by Tom Clancy
Hansen gave the order to Sergei, who tugged off his goggles and returned them to Hansen. They pulled behind the petrol station, a very modest-sized building with a long red awning and two ancient-looking pumps. The place was closed. Hansen gave himself the once-over, slid on his goggles, then said, "Here goes nothing."
Sergei smiled weakly. "Good luck."
In one quick motion, Hansen was out of the car and running down the long alley between the first row of buildings. If Korfovka had a downtown district, this was it: perhaps fifteen structures in all, with a small water tower to the northeast. A private airport lay out in that direction as well, with several Quonset hangars and a helipad lying adjacent to the single airstrip.
With the night vision switched on, Hansen kept to the deep shadows, working his way north toward the pub. To his west lay small clusters of old houses, with every third or so looking boarded up and abandoned. Most of the roofs sagged under the weight of heavy snow. Only then did he realize how cold it was getting, but the suit began to compensate. An electric current ran through his senses as he remembered who he was, what he was doing, and what this moment meant to him. All he had to do was get the information and get out. No footprints.
He reached the corner of the next building, and, on his haunches, peered around the side to the main street. In the distance came the sound of car engines, and he hoped Sergei was still hiding behind the petrol station and watching those cars go by. Hansen darted off, running now with some impunity, the alley still clear. One more side street to cross before he reached the pub. He had to guard his steps, though, as his boot hit a patch of ice and he nearly went down. To fall and break his leg en route to the location would not only ruin the mission, it would make him the laughing-stock of Third Echelon. The others would spend long nights inventing nicknames for him. There would be no living it down.
Another car engine resounded, this one from in front of the pub. Hansen hazarded a peek around the next corner and spotted a dilapidated old pickup truck parked across the street. Two old Russians got out, both wearing parkas and caps, their faces doughy, cheeks red. The older one waved to his partner, and they lit cigarettes and walked across the street toward the pub.
Hansen hadn't just run out of time; the clock was now running positive, and the meeting had quite obviously started. He cursed and took off, gritting his teeth as he reached the pub's back door. For the sake of argument he tried the lock. He lost the argument.
Ignoring the tremor in his hands, he gave himself five seconds with his picking tool, counting each one until on exactly five he had the door open and, keeping low, gingerly stepped inside.
The air smelled of something delicious, fresh-baked bread perhaps, but that heavenly scent was tinged by cigarette smoke and beer. Hansen came into a small storage room, its shelves stocked high with boxes of spirits. Light from a small fixture shone overhead. A pair of folding shutter doors about half the length of a normal-sized door separated the storage room from the front. Abruptly, those doors pushed open and a heavyset woman in her sixties pushed into the room. She had a badly stained apron folded over her considerable girth, and a thick scarf held back her shock of silver hair.
Hansen hunkered down, drawing his SC pistol with an anesthetic dart already loaded.
As she lumbered toward the back, toward him, he slowly stood. She took one look at him--a dark alien with three eyes--and opened her mouth.
Even as he imagined her scream, Hansen fired the dart into her neck and dashed forward to catch her. Indeed, she'd had time to scream, but he realized that she hadn't because she'd fainted even before the anesthetic took hold.
Welcome to Real- Life Spy Work 101, he told himself, where you're not hanging inverted from the rafters, completely obscured and cleverly firing Sticky Cams to eavesdrop on the bad guys while you remain fully undetected.
No, this was a lot less glamorous, clutching a fat Russian woman and lowering her to the ground as he considered how long it would take before someone else came into the back room, looking for her--and how long after that Murdoch and the rest would become aware that something was wrong.
He was not ten seconds into the mission and it had already gone to hell. . . .
But it wasn't over yet. Hansen stood, withdrew the laser microphone from his breast pocket, and, keeping tight behind the doors, stole a quick glance over the tops of them. The decor seemed borrowed from an old Bavarian inn, with paneling and beams spanning the rafters. Candles at the half dozen tables, and more positioned along the broad wooden counter, created a warm and hypnotic atmosphere, perfect for drinking on a cold night. An old chandelier hung from the ceiling, but three of its four bulbs had burned out.
