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

by Lars Emmerich

  “Thanks. Did General Landers make it?”

  She nodded and gave him a knowing smile.

  “Good. This will be more fun than I thought.” He walked past a giant, tasteless metal globe sculpture, with television screens welded in the spots where the continents would otherwise appear, and bounded up the stairs to the second-floor landing.

  He knew there was a room full of people awaiting his arrival, including his cranky counterpart, a notoriously punctual two-star general, but he stopped for a cup of coffee on the way to the meeting. It was always good for people—especially powerful people—to understand their position in the pecking order.

  “My apologies, folks. Ever had one of those days?” Stalwart breezed into the conference room with a smile. He lacked nothing in the way of charm. He was a man of many talents, perhaps none as compelling or important as his ability to set people at ease in almost any environment.

  “It was kind of you to wait for me, and I’m sorry to have abused your time, but I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve got for us,” Stalwart said to the crowd of contractors and government employees gathered in the meeting room.

  The last of the side conversations subsided, and the presenter took the cue to begin his briefing.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for your time today.” Kit Farrel was a handsome middle-aged man in a perfectly tailored suit with an impeccably symmetrical tie.

  On his jacket lapel was the ubiquitous stylized “L” that identified him as a member of the Langston Marlin executive team. The same logo adorned office buildings, factories, research centers, and shipping hubs all over the world. Its headquarters and gargantuan main manufacturing plant was located in Tornado Alley, on the Texas plains just west of Fort Worth.

  Farrel was in DC to brief the two co-chairs of the Mobile Anti-Satellite Targeting System program, Stalwart and his counterpart, Major General Charles Landers.

  “As you know,” Farrel continued, “we’ve been working through some shortfalls in our optical tracking and beam steering systems. We haven’t been shy about our work to improve both hardware and software performance, and I’d like to update you on the status of that work.”

  Able to out-pay their government counterparts by a factor of nearly three to one in many cases, Marlin was able to attract and keep some of the best talent in the world. Except for a select few individuals, the government team overseeing the engineering and development contract was entirely outclassed by their counterparts in Marlin’s employment.

  The briefer, Kit Farrel, was a case in point. While he was highly educated, he came across as anything but stuffy. He was smart, smooth, and well-schooled, and he was well prepared to put a positive spin on even the most difficult of questions his audience might hurl at him.

  He was also likeable. He understood that while the government folks were a little less “on the ball” than he and his team, they could certainly make life difficult if they wanted to.

  Farrel was also well aware of the reputation of the men who sat at the head of the table, and he had taken the time to do his homework.

  “Adaptive optics are nothing new,” Farrel continued, “but the problem has been miniaturization and controller speed. We’ve known how the big stellar observatories fine-tune the shape of their mirrors on a millisecond basis to compensate for atmospheric turbulence. But until recently, we haven’t been able to keep atmospheric disturbances and thermal bloom from ruining the focus on our ASAT prototypes.”

  The crowd understood that the anti-satellite technology had to be portable enough to move anywhere in the world and still be effective, as it was only possible to target satellites in a few specific orbits from fixed ground stations. Most also knew that the government had tried to rally support for fixed ground sites in other countries, but had been unable to find political support in allied nations around the globe to harbor what was clearly an offensive American weapon.

  The resulting technical challenge—putting ground-based anti-satellite weapons onto wheeled vehicles—also translated into a financial windfall for Langston Marlin.

  Unlike most other companies, which had to find private or public financing in order to develop new products, the Marlin team was working under what was known in government acquisition circles as a “cost-plus” contract. The government paid the company for their time and expenses, plus a negotiated profit margin.

  The profit margin usually ran in the mid-teens. This particular contract was more juicy than most, with a seventeen percent margin.

  The ASAT program’s technical difficulty had resulted in well-publicized cost overruns and no shortage of Congressional hand-wringing. While the Langston Marlin team made frequent public statements about cost control and budget consciousness, they had no qualms continuing to work at a slow and steady pace—after all, they were reimbursed for all costs, plus a handy profit.

