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

by Lars Emmerich

  Part of Kittredge’s discomfort was the quiet, studied, serene, intelligent manner Fleischer presented. It seemed to Kittredge that the butcher would have been equally at home in an orange robe in a Himalayan monastery, such was the equanimity of his mien and manner, now that the old man had finished threatening to end Kittredge’s life in return for providing the wrong answers to his questions.

  “Tea?” Fleischer asked.

  “Got anything stronger?”

  Fleischer shook his head. “I gave it up in favor of unadulterated reality.”

  “How awful,” Kittredge said. “I need to make a trip to the store in that case.”

  “It will have to wait. And you look like a man who needs to get sober.”

  Kittredge was mildly offended. “Is it that obvious?”

  Fleischer fixed on Kittredge an unblinking gaze. “Painfully. And you will not survive if you continue to cloud your judgment.”

  “Thanks, dad.” Kittredge heard the petulant note in his voice, and felt a little foolish.

  Fleischer smiled. The look on his face was patient, avuncular, slightly patronizing, but otherwise benign. “Let us be clear,” he said. “I do not care if you live or die. That is your business. A million people on this planet die every single day. It is the way of things.” He poured hot water into his tea mug. “But while our interests are aligned, for this brief moment, your amateurism is a risk to me. So I will make demands of you that you might find uncomfortable. But they are not negotiable.”

  Fleischer smiled again, an inexplicable softness buffing the rough edges off of his words, though his eyes told Kittredge he wasn’t screwing around.

  Kittredge trusted Fleischer. There was a certain innate competence, a je ne sais quoi, that permeated the old man’s speech, movement, and thinking. It reminded him of the self-assured VSS agents he had met, who had taken him under their wing in Venezuela as he struggled beneath his CIA yoke.

  Those men had died, Kittredge reminded himself, at the hands of the people they were training to fight. Perhaps he wasn’t such a terrific judge of operational competence. But Fleischer had been in the game a very long time, and it wasn’t the kind of game that permitted its players to slow down, take it easy, forget the rules. Be sharp or be dead. Those were the options, at least as far as Kittredge could see.

  So he had listened to Fleischer, and had followed his instructions explicitly, which was the reason that it took him nearly the entire day to navigate the scant few blocks from his apartment to Fleischer’s Metzgerei. But he wasn’t followed — Fleischer’s meticulous methods permitted both of them to ascertain that fact with confidence — and he had arrived safely after hours of circuitous travel.

  The late afternoon sun broke improbably through the perpetual Western European gloom, casting a golden hue across Fleischer’s flat, throwing a cinematic light across the old spy’s face. He was an attractive man, Kittredge thought, his hardness and athleticism and strength tempered by an obvious depth and thoughtfulness with which he went about his daily tasks. A Zen butcher. How very strange.

  “I want you to see something,” Fleischer said after his tea had steeped a moment. He arranged a laptop in front of Kittredge, called up a video playback application, and pressed play.

  Kittredge saw a slight, effeminate, handsome, pale young man of Northern European descent — it was the cheekbones, Kittredge thought — enter the doorway of what looked to be an apartment. The young man’s arm trailed behind him, linked to the hand of another person, another male, brown-skinned and tan as if from Spain, whom he pulled inside the flat and kissed with obvious lust. There was groping, shedding of clothes, unfinished fellatio in the hallway en route to the bedroom, then the main event.

  Kittredge found himself aroused. “What is this?” he asked.

  “Just watch.”

  It wasn’t until the men switched positions that Kittredge saw the brown man’s face.

  Sergio.

  “You recognize him?”

  Kittredge nodded. “When was this taken?”

  Fleischer pointed to the date and time displayed in the bottom right of the screen. Wednesday, February 18, just before midnight. Jesus. One day before Sergio died.

  “Who is the Spaniard?” Fleischer asked.

  “His name was Sergio.”

  Fleischer nodded. He recognized the name from their earlier conversation in Kittredge’s apartment. “He was murdered in your apartment.”

