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

by Lars Emmerich

  As the jet taxied toward the runway, Quinn opened his book and started reading. More Faust, as imagined by Goethe. He laughed inwardly at the implicit joke. But there was an important difference: unlike Faust, Quinn hadn’t really sold his soul to the devil.

  Rather, he had merely discovered that he and the devil had a lot in common.

  24

  Sam exited the Village Theater just after dusk. Her eyes were red and puffy, indicative of the early stage of the grief cycle in which she found herself.

  She still couldn’t believe that Brock had lied to her about Arturo Dibiaso. She wondered whether the reason she found herself targeted by a fringe group of crooked Metro cops might be hidden behind that lie, and she resolved to put the pieces together into a coherent picture. It’s what she did for a living, and she was damn good at it.

  But she had never before had to piece the facts of a case together while simultaneously piecing together the fragments of her heart. Maybe there was another woman involved, which had fueled Brock’s deceit, or maybe not. Either way, his lie cut deep. She had organized her life around naked honesty, and long ago discovered that there was no place in her world for anything else.

  Sam returned her focus to more immediately pressing concerns. She wandered slowly toward the Diplomat Towers, wondering whether the police had grown weary of waiting for her to emerge. She hadn’t walked more than half a block before she caught the reflection of flashing police lights off of the library building’s windows. Apparently, they hadn’t yet lost interest. She had no idea how many policemen might still be in the neighborhood, and she had no intention of finding out.

  Of course, it was entirely possible that the Metro guys were simply still mopping up the mess in Phil Quartermain’s apartment, and had no interest in her whatsoever. But those odds weren’t great, and trying to get at her car in the apartment building’s parking garage was a huge risk without much upside.

  She crossed the street, entered a coffee shop, and ordered a latte to go, then meandered past the gas station at the far end of the urban center. She nonchalantly rounded the corner and left the enclave of chic shops, restaurants, and condo high-rises behind her as she made her way to the bus stop two blocks south.

  Minutes later, aboard a crowded Metrobus connector, Sam turned on one of her burner phones and dialed Dan Gable’s number. Voicemail.

  She tried his home number; a haggard Sara answered with a crying baby in the background. Sam cringed as she asked to speak with Dan.

  Sara was cordial to Sam, but there was palpable tension as Sara summoned Dan to the phone. “Your office wife,” Sam overheard her say.

  “I’m really sorry to disturb the peace, Dan,” she said when her deputy picked up.

  “No problem. There’s not much peace to disturb. And I’m actually glad you called. Are you somewhere secure?”

  “I’m on a bus. Quartermain’s dead. A Metro guy followed me over here a few hours ago, and they showed up about four nanoseconds after Phil was murdered. I’ve spent the afternoon holed up and trying to avoid them.”

  Dan whistled. “This just keeps getting more and more messed up.”

  “No argument here. Listen, I need you to work something for me on the down-low. I need to find a crime scene investigator who’s willing to do some work off the grid.”

  Dan laughed. “You mean, you want me to find a CSI who’s willing to commit a felony for you? Sure thing – I’ve got ‘em lined up around the block.”

  “I’m aware that it won’t be easy, but I can’t run the risk of the evidence leaking. It already seems like the Metro gang is always a step ahead of me. One of these times, they’re going to catch me.”

  “So you want to find an investigator to sneak back into a sealed scene or something?”

  “No. I. . . found something in Quartermain’s apartment.”

  “Jesus, Sam. Have you lost your mind?” Removing evidence from a scene was a great way to lose one’s liberty.

  “Maybe. But who do you call when your deputy is taking a powder and the cops are playing for the wrong team? I couldn’t exactly spell things out on your voicemail. And I had to make a decision quickly.”

  Dan was silent for a while, then sighed. “Let me work on it. No promises though. And this might be none of my business, but is something going on?”

  “You mean aside from dead people and crooked cops?”

  “I mean at home. Brock has called the office about fifty times looking for you.”