  Farrel’s job was to convince the two men at the head of the table, a dour-faced little two-star general and a bright, friendly senior civilian executive, that the Langston Marlin team had made the technical breakthrough that would enable the program to finally start catching up to its perpetually optimistic schedule.

  Stalwart’s job, on the other hand, was not to be sold a bill of goods by a smart, polished LM salesman.

  He dropped a bomb. “That’s great news, Kit. I’m on my way out west later today, and I was hoping I could stop by the plant first thing in the morning.”

  Stalwart’s secretary could attest that he’d had a trip blocked on his calendar for over a week, but he had issued strict orders that no one was to know his destination. He was flying direct from Reagan to DFW only a few hours after the meeting, and hoped to catch the contractor team by surprise. He wanted to get an unvarnished assessment of the program’s true status.

  While overt dishonesty was rarely proven, there was no shortage of creative interpretation at work in the complex relationship between contractors and their government overseers, especially in high-dollar contracts. Stalwart liked to create opportunities to witness as bare a truth as possible.

  Farrel was momentarily taken aback, but recovered quickly. “Of course, we’d love to have you, and you’re welcome any time. Even on a Saturday.” He flashed a sardonic smile.

  Stalwart felt Landers’s gaze on him, and he gave the diminutive general a small smile and a quick, almost imperceptible wink. He hadn’t let Landers in on the secret, either, which Stalwart knew would certainly rub the little guy wrong.

  “Thank you, Kit. I appreciate that. I apologize for the short notice, and I hope I won’t inconvenience you too much. I just wanted to see your progress for myself, and help you guys share the good news.”

  12

  Crystal City, Virginia. Friday, 12:47 p.m. ET.

  The armored Suburban continued north on Crystal Drive, then angled left onto Army-Navy Drive. A couple of blocks later, the driver took the ramp for I-395 southbound. Traffic was light, and Exit 4 soon appeared.

  Several blocks further west, the vehicle turned south again and pulled into the Maple Center parking garage.

  The Maple Center was a collection of mid-rise office and hotel buildings, slightly past their prime and due for renovations. Frank Higgs’s driver had spent time waiting in the parking garage on numerous occasions, but had never set foot inside the building.

  Today was to be no different, and he geared himself up to stay mentally alert and vigilant while his charge took care of whatever business awaited inside.

  “Thanks, Sergio.” Higgs opened the rear passenger door and stepped out into the parking garage. He walked quickly toward the elevator, pushed the button, and waited impatiently for the doors to open.

  Once inside the elevator, Higgs inserted a small key into the fireman’s lock on the control panel, held the lock at its clockwise stop, and pressed the button for the third floor three times in quick succession.

  Higgs felt the pressure change in his ears as the elevator rose. He watched the numbers change and absently th
ought of the memorable sexual rendezvous he once enjoyed on the seventeenth floor of this very building. It had been arranged for him as a gift in return for a favor, the kind of important favor a senator could provide, and one he had eagerly repeated on several other occasions.

  His subsequent consorts never failed to please, but somehow none of them matched the first girl’s uniquely nubile talent. The bastards had set the hook pretty damn well, he thought. They had gotten quite a bit of mileage out of him over the years.

  But he had thoroughly enjoyed their quid in exchange for his quo. The recollection brought a short-lived smile to Higgs’ face.

  Today’s visit to the Maple Center promised to be far less enjoyable.

  The elevator continued to climb, but the numbers stopped increasing after thirty-two. He was on his way to an inaccessible floor, one that was closed even to the building’s cleaning crews. There had to be several such secret floors in this building, but he had no idea how many there might be. Four? Five? It didn’t matter, really, but he was curious about how much square footage in this building might be devoted to what he euphemistically referred to as some of the more “involved” aspects of public policy.

