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

by Lars Emmerich

  Kohlhaas breathed heavily, but his face was otherwise expressionless. It wasn’t unexpected. It didn’t even mean that Firth wasn’t complicit in the conspiracy to sell out Synergique’s breakthrough formulation. Firth very well may have been part of the whole thing, but got himself dusted because he was a loose end, or maybe because he’d asked for too large a share. Really, his death just meant one fewer loose end for Kohlhaas to chase down, one less employee to work over for information.

  “LeBeque?” Kohlhaas asked. Synergique’s chief scientist had also been missing in DC for the better part of half a day.

  Barnes shook his head.

  “Have your consultants turned up anything useful?”

  “Plenty,” the fat security expert answered. “But it’s a matter of sorting through it all and making the relevant connections.”

  “And that’s what you’re doing here at this hour?” Kohlhaas fought to keep his voice even, knowing even as he spoke the question that his inflection mattered little. The words were an inherent accusation. His eyes moved quickly to Barnes’ face. He thought he saw the beginnings of a predatory smile, which Barnes quickly suppressed. Was Kohlhaas imagining things?

  “Yes,” Barnes answered after a beat went by. “And, as you’re well aware, there’s a crisis at hand. I consider it my duty to be here until we’ve found our way through it.”

  Kohlhaas nodded, his face softening. “Thank you,” he finally said. Barnes turned on his heel and left the Synergique CEO to his thoughts.

  They turned immediately to Albert LeBeque. What if the brilliant scientist was the leak? What if he had played both sides, developing the revolutionary drug while selling his breakthrough to the highest bidder?

  It didn’t make sense. LeBeque was a partner in the company. His personal fate rose and fell with Pharma Synergique’s. Kohlhaas couldn’t imagine any upside LeBeque might enjoy in return for undermining Synergique’s success in the market. LeBeque stood to earn hundreds of millions of dollars in the first couple of years alone. With patents, production licensing, consulting gigs, a book advance, any number of juicy opportunities, the number could easily climb above a billion.

  Was Prizer willing to pay such a price to wrestle LeBeque’s loyalty from Synergique? Could anyone, even an industry giant like Prizer, scrape together that much cash?

  Or had they simply promised LeBeque a sizable sum of money, and mowed him down as soon as they got what they wanted? Nobody had heard from him all day.

  LeBeque’s demise seemed possible, but certainly not probable. Knowing the chemistry didn’t mean that Prizer could easily or quickly replicate the process behind it, and it certainly didn’t mean that Prizer could stand up a production operation quickly enough to meet the demand caused by the disease’s horrifyingly rapid spread. The only people on the planet who were positioned to do such a thing were already on Synergique’s payroll. Prizer would have to take over Synergique lock, stock, and barrel in order to produce sufficient quantities of the drug to stop the bacteria from becoming an international pandemic.

  Kohlhaas’ insides constricted at the thought of selling out to that vile, smug bastard Alexander Toney. It would leave a thoroughly debilitating bitterness. Kohlhaas wasn’t sure he had enough years left on the planet to fully work through the mental and emotional difficulty it would cause. It didn’t matter how much Prizer money ended up in his own accounts. His waking moments would be consumed by anger, and the injustice would never be far from his mind.

  He could never sell. He already had enough money. Everyone knew it wasn’t in his constitution. His pride wouldn’t permit it.

  Everyone knew it.

  Everyone.

  Jesus. Albert LeBeque knew it, too. Albert LeBeque, Synergique partner, who, in the event of Prizer buying Synergique, would have his cake and eat it, too. The scientist would keep whatever bribe money he’d been paid, and he would also keep the incalculable upside of the drug’s inevitable success.

  Kohlhaas realized grimly that LeBeque had the unique leverage of being just about the only indispensable person in the entire process. Prizer needed LeBeque. Not forever, but certainly for long enough.

  Which meant that the only thing between Albert LeBeque and untold billions… was Viktor Kohlhaas.

  The realization hit Kohlhaas like ice-cold water. The muddled fog of uncertainty left him instantly. He saw clearly. He understood.