  Sam had successfully compartmentalized that particular problem over the past several minutes, but she felt herself choking up again as she tried to think of a reply.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” she finally said. It wasn’t false – she really didn’t know what Brock was up to, why he hadn’t come clean with her, and what his connection with Dibiaso might be.

  “You might consider calling him, before he starts to become a real pain in the ass. And I have something else you need to hear about.”

  “Hit me.”

  “I overheard Ekman and Jarvis talking about verifying a death certificate for a life insurance policy. I don’t have any evidence, but I think it’s related to the stiff we saw in the multi-spec photo of John Abrams’ front yard.”

  “The one that Everett Cooper was leaning over before he jumped out at me?”

  “Yep. That’s what I think anyway.”

  “You think a Homeland guy got whacked by the Metro thugs?” Sam asked.

  “I think so. Either that, or he got whacked earlier, and the Metro guys found him in the bushes. I asked Ekman about it—“

  “You did what?” Sam interrupted.

  “Ekman. I talked to him.”

  Sam cursed.

  “I know. But what else could I do?” Dan asked. “He’s our boss, and I still have a duty to report potential connections to open cases. Anyway, he got a look on his face like I had caught him whacking off, if you’ll pardon the expression. It was pretty clear that he and Jarvis are keeping us in the dark and feeding us shit.”

  “I’m glad it’s not just me,” Sam said. “Let me know if you learn anything more on that front, but I wouldn’t press Ekman or Jarvis for anything else.”

  “I’ll back off but keep you posted.”

  “Dan, I really need that CSI help. I’m carrying around the souvenir in a backpack, and need this thing analyzed before I accidentally destroy evidence. Can you work on it tonight?”

  “Okay. I’ll call you soon.”

  “And please be careful, Dan. I think Phil Quartermain was on to something, and that’s why he got smoked.”

  “I’ll be quiet like a mouse,” Dan said.

  25

  The evening breeze felt cool and stark, like reality forcing itself on Kittredge’s still-reeling, still-inebriated consciousness.

  He stood on the platform of the Santa Marta station on the Red Line in Caracas, and felt the rumble of a train approaching. There were numerous clocks in view, and each expressed a slightly different idea of the time. It was indicative of the Venezuelan approach to scheduling, Kittredge thought.

  “Don’t turn around,” said a voice in quiet tones, very near to Kittredge’s ear. He immediately tried to turn around, but a practiced hand on his elbow stopped him. “You didn’t follow instructions very well,” said the man, annoyance apparent in his voice. “When did you get here?”

  “Uh,” Kittredge said, “I dunno. Few minutes ago, maybe?”

  “Think carefully about your instructions, and then I will ask you again,” the man said impatiently.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry. Five-thirty,” Kittredge said, recalling his earlier instructions: you will be asked a question. The answer is five-thirty.

  “That’s better.”

  The man sidled up, and Kittredge turned to see a wiry man of medium height in dirty brown overalls and a John Deere hat. “Mauricio,” he said, extending his hand and speaking loudly over the sound of the arriving train.

  Kittredge shook it, and f
elt a card pressed against his palm. He looked down to find a train ticket.

  “Join me,” Mauricio said, stepping through the open train door.

  Kittredge followed, heart beating fast.

  An announcement in Spanish told Kittredge that the train had reached the southeastern-most station on the Red Line. Mauricio had deposited him in a seat immediately after boarding, and had disappeared into a different car, leaving Kittredge to wonder anxiously at each subsequent stop whether he was supposed to exit the train or stay put.

  He also wondered anxiously whether it would be best just to walk off the train and disappear into the sunset. He had just thrown his fate upon complete strangers, and he was having second thoughts about the wisdom of that decision.

  In the end, indecision, curiosity, and residual liquid courage had kept him in his seat.

  Mauricio reappeared as the train ground to a halt at the Red Line’s last stop. The sinewy Venezuelan gave Kittredge a toothy smile, and beckoned him to follow with a flip of his chin.

  A dilapidated Toyota pickup truck awaited them. Mauricio jumped into the bed, and motioned for Kittredge to ride shotgun.