  Higgs knew he was a lightweight. He lacked the years of clandestine operational experience that others in his position had gained, and his role in the Consultancy, as the secretive quasi-governmental organization was known among the very few who knew of its existence, was something of a fluke of timing.

  Then again, almost everything in life was a fluke of timing. It didn’t bother him much, and he never tried to disguise his lack of experience.

  Truth was, they needed him, and badly. They had hundreds of knee-cappers, and hundreds more grunts for dead drops and paperwork, but only one US Senator, at least as far as he was aware.

  The door opened to reveal a long, empty hallway. There were no pictures on the walls, and the only distinguishing features were the security cameras, which hung conspicuously beneath several ceiling tiles.

  Higgs walked to the end of the hallway, where there were three unmarked doors. He turned to face one of the doors, and waited.

  There was no camera visible, but Higgs knew that a computer was measuring the distance between his pupils, nostrils, earlobes, and cheekbones, and a hundred other points on his face. People often showed up here in various disguises, and the whiz kids had developed a way of identifying visitors reliably despite superficial changes in their appearance.

  After a short wait, the door latch clicked. Higgs pushed the surprisingly heavy door open and stepped into a bright room with a panoramic view of Washington, DC. He squinted while his eyes adjusted to the flood of daylight.

  It took him a while to recognize the large figure seated in the plush leather chair.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” Higgs demanded.

  “He’s here for the buggery. He heard you’re a catcher, mate.” Ian Banes said. Banes’s voice was raspy, his laugh hearty and slightly cruel.

  Higgs had correctly guessed Ian Banes’s central London address during their first meeting based on his accent alone, and the two had become fast friends and frequent but halfhearted enemies in the ensuing decade.

  “Cut the bullshit, Banes. I’m one friend down this week, and a hothead lackey almost made the papers again. Last thing I need is your ox banging around town.”

  Higgs turned to the large, aloof man seated in the chair. “Whose day are you here to ruin?”

  Banes responded on his partner’s behalf. “It’s a short list this time, isn’t it Paul?”

  The hit man in the chair nodded wordlessly.

  “Nobody you know, probably,” Banes lied.

  “You’re a shitty liar. I thought they trained you people.” Higgs hadn’t really expected his question to produce anything useful from Banes. After all, friends weren’t the same thing as family, and even a “special relationship” between nations had its limits.

  “You’re right, Frank. I must have been recovering from one of our long evenings together when they taught prevarication and dissembling in spook school.” Banes knew that Higgs had no idea what those words meant, and guessed, correctly, that the subject would soon change.

  “Seriously, you had to know that your timing could be quite a bit better. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “You haven’t lost any of your charming lack of charm, dear Frank. But you’ll just have to bear with me for a moment. Let’s embark on a small thought exercise.”

  “Hell, Ian. I haven’t got time for this.”

  Banes smiled. “You’re probably right. I’ll just hop back over to merry England then, with all the goodies still under my hat. Pity, Paul, that we weren’t able to interest our good friend Frank in a friendly chat.”

  Paul finally spoke: “Pity indeed. Just when I was beginning to think he was trainable.” His crisp articulation and precise delivery seemed out of place coming from what could only be described as a goon-like frame. He was almost a caricature, but his speech betrayed a thorough education and a keen intellect.

  Higgs sighed, and Banes met the senator’s impatient stare with an amused gleam. “Right, then. Here we go, on our little thought exercise,” Banes said cheerily. “Suppose we were photons, humming along as photons might, with a few more friends in tow.”

  “Jesus. You’re killing me, Banes. I’m getting a drink.” Higgs moved over to the wet bar, grabbed a glass from the tray, and tossed in a clutch of ice from the bucket. He poured several glugs from a bottle on the bar, and warm gin cracked the ice in his glass.

  “I’d love one, Frank, since you almost asked,” Banes said with a smirk. “Same as you, please. Sadly, Paul here is on the wagon.”

  Higgs obliged, and handed a glass to the tall Brit.

