Endgame (1998)

by Tom Clancy

  "Just get out of here . . . kid."

  Ouch! That hurt.

  Once in the hallway, Hansen dug out his passport, which had been heavily stamped and dog-eared by one of Third Echelon's document engineers, a man known only as Perez. He was a Mexican national sent to prison for making fake credentials to help illegal immigrants cross the border. He'd been serving the last few years of his sentence when he'd been offered an early release if he came to work for Third Echelon. Perez was an artist--the best forger the agency had ever employed.

  And, at the moment, Hansen wished Perez had chosen the cover name instead of Grim, because the woman had a cruel sense of humor.

  Hansen was now Vyacheslav Zamolodchikova.

  Say that three times fast.

  4

  FUSHIKI, JAPAN

  HANSEN had flown from Baltimore to Tokyo; then he had traveled by taxi for six hours to the port city of Fushiki, walled in by majestic mountains whose summits were now veiled in fog.

  Dressed like an ordinary businessman in suit and overcoat, and clutching a duffel bag with toiletries and a garment bag with a few changes of clothing, Hansen walked along the dock, where ahead lay the MV Rus, a thirteen-thousand-ton ferry whose dark blue hull glinted in the neon floodlights strung along the walkway. Although it was just 4:00 P.M., the shadows had already grown long as vehicles rumbled up the gangways and into the hold.

  The ferry was primarily an auto transporter, with new and used cars from Japan being exported to Vladivostok by individuals and Russian businessmen. There were 114 cabins to service four hundred passengers and crew, and, surprisingly, the ferry was equipped with phones and air conditioners in every cabin, though at the moment Hansen could use a good blast of heat, as his breath came thick in the frigid February air. He had learned from the taxi driver, who spoke a little Russian (Hansen's cover language), that the restaurants were good and that he should definitely visit the veranda casino.

  Hansen mounted the aluminum gangway and ascended upward with a throng of other passengers, mostly middle-aged Russian men, with a small number of Japanese and one family with small children that might've been from the Netherlands or Belgium, as they scolded their kids in Dutch.

  At the top of the steps Hansen was ushered into a waiting area, where he was asked to produce his passport, and his nearly unpronounceable name, Vyacheslav Zamolodchikova, was checked against a list. He was then permitted into the reception area, where a friendly if not cherubic Russian woman handed him a card with his cabin number and some brief instructions on how to find it. Before he left, he gave a furtive glance around, quickly studying the other passengers, trying to pick out a tail, if he had one, but the others paid him no attention.

  For the next few minutes he ventured through the halls, grinning at the dark veneer paneling and orange carpets, wondering if he'd just been transported to the 1970s. There were yellowing pictures of other ferries on the walls and lots of faded warning signs in Cyrillic.

  Third Echelon had booked him cabin 4456 on the starboard bow--a very nice room, really--and had paid handsomely to ensure that he did not have to share that room with any other passengers, as that was not uncommon.

  He found his cabin, opened the door, and collapsed onto the small bed, finding the blankets cold and slightly damp. He activated the OPSAT on his wrist and sent off a highly encrypted signal to Grim, notifying her that he was on board the ferry. Now all he had to do was sit back and relax for the forty-hour ride to Vladivostok.

  If his father could only see him now, on a ferry, heading toward Russia to eavesdrop on a conversation between Chinese and Russian intelligence agents. That sort of drama rarely occurred back home, where his town's population barely hit eight thousand and Dad was still a high school science teacher. The only remarkable thing that had ever happened to Harold "Buck" Hansen was back in 1974. During his first year as a teacher, he had witnessed a boomerang-shaped UFO hovering over the school. Hansen had heard the story a thousand times, and his mother had dismissed the tale as many had. Dad had waited more than twenty years before he'd shared the story with "authorities" and expert "UFO hunters," for fear of being labeled a crackpot and losing his teaching job. Since then Dad had become a UFO nut, and Mom was the sane wife of the UFO nut, who tried to keep him in line while she kept the books for the Comanche Springs Truck Terminal. They were pretty comical and were planning a big trip to Nevada, to the famed Area 51, next year, when Dad finally retired after, as he put it, "more than a hundred years of service with the school district." Hansen was glad his colleagues would never get a chance to meet his parents. He wasn't sure they could handle that much weirdness in one sitting.

