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

by Lars Emmerich

  But flying jets in harm’s way wasn’t nearly the same thing as employing sound trade craft to keep from getting kidnapped or killed, and Sam knew that Brock had another potential snag ahead of him: rebooking the flight he’d missed as a result of having to shake free from the surveillance team.

  There was nothing Tricia Leavens could do to help Thomas Brownstein. And any kind of meddling would only highlight a connection they were working hard to hide.

  But there was something Sam could do to help understand what they might be facing.

  She set out for the bank of pay phones at the end of the international concourse. Unlike many airports, Reagan still had the ancient and archaic communication devices, mounted to a far wall.

  Sam picked up a receiver, dropped in a few quarters, and dialed Dan’s office number.

  “So, let the record reflect that I was wrong,” Dan said after their brief exchange of pleasantries.

  “How so?”

  “I said that Jarvis was too stupid to be involved in anything other than bureaucratic buggery.”

  “He’s dirty, isn’t he?”

  “Pretty sure. I dropped the Hack Team goodies into his boot file. He must not fully appreciate the power of the digital age, because it took me less than fifteen minutes to rack up enough shit to justify asking for an arrest warrant.”

  Sam let out a low whistle. “Can you give me the highlights? I’m boarding soon.”

  “Sure. Four Tor accesses in the past two days,” Dan said.

  “Not smart for a government employee,” Sam said, “but not illegal.”

  “Right. But here’s the kicker. He used Tor to access a chat room, which he used to plug into a SATCOM link, which he used to link up with a specific computer. I don’t know yet precisely where that computer was, or who owns it, but the satellite connection Jarvis used makes me ninety-nine percent confident that the other side of that conversation was in South America.”

  “Any chance there’s a logical explanation?”

  “If so, it hasn’t yet occurred to me,” Dan said. “Any legitimate business wouldn’t have required Jarvis to try to mask his IP address by using Tor.”

  “Unless he wanted to disguise his status as a Fed,” Sam said.

  “That’s a possibility. But he’s a manager, not an investigator, so he really has no business dabbling in trade craft. Plus, Homeland’s jurisdiction doesn’t extend to South America. That’s Agency territory.”

  “I’m sure he’d testify to something that sounds plausible,” Sam said. “He’d maybe get dinged for the extra-jurisdictional foray, but it doesn’t prove he’s a spy.”

  “I’ve typed up a search warrant,” Dan said.

  Sam pondered that for a second as she scanned the airport for signs of Ekman, Brock, or assholes with shivs.

  “A warrant is a big step, Dan. Are you sure we’re ready for that?”

  “No. But if Jarvis is crooked and we didn’t take any action, we’d be rolled up in the blowback when he gets caught. They’d crush us for sitting on our suspicions. And judging from his horrible computer security discipline, it’s only a matter of time before he gets caught doing something stupid.”

  “Solid point.”

  “Besides, it’s a cyber warrant. He won’t even know we’re snooping until it’s too late.”

  “You mean we’re going to ask permission to do what we just did?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dan said, a smile evident in his voice. “Not my problem if Jarvis can’t keep foreign malware off of his computer.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. “Go ahead with it. Post results to the secure site in case I can’t reach you from down south.”

  “Sure thing, boss. One more thing before you go. That cell phone hit in Caracas?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s active. The phone has been on for a few hours now. No calls, and it’s just sitting there. Huge mistake on someone’s part.”

  “Nice. About time we caught a break. What’s the address?”

  Dan told her.

  She wrote it down, thanked him, and signed off.

  Motion caught her eye, a familiar gait, topped by a shock of curly black hair. Ekman. If he’d spotted her at the pay phone bank at the end of the concourse, he gave no indication. He veered from the main walkway into the gate area for the Caracas flight, disappearing behind a vendor selling overpriced sunglasses.

  Sam ducked into a convenience shop next to a currency exchange kiosk. She bought two burners, and paid for two international SIM cards. She knew from Dan’s news about Dibiaso’s network of burners that US phones apparently worked in Venezuela, but she wasn’t sure about the neighboring countries. Might have to make a hasty exit in a different direction than the one you arrived from, she reasoned, so it was important to have options.

  She hadn’t allowed herself to worry about Brock, but she wasn’t able to put those thoughts off any longer. She emerged from the convenience store and scanned passersby, searching for telltale signs of him.

  In the end, Sam looked right past him. He was walking with stooped shoulders, leaning forward a bit at the waist, wearing sunglasses and a hipster hat, bouncing jauntily off of his right foot with each step.

  He walked right up to her. “If I didn’t know you, I would want to,” he said.

  Recognition took a second. “Holy smokes, nice work on the disguise!” she said, suddenly self conscious of her own. If Brock could recognize her easily, so could someone else.

  “Pretend you’re making a call,” she instructed.

  He complied.

  “Ekman’s here. By our gate,” he said, getting a nod in reply. “Any problems after we split up?”

  “It was memorable,” she said. “I’ll fill you in later.”

  An announcement interrupted their conversation: Would Mr. Brownstein and Ms. Leavens please report to gate D 22 immediately.

  “That didn’t take long,” Sam said. A worried expression crossed her face.