  “Now, back to our friendly photons,” Banes continued. “As a humble instrument of government policy, I’m obviously out of my element talking about such matters, but one does hear things in one’s travels. Anyway, suppose that there are enough of us photons, all meandering along together at the same wavelength in roughly the same direction, to really do some damage.”

  “You haven’t piqued my interest. Lasers are regulated and expensive. Tough to make ’em work, I’m told.” Higgs took a long pull of his gin.

  “Maybe I haven’t grabbed your attention, but I daresay someone certainly has. It seems that you’ve taken quite a shine to those naughty little photons, if you’ll permit a bad pun,” Banes said.

  Higgs felt his face and ears heat up. He turned away, but not quite fast enough to avoid Banes’s notice.

  Lasers were the darling of the available technologies that showed any degree of promise for successful anti-satellite weaponization. Lasers left no launch plume, couldn’t be mistaken for a nuclear ballistic missile, and didn’t leave satellite debris lingering in orbit to wreak havoc on the dozens of other satellites in the same vicinity.

  The race was on to build the first anti-satellite laser system.

  Theoretically, a laser could fry a satellite’s circuitry in seconds, turning it into space junk and opening up a significant commercial niche, or removing a dangerous foreign intelligence capability at will, all without jeopardizing one’s own satellites in the vicinity.

  But that was theory. In practice, Langston Marlin had proven unable to overcome some of the technical hurdles, despite Senator Higgs’s surreptitious – and exceptionally illegal – funneling of several hundred million additional tax dollars for research and development.

  “God knows I’m not one to judge, Frank, but things have turned a bit sticky, haven’t they? Writing checks under the table to crooked contractors is one thing, but murder?”

  Higgs suddenly looked old. “Wish I’d have known about it beforehand. I would have just bought the scientist out from underneath you guys. I wouldn’t have stuffed his balls in his mouth and watched him bleed out. Besides, that happened weeks ago. Don’t your people have any real leads by now?”

  “Old friend, you are the lead that pe
ople are talking about. But I didn’t think you were the type. I know you better than most, and I do my best to dissuade people from thinking you capable of such things.”

  Banes took a deep breath before continuing. “You might imagine, however, that not everyone has as enlightened a view of you as Paul and I have.” Banes nodded toward Paul, who put a slight, sad smile on his oversized face.

  “I appreciate that, Ian. Thanks for the warning. They’ll have to take a number though. I’m on a new shit list every week,” Higgs replied.

  “Maybe so, Frank, but not like this. It wouldn’t hurt to reach out and reassure a few people, especially now that LM is claiming victory over the targeting problem. Rather a coincidence, don’t you think? Our optics bloke turns up dead, and your guys suddenly crack the thermal bloom problem. You can see why Her Majesty’s government has authorized the employment of a few independent contractors to tidy this up.”

  Higgs exhaled slowly. Governments didn’t adhere to many moral or legal conventions in the clandestine world, but the independents were even less constrained. The Brits were out for blood.

  “You’re right, Ian – it does reek. But it wasn’t me, and I’d love it if you and Paul would spread the word back home. And I imagine you stuck your neck out there a little bit to come talk to me. Thanks a bunch.”

  “No worries. Nothing you wouldn’t do, roles reversed. At least that’s how I choose to delude myself.”

  Banes downed the last of his gin and nodded at his compatriot. The two Brits walked out of the room.

  Higgs stared out the window for several minutes longer, feeling exhausted.

  He hadn’t even had the really difficult meeting yet. That was still to come.

  13

  Department of Homeland Security, Washington, DC. Friday, 1:14 p.m. ET.

  Special Agent Sam Jameson’s mind had drifted from the Monsignor Worthington case. She was in her office, one of the few in her division with a view, and she was peering out over the river. Airliners on final approach into Reagan International Airport flew almost level with her desk on the tenth floor, which had never ceased to be a surreal sight for her, but she hardly noticed them at the moment.