  Hansen had no siblings, but he did have a cousin who had once stolen a bass boat and served time for it. Other than that, the rest of his family tree was painfully boring, and he was the only apple that had rolled away, as it were. But as far as they all knew, he worked a desk job at the NSA, analyzing pieces of computer code, which was "watching the grass grow," according to Dad. Hansen drove a Corolla, lived in a two-bedroom condo with a strict homeowner's association that prevented him from planting flowers other than those found on the approved-colors list, and he rented so many movies from Blockbuster that his late fees had become legendary among the college kids working at his local store.

  These bogus facts, or similar ones, he detailed every year in his Christmas newsletter, which was as painful to read as any of the others that slipped into mailboxes crowded with overpriced holiday cards and junk-mail flyers.

  He wished he could buy a postcard in Vladivostok and mail it to his parents--just to blow their minds--but he knew better. He was doing the business of his country, and nothing would ever compromise that.

  With a sigh, he rose from the bed, worked the little thermostat, and finally got the heat to come on. He heard some talking outside his door, so he opened it. Far down the hallway stood two Japanese coastguardsmen, one holding a German shepherd. Well, no surprise. There were drug dealers on board, probably returning to Russia from a run into Japan. In fact, Hansen watched as a Russian emerged from the room, his hands held high, and one of the coastguardsmen immediately cuffed him. Hansen grinned to himself. If those coastguardsmen really wanted to clean up the ferry, they'd have to arrest more than half of the Russian businessmen, who were undoubtedly connected to the mob. He waited until the group left, then decided to go to the restaurant to complete a more immediate mission: filling his grumbling stomach.

  5

  VLADIVOSTOK, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  APPROXIMATELY forty hours after leaving Fushiki, Japan, the MV Rus reached Vladivostok, at 8:17 A.M., and Hansen congratulated himself for two small accomplishments: He had not become seasick nor had he contracted food poisoning, even though the ferry had crossed into some rough seas and the sanitary conditions in the kitchen were undoubtedly questionable.

  Given the circumstances, Hansen had kept to himself for the entire voyage, bowing out of conversations at meals and spending the majority of his time in his cabin, brushing up on his Russian. He had checked out the casino and spent some time observing people, ferreting out their histories based on the details of their appearances. As far as he was concerned, he had no one tailing him. Now he stood on the upper deck, waiting as the ferry made final preparations to dock.

  A thick mantle of clouds hung over the craggy hills of Vladivostok, the name meant "Lord of the East" in Russian. The city did, indeed, seem to lord over not only Golden Horn Bay, but most of Russia's weatherworn hinterlands. All around him, high-rise buildings jutted up from patches of snow-covered forests, and the windows on the closest buildings were fogged and framed by icicles.

  Nikita Khrushchev, leader of the old Soviet Union, had once referred to the city as the "Russian San Francisco," which was a fairly accurate comparison. Both cities were located on hills that offered spectacular views, and Vladivostok had been home to the Soviet Navy's Pacific Ocean Fleet. Since being opened up to foreigners in 1992, the place was simultaneously
clutched by the cold hand of lawlessness and warmed by the promise of new wealth and commercialism after years of being a closed region dedicated to the support of the military. In short, Vladivostok was a city seven time zones away from Moscow and truly a world unto its own, heavily influenced by the peoples of China, North Korea, and Japan. Though his visit would be brief, Hansen looked forward to breathing in what he could.

  Within twenty minutes, he was off the ferry and walking along the icy pavement toward the bustling train station, where he would meet Sergei Luchenko. Unsurprisingly, a knot had already formed in his stomach. Part of him wanted to apologize for being selected as a Splinter Cell; the other part wanted to tell Sergei, "Too bad, buddy, but you didn't cut it, and I did." Hansen didn't want to feel sorry for his own success.