Off to Hansen's left was the bartender: a slightly hunched-back man with a wiry white beard, serving a drink to one of the two men who had just entered. They were the only ones at the bar. Behind them, seated at a table near the wall, were Murdoch, Zhao, and Bratus, all nursing drinks.
Hansen tucked himself back a little farther behind the doors and aimed the laser microphone (officially the LM7: laser microphone, seventh generation) at one of the glasses near Bratus. Any object that could resonate or vibrate, like a glass or a picture on the wall, would do so because of pressure waves created by noises. The invisible NIR, or near-infrared, laser was able to detect the tiny difference in the distance traveled by the light to pick up resonance and reproduce the sound causing it. Sure, any Joe could go to YouTube and learn to build a rudimentary laser microphone, but to build one the size of a ballpoint pen with NIR technology and a range in excess of a thousand meters was better left to Third Echelon and its subcontractors. The LM7 operated according to Snell's law, which required sharp alignment and correct aiming of both the transmitted and received laser beams, so Hansen needed to aim the beam and remain perfectly still while the conversation was picked up and automatically transferred to his OPSAT, where it would be heard through his subdermal, recorded, and later sent to Grim.
All of which was to verify that he did, indeed, have his ear on the conversation, as all three men spoke in Russian:
"I don't understand what the problem is," said Murdoch.
"The problem is money," answered Zhao. "Kovac promised me twice what he's now offering."
"But you can't stop now," Bratus said. "Because if you do, I don't know what to tell my people. We will all die."
"Look, I'll go back to Kovac. I'll tell him what you said. I'll tell him that if he wants the rest of the names on that list, he's got to pay the full amount."
"Just like I did," said Bratus. "See the difference between the Russians and the Americans, my friend? The Russians know how to keep a promise."
"That's not fair," snapped Murdoch. "The initial data was corrupt. We don't pay for something we don't get."
Hansen was trembling. He was getting it all. They had implicated Kovac. They'd even mentioned him by name! This was the real deal, his first mission, and he was kicking ass and taking names . . . or, rather, getting names, the name. Grim would not only thank him, she would rip off her glasses and--
He shuddered, forced calm back into his thoughts as Zhao went on: "I have a little surprise for you, but we'll have to go to the airport." Zhao checked his watch. "He should be arriving soon."
All three men stood. Hansen rolled back behind the doors, glanced down at the old lady, then heard the bartender cry, "Nadia! What's taking you so long?"
Hansen held his breath. If he could just stall the old man until Murdoch and his buddies left . . .
Footfalls drew closer.
Bratus called out, "Thank you, and have a good night!" The bartender responded in kind.
The front door opened.
And the back doors swung inward. The old bartender entered the storage room, glancing around.
Hansen took him from behind, drawing one of the old man's arms behind his back and wrapping a gloved hand over the man's mouth. Hansen muttered, "Don't struggle, and you'll be okay. Nadia is sleeping. Just wait for anoth
er minute. Don't move."
Outside, the car engines fired up. Hansen listened a moment longer, then suddenly released the man and charged out the back door and into the alley.
"Sergei? They're going to the airport. Come on! I'll meet you behind the petrol station."
Hansen raced as fast as he could along the walls, waiting for his runner to reply. "Sergei?"
8
KORFOVKA, RUSSIAN FEDERATION NEAR THE CHINESE BORDER
WHILE Hansen was off on his glory mission, Sergei had driven around the front of the petrol station, as Allen Ames had instructed him to do. Sergei waited there for Ames and his taxicab tail to show up. When he arrived, the short man remained in his car and motioned for the cabdriver to turn around and head back to Vladivostok; then Ames parked under the awning, hidden from the satellite's prying eyes. He left his car, carrying a video camera and suitcase. He climbed into Sergei's Toyota and took a deep breath. "Hello, Luchenko."
"It's too late. He's already implicated Kovac. Grim knows. I did what I could to delay him."
