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

by Lars Emmerich

  Not an option.

  Nero was determined to get his life back, to get back on track, to live life in broad daylight, to go completely legit, to have no worries about anything coming back around on him.

  It was a lofty goal, from where he sat. He needed a lucky break.

  He needed a clever way into Money’s affairs, a way the feds hadn’t thought of, or hadn’t had the time or resources to take advantage of yet.

  It was certainly a daunting task. There were more federal agents on the payroll now than at any other time in history. It was just the law of averages, he figured, that at least a few of them had to be fantastically good at their jobs. They probably knew cyber security, computer hacking, airborne surveillance, all kinds of crazy shit. So what could Nero possibly know about Money that the feds didn’t already know? What aspect of Money’s life could Nero infiltrate that the feds hadn’t already exploited?

  Money had no personal or business associations that the feds couldn’t trace, Nero decided. Money was careful, but he was nowhere near as paranoid as Nero had been. And Nero had been nabbed.

  So the connections would have to be subtle. Nero would have to be able to access them without anyone else knowing.

  There was only one idea that came to mind.

  34

  The on-scene medic patched up Sam’s wounded leg. They left the scene in the hands of the disgruntled FBI agent, after ensuring he’d received explicit instructions from the Hoover building in DC. It helped to have friends in high places.

  The return flight from Boston was completely uneventful. Sam was able to grab a cat nap, which she sorely needed. Her head throbbed, and the aspirin hadn’t helped much.

  Sam and Dan were back in the office at Homeland by early evening. They sat in Dan’s office, poring over the stream of data arriving from the Boston FBI office. They’d already received a long list of names taken from the Russian gangster house, and plenty of associated fingerprints and mug shots. Despite the FBI man’s posturing, he had done a thorough job.

  At least, that’s how it appeared to Sam. But you never knew what you didn’t know, and it was entirely possible the FBI man was also on the take.

  But everybody was connected in one way or another, and Sam felt confident there would be enough leads to point her in the right direction. She was more than a little anxious to find the assholes who had hired the Russian gangsters to take her out.

  From the names, Dan began assembling email and IP addresses. It was a wired, digital world, and the most productive sleuthing efforts were almost always electronic.

  Sure, the foot soldiers and knee-cappers in the Russian establishment were not likely exchanging business emails with one another, or prospecting for clients electronically, or discussing details of crimes over a medium that kept a permanent and perfect record. Nobody was that dumb. It was the mere connections Sam and Dan sought. Who emailed whom? How often? What was the context of those emails? Did they make sense, or did they seem too vague, too innocuous, too meaningless?

  It was the meaningless communications that were often most meaningful. Because they frequently contained codes. So Dan’s snooping algorithm was programmed to highlight overly innocuous emails, overly vapid, overly banal, the kind of stuff that nobody would ever email anyone else about. The kind of stuff that nobody cared about or wanted to hear about. Because banal content often highlighted exceptionally interesting connections.

  There was little hope of finding and breaking any kind of code embedded in the emails, so Dan didn’t even try. People were too smart for that. Every code was theoretically breakable, but criminals were sufficiently cyber-savvy to realize that almost no code was completely secure. So they often used a one-time cipher, a pre-coordinated code that both parties had in advance. It was used only once, generated randomly and then destroyed after the message was sent and received. Such messages required physical tradecraft in order to pass the code’s key to both sender and recipient. But that was accomplished easily enough. There were seven billion people on the planet. It was relatively easy to blend in, even in a world full of cameras.

  Unless you were on the watch list. Then, God help you. No chance.

  It was vitally important not to stop searching after the first layer of communications. Often, one email made its way unadulterated between four, five, six, a dozen different email accounts. The idea was to launder the source prior to arriving at the recipient’s inbox. It wasn’t terribly effective, but it did require extra computing power to chase down zillions of extra emails. It just meant that the system had to grind away for a few more hours to index and catalog all the correspondence.