  But hell, Hansen did. Sergei's reflexes and mental agility had been good enough for the CIA, but substandard for Third Echelon. He could've returned to his old three-letter agency (or another, like UPS, they liked to joke), but Hansen figured Sergei might be too embarrassed to return. Besides, his fellow operatives would wonder exactly why he hadn't lasted in his new position with the NSA (which was all they'd been told).

  Hansen reached the train station, a pale yellow and alabaster-white affair with ornate glass-block windows and thick columns and spires suggesting that its architects had once worked for Disney. The word "Vladivostok," in bright red Cyrillic letters, hung high above the main entrance, and out front lay a bus terminal and a parking lot jammed with private cars and taxis whose drivers stood by and chain-smoked, waiting for their next fares. A pair of footbridges over the tracks gained passengers access to the buses and lots, and Hansen already noted how someone could lie low behind the railings and observe the comings and goings of those passengers. It was there that he spotted Sergei.

  Before Hansen veered off the sidewalk, he chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. Then he hustled forward and slipped down behind the railings, where Sergei came to greet him.

  Hansen was taken aback by the weight his old friend had lost--at least twenty, perhaps thirty pounds, his face thin and unshaven. Sergei took a long drag on his cigarette, dropped it, stamped it out, then proffered his hand. "I see you found me, Ben. I thought I was being more discreet. Guess that's why they flunked me, huh?" Sergei spoke in perfect Russian, but that was one of the many languages he had learned--or relearned as he liked to say. He'd been born and raised in Sacramento, California, the son of Russian immigrants.

  Tensing, Hansen took the man's hand, shook firmly, and answered in Russian: "Sergei, thanks for being here."

  "Just doing my job. Equipment transporter. Taxicab driver. All in a day's work."

  "Look, I wish things had worked out differently."

  "You? Hell . . . me, too!" He shuddered against the cold and pulled the collar of his woolen coat tighter to his neck. "Come on, I have the car parked over there."

  "No tails?"

  "None that I can tell. But are you trusting me, the flunky?"

  "Come on, enough of that."

  "I'm just busting your chops. I knew this would be awkward for you, and you know what a wiseass I am."

  Hansen sighed and curled his lips in a weak grin.

  They started across the street, toward the parking lot, and Sergei led him to a late-model Toyota Mark X sedan with right-hand drive. The lock chirped, and Hansen crossed to the left side, stored his bags in the backseat, then climbed in.

  "Murdoch still hasn't checked in to the hotel, so I'm getting a little worried," Sergei reported, switching to English.

  "We headed there now?"

  "Yeah, I've been there for a couple of days."

  "And the meeting is still on for tonight, 8:00 P.M., in Korfovka."

  Sergei shrugged. "No one's told me otherwise."

  "How far is it from the hotel?"

  "About ninety minutes, give or take."

  "Give or take what?"

  "Give or take a snowstorm, an ice storm, a nuclear event."

  Hansen looked at him. "Always the wiseass."

  "Always."

  Despite his not being accepted into Third Echelon's Splinter Cell program, Sergei, like Hansen, had received some of the best training in the world, compliments of the CIA. The average citizen had no idea of the length, the breadth, the sheer scope and magnitude of such schooling and the areas it encompassed. Both men had been given courses on advanced military technology; military strategy and tactics; computer security; countersurveillance; the art of disguise; etiquette and arts in foreign cultures; languages; explosives; fake IDs and secret banking; field medicine; forensics; guerrilla warfare; hand-to-hand knife combat; incendiary devices; international and local law; lock-bypassing techniques; photography and videography; poisons; psychology; drugs; sniper techniques; and, finally, surveillance.

  Third Echelon's training had taken those areas to the next level by incorporating more unconventional warfare techniques borrowed from American special forces as well as hand-to-hand combat techniques like krav maga, borrowed from the Israelis. The French-born art of parkour was also studied as a technique for deftly navigating around obstacles while fleeing. And then, of course, was the newer, more controversial training conducted by a pair of world-famous Chinese acrobats seeking political asylum in the United States. Those lithe men taught Hansen to hook his arms and legs around pipes and other objects in ways he had never considered. That they were contortionists helped, if not frustrated, the rest of the recruits.

