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

by Lars Emmerich

  Dramatic regional catastrophes happened all the time, he thought, so that might be a large part of the urgency behind the Ranch’s quick completion.

  But he wasn’t convinced that was the only factor driving the difficult and expensive timeline. Archive wasn’t ever one to panic. He moved quickly, but not too quickly, and general preparedness didn’t seem to be an urgent enough cause to warrant such swift development.

  The day’s events had instilled a deep appreciation for how thoroughly Archive and his associates had planned the Ranch’s preparations. They had equipped the facility with cutting-edge off-the-grid energy technology, and they had done so on a very tight timeline. That was almost unheard of, and had undoubtedly come at a hefty premium.

  Two years ago, the entire valley had been completely devoid of human construction or habitation. Now, it was home to a state-of-the-art earth-ship built for thirty of Archive’s closest friends.

  Impressive.

  Weird.

  And then there was that strange joke the old man had made at breakfast. Something about the roast beef being good enough to start a revolution. It wasn’t very funny, and it shouldn’t have drawn such a laugh from the rest of the crowd. Sir Randolph, the charismatic British tycoon, had promised to “let him in on things” eventually.

  But it was more than a bit disorienting.

  On the one hand, these were some of the world’s most astute and successful individuals, with track records as impressive as any he’d ever seen. He’d even shaken hands and shared a laugh with a Nobel Laureate, a remarkably down-to-earth guy who’d discovered something too esoteric for Protégé to remember.

  This wasn’t a crowd one would suspect of harboring any crackpot notions.

  On the other hand, the entire facility was built because of a decidedly glum outlook the group apparently shared. They seemed convinced that the First World was due for a “devolution event” of some sort, as one of the scientists had put it.

  They believed that the systems of society had become so intertwined and interdependent that a failure in one critical area, such as currency, transportation, or telecommunications, was likely to have catastrophic consequences for society as a whole.

  Protégé understood all of those arguments very well, and he even agreed with most of them.

  But there was something else going on here, too, something that the old man had hinted at during his opening remarks after breakfast.

  The phrase that “all forms of government tend to follow roughly the same trajectory” continued to reverberate in his mind. Why had it bothered him?

  Because it’s anathema in the American lexicon, he suddenly realized. Americans generally had no doubts whatsoever that the most virtuous, righteous, and acceptable form of government was democracy. Elections cured all ills. Voters usually didn’t riot. The government could never overstep its bounds, because the people ran it.

  Or so the conventional North American wisdom went.

  Wisdom wasn’t usually conventional, he reminded himself, but it still struck him as odd that Archive would have lumped representative democracy into the same category as all other forms of government, boldly asserting that the US political system, of which Americans were a little too self-righteously proud, was not appreciably better than any other mechanism of state.

  Protégé had wondered aloud in casual conversation earlier in the afternoon about what Archive might have meant. He’d received a succinct explanation: “Everything devolves to oligarchy. The plutocrats eventually run everything.”

  Protégé’s initial reaction had been to bristle. He thought he had hidden his disagreement, but apparently not. “Don’t believe me?” the man had challenged. “Think it through. Who pulls the big levers?”

  Protégé had thought of almost nothing but that particular topic for the previous forty minutes as he struggled through his anemic workout, which was made far more difficult than normal by the rare air up at the mountain timberline.

  That old buzzard is right, Protégé concluded. There were only a few people who controlled almost all of the important details that impacted every American’s life. Interest rates, stock prices, real estate loan availability, automobile production and financing, jobs, the laws governing how businesses competed and behaved in the marketplace—they were all well beyond the control of the public.

  Protégé had lived and worked in the DC area long enough to know that the people with the real power were not the people whose names appeared on election ballots. Money bought candidates, agendas, and media time.

  And the same money bought both sides of most elections, funding campaigns for competing candidates. That way, the donor’s interests were well represented no matter who won the seat.

  It was a poorly kept secret, one that generally drew nothing but yawns from the American public, but big money clearly owned the American political process.

  And that’s democracy?

  It sounded pretty ugly. But it didn’t feel like a big deal. Sure, fringe groups bitched and moaned all the time about the “false freedoms” that anesthetized the public, but in the main, things just weren’t that bad.

  This point had come up during an interesting conversation with the news anchor and the renewable energy scientist. Bonnie Blake had agreed wholeheartedly with his assertion that things in America were actually pretty darn good, all things considered.

  But then she had said something intriguing, and a little bit dark: “We’re just not quite that far along in the cycle yet. But think about the trajectory.”

  Trajectory. There was that word again.

  “We didn’t bat an eye at the Patriot Act,” Bonnie continued. “But it was an authoritarian move. No two ways about it. We surrendered more rights to our government on the day that law passed than we’ve ever given up in our entire history as a nation.”

  Protégé had raised the obvious objection—the Patriot Act was designed to protect citizens from terrorists—but Suzanne had jumped in: “What do the numbers say? How many Americans have died in terror attacks in the last twenty years?”

  Protégé didn’t know.

