one.
A message popped up on the chat page: “Hello, warrior.”
El Jerga rolled his eyes and shook his head. Puta.
“Hello,” he responded.
A string of numbers followed. El Jerga recognized them as geographic coordinates. He used a ballpoint pen to write them on the palm of his hand. No paper trail allowed.
“Understood,” El Jerga typed.
“4:48 p.m.”
“Understood,” El Jerga repeated.
“No mistakes.”
El Jerga shook his head again. Goddamned bureaucrat. “The last mistake was yours alone,” he typed. “I will tolerate no gringo involvement. Full payment due immediately, or I abort.”
“Done.”
“Verifying,” El Jerga responded. He navigated to his anonymous account information, noted the updated total, and nodded with satisfaction.
“Received,” he typed, then, “Goodbye.” He closed the chat program and browser, turned the laptop off, and disassembled his satellite receiver.
Minutes later, he emerged from his hotel room in shorts, a wife-beater shirt, and flip-flops. He shuffled down the hallway, took the stairs to the ground floor, and made his way to the hotel’s business center. As was his custom, he chose the computer furthest from the door, and typed in the coordinates written on his palm.
He studied the street map that popped up, memorizing his route. He paid careful attention to the distance between turns, and he switched to a satellite view in order to study the landmarks around each of the intersections. One couldn’t be too careful, and one certainly couldn’t have a paper copy of a map in one’s possession if things went sour.
He would take the Beltway to the east side of the Potomac River, then exit the highway and loosely follow the riverbank southbound, paralleling the water’s meandering journey through the incongruously pastoral region of Virginia just a few miles from the gringo capitol. A second offshoot would take him toward Indian Head, Maryland, and his first destination.
El Jerga called up another set of coordinates, one he had memorized earlier, and familiarized himself with the available routes that would convey him to the evening’s second destination.
He thought about what he would do at the second destination. The thought brought a smile to his face, and caused a surge of adrenaline to flow through his body. He buzzed with anticipation. He felt extremely alive.
As was his method, El Jerga planned meticulously, which allowed him to exercise spontaneity in the moment. His preparations enabled him to respond rapidly and with aplomb to any number of contingencies.
He visualized both routes, and several alternatives to each, one more time before cleansing the memory cache and logging off of the hotel computer.
Then he returned to his hotel room, pulled a camouflage-colored duffel bag from beneath the bed, and inventoried its contents: A .45 semi-automatic pistol; a tranquilizer gun; a fillet kit with five blades sharp enough to shave his face, and one dull, rusted blade for special purposes; nylon zip ties; leather straps; a small sledge hammer; two ball gags; automotive jumper cables; two dozen large, metal C-clamps; a power drill; masonry screws; and the piece de resistance, an electric transformer with a cord leading to a standard 110-volt wall plug. The transformer had a rheostat on its face to adjust the voltage output. The dial went from zero to deadly.
It was going to be one hell of a party.
El Jerga looked at his watch. His journey would take no longer than half an hour, but he would allot a full ninety minutes. He still had enough time for an hour’s nap.
He wanted to be well rested.
28
Special Agent In Charge David Phinney, FBI, turned off of the paved road and drove quickly down the gravel lane, following the terrain contours downhill toward the forested bank of the Potomac River. The lumbering sedan bounced on its suspension three times for every bump it encountered. No wonder nobody but the government buys these cars, Dan mused. They really suck.
The gravel road meandered through gorgeous Virginia forest. It wasn’t virgin forest, but it had been managed well in recent years. They crested a promontory, which afforded a view to the riverbed below.
Phinney guided the land-barge to a sloshy stop in front of a large vacation home constructed of logs and river stones. A covered walkway led to a detached garage, almost as large as the home itself. Another path traced a graceful arc to a gazebo with a view of the river, and continued down to a picturesque boat house on the bank.
This is how the other half lives, Dan thought. I’m still several outrageous crimes away from being able to afford something like this.
“We’re in the wrong business,” Phinney observed, obviously thinking along the same lines.
Dan nodded his agreement.
“Recent car tracks,” Dan said, pointing to freshly-exposed mud near the
garage.
“Saw ‘em,” Phinney acknowledged. “Sorry, but I need you to wait here again. I’ll leave the motor running to keep it cool for you.”
