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

by Lars Emmerich

  “I can’t let anything happen to them!”

  “There is nothing you can do right now.” She took the half-empty cup of tea from his hand, turned off the light, and walked to the door. “Keep your head, Domingo. Be ready when the time is right.”

  The woman opened the cell door carefully, flinched visibly as the hinges screeched, peered in both directions down the hallway, and slipped away into the dim light.

  His cell went dark, and he heard the door lock click into place.

  All manner of atrocities flashed before his mind’s eye. He pictured Angie, bruised, battered, disfigured, naked. Violated. His breath came in shallow gasps as fear, guilt, and hatred overwhelmed him. His heart pounded in his chest. I will kill them with my bare hands, he swore.

  You’ll die trying, his saner self said. Be smart. Make a deal. You’re not going to fight your way out of this. Surely there was something these people wanted from him. He was, after all, one of the wealthiest men alive at the moment. That ought to be worth something.

  Perhaps it would be compelling enough to save Angie and her mother from what he feared would be an atrocious, brutal end.

  But he couldn’t wait for his captors to make the first move. Angie’s life hung in the balance, thanks to his unbridled avarice.

  “Zelaya!” he bellowed. “Come back here!”

  His voice echoed off of the damp walls.

  “Zelaya!”

  No response.

  Panic swelled as he imagined Zelaya in Angie’s cell at this very moment, doing unspeakable things to her.

  Sabot yelled louder, desperation filling his voice. He bellowed himself hoarse, his calls increasingly anguished, shrill. Insane, maybe.

  The pipes rattled. Tears welled. He collapsed onto the chair as yet another icy blast crashed down on him from the faucet above his head.

  “Zelaya!” The name trailed off, giving way to an abject sob, obscured by freezing water coursing over Sabot’s mouth. “You bastard!”

  Sabot slumped in his chair, hope draining like exhaled air, tears falling on the wet concrete.

  He was already well on his way to broken, he realized, and they hadn’t even laid a hand on him.

  In the compound’s control room, Bill Fredericks stood next to Terencio Zelaya and smiled in admiration as they watched their quarry melt before their eyes. “You’re a true artist,” Fredericks said.

  Zelaya allowed a small smile. “I should be, after all this time.” Then his smile disappeared. “This isn’t strictly an Agency effort, is it?” More observation than question.

  Fredericks smiled. “After all this time, you should know better than to ask.” From a pragmatic standpoint, the problem with a US government agency mucking about in foreign countries — committing crimes, inciting revolutions, assassinating leaders who proved unwilling to play along with Uncle Sam’s lustful overtures — was that of plausible deniability. All of the dirty work had to be done via cutouts, using quasi-private funding.

  This meant that shill companies, mercenaries, criminals, spies, and — worst of all, in Fredericks’ estimation — lawyers, formed the backbone of the Central Intelligence Agency’s foreign presence. To the men on the pointy end of the unpleasantness, it was often impossible to tell which operations were undertaken at the strong suggestion of the President of the United States, and which operations were merely the bright idea of a rogue CIA agent who had found a fun little opportunity to exploit. They all looked pretty much the same on the ground.

  And that was one of the unintended consequences of hiring shady people to do shady work. Abuses weren’t a hazard; they were a given. Bill Fredericks certainly had his share of big “wins” for god and country, such as the successful assassination of a recalcitrant Venezuelan president, but he had also indulged himself in many more side ventures that either lined his own pockets or fed his voracious appetite for unacceptably young hookers.

  But Zelaya was no stranger to the game, Fredericks knew. Zelaya was one of the last of his era, and in Central America, it was one hell of a brutal era. He wasn’t a crusader. Fredericks knew that Zelaya’s question — who’s behind this particular op? — was far more pragmatic than ideological. Officially sanctioned operations tended to pay much more quickly than the entrepreneurial efforts of opportunistic agents in the field. “We’re all concerned about funding, especially now,” Fredericks said. “But it won’t be a problem for this op.”

  “Thank you for the pro forma Agency lie,” Zelaya said with a smile.

  Fredericks chuckled. “I suppose we deserve that,” he said. “But this one is better than official.”