  “Let’s make it easy,” Suzanne said. “How many died during 9/11? Fewer than five thousand?”

  He nodded. Seemed to match the statistics he’d heard.

  “It was horrendous, grisly, and tragic, and I still get emotional every year on the anniversary,” she had said.

  “But the cold, hard truth is that more people die in car accidents every month than died during 9/11. Every month. Can you imagine for a second surrendering any of your rights—privacy being the biggest—in order to reduce car accidents? I can’t see it happening. But we barely even whimpered when congress and the president put together the most comprehensive curtailment of individual liberties in American history. It really was a remarkable and disheartening thing to watch.”

  Protégé couldn’t argue with the numbers. But what were they getting at? Some giant conspiracy, bleeding the masses dry while spying on them and slowly removing freedoms and individual rights?

  Bonnie’s answer was blunt. “Near as I can tell? Yes. At least, that’s how it operates in effect.”

  He had laughed out loud, then felt self-conscious about having possibly offended the two accomplished and intelligent women.

  “Don’t worry,” Suzanne had said. “Most people have that reaction. That’s why you don’t hear many people of reputation speaking publicly about it. Nobody wants to follow in Arvin Duff’s footsteps.”

  Protégé had chuckled at the reference to the marginalized former presidential candidate who kept harping on currency manipulation as a nefarious means of wealth redistribution.

  “He’s one goofy guy,” Suzanne continued. “Can you imagine him giving press conferences in the Rose Garden?” Protégé had laughed at the thought.

  “But here’s the trillion-dollar question,” Suzanne said. “Was he wrong?”

  His smile had faded as the pieces locked into place.

  Act
ually, the little goofball was dead-on right.

  The Establishment was systematically ripping off the public. And systematically taking away people’s legal rights to do anything about it.

  Bonnie laughed. “Yeah, it wiped the smile off my face, too. Welcome to enlightenment. Isn’t it cheery?”

  Sir Randolph had caught the end of the conversation. “Try not to look so glum,” he’d said, clapping Protégé’s shoulder. “You’ve just had your civic virginity taken by two of the prettiest women I’ve met.” Randolph’s comment had taken the edge off the moment, but Protégé was still unsettled.

  Protégé also thought about Randolph’s parting words before heading off for a tennis match with the Nobel winner. “Here’s another question with difficult answers that you should find for yourself: to whom does the Federal Reserve answer?”

  Protégé had done a little internet research before his workout. The Fed was created by Congress, yet it was almost completely autonomous, he concluded. It was a unique quasi-governmental animal that didn’t really answer to anybody, and it hid in plain sight.

  The Fed chairman occasionally showed up to mumble business school bromides into the microphone during congressional hearings, but that was pure Kabuki Theater, Protégé decided.

  Protégé shook his head as he opened the door to his suite. Two strange things were happening: all around him, some of the world’s most intelligent and accomplished people seemed to be expressing the belief that power and wealth were being systematically concentrated in the hands of a few powerful people, and that society’s interdependence was at least as large a liability as it was an asset.

  The second strange thing, Protégé thought, was that he found himself agreeing with them.

  48

  Falls Church, MD. Saturday, 6 p.m. ET.

  Sam pushed the green “call” button on her phone. She really hoped Avery Martinson would answer. She didn’t have a Plan B.

  It rang four times, then a gruff, annoyed voice said, “Martinson.”

  “Mr. Martinson, sorry to disturb you on a Saturday. Special Agent Sam Jameson here. I’m at your front door. May we chat?”

  “Your question sounds rhetorical. Give me a minute.” Martinson hung up the phone.

  Half a minute later, Sam saw a mildly obese man open the front door. Martinson motioned her in. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Sorry to barge in on you on the weekend,” Sam said, “but there’s an open investigation that’s taken an interesting turn. I’m looking for a colleague of yours.”

  Sam watched the man’s eyes closely. His eyebrows rose a bit, but he didn’t look terribly surprised.

  Until she showed him the mongrel’s picture.

  Avery Martinson’s face registered both disbelief and dismay, but only for the briefest of moments. Sam watched him will impassiveness back into his expression.

  Then she saw a flash of anger and defiance. “What makes you think I know this guy?”

  Sam smiled. “What makes you think I showed up here on a hunch?”

  Martinson met her eyes. He smiled slowly, and a little too smugly. “Crossways already? We’ve only just met.”

  “But I feel like I know you pretty well,” Sam said. “One of your birth certificates says Avery Martinson. Another one says Bill Fredericks. Which identity do you use to run your agents?”

  Surprise registered on Martinson’s face.

  “Which identity did you use when you sent your man to kidnap an Air Force officer this morning?”

  Martinson shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It wasn’t that tough to figure out,” Sam said. “You good old boys are computer security clowns. You leave information everywhere. It’s no wonder the bush league third-world guys are handing your asses to you.”

  Martinson reddened. Sam saw his jaw clench. “What do you want from me?” His voice wasn’t friendly.

  “I want to know why your hatchet man shot and kidnapped Brock James. And then I want you to call him in. Right fucking now.”