  “Yes,” Kittredge said. “In my bed on Friday morning.”

  Fleischer nodded. “Keep watching.”

  The sex ended. Both men fell asleep, or appeared to. Fleischer fast-forwarded ten or fifteen minutes. Sergio arose from the bed, donned some of the clothes strewn about the flat, and opened the front door.

  A giant of a man appeared, his face obscured from the camera’s view. The men exchanged a few words, and Sergio left.

  The big man donned what looked like a medical suit, a loose, light-blue, baggy overall, over the top of his clothes. Then he sliced the sleeping man’s throat, hacked up his body, and carved a word into his chest.

  “Jesus Christ!” Kittredge curled his legs in disgust and horror. “What the hell?” He was unused to carnage, and the cold, clinical efficiency with which the big man went about his work was almost as disturbing as the result. “What just happened? What does that say?”

  Fleischer stopped the playback. “Comply. The word is comply.”

  “My God,” Kittredge said. “There’s so much blood…”

  “The young man’s name was Mathias Kohlhaas,” Fleischer said.

  Kittredge recognized the name from the newspaper article he’d read while staying at the hostel. “From Copenhagen.”

  “Correct.”

  “So the police knew Sergio was involved in this thing the night before? That’s why they asked us about Copenhagen?”

  Fleischer shook his head. “The video was taken by cameras hidden in Mathias’ apartment. His father had them installed. The police didn’t find either the cameras or the disk drive where the video was stored. At least, I don’t think they found them. If they had found them, it would have made no sense for them not to take the storage drive.”

  Kittredge nodded. “So they were just fishing, wondering whether there was a connection between Sergio’s death and Kohlhaas’ death,” Kittredge said. “They didn’t really know.”

  Fleischer nodded. “I believe so, yes. But you have confirmed what I suspected. Your Sergio was an access agent. He facilitated Mathias’ murder, as we just saw. But he represented a loose end, and was dealt with.”

  “But how did they know?”

  “Think about it,” Fleischer said. “Who came after you in the aftermath of Sergio’s death?”

  “Sonuvabitch,” Kittredge said. “Those bastards.”

  “The Central Intelligence Agency,” Fleischer said, mock fanfare in his voice.

  “They’ll kill her,” Kittredge said, rising from his seat. “Nora is in danger.”

  Fleischer laughed. He placed a hand on Kittredge’s chest, pushing him gently but firmly back down into the chair. “Think about it, Herr Kittredge. Nora is danger.”

  A pained look came over Kittredge’s face. The thought had certainly crossed his mind as well. Then he shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he finally said. “I mean, the cops interrogated her as well. They asked her about Copenhagen, too. And she demanded I call the police when I told her about being attacked in the hotel.”

  Fleischer smiled. “Would you have expected her to do anything differently if she were involved with the CIA in some way? Think carefully, Herr Kittredge.”

  Kittredge stewed.

  “Did you sit in on her police interview?” Fleischer nudged.

  Kittredge shook his head. He knew where this was headed. His face flushed with embarrassment.

  “So you don’t know whether or not they really asked her about Copenhagen, or whether she corroborated your story at all.”

  Kittred
ge nodded gravely.

  “And you didn’t accompany her back up to your apartment. When she returned for her purse.”

  Kittredge’s cheeks burned. These were questions he had asked Nora, as well. And he wasn’t satisfied with her answers, not completely. But he had very much wanted to be satisfied with them. And so he continued with her, staying at her apartment, staying in a hotel with her when it became unsafe to remain at her apartment, continuing to let his dick rule his life, ensuring his brain remained stupefied and silent with a steady dose of alcohol.

  “I have a very important question to ask you,” Fleischer said. “Please, do not prevaricate.”

  Kittredge nodded. “Ask.”

  “Are you known to the CIA in any way?”