  "I still think about Somalia, even after all this time," Sergei said out of nowhere.

  Hansen took a deep breath, wishing he could forget about his short time in that country. "All we did was light their fires. And now look: We have even more pirates."

  "You didn't believe me."

  "I know. But it's the hits that count, not the misses, and I still love this. I still think it's important."

  "Still a rush, huh?"

  "I won't lie. But listen to us. We sound like a couple of vets when we haven't put the time in, not really."

  "I don't know, buddy. Took me a long time to wind up here. And I just turned thirty. You never trust anyone over thirty."

  Hansen chuckled. "My old man used to say that. Some mantra from the 1960s."

  "I thought it was a quote from the Planet of the Apes movie," Sergei said with a frown.

  Hansen shrugged and leaned back on his seat to take in the sights for just another two minutes before they reached the Gavan Hotel at 3 Krygina Street. According to a travel brochure Hansen found on the seat beside him, there were fifty-seven guest rooms "where customers can find a maximum comfort. Following the home-away-from-home style, the Gavan hotel shows a unique combination of homelike atmosphere and modern comfort."

  They parked, and Sergei led him up to a room on the seventh floor. When they entered, a young woman was standing near the bed, wearing only a bra and panties.

  Hansen's jaw fell open as Sergei rushed into the room, grabbed the woman by the wrist, and backhanded her across the face. Then he screamed at her in Russian, "What the hell are you still doing here! I told you to leave! Get your clothes and get out!"

  "I was talking to my sister." The woman groaned, clutching her face.

  "Get out!"

  The woman quickly wriggled into a cheap dress, grabbed her purse, and rushed past Hansen, who remained in the doorway, dumbfounded. "Sergei, what the hell are you doing here?"

  Hansen's old friend dismissed him with a wave and turned to the desk, where he wrenched open a laptop, took a seat, and began typing furiously. "I've hacked into the hotel's registration system. We'll see if our boy has checked in yet."

  "She was a hooker, wasn't she?"

  "Whatever. Just shut up."

  "Did she see you do this? You left her alone with your computer? She could compromise this entire mission! How the hell do you know her? How long has she been here? Maybe she works for them. Maybe we're being set up."

  "Jesus Christ, dude, sit down before you have a h
eart attack. She's just a whore I picked up."

  "You can't do that!"

  "I'm here to give you your gear and get you to the location. Where the hell does it say I can't screw a hooker?"

  Hansen threw his duffel and garment bags onto the bed and began to activate his OPSAT. "This is ridiculous. Insane. Beyond unprofessional."

  "What're you doing now? Calling Mommy to tell on me?"

  Two empty bottles of vodka sat on the desk beside Sergei's computer, along with two glasses and several packs of cigarettes. Sergei lifted one of the bottles, sipped the remaining few drops, then shook his head in disgust, while Hansen stood there, deciding what to do.

  Hansen took a deep breath. "You're not all right, are you?"

  "I'm perfect. And you know why? Because I'm helping you, my old friend. It could be a lot worse, right? Look, I'm sorry about the . . . Just forget about it. She's not working for them." He rapped a knuckle on his computer screen. "And right here . . . this shows our boy just checked in, about fifteen minutes ago."

  "What room is he in?"

  "Eighty-four. Eighty-three is empty."

  "Then let's get to work--if you're still a part of this operation."

  "I never left."

  Hansen took a deep breath. "Sergei, you've put me in a terrible position. When this is over, I will have to say something."

  "I understand where you're coming from, but you forget that you still owe me."

  Hansen's brows knitted. "Owe you what?"

  "When they were getting ready to send us over to the 'Stan, who got you through Dari? Or should I say, who helped you cheat your way through Dari? And if they really sent us there, you wouldn't be talking jack to anyone because you couldn't hack the language. But it was okay to cheat then, huh?"

  "That wasn't a live operation. And I passed the oral. That was just a multiple-choice exam."