Barter handed the mic back to the technician. “Standard protocol from here,” he said. “Have the assault team establish a perimeter until the ground forces arrive.”
The DDO walked back across the room and sat heavily in his executive chair. “Now for the fun part,” he said. “Damn paperwork.”
He looked at Swaringen and laughed. “Need some help getting your jaw off the floor?”
Swaringen smiled sheepishly. “No, sir. But you have to admit, you don’t see that every day.”
Barter nodded, a wry smile on his face. “You’re right. It’s usually every other day.”
Swaringen smiled again, trying to hide his discomfort. He would get used to it, he hoped.
It occurred to Swaringen that he still didn’t know where the events had taken place. Afghanistan? Horn of Africa? Iraq, even? Any of the above was plausible. The United States was involved in open hostilities on three continents. “Pardon the rookie question, sir,” Swaringen said, “but what theater was that?”
Barter looked hard at him. “That’s classified.”
“Aren’t we in a secure space?”
“We are in a secure facility. But you are not briefed.”
Swaringen was confused. “I was just briefed this morning.”
Barter shook his head. “This is a tiered program,” he said. “Not everyone needs to know every detail. So not everyone does know every detail.”
Swaringen wasn’t sure he knew what to make of Barter’s answer. “Who does know?”
“Know what?”
“Every detail.”
Barter eyed him again. “None of your goddamn business.”
12
Sam awoke in a darkened room. She heard the creaks and cracks of an old building settling in its foundation. Her mind felt muddy, slow, sluggish. She had no idea where she was. The room smelled old, damp, well used, full of a vague, permanent human stench.
She heard footsteps outside the door. Heavy footfalls, made by a large man, pacing back and forth in front of the doorway.
The fog in Sam’s thoughts lifted slowly, as though an anesthetic were wearing off. She moved to sit up in her bed, but a searing, stabbing pain seized her. Her hand shot to her side. She felt bandages.
She moved her arm, and something tugged against her wrist. An IV. The tube led up to a bookshelf, where a bag of fluid was perched precariously atop books and sundries.
She had no idea what time it was, or how long she had been asleep. Events came back to her in a flood: the surveillance team on her flight from DC, again in the Budapest airport, and then again outside of Mark Severn’s hotel. The civilized chase of her tail that ended in the savage stabbing of her midsection. The gunshot blast, the dead man, the ungodly pain she felt as she pulled the iron rod from her gut, the men approaching down the dark hallway as she slipped from consciousness.
Sam rubbed her head. Her hair was matted together. Blood. Whether hers or the dead man’s, she didn’t know. Her heart beat fast. She tried again to sit up in bed, this time using her arms to support her torso. The pain in her side was intense, insistent.
She surveyed the dark room, searching for a doorway, hoping for an adjoining restroom, but finding nothing but old furniture, cracked plaster walls, ancient windows, musty curtains.
She sat up on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs gingerly until her feet touched the floor. Her toes felt hardwood, polished by decades of use. She stood. Her side protested as she straightened to a standing position.
She took several unsteady steps forward, emitting small gasps with each step, fighting against the searing pain in her side. Her mind felt sick, heavy, as if she had spent the weekend on a bender. She was undoubtedly suffering the aftereffects of sedation. She had obviously been tended to, but by whom?
The door latch rattled. The handle turned. The door opened. A giant of a man stepped through the dark opening, arms like oaks, legs like tree trunks, jaw chiseled in stone.
Sam assumed a fighting stance out of fear and reflex.
The giant man regarded her. He smiled. “Don’t hurt me.” His voice was like gravel. His face was hard, but his eyes were amused and kind. His English had a Hungarian accent, but something else too. Undertones that felt familiar to Sam, but she couldn’t place them.
He motioned back toward the bed. “You should rest.”
Sam relaxed, then obliged, setting herself gently back atop the musty covers.
“Where am I?” Her voice sounded small and thin.
“You’re in my apartment. Welcome.”
“Thank you. Where did you find me?”
“Someplace you shouldn’t have been. In a pool of blood, next to a dead man.”
“Who stitched me up?”
“My father. He is a doctor. Very respected.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“We received a phone call, from a man we know well. He told us where to find you, told us to follow you.”
“Why?”
“You are a friend of a friend. You needed protection.”
“We have a mutual friend?”
The giant man nodded.
“Who?”
He shrugged. “I never ask.”
“Who are you?” Sam asked.
Hesitation. A smile. “Sebastian.”
It wasn’t quite the answer Sam had in mind, but she went with it. “Sebastian, it sounds as though I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Sam saw him smile in the darkness. “You may stay here as long as you wish.”
“Where am I?”
“Budapest. Just upstairs from where you killed the man.”
Sam nodded slowly, reconstructing the geography in her mind. She must have followed Suit Coat into this very building. The experience felt eerily distant from her, like it had happened to a different person. “That was an unfortunate sequence of events. I just wanted to talk to him.”
“His kind are not much for talking.”
“Who are his kind?”
“I think you know already,” Sebastian said, a knowing look on his face.