  A large brick of a man sat in the driver’s seat. He nodded as Kittredge climbed in and looked for a seatbelt, but the driver said nothing and remained expressionless. He jammed the truck into gear and made his way slowly through the crowd of workers returning home from a day at work in the city.

  Several miles later, the pavement ended, and the truck bucked wildly as the driver drove indifferently over ruts and potholes on what had become a dirt road at best, a donkey trail at worst. “Where are we going?” Kittredge asked, feeling increasingly claustrophobic as the South American jungle thickened around him.

  In reply, the driver opened the glove compartment, removed a wad of black cloth, and handed it to Kittredge. It was a hood. The driver motioned for Kittredge to don it.

  “Seriously?” Kittredge’s protest sounded a little whiny, even to himself.

  The driver nodded. His stern facial expression needed no translation, and Kittredge thought it best to do as he was told.

  The oppressive jungle heat, the lack of air conditioning in the truck, the jostling, his nerves and claustrophobia, and the onset of a mini-hangover all conspired to make Kittredge feel nauseous. He lifted the hood to increase the airflow to his face, but immediately received a whack from the driver.

  Fear and dread replaced nausea in the forefront of his consciousness, and he wondered for the hundredth time what lay ahead, and what the hell he had been thinking when he called the number in his pocket. Quinn and Fredericks were certainly bastards, but at least they were somewhat known quantities, and Kittredge wondered whether he had made a grievous mistake.

  He stewed in his worry for the better part of an hour before the truck ride ended. He heard Mauricio jump out of the bed – had he ridden way back there the entire way? His skinny ass must be beyond repair, Kittredge thought – and felt the passenger door jerk open. “This way, Señor Kittredge,” Mauricio said, leading him by the arm. “Watch your step.”

  Kittredge felt afraid, but also a little ridiculous. He was stumbling around someplace in the jungle with a hood over his head, like a prisoner of war, or a criminal of some sort. “What the hell are we doing?” he asked.

  “We are almost there, Señor Kittredge,” Mauricio said. “Just a little further. Maybe a mile.”

  “A mile?”

  “Yes, just a little one. You are a city gringo, Señor Kittredge, but you will survive, I think.”

  Kittredge felt perspiration drip down his face. At least I’m out of that damned truck, he thought. “Really, Mauricio, where are you taking me?”

  “You asked for help, no? I am taking you to help.”

  Ask for help? Is that what he had done? Kittredge wasn’t sure. The old man in the red scarf had given him the telephone number during their brief and very unusual conversation on the park bench, halfway between the Lincoln and War Memorials in DC. It seemed like seven light-years away and two lifetimes ago. In a moment of anger and rebellion, Kittredge had simply dialed the number. A disembodied voice had given him instructions, and he had followed them.

  It was a reckless thing to have done, he knew. As reckless as becoming a spy in the first place? He wondered to himself, suddenly aware of a glaring personality flaw. It seemed that he had systematically created ever-riskier situations for himself over the past few months, but he had no idea why. Even things like having unprotected sex. Do I have a death wish? Or am I just bored?

  “Duck your head, Señor Kittredge,” Mauricio said. Kittredge heard the screech of rusty hinges, felt a hand on his head urging him to stoop lower, and stepped forward as Mauricio prodded his arm. He tried to stand up, but cracked his head against a solid ceiling. He heard the rusty gate slam shut. “You may take off your hood,” Mauricio said, his footsteps retreating through the jungle.

  Kittredge pulled off the hood. He was surprised by the darkness outside. The sun had long since set, and he wasn’t sure how Mauricio and the driver had navigated through the jungle in the dark. His eyes were already dark-adapted from the hood, and it became instantly clear to him that he was in a cage of some sort, like an animal.

  Discomfort turned to fear. “Mauricio?” he queried the darkness. “What is this? What’s going on? Mauricio!”

  He heard only the sounds of the jungle.