  Dan selected all of the appropriate options to locate an email from its source, record all of the intermediary email accounts, associate them with names and criminal records, if applicable, and spit the whole thing out in a neatly-correlated report, complete with a cloud diagram showing each individual as a node in a network, just like a diagram of the Internet. In just a few hours of computer time, it was possible to see the entirety of a network hundreds or even thousands of people strong.

  Brave new world.

  Of course, all of this data had to be filtered, sifted, processed. It had to be evaluated for significance, and it had to be bounced against a list of known or suspected bad actors. Computers were very helpful there as well. They could do in a minute what it would take a human a week to accomplish.

  But the trick was bouncing the newly-found network goons against the right list of people. And they didn’t have to just be bad actors. Sam and Dan made sure to include everyone with any involvement whatsoever in any aspect of the Janice Everman/Budapest thug case. They even added their own names, and Mark Severn’s, and Tom Davenport’s, and Deputy Director Farrar’s, and everybody Sam met at Justice, even Sam’s new Israeli friends, the ones who had saved her life in Budapest. It wasn’t that everyone was a suspect. It was just that everyone with any involvement in the case was a potential hit in the giant new network schema produced by all of the data the FBI had gathered from the Russian gangster house.

  Sam and Dan perused the list. Satisfied, Dan clicked on an icon, and the computer began grinding away.

  There was a knock on the door. Mark Severn. “Exciting afternoon in Bean Town?”

  Sam nodded. “Killer,” she said.

  “So, I’ve had a watch on a few folks from the Janice Everman case,” Severn said. “Something significant has come up.”

  “Do tell,” Sam said. “I didn’t want to go home tonight, anyway.”

  Severn chuckled. “Carl Ivan Edgar Frankel,” he said with a sarcastically formal affectation, handing Sam a photograph of an old man, clearly taken at an airport.

  “We know this guy?”

  Severn nodded. “Old-school Cold War assassin. Retired.”

  “From the Agency?” Sam asked.

  Severn nodded. “Freelance now.”

  “Freelance? I thought the CIA was supposed to keep an eye on their retirees. Can’t have pit bulls running around schoolyards.”

  Severn nodded. “They’re supposed to keep them under wraps. But the way it looks to me, if I’m being honest, is that few of them ever really retire. Sure, they go dormant for a while. But then their handlers call, they take a short trip, and then fade away again after the hit.”

  “This is the guy you think had something to do with Janice Everman’s death?” Dan asked.

  Severn nodded. “He lived the life of a monk, holed up in his apartment, flipping channels for years on end. We know this because we back-doored a list of former wet men. Current ones, too, but they’re harder to track. CIA expends more resources to keep them under the radar. Anyway, this guy turned off his TV and took a trip to DC just in time for Janice Everman’s death. He was back home the next afternoon.”

  Sam frowned. “Highly circumstantial.”

  “Absolutely,” Severn said. “But I’m not a district attorney. I’m just a guy running an investigation. So I put Frankel on the watch list
and threw him into the computer.”

  “When was this photo taken?” Sam asked.

  “Today. Reagan International Airport. Our Mr. Frankel flew into town from New York.”

  “How many trips has this guy taken since we’ve been watching him?” Dan asked.

  “None. Before today, that is.”

  “Do you have somebody on him?” Sam asked.

  Severn nodded. “Team of four, two cars.”

  Sam shook her head. “Nowhere near enough people. If this guy is who we think he is, he’ll spot a two-car tail in no time flat.”

  “Those are all the resources I had,” Severn said.

  “Thanks, Mark,” Sam said. “Dan and I will join the fun.”

  “Me too?” Severn asked.

  Sam shook her head. “Sorry. You’re still a wanted man. There’s still a price on your head.”

  “And there’s not a price on your head?” Severn asked pointedly.

  “That’s different.”

  “How, exactly?”