  Jesus. Here we go. Kittredge looked at Fleischer. The old man’s eyes turned from questioning to knowing. “Give me everything,” Fleischer said. “In detail.”

  Kittredge talked. Fleischer listened. The old man asked detailed, pointed questions. Did they use a girl against you before? Her name was Maria. Did they enlist your help in an operation? Just a small assassination of a head of state. On what terms did you part ways? Our ways aren’t exactly parted, technically. So you’re a fugitive from the CIA? Not to put too fine a point on it…

  When Kittredge had finished describing The Venezuela Thing, as he had come to refer to it in his own mind, Fleischer rose and walked to the large west-facing window. He crossed his hands behind him pensively. Kittredge noted the man’s broad, strong shoulders, his large hands, his thick, muscular forearms, his trim waist. Were it not for the gray hair and the lines in his face, the butcher could have been in his thirties or forties.

  After a long moment, Fleischer turned to face Kittredge. “This is certainly an uncomfortable situation,” he said, his hands still clutched behind his back, his head and shoulders upright and straight, like a statesman or captain of industry. “But the way forward is to attack.”

  Kittredge shook his head. “Attack the CIA?”

  Fleischer laughed. “Yes. All of them. The entire establishment. Just the two of us. You are an alcoholic amateur and I am, as you say, long in the tooth. But I have faith in us.”

  Kittredge caught the sarcasm.

  Fleischer’s smile faded. “We do not attack the CIA, Herr Kittredge. We just attack the handful of people they have assigned to this operation. There is a big difference.”

  “No way. You’re out of your damn mind. Do you have any idea how those people operate?”

  Fleischer smiled indulgently. “Yes, Herr Kittredge. I do.”

  Kittredge sat inside the Cologne library, idly surfing the internet using one of the well-trafficked public computers available for free to library members, and for a small fee to all others. Kittredge paid the fee in cash. He wasn’t a library member, and didn’t want to become one. It would just have been yet another mechanism to pin him down in time and space, and he was busy trying to achieve the opposite. He didn’t want anyone to know where he was or when he was there.

  But Gunther Fleischer knew, which was why Kittredge idly flipped back to an internet chat room every few minutes. Kittredge was waiting for a photo to be uploaded. It was going to be an important photo.

  Fleischer had wanted to know everything that Kittredge knew about Nora Jane Martin. She was their link to the rest of the Agency’s operational team, Fleischer maintained. Kittredge remained illogically hopeful that Nora wasn’t involved. Her innocence would vindicate his judge of character, and would make his activities over the past week seem less amateur, less reckless. Less stupid.

  He was keenly aware that he remained a babe in the woods. He’d had the same feeling while he was working, in various capacities, for both the CIA and the VSS. He was a useful prop, sometimes a totem, but he was never the main event. He lacked the sack, the gumption, the skill and understanding, to be anything but a sideshow.

  But it grated on him. He hated being cast as an extra. He fancied himself, if not the star, then at least a solid supporting player. It made him want to either quit the game entirely — which appealed to him most, unsurprisingly, during those times when he was in imminent danger of death — or become good at it, become a real asset, instead of some douchebag go-between, like the ugly girl passing notes at recess between the pretty girl and her wanna-be boyfriends.

  Kittredge was tired, cranky, disgruntled, and filled with ennui. He wanted to do something. But Fleischer had been painfully clear on the subject. Kittredge’s role had been spelled out in no uncertain terms.

  Kittredge flipped browser windows to recheck the message board. A new message popped up. There was no text, just a picture. Nora Jane Martin. She looked stunning as ever, the cold Cologne wind blowing her hair back from her face and neck, her eyes covered by sunglasses but the jawline unmistakable, and those legs, down below her skirt, begging to be thrown over her shoulders while their owner moaned in ecstasy.

  He limited his reply to a single word: “Positive.”

  Kittredge’s work was done. It was now his responsibility to hide in a predetermined location. And wait. He hated waiting. Mostly, he hated waiting sober. Perhaps just a little drink, maybe even a small bottle, to keep him company and help him while away the hours.