  Zelaya turned. “So I’m working for the United States of Bill Fredericks?”

  Fredericks laughed out loud. “Wouldn’t that be great? We’d kick some serious ass.” He clapped Zelaya on the back. “No, my friend,” with an air of condescension not lost on Zelaya, “we’re on the Facilitator’s dime.”

  If it was a lie, it was a whopper. Few spoke of the Facilitator directly, or of his right-hand-man, the Intermediary. They were reputed to wield the hammer of the gods, installing presidents, congressmen, and captains of industry in the States, and exerting even greater influence in half of the remaining countries in the world.

  More importantly for Zelaya’s purposes, they enjoyed a solid reputation for paying on time. Evidently, one didn’t become a global crook by acting like a petty crook.

  Still, he was skeptical. “Even down here, one hears rumors,” he said.

  “That so?”

  “The Intermediary was arrested, they say.”

  Fredericks, being a successful CIA case officer, and therefore also being a veteran and inveterate liar, chuckled and shrugged. “Rumors.”

  But Zelaya wasn’t exactly wet behind the ears, and he was astute enough to catch the slight twitch of Fredericks’ right eye, which was generally a reliable bullshit indicator, in Zelaya’s experience. Noted. “As I said, one hears things. But it’s tough to know what to believe. We’re a long way from Banff, way down here in the jungle.”

  Fredericks’ smile dimmed. How the hell does this backwater pipe-swinger know about Banff? Banff was to the Facilitator as Camp David was to the US President, except that no one was supposed to know about the former. The Consultancy clearly had some leaks to shore up.

  Zelaya worked hard to repress a smug smile. “You are the quintessential American bigot, Mr. Fredericks. Your country is richer than most, but you think that makes you smarter than the rest of us. And you conveniently forget that you’re standing on the shoulders of your forefathers.”

  “Yes, yes, the marginalized third-world freedom fighter routine. Aren’t we a little beyond that, you and I?”

  “You tell me.”

  Fredericks chuckled. “Look. We’ve been in this game a long time. It’s been forever since I was a true believer. But I’ve also outgrown my cynicism. I’m on the job. That’s it. No songs, no slogans, no bullshit. Fair enough?”

  Zelaya considered, smiled a little, nodded. “So we find our interests momentarily aligned.”

  “Good as it ever gets, my friend.”

  Zelaya nodded toward the video image of Sabot Mondragon, still doubled over and shivering on the wooden chair in his cell. “This man, he stole something from your employers?”

  “Virtual currency.”

  “I’m confident he’ll have a change of heart.”

  “That would make our employers very happy.” A lie. The Facilitator had been extremely clear on the subject. Mondragon was to wake up dead, as soon as possible.

  But Fredericks wasn’t one to ignore an opportunity, especially one this size. He exhibited poor judgment on occasion, and his dick had often landed the rest of him in deep shit, but he wasn’t an idiot. Fredericks had sensed a note of urgency unbecoming a man of the Facilitator’s status atop the clandestine global oligarchy. The old man was just a hair too strident during their brief and unpleasant Banff meeting, telltale sign of an involuntarily loosened grip on the r
eigns.

  Fredericks sensed an opening. He had an inkling that the Facilitator’s reach wasn’t quite what it had been at its peak.

  And Fredericks figured there was room enough in his life to play puppeteer for one more asset.

  “Broken but alive, please,” he instructed Zelaya. “Let’s not hobble our new thoroughbred. At least not permanently.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Zelaya caught a contemplative look on Fredericks’ face. In the past, such a look on the fat man’s sweaty mug had almost always been a harbinger of opportunity. Fredericks needed something.

  Zelaya let him stew for a moment, then nudged him over the edge. “There is something else I can help you with.”

  Fredericks nodded. “Know anyone in Costa Rica?”

  “Of course.” A knowing smile. “But someone at the airport, that is another matter.”

  “Who said I needed someone at the airport?”

  “Nobody. But your friend Mondragon is a popular man. He has important pursuers.”