  Kohlhaas was useful before, creating the beneficial animosity between Synergique and everyone else in the industry that got LeBeque paid under the table, and very handsomely, Kohlhaas was sure.

  And Kohlhaas had provided the drive, resources, secrecy, and shelter necessary for LeBeque to finish the drug’s development, to illegally procure the bacteria samples and test subjects necessary to be certain of the drug’s efficacy, to put the finishing touches on the production process. LeBeque did the scientific heavy lifting, but Kohlhaas had provided the unique environment necessary for success.

  But the work was done. Kohlhaas was no longer useful. In fact, his mere presence portended a serious dilution of LeBeque’s share of the profit.

  Kohlhaas had been so wrapped up in the identity that he had created for himself, that of the beleaguered but stalwart and über-competent captain of Synergique’s ship, that it became impossible for him to see himself as he really was: a loose end.

  Viktor Kohlhaas’ life had been threatened many times before. But he realized that on this day, for the first time since the whole thing had begun, he was in serious danger.

  He thought of the contingency planning Barnes had prevailed upon him to accomplish months ago. Kohlhaas had given it but a fraction of his attention. It was an item to check off of a very lengthy list of things requiring his attention. Kohlhaas had been annoyed at Barnes’ insistence, but no longer. He was suddenly very thankful for his security chief’s foresight and insistence.

  Kohlhaas picked up the phone and pushed an auto-dial button. Barnes picked up. “Please come back up to my office,” Kohlhaas said. “You were right about the Exodus Protocol. And I think it’s time.”

  He hung up and leaned back in his chair, taking in the trappings of power with which he had surrounded himself, and thought of the suddenness with which they had been rendered extraneous, irrelevant, burdensome even. He would not take any of it with him. That much he remembered about the protocol’s details. The clothes on his back, the cash in his safe, the passports in his handbag from various countries with various names typed and signed beneath his photograph; those were the only things that truly mattered now.

  Kohlhaas heard Barnes’ heavy, plodding gait as the security man made his way back toward the executive suite. Barnes turned lights on in the empty floor to illuminate his way. Kohlhaas vaguely registered that while the night shift was busy downstairs preparing to stand up full production of the drug, there was no one left upstairs. It was better this way, Kohlhaas reasoned, better that no one should see him leave, because they would be tempted to read his departure for what it was: Kohlhaas fleeing for his life.

  Barnes entered the office without knocking. Kohlhaas immediately noticed something in the man’s eyes, something hard, cold, distant, calculating. Barnes’ right hand was tucked behind his right thigh, hidden from view. “I think you’ve made the right call, Viktor,” Barnes said, his voice low and even, his strides long and purposeful.

  Barnes didn’t stop at the conference table, where he and Kohlhaas normally held their conversations. The fat man continued right up to the edge of Kohlhaas’ desk. He brought his right hand up from behind his leg. A bright, gleaming object jumped out at Kohlhaas’ eyes. Barnes’ gloved hand clasped an antique pistol, all polished silver and ornate etching. An ivory handle protruded from beneath Barnes’ black glove.

  Kohlhaas recognized the gun instantly. It was his gun. It had hung on the wall in his study at home, given to him as a gift for posterity, to memorialize a powerful friendship made a lifetime ago.

  And now the gun was in Barnes’ gl
oved hand. Barnes raised it in a flash, lurched across the desk, and shoved the barrel of the pistol up underneath Kohlhaas’ chin.

  So it ends.

  Kohlhaas didn’t struggle. “You,” was all he said.

  Barnes nodded, a hard smile on his face. “Me.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  61

  Kittredge climbed into the taxi Fleischer had sent for him. He’d spent the night in a completely unfurnished flat somewhere on the outskirts of the city. Kittredge had no idea where, because he was driven to the flat in the back of a bread van. He spent an uncomfortable night on the carpet, struggling for a few moments of sleep.

  Fleischer’s instructions regarding the morning taxi ride had been painfully clear. Kittredge was only to get into a taxi from a particular company, with a specific six-digit number emblazoned on the side, driven by a man who identified himself as Klaus Müller. Kittredge had turned away three other cabs while waiting for Herr Müller to show up in the appropriate car from the correct livery.