Ames raised a finger and speed-dialed a number on his satellite phone. He waited. "It's me. Yes, sir. I'm afraid that's already happened. Yes, sir. I know what to do now, sir. I was already prepared." He hung up.
"What now?" asked Sergei.
"You didn't delay Hansen. You second-guessed yourself. I told you what we had planned for you in the NSA, and you threw it all away on drinking and whores and feeling guilty about your buddy, who is not your friend, trust me. You don't have what it takes, and that's why you're not a Splinter Cell. I told them we were wasting our time on you. They didn't believe me. We gave you a second chance, and you blew it."
"Doesn't matter now. Nothing matters."
"Oh, you're wrong. I have new orders. Hansen's not just expendable. The boss wants him dead. I've brought money and a camera. You bring me the proof, and you get paid $250K." Ames opened the suitcase and showed Sergei the stacks of bills.
Sergei stiffened. "You guys were planning this all along. I wasn't just a mole. I'm an assassin."
Ames slapped shut the suitcase. "You wanted to be a field operative. Welcome to the big leagues. And you don't have a choice."
"As a matter of fact, I do." With that, Sergei had a pistol with a long suppressor jammed against Ames's head.
The little weasel didn't flinch. "What's the point? If you kill me, you're only delaying the inevitable. They'll find you."
Sergei began to lose his breath. "Why do we have to kill Hansen? He's just a rookie operative. A nobody."
"Kovac wants him dead. That's enough for me."
"Why?"
"Maybe to punish Grim. Maybe he thinks Hansen is Grim's pet. He's got it in for her. I don't know. I once heard him say that Grim was grooming Hansen to become the next Sam Fisher. Maybe that's why."
"If your boss wants him dead, you do it."
"I can't get close. If he saw me and I failed, it would ruin everything. They've got a lot invested in me."
"So I do your dirty work? What makes you think I won't talk?"
Ames chuckled under his breath. "Come on, Sergei. You're dealing with the most powerful intelligence operation on the planet. Even a man like you has one thing you love more than anything in this world: one . . . woman. And if that woman's life were threatened, you would do anything to protect her. Did you think we would bring you into our fold without knowing everything? When you're little people like us, you do what the big people say. And if they throw you a bone, you take it and run as fast you can."
Sergei began to choke up. His life had come to this. He was just a hired killer. A thug. And he'd been wrong. He had no choice. It didn't matter that Victoria said she no longer loved him. He would love her forever, and as Ames had said, he would never allow anything to happen to her. He could smell her now, her perfume, and he felt her long, blond hair brushing against his cheek and the smooth curves of her back as her lips opened slightly, warm and wet, to touch his.
If he did what they asked, the woman he loved would be saved. He would collect a quarter of a million dollars. And a man that made him green with envy would be dead.
Sergei lowered the pistol.
Ames nodded. "Here's the camera. The money comes back with me. Bring me the video. You tell them Hansen never came back. They'll find his body, it'll be another mess for Third Echelon, and we'll laugh our way to the bank."
"Hansen called. He's on foot. He was coming here, but he decided to double back to the airport."
Ames's smile evaporated. "What?"
"Hansen's been calling me. He's running over to the airport right now. The group's meeting there. Zhao says he has a surprise for them."
"This is . . . unexpected. We'll leave my car here. Drive!"
Sergei nodded and threw the car in gear. They roared away from the petrol station, and for a moment he glanced over at Ames and, with a shudder, imagined himself putting a bullet in the mole's head.
Maybe he would.
HANSEN had been running for about ten minutes, heading past groups of old houses whose icy roofs glistened in the night. He followed a rickety old fence that cordoned off an open field, and he suspected that the occupants of the two cars, well ahead on the road about a quarter kilometer to his right, couldn't see him. The airport lay farther northeast, not far from the water tower and another collection of buildings, the tallest of which was an old Eastern Orthodox church, the three-bar cross casting a deep silhouette against the gray clouds.
"Ben, Sergei's car has left the gas station and is headed toward the airport," reported Grim.
"And the other car?"
"Still parked there."
"Any idea who it is?"