  Brock hung up the phone and started toward the gate, his mouth pressed into a grimace.

  “Wait a bit,” she said. “Let’s not go up there together. Go grab a coffee or something, and I’ll see what’s up.”

  Brock considered, then nodded reluctantly and headed toward the nearest instantiation of a ubiquitous coffee shop brand.

  Calm and steady, Sam reminded herself, breathing deeply and walking confidently to the counter at gate D 22, pretending not to notice the two TSA agents hovering nearby.

  “I’m Tricia Leavens,” she told the agent.

  The agent eyed her closely. Not a friendly look, Sam noticed.

  “These agents requested to speak with you,” the ticket clerk said, gesturing toward the overweight security guards.

  “Step this way, please, ma’am,” one of the guards said.

  Sam looked at them carefully. Flabby bodies and slack expressions. Not professional muscle, she concluded. Probably real TSA agents.

  “What is this about?” she asked.

  “This way, please. My partner and I will explain.” He waddled out of the gate area. Sam followed reluctantly, hearing the gate agent announce the start of passenger boarding.

  “This had better be quick,” she said. “My flight is boarding.”

  “We’ll go as quickly as we can, ma’am.”

  The portly TSA agent led her down the concourse, past several shops and the restrooms, and used his magnetic badge to gain entrance to an unmarked door. Sam followed, and the second TSA agent brought up the rear, closing the door behind him.

  They had entered what was clearly an interrogation room.

  “What is this about?” Sam repeated, annoyed. “I’ve already passed security, and my flight is boarding now.”

  “Ma’am, we’ve been asked to detain you and your traveling companion pending the arrival of our supervisor.”

  Shit. Jarvis? Ekman? Had to be one of them, she thought.

  “Asked by whom?” Sam asked.
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br />   “By our shift chief.”

  “Give me a name, please.”

  “Officer Tirpak.”

  Sam pulled her DHS badge out of her handbag and held it close to the portly guard’s face. “Please let Officer Tirpak know that he’s interfering with a federal investigation.”

  The guard blinked twice. Uncertainty descended.

  “Ma’am, I’m sure your credentials are valid, but I’m afraid I can’t let you go without my supervisor’s approval.” He motioned toward a seat.

  Sam remained standing. She smiled. “I can sympathize with your position. But I’m going to leave this room and board my flight. Mr. Brownstein, the other individual you’ve been asked to detain, is my associate. He will be boarding that flight as well.”

  The guard shook his head, fat jiggling on his neck. “I’m afraid I can’t let you return to the gate area until you’ve been cleared by a TSA supervisor, ma’am.”

  She held her badge up again, her forefinger pointing to a particular spot. “Read those words out loud,” she said.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but–”

  “Humor me.”

  “You’re Special Agent Sam Jameson, chief of the counterintelligence investigations division.”

  “At which agency?”

  “Ma’am, really, I have my orders, and–”

  Sam raised her voice. “At which agency?” Her sharp tone visibly startled the guard.

  “Homeland Security.”

  “That’s right. Can you guess who the head of the Transportation Safety Administration reports to?”

  “Homeland Security,” the guard repeated.

  “Right again. So you see where I’m going with this?”

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Sam beat him to the punch. “You really don’t want to gum up an active Homeland investigation. If my associate and I miss our flight, you, Officer Tirpak, and the seventeen other layers of middle management between you and the TSA director will all have the opportunity to visit us downtown and explain yourselves.”

  He swallowed, considering.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” she said. “I am going to return to my gate. If Officer Tirpak arrives before I board, he and I will have a conversation. If not, you’ll write down my badge number and hand it to him at your convenience, and you can sort out your misunderstanding on your own time. Sound reasonable?”

  The TSA agent was conflicted. She could tell he wanted to stand on procedure and exert authority, but she could also tell that he didn’t want the trouble it would cause.

  She was tempted to push him along by asking how he’d like to be responsible for another bomb attack on US soil, but she reminded herself that it was best not to sell past the close.

  Her patience paid off a few seconds later. “Special Agent Jameson, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll straighten this out with my supervisor, and I’ll find you at the gate if necessary.”

  Sam thanked him on her way out.

  She walked quickly to the gate, arriving as the last few passengers were boarding.

  Brock had waited for her. He followed her down the jetway.

  “Ekman?” she asked when they were clear of the gate kiosk.

  “Already boarded. I don’t think he saw me. What was the TSA thing all about?”

  “Someone’s screwing with us. But it was stupid and lazy of them to page us using our aliases, because it tips their hand. It has to be someone in the fake ID shop, or someone with enough authority to force the ID guys to give up the aliases.”

  Brock considered. “My money’s on Jarvis,” he said.

  “Mine too.”

  They approached the line of passengers at the airplane door.

  “Are we really going to spend five hours on a plane with Ekman, after all that’s happened?” Brock asked.

  “Yes. But it’s going to work out perfectly,” Sam said. “We’re going to take turns punching him in the balls until he gives us a straight answer.”

  Part II

  11

  Peter Kittredge awoke disoriented, his brain reeling to recall his body’s current location, struggling for context in light of the week’s ridiculous events.