  By the time he arrived at Fleischer’s Metzgerei, the sun had fully risen, yet still failed to penetrate the gray gloom stationed semi-permanently over central Germany.

  Fleischer opened the door and ushered Kittredge quickly inside, through the closed butcher shop, and up the back stairwell to Fleischer’s apartment. “What was your intuition about Nora?” Fleischer asked, motioning toward a computer screen perched atop a small, utilitarian desk in the back of Fleischer’s flat.

  “Beautiful ass, gymnastic in bed,” Kittredge said. “Beyond that, I had no idea.”

  Fleischer smiled. “You are young in this business,” he said, calling up a digitally enhanced photograph.

  It was Nora, standing in dim light outdoors somewhere, her hand outstretched and grasping an envelope offered by a tall, bald, fat man. “What does this mean?” Kittredge asked.

  “You tell me,” Fleischer replied, flipping through several other photographs. The photos were obviously taken in poor light, but Kittredge was surprised by their clarity and resolution. Several photos showed Nora’s face up close, her strong but feminine jaw line, dark, flowing hair, and intensely beautiful eyes evident even in the dim light. Kittredge was stirred again by her beauty.

  Fleischer flipped to another photograph. It was a close-up of the fat man, dressed in a raincoat the size of a circus tent, drizzle gluing down a ridiculous comb-over, jowls rippling mid-sentence.

  Oh, my God.

  “Zoom in,” Kittredge said.

  Fleischer complied.

  Kittredge stared in disbelief.

  “Do you have more pictures of him?”

  “Of course,” Fleischer said.

  Kittredge flipped through the photographs of the fat man, hoping that his eyes had deceived him, praying that the man in the photos wasn’t who Kittredge, deep in his bones, knew it to be.

  Bill Fredericks.

  Bill Fucking Fredericks. Scum of the earth. Evil personified.

  CIA case officer.

  His case officer.

  Bile rose in Kittredge’s throat. He thought of the horrific night he’d spent chained to a bare cement floor in the basement of the stately brownstone house in Alexandria, Virginia. A large man with wolf’s eyes — called Quinn, he had later learned — had worked him over with a belt sander and a shaker of salt. It didn’t take long for Kittredge to admit his guilt. And it took even less time for Bill Fredericks to produce a document that bound them together, forever. Kittredge had signed. He’d had no choice.

  Peter Kittredge still belonged to Bill Fredericks.

  Peter Kittredge still belonged to the CIA.

  “Where did you take these pictures?”

  “Paris. A company called Synergique. This man goes by Franklin Barnes. He is the chief of security.”

  Kittredge shook his head. “That’s not his name.” He stared at the photo, teeth grinding, staring at Fredericks’ fat face frozen in that permanently smug look of his. Fear and rage swirled in Kittredge’s gut.

  “Nora is CIA,” Kittredge finally said.

  Fleischer exhaled slowly. “Yes. This is not a good situation.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Come with me.”

  Fleischer led Kittredge down the stairwell and through the locked door leading to the butcher shop, which was not yet open for business.

  Several steps later, Fleischer stopped outside a metal door. It stood floor to ceiling, and had a sealed latch. “You put her in the freezer?” Kittredge asked.

  Fleischer nodded. “If she is affiliated with the people you claim, such caution is warranted. I would advise you to keep your distance from her.”

  “How did you…?”

  Fleischer shook his head. “It is better for you not to know details.”

  “Have you interrogated her?”

  Fleischer shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “What are you going to do with her?”

  The old butcher nodded toward a large meat grinder and smiled.

  Kittredge thought he might be sick. “Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”

  Fleischer smiled, a tiredness in his eyes. “Life is hostile. We must devour to survive. It is the way of all things. More so in our work.”

  Kittredge shook his head. “Your work. Not mine.”

  Fleischer smiled. “You must not speak of me to her. You must act as though you are here to rescue her. Tell her you heard me coming down the stairs with my car keys, and that you must wait in the freezer together until I am gone.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me, you will learn more from her that way than by force.” Fleischer opened the large metal door and retreated out of sight.