"Trying to check now, but we didn't get a tag. He's got it under the awning, and we can't get a good shot."
"Why isn't Sergei answering me?"
"Not sure, and, quite frankly, I wouldn't trust him at this point."
"Don't write him off yet. Maybe we were being tailed, and he took out the guy. Maybe he's just got a problem with his OPSAT."
"From our end his OPSAT looks fine. Anyway, just get to the airport. We need to see Zhao's surprise. . . ."
"Roger that. I'm on it."
"And one more thing. Don't forget to breathe."
Hansen grinned to himself and jogged on across the snow. As he turned toward the church, the wind and swirling snow began buffeting him head-on.
He spotted another fence about a hundred meters ahead, charged toward it, crouched over, and ran along to the corner. There he climbed over and found himself in a small cemetery behind the church. Gnarled and seemingly ancient trees ringed the perimeter, theirs limbs bowing and creaking against gusts reaching at least thirty miles an hour. About two dozen grave markers sprouted up from mounds of snow, with pieces of wind-whipped ice tumbling from their granite tops. The scent of burning wood wafted everywhere now, as the flames in fireplaces farther north were stoked against the oncoming cold.
Hansen reached the church's back door and found it spanned by yellow warning tape and signs: The place had been closed because of a roof collapse. He shifted around the side of the building, saw the airport and Quonset huts ahead; then he stopped and glanced up at the steeple. An oval-shaped window was positioned just below an ornate clock with a diameter of at least two meters. Hansen glanced once more down to the airport, then up at the steeple. The angle looked good, so he raced around the back, got to work on the lock, and gained entrance.
The west side of the church appeared untouched, with pews lined up before an ornate altar whose walls had stained-glass windows and holy icons of the saints and large wrought-iron sconces. Giant murals spanned the domed ceiling, and the smell of incense was still pungent.
Off to the right, lying in sharp contrast, was a disaster of fallen cross members and drywall and shingles, along with pieces of the ceiling's amazing artwork scattered in sad piles all over the pews. It seemed the parishioners and others had just started on the cleanup work, and above it all
was a gaping maw in the ceiling. Pieces of insulation and loosened shingles still attached to the ragged edges flapped in the wind, and the snow was already piling up inside.
Hansen picked his way around the debris and found a side door that led into a stairwell barely wide enough for one person. He rose straight up the steep staircase, crinkling his nose at the scent of sweet-smelling incense that was even stronger here.
At the top he found a small door, which was open, and he moved into a room with a creaking wooden floor that allowed access up and into the back of the clock, whose steady ticking was at once comforting and annoying. The window he'd seen from outside was there, but heavy wooden shutters sealed it from the inside. He unlatched and tugged open one of the shutters, and the entire piece of wood came off in his hands. He swore, set it down, then removed his backpack and got out his glass-cutting kit with suction-cup handle and blade. He etched a rectangle about twelve inches square in the single pane of glass, then affixed the suction cup, gave a tap, and eureka! The cold rushed inside. He set down the glass, then peered out across the courtyard to the airport and huts, which lay 221.6 meters away, according to the map on his OPSAT's screen.
He brought himself closer to the opening in the window, zoomed in with the goggles, and saw now that Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao were standing in front of two cars, arms folded, talking. Zhao turned and pointed out to the west, and Hansen looked in that direction, but he couldn't see anything yet. And then he noted something else: The driver's-side window was down on Bratus's car, and there was man seated at the wheel, but Hansen couldn't quite distinguish his face.
"Grim, you seeing this?"
"Yes."
"Any idea who he is? Or is he just a driver."
"Need a better image of him."
"It's damned windy out there, but I think I'll deploy the COM-BAT."
"Standing by. And it looks like now you've got a helicopter moving toward you."
Hansen glanced down at his OPSAT. The map of his position zoomed out to show the oncoming helicopter's position as a red point moving toward his green triangle. Then the image zoomed further in on the red dot and dissolved into a file photo of the helicopter, an MD600N light, single-turbine bird with NOTAR (no tail rotor) technology. The chopper could carry up to seven passengers and was fast.