Phinney got out of the car, shut the car door behind him, and grabbed a bullhorn from the trunk.
FBI agents encircled the exquisite vacation spot on the river, establishing mutually reinforced fields of fire, looking a bit storm-trooperish in their assault gear.
Dan heard Phinney’s voice over the bullhorn, commanding everyone inside the house to come out with their hands up.
Silence answered. More stern direction from the bullhorn, followed by more silence.
Phinney approached the home cautiously, slowly climbing the stairs to the porch. Exquisitely crafted stained glass windows ornamented the front doors, Dan noticed.
He also noticed that one of the doors was ajar.
A sinking feeling settled in his gut, progeny of dozens of similar experiences over the years, many of which had ended very badly for someone.
He watched Phinney ring the doorbell and announce himself again; moments passed without a response, and Phinney rapped heavily on the door.
Dan found himself holding his breath.
Agents flanked Phinney on either side. Dan saw him use his fingers to count backward from three. When his index finger disappeared at the end of the countdown, Phinney opened the door all the way and stepped inside.
Dan saw a flash, and heard the unmistakable report of a shotgun.
His mouth fell agape. It looked as if Phinney’s torso, everything above his sternum, had disappeared completely, replaced by a cloud of pink. The remainder of Phinney’s body seemed to linger, suspended upright by inertia, then fell in slow motion to the marble floor inside.
The agents flanking Phinney turned and started a panicked retreat back down the front steps, but Dan knew that they couldn’t possibly move fast enough.
The bright flash surprised Dan only with its intensity. The fireball consumed the remaining two agents on the stoop, hurling parts of them onto the front yard and beyond. Gore splattered the windshield in front of Dan’s face, and he flinched.
Flames engulfed the front of the house, and smaller explosions erupted in various other spots within the home. The incendiaries burned with incredible heat, and Dan knew instantly that it would be hours before anyone could step inside.
He also knew that by then, there’d be little actionable evidence left.
Dan felt fear, sadness, anger, and weight. He’d never imagined Jarvis could be capable of something quite this venomous. He’s gone way too far, he thought, watching pandemonium erupt among the ranks of the remaining FBI team.
Now what? The FBI team would be anchored at this site for hours, regrouping, licking their wounds, mourning their losses, picking through rubble with tweezers in a desperate search for leads. All the while, Jarvis would be putting distance between himself and the task force.
He began to feel helpless, staring at the flames licking out from every window within view. He knew he had to move. Jarvis certainly wasn’t sitting still, waiting to be captured, convicted, and sentenced to death.
His feeling of helplessness grew, until he became aware of the cool breeze on his face. The air conditioner was on. Which meant the engine was still running.
Dan slid across the sedan’s bench seat into the driver’s position, put the car in reverse, turned around, and made his way back out to the main road.
He didn’t know where he was going.
But he had the beginnings of an idea.
29
The Venezuelan bizjet containing Sam, Brock, and the fat, sweaty security guy made its approach over the lush Maryland forest. Brock looked out his window at the Indian Head Naval Support Facility, amazed once again at how ugly military installations tended to be. He was an Air Force snob, and he felt that Navy bases were far uglier than average, possibly because they invariably defiled some of the most beautiful coastal real estate on the planet.
Seconds later, the jet touched down on US soil, and both Sam and Brock breathed audible sighs of relief. They felt fairly certain that Jarvis still had people out trying to kill them, but they felt their odds had improved dramatically following their escape from the heart of VSS territory.
The jet taxied up to a nondescript terminal building. The small rural airport wasn’t exactly among the world’s busiest, but that suited their purposes perfectly.
The pilots shut down the engines and opened the door, leading Sam and Brock inside the small building. A stylized sign declared the building to be the property of PelicanAir, a name neither of them had heard before. Perhaps Pelican was a US subsidiary of Freedom Air Charter International. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Tough to know who owned whom.
The large security guard positioned himself just inside the building’s entrance. He didn’t face out the window, as he would have done if he were guarding the building from intrusion. Instead, he faced Sam and Brock. Her lingering questions about the man’s purpose instantly disappeared. The fat guy was there to keep them in line.
“It has been my pleasure assisting you,” the captain said, formally and somewhat cloyingly. He looked at them expectantly.