  Maria’s soft breathing provided a welcome clue, as did the scent of her, wild and beautiful and slightly musky. She slept next to him in the safe house bedroom.

  He rose, hungry, having chosen frolic instead of dinner, and having slumbered afterwards in a pleasant post-coital languor.

  He walked slowly out of the unfamiliar bedroom, taking care not to walk into the furniture and glancing at the alarm clock along the way: 10:22 p.m. No wonder his stomach was growling.

  Kittredge padded softly to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and squinted while his eyes adjusted to the light.

  “Not much to choose from,” said a voice behind him.

  Kittredge jumped, alarmed and suddenly very alert.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  He heard a familiar laugh. “You are lucky we are friends. I could have gotten the drop on you, as you Yanquis like to say.”

  A reading lamp clicked on in the corner of the sitting room, illuminating a rugged, handsome, familiar face. El Grande sat comfortably in a plush reading chair, legs crossed, wearing a friendly smile.

  “You scared the hell out of me,” Kittredge said, heart pounding.

  “My apologies.” El Grande eyed Kittredge’s naked frame. “I see you and Maria have found each other again, no?”

  Kittredge didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t much to be said on the subject, and he could certainly think of nothing constructive.

  Plus, he was stark naked in the presence of a VSS authority figure for the second time in the same evening, and he realized that he felt aggravated by what seemed like another intrusion on his private moments.

  But he also realized that he and Maria were stealing moments together while holed up in various VSS safe houses, so his expectation of privacy wasn’t entirely rational.

  “Let me grab my clothes,” he said.

  “There is no need. I have a simple request, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Kittredge waited.

  “Inform us before your next Agency meeting,” El Grande said.

  “I can’t always predict when they’ll show up. Those guys are a long way up my ass, and they watch me pretty consistently.”

  “I understand. But when you can, when there is time and you have details, you will inform us, no?”

  “Perhaps. Depending on the timing. I can’t always sneak away to contact you.”

  “Si. I am not asking for you to tell us about every meeting. Just the next meeting they happen to plan in advance.”

  Kittredge cocked his head. “Why?”

  “We have our reasons.”

  With that, El Grande rose and walked to the front door of the apartment, using the fisheye to scan the hallway for passersby before quietly opening the door.

  “Please give my regards to Maria,” he said. Then he disappeared down the dark hallway.

  Sure thing, Kittredge thought, wondering how the conversation might go. Hey Maria, another one of your ex-boyfriends wishes he was still rolling around naked with you…

  His appetite gone, Kittredge returned to bed, wondering whether he’d be able to pull off another short-notice contact with the VSS without alerting Quinn and Fredericks.

  It struck him that even if the Agency didn’t know his precise whereabouts at the moment, they certainly knew the company he was keeping.

  Maria was right, he thought as he wrapped his arm around her slumbering form. This probably won’t end well.

  12

  The “fasten seatbelts” sign went dark, and Sam left her seat on the Airbus. She walked past sparsely populated rows of seats and into the flight attendant’s galley.

  She lifted her shirt and displayed her bloody abdomen, asking for a first aid kit. The flight attendant turned ghost white at the sight of the bloody mess, but retrieved the first aid kit and
handed it to Sam without a word.

  Sam stepped into the nearest vacant lavatory, locking the door behind her.

  The sickening smell of disinfectant and human waste assaulted her nostrils, and she felt momentarily as if she might be sick.

  Her nausea passed, and she steeled herself for the painful process that awaited her. She removed her shirt and set it on the small countertop, taking care to avoid a puddle of water pooled on one side.

  Then she untied the ribbon of cloth wrapped around her torso, peeling it away slowly from the wound in her side. The edges of her wound had begun to clot around the paper towels she had used as bandages, and the sting of their removal nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  Sam noticed a fresh stream of dark blood pooling in the space carved from her skin by her assailant’s switchblade. Stitches were clearly a necessity; otherwise, the wound would never close. Is there a doctor in the house?

  She set the first aid kit atop the closed the toilet lid and inventoried its contents. Among other items for headaches and minor scrapes, the kit contained a topical disinfectant and analgesic, and a roll of medical tape.

  She gritted her teeth, cleaned the wound with a wet paper towel, clamped the edges of her slashed skin together with her fingers, and rubbed ointment over the area. Then she peeled and applied strips of medical tape over a new, dry paper towel. The pain made her sweat, but she was pretty sure the wound wouldn’t become infected before she could receive proper medical attention.

  Sam had no idea when that might be. She was flying straight into the lion’s den.

  On the way back from the lavatory, Sam tapped Brock on the shoulder. He followed her, and they shuffled forward to Frank Ekman’s seat.

  But for Ekman, the row was completely empty.

  “Hi, Francis,” Sam said. “Let’s chat.”

  She motioned for him to move from the aisle to the middle seat. Brock took the window, and Sam boxed Ekman in by taking the aisle seat he’d just vacated.

  “I feel like we hardly know each other anymore, Frank,” Sam said with a wink at Brock. “I mean, you hardly had anything to say during our little meeting with Tom. And I feel like that was an important meeting, so maybe you should have had more to say.”