  Sam rose, gathered her phone and keys. “Just is.”

  Dan shrugged his shoulders at Severn, giving him a man-to-man look, as if to say there’s no reasoning with her when she gets like this.

  “Dan and I just started a network analysis from the floral shop in Boston,” Sam said, by way of a consolation prize, “and the house full of Russian rats behind it. Should be done in a couple of hours. Feel free to take a look at it as soon as it spits out the answers.”

  Severn nodded, slightly dejected, unhappy at being relegated to desk work when something was happening out in the real world.

  Sam patted him on the shoulder. “Next time,” she said.

  35

  The old man felt giddy with anticipation. He loved nothing more than work. Especially this kind of work. None of that biological bullshit. This was the real deal.

  Sure, there would be no blood, no gore, no shootout. Those days had long passed. He was too old for that kind of shit anyway. Too slow. Old age was tough on the reflexes, and that continuous tremor in his hands was murder on his aim.

  But he would do the deed. He would break the skin of his mark, deliver death up close and personal. He would do it himself, like real men did. It would require skill and timing and tradecraft and risk and danger and adrenaline and excitement.

  The things most missing from his life of late.

  He studied the photograph one more time. Youngish guy, polished, with a business-school look about him. Nobody would miss him, Frankel figured. Dime a dozen. Totally replaceable. There was probably already another bullshit artist in the corporate breech, ready to take this guy’s place tomorrow. Nobody would even know the difference.

  Carl Ivan Edgar Frankel smiled to himself. He had no idea what the guy had done. But it didn’t matter. His was not to reason why, Frankel reflected. His was just to make them die. He smiled at the clever turn of phrase, that old assassin’s saw, progeny of the false bravado necessary to survive in a world filled with death, and also necessary to survive one’s conscience, to keep one’s soul from rotting away.

  But Frankel’s soul had long since rotted away, he figured. Which was okay. Souls were burdensome things, anyway. Full of doubts and second-guesses, worries and hang-ups. Better to be a simple creature, with simple goals, fundamental ones. Taking lives need not be overly complicated. In fact, it was best not to overthink things. Second thoughts were an occupational hazard, and could be lethal.

  The old assassin looked at his watch. Almost time.

  “Where is he?” Sam asked the lead agent on the tail detail.

  “Metro, on the yellow line.” The agent spoke softly into his phone. “Airport station. Waiting for the northbound train.”

  “Do you have anybody down there?”

  “Two guys. Good ones. He’s an old guy, not moving too fast. It won’t be too hard to keep up with him.”

  “Be sure to get somebody on the train with him,” Sam said. “And tell me if he changes direction.”

  That didn’t take long, the old man thought, eyeing his tail.

  He figured it might be an issue. The last case had turned a little bit nuclear, and they were undoubtedly watching him.

  He smiled. It wouldn’t matter. He was prepared. There could be an army of agents following him around, and it wouldn’t make any difference. No way they would figure it out in time.

  David Swaringen left his car at the park-and-ride on the northeast side of town. He paid for his ticket, waited on the platform, and caught the 451 MARC train away from Baltimore and toward Washington.

  He needed to let his hair down, have a drink. Or five.

  He needed to get laid.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. Weeks? Months? He wasn’t into paying for it, but the thought had briefly crossed his mind. But he had decided to give his libido his undivided attention first, to see if he couldn’t seal the deal with a nubile young corporate cubicle ornament on the strength of his charms. DC had more young, ambitious, attractive female consultants per capita than any other city on earth. At least, that’s what Swaringen had heard, and he found the claim plausible enough. There was a lot of talent in DC, and he was determined to find a pretty young lady willing to spend some quality time with him.

  He deserved it. His start at NSA had been rocky. He had been completely focused on his new job, to the detriment of every other aspect of his life, and it was taking its toll on his psyche. “Me time,” he muttered to himself as the train left the station bound for downtown DC. Georgetown was his destination. A great area, with lively nightlife. And he had a great salary, which bought him a great suit, which made him a more attractive sexual partner for an ambitious, pretty young thing.