  He deserved it. He’d been sober all day, after all.

  57

  Another hour had passed. Viktor Kohlhaas had spent the time running through scenarios, thinking about contingency plans and going over an employee list, wondering which of them might be working against his own interests.

  Mostly, Kohlhaas had worried. Jim Firth’s telephone still went straight to voicemail. Albert LeBeque’s rang, but was never answered.

  Kohlhaas called the shipping company’s DC office. It was a risk, he knew, to associate his telephone with that number, but he needed information. If things were indeed going badly, time would be of the essence.

  The shipping company supervisor on duty gave Kohlhaas a cryptic message, something about working diligently to update the status of the shipment. Had the airplane landed at Reagan, Kohlhaas wanted to know, to which the supervisor replied that it had indeed. Then how could the shipment’s status be difficult to update, Kohlhaas next inquired, and received a murmured response to the effect that that very question was foremost on the shipping company president’s mind as well, but that legal considerations prevented Kohlhaas from receiving any further information at this particular moment. Further, Kohlhaas should rest assured that the second the company had any further information, he would be the first to know.

  It was all spiraling out of control. How could it have come down to a fouled-up shipment? Years of theoretical and practical work to advance the state of the art of human knowledge regarding how the toughest bacteria on the planet reproduced, culminating in a drug that would undoubtedly save millions of lives over the lifetime of its patent… Lost? Was it lost? Had it been misplaced, like airline luggage?

  And where the hell was Firth? Or LeBeque?

  He needed a strategy. He needed resources to call upon. Barnes was the only man he could think of at the moment who offered any prayer of being helpful.

  Before Viktor Kohlhaas could punch the intercom button to summon his chief of security, a familiar voice sounded from the television. The voice belonged to a man he had known for many years. A man he had despised for many years. This can’t be happening, Kohlhaas nearly said aloud.

  But it was happening. His eyes focused on the television screen suspended on his wall.

  Alexander Toney’s head and shoulders filled the giant screen. CEO, Prizer Pharmaceutical, the caption read, but Viktor Kohlhaas didn’t need to read the caption to know what Toney really was: a pipe-swinging thug. A thief. A liar.

  A murderer.

  “We are devastated by the news that two children have lost their lives,” Toney said, his face a mask of concern, his brow furrowed to emphasize the sense of loss he hoped to convey. “And we have asked for this press conference to offer our heartfelt condolences to
the friends and families of these beautiful young people whose lives were cut so tragically short, but also to say that we at Prizer Pharmaceutical believe that we may be of service at this time of great need.”

  Sonuvabitch. Kohlhaas shook his head, incredulous. This can’t be happening.

  “Even though federal regulations have hampered progress,” Toney intoned, “Prizer Pharmaceutical has been working diligently over the past several years to develop the kind of revolutionary medical technology that is necessary to stop such horrific diseases from ravaging our societies.”

  “You sonuvabitch!” Kohlhaas shouted at the television.

  “I am pleased to announce that Prizer Pharmaceutical has transported over three thousand doses of an experimental new drug that has showed great promise in our laboratory tests against this very bacteria. And we are prepared to offer all of these doses, should our friends in the Food and Drug Administration allow us to do so, to aid in the fight against this very serious and very deadly disease that is even now spreading through child care centers in our nation’s capital.”

  Viktor Kohlhaas sat stunned, silent. It was over. He was utterly defeated. Everything was lost. It was bitter like bile. It had an acrid smell. He was too enraged to rage, too crestfallen and deflated for histrionics.

  His mind raced for possible workarounds. Synergique would offer up its next batch, of course, but Alexander Toney and his army of Prizer lawyers would have Synergique in international court on charges of corporate espionage and patent violation so fast his head would swim. Kohlhaas knew Toney would do this, because it was exactly what he would do, what he had planned to do, to protect Synergique’s property from Prizer’s overt predation.