“All too well,” Sam said. “But why was he following me?”
“That I cannot answer. Maybe nobody can, now. And for now, you should rest.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a great idea,” Sam said. “It seems someone is unhappy with me at the moment.”
“You are among friends,” Sebastian said.
“I would feel much more comfortable about the situation if I happened to know who those friends were.”
Sebastian’s reply was drowned out by a loud, harsh conversation in the hallway. It was a heated exchange between two people in a language Sam didn’t understand. It didn’t sound like Hungarian.
The door burst open. A small, slight man, graying at the temples and frothing slightly at the mouth, marched up to Sebastian and placed a finger in his chest. A clamorous one-sided conversation ensued. Sebastian nodded intermittently. The small man’s gesticulations included forceful index finger jabs in Sam’s direction.
Sam got the distinct impression that she was not necessarily among friends exclusively. Some of Sebastian’s crowd were not thrilled by her presence.
The small man left in a huff. He slammed the door behind him.
Sebastian looked at Sam, a sheepish expression on his face. “My apologies. It appears we are not all of one mind.”
“So I gathered,” Sam said. “I should really be on my way, anyway.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Nothing to worry about. He is just a little concerned.”
“Evidently. About what?”
“Local matters. Beyond your concern. He will be fine, and you must rest.”
“Who are you people?”
Sebastian smiled. “Concerned citizens.”
“Concerned with what?”
“In Hungary, mistrust is a virtue.”
Sam shook her head. “I’m thoroughly confused.”
Sebastian nodded. “It is like this. We have many
friends and many enemies, and sometimes they are the same.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“Favors are currency. The formal economy is hopeless for people like us. So we survive on the informal economy.”
“Who asked for the favor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus.”
Sebastian smiled. “It wasn’t him.”
Sam laughed, then winced as her wound protested the exertion.
A thought struck, and her face turned grave. “What time is it?”
“Nearly dawn.”
“Balls. Where is my stuff?”
Sebastian pointed to a shabby dresser. Her purse was perched on top. She looked through it. Nothing was missing but her weapon. “My gun?”
“Later. When you are well enough to leave.”
Sam nodded. She picked up her Blackberry.
Three messages from Tom Davenport. Her jaw clenched. It couldn’t possibly be good news. She didn’t bother to listen to them.
One message from Dan Gable. She listened. He had processed the multi-spectral images from Mark Severn’s hotel room. “Sam, the UV shots showed blood spatter everywhere, consistent with a very long blade. There’s no doubt in my mind. Someone was slaughtered in that room.”
13
Sam sprang into action. The file Tom Davenport had handed her on Mark Severn’s death had certainly said nothing about a stabbing. Death by motor vehicle accident, the report said. Not death by slaughterhouse knife work. That was the kind of discrepancy that couldn’t be ignored.
She removed her IV and began gathering her belongings. “I need to leave as soon as possible,” she told Sebastian.
“You received interesting news?”
“Interesting like the Chinese curse,” Sam said.
“Are you strong enough to leave?” Sam noticed his accent again. It didn’t sound completely European, but Sam wasn’t sure what other flavors might have been mixed in.
“Thank you for your help, and for your concern,” she said. “I’ll manage.”
“In a bathrobe?”
“Good point. Would you mind showing me to my clothes?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Burned. Too much blood. Too much evidence.”
Sam nodded. “Know any place I might find some clothes at five o’clock in the morning?”
Sebastian eyed her tall, athletic frame. “One minute,” he said. He left the room and closed the door behind him.
He returned moments later, bright colored clothes in his arms. “These might be a little small,” he said. “But I think they will do.”
Sam thanked him, and he left her alone to change. She donned a shapeless knee-length denim skirt and a ruffle-shouldered blouse that suffered from a fatal overdose of paisley. Her own shoes were folded up in the clothing, along with a pair of dark blue knee-length socks and a paisley headscarf.
She regarded herself in the mirror. She looked like a cross between an Amish refugee and hired help at a dude ranch. Ridiculous by any standard. She shook her head. Any port in a storm.
She exited the small, dark bedroom into a small, dark hallway. The air smelled slightly fresher, but not by much. Sebastian met her halfway, and pointed toward an open doorway. “The back door?” He asked.
Sam nodded. “That would be best.”
Sebastian led her through a warren of small rooms and narrow hallways. The apartment was clearly constructed during a time when the average human was much smaller, and the average human’s expectation of privacy and personal space was much less developed. The walls felt close and tight around her, and Sam felt slightly claustrophobic.
Sebastian led her through another short, narrow hallway and opened the door at the far end. Light and conversation spilled from a larger room. Sam followed him in.
The talking ceased at the sight of her, and Sam felt five pairs of eyes bore through her. She scanned the faces: blue-collar, rough, dirty, hard, genuine. Most wore neutral but wary expressions. One smiled weakly. Sam sensed open hostility from another, the same man who had done all the hollering and finger-wagging earlier. She smiled sweetly.
“Thank you so much for your kindness and hospitality,” she said, making eye contact with each of them. “I hope someday to repay you.”
Sebastian translated. There were nods and murmurs.