  What the hell? Fredericks was taken aback. How could Zelaya — a bit player in a minor fiefdom in the middle of the jungle — have his finger on the pulse of the Department of Homeland Security? They barely had internet down here. How was this guy so dialed in?

  Out of the corner of his eye, he detected an unmistakable smirk on Zelaya’s face. “You gringos were always too prideful to keep a secret,” Zelaya offered by way of explanation. “And we may be simpletons and shit-farmers, but we learned long ago to look closely to the north for signs of trouble.”

  Fredericks shook his head. “Balls, Terencio. You got the drop on me.”

  “Si,” Zelaya said. “But it’s not really your fault. The redhead’s work in Venezuela put her on our map.”

  “What work in Venezuela?” Fredericks bluffed.

  Zelaya laughed aloud. “It’s not that you’re a bad liar,” he chided. “It’s just that you can’t seem to avoid being cornered. You have no subtlety.”

  Anger flashed across Fredericks’ face.

  Zelaya’s smile broadened. “Relax, Señor Fredericks. The enemy of my customer is also my enemy. I’ve taken the liberty of making a few phone calls. Not pro bono, of course, but the arrangements will prove useful, I trust.”

  8

  “That, folks, is how we do it,” the pilot announced, clearly proud of his smooth landing. “Welcome to Costa Rica. Local time is a smidge past midnight. I’m told they’ve arranged ground transportation and a hotel for us, compliments of the DIS.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “We’ll be lucky if we aren’t all shot on the tarmac.” Her view of the Direccion de Inteligencia y Seguridad Nacional, the Costa Rican security apparatus, wasn’t complimentary.

  Dan chuckled. “You’re assuming they can still afford bullets. Besides, I think their primary function is to dig up dirt at election time.”

  Sam nodded. “Another Agency outpost from the Cold War, hunting snipe and commies.”

  “No backwater too stagnant for the Silent Service,” Brock joked.

  The cabin door opened, admitting the loud whine of the passenger jet’s auxiliary power unit and a rush of suffocating jungle air. “Like breathing through a sweaty sock,” Dan observed.

  “With all the charming aftertaste,” Sam said, wearily gathering her things from the credenza next to her seat.

  Seven thousand minutes later, according to Sam’s level of remaining patience, the ground crew finally rolled the ancient stairway up to the US Government VIP jet. The improbable pack of federal agents and federal criminals trudged down the rickety steps and onto Costa Rican soil, where they were met by a wiry chain-smoker with a lubricious, sycophantic air. “I am Juan Rojas,” the man said. “On behalf of Señor Solana, President of Costa Rica and the head of the Direccion de Inteligencia y Seguridad Nacional, I would like to welcome you to Costa Rica.”

  “Thanks,” Sam replied, taking the man’s outstretched palm and crushing it with her slightly mannish grip. He winced a little, then gestured toward three waiting cars.

  “We have taken the liberty of making hotel arrangements for you,” Rojas said with a slight bow. “I understand it has been a very long day for you. Your drivers know the way, and the hotel is nearby.”

  Sam smiled. “That’s very kind of you, Señor Rojas. Unfortunately, I’m afraid we have to get directly to work. Would you be able to take us over to the terminal where the Obsidian Air flight disembarked?”

  Rojas’ smile dimmed, and Sam could have sworn she detected a slight flinch on his face. Interesting. Was Rojas just supporting local business, or was something else on the agenda?

  Rojas recovered his polish. “Of course, we would be happy to assist you in any way possible, Special Agent Jameson. But if your journey has left you weary, the hotel is much closer.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Sam said.

  “Complimentary breakfast, too,” Rojas added awkwardly. “And very comfortable accommodations.”

  “Really, Señor Rojas. We need to get to work,” Sam said, a little bit of stop-screwing-with-me in her tone. “If you don’t mind, we should really get started.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll inform our drivers of our new destination,” Rojas said.

  Come to think of it, where the hell are the embassy people? It was a matter of custom and procedure for federal investigations on foreign soil to have embassy involvement, for obvious reasons. She threw a meaningful glance toward Dan, who was already dialing his phone.