  Kittredge heard a horrific screech, which he incorporated into his nightmare – he was being chased through a dark passageway by some unknown evil presence, with people lined up on both sides to watch him. The evil behind him screeched and howled, and his fear was visceral. Each person he passed became a pursuer, and he ran faster and faster, but only wound up with more angry people chasing him.

  Something sharp poked his chest, and he awoke. “Señor Kittredge, it is time,” said an unfamiliar voice with a thick Spanish accent. “Come this way.”

  He felt a tug on his arm, stood up too quickly, hit his head against the top of the cage, and unleashed a stream of curses. “What is the deal with the damned cage?”

  The man ignored the question. “This way, Señor Kittredge.” More trudging through the jungle in the darkness. More thorns, bug bites, dripping perspiration, and more apprehension.

  Then a flickering light appeared through the trees. Campfire. Subdued voices, then a little laughter. Kittredge saw three men encircling the campfire, Kalashnikov rifles slung across their chests, beer bottles in their hands. They straightened up when they heard Kittredge and his captor approach.

  Kittredge heard what sounded like a bird’s shrill call, but was surprised to hear an equivalent response from the man who had led him through the jungle. The noise was apparently some sort of code.

  A fourth man emerged from within a large military-looking canvas tent adjacent to the campfire. “Ahh, Señor Peter Kittredge, if I am not mistaken,” the man said as Kittredge and his guide rounded the last turn through the jungle and reached the camp.

  “That’s right,” Kittredge said, doing his best to keep the trepidation out of his voice. “You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid,” he said. “I have no idea who you are.”

  “My friends call me El Grande. And my enemies, too.” He extended his hand.

  El Grande. The Big. Completely absurd. “El Grande. I hope I fall in the friend category,” Kittredge said, wiping the perspiration from his face.

  “I hope so, too. I don’t have enemies for long,” El Grande said. The three men laughed, as if El Grande had made a joke. Kittredge wondered if that was some kind of a threat.

  “Please, come inside.” El Grande motioned toward the tent, and Kittredge complied.

  Inside, Kittredge found a hookah, a woman of obvious Slavic descent wearing nothing but her panties, and another henchman, curled up and snoring. A lamp hung suspended by a nail driven into the tent’s center support. “Sorry to crash the party,” he said, surprised by his own boldness.

  “Not at all. We are ho
nored to have you as our guest. I am very sorry about the bumpy ride and the dark hood and the animal’s cage. But these are necessary precautions, I am afraid.”

  Kittredge didn’t reply. It all seemed a bit over the top, like big boys playing little boys’ games out in the jungle, but with real women and guns. And narcotics, judging by the torpor of the passed-out henchman.

  “You are uncertain about your choice to call us. Maybe skeptical of us,” El Grande observed.

  I really have to work on my poker face, Kittredge thought. “I don’t know what I am. Mostly confused, I think.”

  “That is understandable,” El Grande said, sitting down at a chair in the middle of the large tent.

  As he sat, his face became bathed in the lamplight, and Kittredge felt something familiar yet strange: attraction. El Grande had a chiseled jaw, strong shoulders, and dark skin. He was mildly but not objectionably swarthy. And Kittredge was a sucker for the accent.

  He quickly put those thoughts aside, however, in favor of figuring out whether he had just made the biggest mistake of his life – next to committing treason, of course.

  El Grande was still speaking, and Kittredge did his best to focus on the words. “I think that you do not like your new CIA friends. I do not like your new CIA friends. They are old enemies. They want our oil, then our women, then our lives. Si?”

  “They have me by the balls,” Kittredge said.

  “Si. Quite so. Exel Oil, no? You sold them things?”

  Kittredge nodded.

  “You got a big price for these things?” El Grande asked, as if he already knew the answer.

  Kittredge shook his head.

  “Yes,” El Grande said. “It is hard to get paid enough for our troubles, no?”

  Something didn’t seem quite right. Kittredge had sold economic secrets to an American oil company, and the CIA had caught him. Yet El Grande accused the CIA of going after Venezuelan oil. It made Kittredge think back to the way he had found out about the attack on Charley. Quinn and Fredericks.