  The whoosh of cold air made Kittredge shudder. He saw her, crouched, curled up and shivering, innocence and a pitiable suffering in her eyes.

  He ducked quickly into the freezer, struggling to get into his role, and pulled the door closed behind him. He let the door rest in its frame, but did not allow it to latch. He didn’t want to be locked in the damned freezer in case anything went wrong.

  Nora rose unsteadily. Her hands were bound in front of her. “P-Peter,” she said, a cold stutter in her voice. “What’s going on? H-How did you find me?”

  “Shh,” Kittredge said. “I heard him coming down the stairs.”

  “Congratulations. You’re trapped in here with me.”

  Kittredge shook his head. “The door’s not latched. I heard car keys jingling. I think he might be on his way out somewhere.”

  “How did you find me?” Nora asked again.

  Kittredge began working on the knotted rope that held her wrists together. “It’s a long story and not important now.” He pulled away the last of the rope, and Nora threw her arms around him in a tight embrace.

  He hesitated, then hugged her back, certain that his uncertainty wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  Her embrace loosened. She knew the game was up, Kittredge figured. But he was certain she would go on playing the role. “Get me out of here, Peter,” she whispered into his ear.

  “Not yet. We have to make sure he’s gone.” He eyed her carefully. “And there’s something I have to know first.”

  She put on a look of innocence. It was damn convincing. But Kittredge thought of Fleischer’s photos, proof of the exchange between Nora and Bill Fredericks, and he now recognized the look for what it was. She was an actress, doing an amazing job playing her part. He felt manipulated. Used. It angered him. “Where were you last night?” he asked. He tried to keep the edge out of his voice, but wasn’t sure he succeeded.

  “What do you mean?”

  Kittredge felt his anger building. “I mean, where were you last night?”

  Her gaze didn’t waver. Her eyes stayed true, innocent, lovable, beautiful, believable even as she delivered the lie. “I stayed with Anna and Karl. They have a flat on Merienstrasse. I didn’t know where you went, and I was afraid to go home.”

  “And you didn’t go anywhere else?” Kittredge p
ressed.

  Nora’s eyes found his again. Her face held a tender expression as she shook her head no. She was an absolutely terrific liar. She was gorgeous, convincing, and her eyes held their innocent, searching quality even as she did her best to deceive him. There was no flutter of her lids, no rapid blinking, no dilation of her pupils. Nothing at all. I don’t feel so bad for falling for your bullshit, he wanted to say, because you’re so good at being a bad person.

  His face donned a small, wicked grin. “You didn’t go to Paris?”

  Nora stayed perfectly in character. Her eyebrows furrowed as she shook her head, her gaze never wavering from his. “Peter, what are you talking about? Why would I go to Paris?”

  “And you didn’t meet Bill Fredericks?”

  More frowning and shaking her head.

  “At midnight,” he said. “In front of the pharmaceutical company.” His fists balled involuntarily. He felt his stomach tighten. He was having a hard time keeping his anger in check.

  He didn’t really know why he was getting upset. He hadn’t expected her to be truthful. He knew from experience that the principal skill of all successful CIA assets was their ability to lie easily and convincingly, and Nora’s involvement with Bill Fredericks was unambiguous testament to her Agency ties.

  But Kittredge liked Nora. He enjoyed his time with her. He had developed feelings for her.

  He had let her in.

  Not much, because it wasn’t possible after Venezuela to let anyone in very far. But he had let her in a little. And that was enough to feel the sharp sting of betrayal. She had opened an old and festering wound.

  “Paris? Peter, of course not,” Nora said, an appropriately pleading note in her voice. “What would I be doing in Paris at midnight? Are you losing your mind?”

  Deny, deflect, and make counter-accusations. Kittredge’s jaw tightened. “So there wouldn’t be any photos of you with Fredericks, then,” Kittredge said. He knew his affected niceness was fading away, but he couldn’t help it. His heart pounded, and he felt his breathing speed up.