  Sam heard two car doors shut, and saw the first black sedan drive off into the darkness of the under-lit tarmac. Sonuvabitch, something’s not right here. Dan, Brock, herself, and Rojas remained on the ramp, which meant that Trojan and Harv Edwards occupied the first car, its brake lights now receding in the distance.

  She looked at Dan, who shook his head. No answer at the embassy. Not good. The embassy was supposed to be staffed 24/7. But Sam knew that locals were often hired for receptionist duties in the smaller embassies, a political concession that, the embassy wigs maintained, had no operational significance.

  Except when it did.

  “Señor Rojas, can you call them back here?” Sam asked. “I’d like us all to stick together.”

  “No, ma’am,” Rojas responded apologetically. “Traveling separately is our strict policy, for safety reasons. It is not always safe for foreigners after dark.”

  Which was complete bullshit. They were at an international airport. Not to mention that Costa Ricans enjoyed a far more peaceful society than any of their Central American neighbors, largely because the country was the first in the world to abolish its military. Armed teenagers in uniforms, along with the inevitable thuggery, pillage, and abuse committed by soldiers the world over, were simply not found in Costa Rica. “I seem to have left something on the plane,” Sam stalled.

  Brock, oblivious to the unfolding drama, was halfway inside the second car. Sam spotted him as he began to lower his weight onto the seat. “Brock, can you help me?” It was an unlikely request, given that Brock’s thigh was wrapped in a bandage, a painful gunshot wound — remnant of a remarkably shitty weekend — slowing his every step.

  He started to protest, but she shot him the kind of glance that was unmistakable between lovers.

  “Sure thing,” he said, struggling back out of the sedan with a groan.

  Sam turned her gaze to Rojas. Confusion crossed his face for the briefest of moments. It lasted but an instant, and Sam saw his eyes harden and his jaw set in a way that she’d seen hundreds of times before.

  Professional. He knew she’d sniffed him out.

  And she knew the game was on.

  She walked with practiced nonchalance back up the stairway to the jet, meeting the pilot and copilot on their way down the stairs. “Get back inside,” she commanded. She cut off the pilot’s nascent question with a hissed expletive. “Get back on the plane. No time to explain.”

  Brock hobbled up the stairs behind Sam, and Dan brought up the rear
, phone to his ear.

  Sam turned to wave a fake apology to Rojas, taking him in again at a glance. In the intervening seconds, the man’s face had darkened noticeably, and his body had morphed. He was no longer the bootlicking chauffeur, with averted eyes and bowed torso. He looked poised, shoulders squared, movements taut. He was the welcoming committee alright, but of a vastly different sort. Thank goodness for a woman’s intuition.

  “What about Trojan and Harv?” Dan asked as they reentered the aircraft cabin.

  “Definitely a problem,” Sam said.

  “What the hell is going on?” Brock asked, lowering himself gingerly into an aircraft seat, bewildered by the strange display.

  “Rojas may be here on behalf of the DIS, but he certainly isn’t our buddy,” Sam explained. “Which leaves us in a little bit of a bind.”

  Brock looked incredulous. “But you’re here on official business as a US federal agent. You really think they’d interfere with you?”

  Sam nodded. “Happens all the time. They’ll slow-leak the diplomatic channels, and they’ll have all the time they need to get whatever they want from us.”

  “I thought they were our allies,” Brock protested.

  Dan grimaced. “We’re chasing a guy who’s many times richer than the Queen right now. There’s more than enough money in play to rearrange loyalties for as long as it takes.”

  “So what now?”

  Sam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She watched surreptitiously out one of the cabin windows as Rojas and the two remaining drivers huddled on the tarmac below. The drivers wore loose-fitting jackets despite the oppressive heat, perfect for concealing sidearms and other antisocial devices. “Damned good question,” she said.

  9

  Domingo Mondragon sat shivering in the semidarkness. He’d regained a bit of his composure, exerted his will over his emotions, and felt far more sanguine about what was otherwise a dogshit situation.

  They had him by the gonads, no doubt about it. Leverage was the understatement of the century. He’d very recently become one of the world’s richest men, a fact which, if known to his captors, would provide plenty of motivation for them to inflict all sorts of grisly evils on him.