  The fat man shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re doing. I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re in way over your head.”

  Sam took a step toward him. She was taller than he was by a good three inches, and he had to look up to meet her gaze.

  She spoke slowly in quiet, measured tones. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Avery. As the chief of the DHS counterintelligence investigative branch, it is my duty to inform you that you are now the subject of an official investigation into your background and activities. You’ll need to report to your division chief’s office at 8:00 a.m. on Monday.”

  She turned on her heel and walked out the front door.

  He was right behind her. “You bitch,” he hissed, red-faced. “You’d jam me up over this? I have two kids in college!”

  “Private college. And a big, fat mortgage. Administrative leave without pay would probably suck, wouldn’t it, Mr. Fredericks?”

  Sam didn’t bother to slow her pace toward the car, and the portly case officer waddled at her heel, struggling to keep up.

  “I swear, I will make this hurt,” Martinson said. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “Save the tough-guy bullshit, Avery. This isn’t my first day on the job. You can talk now or sing later. Your call.” She pushed the button to unlock her car.

  Perspiration beaded on his beet-red forehead. He clenched his fists. He watched Sam open the driver’s door.

  “Time’s up, Avery,” she said as she disappeared inside the car, shutting the door behind her. The famous Porsche exhaust note sounded as she started the engine.

  He cursed loudly.

  Then he opened the door and stuffed himself into the passenger seat.

  49

  Lost Man Lake Ranch, CO. Saturday, 6:45 p.m. MT.

  Dinner was incredible. Protégé marveled at the gorgeous moose steaks, venison stew, and wild boar goulash. “The hungry hordes will shoot everything with legs or wings in the first two months after a meltdown, so I figured we’d better enjoy these now,” Archive had said with a chuckle.

  It was a strange, apocalyptic comment.

  But Protégé certainly enjoyed the meal. Wine, conversation, and laughter flowed freely.

  It was an eminent crowd, and the setting was beautiful and opulent, but Protégé was pleased to realize that he felt right at home despite the uncomfortable topics that occupied the group’s conversations.

  Toward the end of the meal, Sir Randolph Bronwin, the business mogul and Knight of the British Empire, rose and walked to the front of the room.

  “Our kind host has asked me to update everyone on the status of our little to-do,” he began quietly. Conversation around the table subsided quickly.

  “I hope not to bore you or insult your intelligence, so I shall be brief. But a little background is helpful. By the way, if you’ve heard me blather on about this topic recently and would care to spend your time more productively, I shan’t be even slightly offended.” No one budged.

  “Right, then. Off we go, diving in bravely.” Randolph donned a slightly sardonic smile, which gave way to a more academic mien. “Given that devolution events are historically inevitable, it is useful to study their mechanisms a bit.

  “It turns out that while there are both bloody and bloodless revolutions, devolutions, on the other hand, tend to be quite chaotic and catastrophic. It seems we’re quite wired to indulge our darker nature when social institutions break down.

  “But we’ve made an important observation about the kind of, shall we say, unsavory behavior that tends to cause the greatest post-catastrophe damage. It is generally linked to the breakdown of physical and tangible systems.

  “Crumbling walls, inoperative vehicles, flooded streets, burning buildings, and the like, all tend to foster more animalistic human behavior.”

  There were nods of assent. It made sense, Protégé thought. It was every man for himself in a survival si
tuation, and nothing quite screamed “survival situation” like a physical disaster.

  “But let’s briefly recall the banking crisis of several years back,” Randolph continued. “It was, by all popular accounts, a genuine crisis. The flow of money stopped virtually overnight.” No arguments from the crowd.

  “I believe our little group of armchair analysts has pinpointed the ultimate, if not also the proximate, cause of this crisis,” he said. “Spun rhetoric blames lax regulation, but in actuality the American Congress took quite an active role in creating the crisis by demanding that millions of unqualified borrowers be granted home loans.”

  “We bankers, of course, happily obliged,” Archive said with a smile. “The greedier among us, that is.”

  “At least until the music stopped, and the loans couldn’t be unloaded,” Randolph said. Archive nodded.

  “Congressionally mandated misbehavior is duly noted, and it clearly contributed to the issue,” the British magnate continued. “But I think we’ve all rather independently concluded that such malfeasance is only made possible by the demonic invention that is fiat currency, and the obvious manipulation it inevitably invites.” The charismatic tycoon’s entertaining hyperbole drew a few chuckles.

  Protégé had researched the credit crisis extensively as well, and he found himself agreeing with the prominent Brit. He believed that unmooring currency as a storehouse of value, which he believed to be the unavoidable consequence of merely printing more money when the urge struck, regardless of how gradually one inflated the currency, allowed creation of all the contrived financial instruments that led to the downfall of some of the nation’s oldest and most respected financial houses.

  Sir Randolph continued his discussion in his easy but precise style. “But the way society behaved during the meltdown, before the American government signed its citizens up for the tab, was nothing short of fascinating. Does anyone remember how the masses reacted?” Randolph’s eyebrows rose with his question.