Bucking for a tip, Sam realized. Relentless. “Sorry. You guys have already extorted my bottom dollar,” she said, smiling sweetly.
The pilot laughed uncomfortably, and motioned them toward the reception desk. “We have arranged ground transportation for you,” he said. “My associate has the details.”
They approached the desk. “Your car is waiting outside for you,” a nubile young clerk announced.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “But I’m wondering if there’s a car rental place nearby.”
The clerk was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “Sure, ma’am. Maybe a mile from here, on the main road. Your driver will be able to take you there, if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sam said. “We’ve been sitting all day, and would like to stretch our legs.” And we don’t get in cars with strangers while there’s a contract on our heads.
“As you wish, ma’am. I’ll inform your driver.” Sam watched her pick up the phone, dial a local number, and dismiss the car.
Brock and Sam watched a black limousine depart the parking lot and disappear down the sparsely-traveled road. Then they set out on foot for the rental agency, walking the fine line between carefully observing their surroundings and appearing paranoid.
Along the way they discussed their strategy. There hadn’t been much chance to formulate a game plan during the plane ride because of the presence of the security guard. He’d certainly have eavesdropped, and Sam was convinced the entire Venezuelan charter operation was in the information business just as much as the travel business.
“Should we try to go home?” Brock asked.
“I suppose that depends on what’s happened with Jarvis,” Sam said.
She turned on her burner, and dialed the contact number Dan had given her. He answered right away. “Damn glad to hear from you,” he said.
“Likewise! How are things?”
Dan caught her up on the fruitless search of Jarvis’ home, and told her about the grisly scene at his vacation home. “Three dead for sure, maybe a couple more wounded,” he concluded.
Sam shook her head. “I’d never have pegged Jarvis for the type.”
“That’s always the type,” Dan said. “Hey, sorry, but I’ve got to cut this short. I’m working something on the other line.”
“If circumstances permit, don’t make a move on Jarvis without me.”
“Sure. If circumstances permit,” Dan said. “Gotta run.”
The call ended.
Sam grabbed Brock’s hand and broke into a run. Time was suddenly of the essence. She wanted to be there to put a round between Jarvis’ eyes in case he resisted arrest.
The sleepy rental car clerk was anything but swift, and Sam was nearly beside herself by the time they emerged from the office with a set of
keys in hand.
Tricia Leavens had sprung for the rental. There was no other choice, but it was a very bold move. If Jarvis or his minions still had access to Homeland systems, he would be able to follow the purchase and pinpoint their whereabouts instantly. And he would be able to use the rental car’s embedded tracking device to follow them at will, and strike whenever it suited him.
Their plan was to exit the rental car lot, drive out of sight, and remove the car’s locator beacon from its home in the engine compartment, adjacent to the battery.
Another question popped to Sam’s mind that she hoped Dan could answer. She thumbed the power button on her burner, bringing it back to life as she pulled up to the rental company’s exit kiosk.
Gnarly-looking tire shredders deterred anyone from exiting the premises without first receiving the rubber stamp of the bored employee seated in the tiny metal box.
Sam handed the rental agreement and her Tricia Leavens driver’s license to the man inside the shack. Something about the man struck her as vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
Something also struck her as wrong. The man was dressed more like a limousine driver than a rental car employee. And he wore black leather gloves, despite the warm fall weather.
It clicked.
This was their “prearranged transportation,” courtesy of Tom Jarvis and the VSS.
Sam gripped the shifter to jam the car into reverse.
But she wasn’t fast enough. She heard a noise like ssssip, and felt a sharp, painful sting in her neck.
She turned toward the man in the kiosk, noticed the strange-looking gun in his hand, and heard the ssssip noise twice more as the man fired the gun across her face, toward Brock.
Everything seemed to grow distant from her, and took on a surreal quality. Something should really be done about this, she observed, feeling the car door open, vaguely registering the clatter of her phone falling to the floor, the involuntary movement of her body onto Brock’s lap, the strong shove that brought her head toward Brock’s feet on the floorboard, the pressure of the man’s shoulder on her hip to remove her completely from the driver’s seat. She barely noticed the acceleration of the car, just before her world faded completely to blackness and silence.
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 44