  He wasn’t exactly a player, but neither was he a wallflower. Especially after a couple of drinks. He had a sense of humor, an athletic build, a strong pocketbook, all the right indicators of social and genetic success. No reason to think that tonight wouldn’t be a memorable night.

  He finally felt able to relax after airing his misgivings to Clark Barter. He hadn’t realized how heavily the whole situation had weighed on him. But now that things were over and out in the open, he felt much better. He felt strong, optimistic, in charge, like the future was bright again.

  It was going to be a great night.

  Carl Ivan Edgar Frankel headed away from the city. The subway train rocked and clattered, and the noxious fumes made him slightly nauseous. He had never enjoyed the subway, particularly in DC. But he did what needed doing.

  He stared down at the page of his book, an old Russian crime novel, more thinly-veiled polemic than anything else, wrapped in an angst-ridden literary cloak. Frankel loved the layers of meaning, loved the forlorn aesthetic, loved the cold, wintry, dreary settings, loved the intrigue. They might have been bitter enemies for years, but the Russian culture was not without its redeeming qualities, Frankel decided.

  And, of late, he found himself on the same side as a few Russians. Life took crazy turns.

  Another watcher. This one was a short, stocky guy, with short, black hair and thick, meaty hands.

  Frankel smiled to himself. Watch all you want, he thought. You’ve got no prayer.

  “I’m eyes-on,” Dan texted.

  “Where?” Sam asked.

  “Red line now, Metro Center Station, heading east toward Chinatown.”

  “I’ll take the beltway around,” Sam replied. “Keep me posted.”

  Swaringen leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The train wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t especially comfortable, but it involved infinitely less aggravation than driving in the DC area. And it was a great way to get home after a few cocktails, if the night didn’t quite go as hoped. His plan was to fall momentarily but madly in love with a sweet young thing, preferably with an apartment in town. They’d make beautiful music, and whatnot. Naked. He smiled to himself.

  He looked up. He felt the intensity of someone’s focus. Someone was looking at him.
<
br />   A female someone, across the aisle from him. Late twenties, lithe, long hair, short skirt, long legs, expensive shoes, pretty face, bright, exotic eyes, inviting neck, shy but with a hint of mischief.

  She smiled.

  Swaringen smiled back.

  She wasn’t headed to or from work, he surmised. Working women commuting to DC wore clunky tennis shoes and power suits. The girl with the great smile wore heels, and she carried a bright red clutch, too small to accommodate any of the normal paraphernalia associated with an office job in DC.

  All signs pointed to pleasure rather than business.

  Swaringen looked again. His eyes wandered to her legs. Long and athletic. He imagined what they might feel like wrapped around the small of his back. He felt that familiar male ache, desperation and exhilaration, echoes of the reptile brain chanting sex! sex! sex! sex! deep down in his skull.

  Busted. She caught him staring. He looked away, cursing his overeager clumsiness. He felt his face flush. Such a klutz. He wondered whether she had read his lascivious thoughts.

  He looked down at the newspaper in his hand, a studious expression on his face, making no sense of the words, wallowing in his embarrassment.

  Motion caught his eye. He looked up.

  She crossed the aisle and sat next to him. “Eva,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Eva,” she repeated. “It’s my name.” Her voice was like heavy silk, sexy but not sultry, seductive but not over the top.

  “I’m David,” he said, taking her offered hand. “David Swaringen.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, David Swaringen,” she said.

  Things were looking up, he decided.

  The old assassin looked at his watch, then looked at the subway map. He readied his old bones for motion.

  The train screeched to a halt at the Union Station stop. Frankel rose, leaning heavily on his cane for support. He looked at his watcher, the stocky dark-haired guy sitting across the aisle, and fought the urge to wave as he got off the train.