The angry old man with the loud bark broke the subsequent silence. “He says your leaving is repayment enough,” Sebastian translated.
Sam laughed. “Right back at you, buddy.”
Sebastian didn’t translate.
He continued through the room and opened a door on the opposite side. It led through a tiny kitchen, barely wide enough to stand in. At the far end was a low window. Sebastian opened it and motioned Sam through. “Fire escape.”
Her denim skirt and angry wound made climbing into the window problematic. Sebastian helped her through. She stood unsteadily on the narrow steel catwalk outside. She was relieved to find a zigzagging staircase leading down to street level, instead of a ladder. The stairs would be easier to navigate with her injury.
She took a step toward the stairs, but felt Sebastian’s strong grip on her shoulder. In his other hand was her handgun. She smiled sheepishly. “Thank you. Never know when you’ll need one of these,” she said with a small laugh as she tucked her gun in her purse.
“Clearly. But I would be careful with it,” he said. “It is rumored the police are treating the man’s death as a murder.”
“Thanks for that cheery bit of news.”
Sebastian smiled and extended his hand again. A bottle of pills. “You will need these, I think.”
“I sure as hell will.” She gave Sebastian a hug. “Thank you again.”
“Go with good fortune,” Sebastian said.
“Won’t you tell me who you are, so I can thank you properly, when the time is right?”
Sebastian shook his head, a cloud coming over his mien. “I’m afraid it’s not possible.” His eyes were suddenly a long way away, as if he was thinking of distant taskmasters and unfortunate alliances.
Sam nodded, planted a small kiss on his cheek, and started down the fire escape.
Sam descended from the fire escape and found herself in a narrow alleyway. Garbage cans and detritus littered the cobblestone.
She saw a faint orange glow in the east, dawn’s harbinger. It gave her an uneasy feeling. The clock was ticking on Mark Severn’s death. The odds of getting to the bottom of the situation dropped dramatically with each passing hour. Forty-eight hours was the magic number. Two days. Sunrise marked the start of day three.
Sam fished in her purse for her notepad. She had used the long flight from DC to consolidate salient notes from the file Davenport had given her. Written on the first page was the name of the hospital that contained Mark Severn’s remains.
She typed the address into her telephone. Three miles. Thirty minutes on foot. Sam decided to walk. It wasn’t a terrific choice, but neither was stealing a car. And she wasn’t about to hail a cab. She would have been better off wearing a “Dismember me and stuff me in a suitcase” sign around her neck.
She checked the messages on her personal phone. She had two from Brock. “There was a slight delay in Frankfurt,” one of them said, “but I should be landing on time in Budapest.”
Brock’s other message said, “I’m a little worried that I haven’t heard from you, but I know how you get when you’re working. Can’t wait to hang out with you in Budapest!”
She smiled. The sound of his voice warmed her insides. She couldn’t wait to hold him.
But there was a lot of the real world standing in the way at the moment.
She checked her watch — five a.m. in Budapest meant ten p.m. in DC — and dialed Dan Gable.
“Holy shit, boss, are you in trouble,” Dan said in lieu of a greeting.
“Terrific,” Sam said. “What have you heard?”
“Dereliction of duty, absent without leave, disobeying a direct order.”
“Davenport?”
“Yes, but I think he’s just parroting what the deputy director said.”
“Great. Do they know what happened?”
“I guess that would depend on what happened,” Dan said with a chuckle.
“I was attacked. Stabbed in the gut with a length of rebar.”
“Holy shit.”
“You should see the other guy,” Sam said. “He really fell apart.”
“How to win friends and influence people,” Dan said.
“Right. Turns out I wasn’t just being paranoid, I was actually being followed. I spotted another tail outside Severn’s hotel, right after I sent you those multi-spec pictures. I thought I’d try to ask him a few questions. Things went a little sideways.”
“Not your brightest idea.”
“Evidently.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I am. Thanks to a very strange collection of people.”
“Come again?”
“Apparently, I passed out in a pool of the dead guy’s blood. I woke up a little while ago, stitched up and with an IV in my arm.”
“In a hospital?”
“No. In an apartment. Three stories up from where I shot the guy.”
“Small world.”
“They were very cryptic about who they were and why they helped me. I never got a straight answer.”
“Any ideas?”
“I was hoping you could help me out with that,” Sam said. “They said I was the friend of a friend.”
“Helpful. Did they give you anything else to go on?”
“Not much,” Sam said. “They clearly didn’t want to be involved more than they already were, and I didn’t press them for details. The situation seemed a little tenuous as it was. Not all of them were happy I was there.”
Sam arrived at an intersection. She eschewed a narrow two-lane thoroughfare in favor of continuing down the narrower, darker alley. She felt safer in the smaller space. The avenues of approach were much more controlled, and there were fewer hiding places.
“Something else,” she said. “They had exquisite knowledge of where to find me. I was in the cellar of a building, actually in a cave attached to the cellar. These guys arrived just a few seconds after the whole thing ended. They said their orders were to watch me, to keep me out of trouble.”
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 61