Endgame (1998)

by Tom Clancy

  "I was going to say you could scratch my back while we--"

  "In your pathetic dreams."

  Ames wore a mock-wounded expression. "Why are you so mean to me?"

  Valentina raised a perfectly tweezed brow. "Because when I was a kid, you were that boy who pulled my ponytail all through school."

  "I think you like me. I think you're struggling with that. You're afraid to admit it. Don't be afraid, Maya. Don't be afraid."

  "Ben, can you shut him up?"

  Hansen waved them off and started up the stairs. In his mind's eye he saw himself putting a gun to Sam Fisher's head.

  "Why did you kill Lambert?"

  "It's complicated."

  "I see. They want me to bring you in."

  "I can't let that happen."

  "Then I'm sorry." Hansen pulled the trigger.

  Fisher crashed to the ground, lying faceup, and began bleeding all over the pavement.

  With the hot sun on the back of his neck, Hansen shifted over Fisher's body, his shadow passing over Fisher's face, the eyes glowing, a third equally bright eye appearing on Fisher's forehead as his mouth moved and he gasped out, "Ben, I need to tell you something. . . ."

  14

  CESSNA CITATION X EN ROUTE TO PARIS

  THE Cessna Citation X, the fastest civilian aircraft in the sky, swept over the Atlantic Ocean at six hundred plus miles per hour, climbing to a cruising altitude of some forty-five thousand feet.

  Maya Valentina leaned back in her well-padded chair and sipped once more from her glass of champagne. Some bubbly was the least they could do. Since joining Third Echelon, she'd logged as many hours aboard aircraft as the average commercial airline pilot. Well, that was probably an exaggeration, but she was beginning to feel a constant state of lag taking hold beneath her eyes.

  She glanced over at the black ash burl panels beside her seat and ran her fingers across the smooth, polished surface. She knew a lot about wood because of her father. He was a framer, trim carpenter, cabinet maker, and amateur knife maker in their hometown of Geneva, Florida. Her dad's grandfather had been a wood carver in Sicily and had come to the United States in the early 1900s to find work in New York City as a piano maker. The family had eventually moved down to Florida, and her father continued practicing the family trade of woodcraft.

  Valentina had been raised in a farmhouse built in the 1860s and nestled on ten acres that bordered state-owned lands. With all that room to roam, she and her four brothers spent their summers exploring the woods and creeks. She had been on a path to becoming a typical tomboy and could hunt, fish, and shoot with the best of them, but she was still attracted to fashion and makeup and all those things that made her feel like a girl. The colorful dresses she wore to Sunday-morning mass were some of her favorite clothes, and her mother had made sure that she had access to all of those feminine things and told her that, no, she was not just one of the boys, despite being outnumbered. Once she entered high school, she shed the last of her tomboy roots, and her mother taught her how to apply makeup and add highlights to her hair. Much to her father's chagrin, the boys noticed . . . in droves. Her dad liked to show her dates his gun and knife collections, not because he was trying to threaten them, but because he was always trying to sell a piece or two. She had to yell at him for trying to solicit her friends.

  What troubled her most, though, was the stereotypical dismissal given to her by her peers when she'd attended Rollins College to get a degree in political science with an aim toward doing something in the government. Her colleagues couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that a woman with her looks wanted to do something with her brains instead of her boobs. Her own roommate told her, "You're either a beauty or a geek. Don't try to be both. You could get a job as a stripper and make more in a few months than you'll make in a year as a lawyer."

  There were darker days when she'd stand in front of the mirror, put a knife to her cheek, and wonder what the scar would look like, how it might change their perception of her. She'd trace a line down from the corner of her eye, across her cheek, then wind it down beneath her chin. Yet the scar would just draw pity, and they still wouldn't see her as smart. The dumb-blond jokes would keep coming. What do you call a dead blonde in a closet? The 1986 hide-and-seek world champion. Hilarious. The injustice of that stereotype annoyed her so much that she'd developed a rant she'd often unleash on her dates.

  All of which underscored the fact that when Hansen told her to go into Leonard's office and seduce him, she'd died a little more inside. The degree from Rollins meant nothing. The three years she'd spent at the NSA as an intelligence analyst--demonstrating her understanding of world history, geography, and the social, economic, and political events that affected global change--were a waste of time. That she had been recruited from her desk job by Irving Lambert himself and somehow survived the Third Echelon training program didn't mean a goddamned thing.

  She was a pair of boobs and legs.

  Why couldn't she get past that? Just use her looks to her advantage, allow men to let down their guards as they dreamed of doing likewise with their flies. Why would they take her seriously only when she had a pistol jammed into their temples? Oh, yes, they were shocked that the dumb blonde, the piece of ass, was a whole lot smarter than they'd thought, so smart, in fact, that they would now lose their lives to her, and she wouldn't give them a second thought because, like all the rest, they couldn't see past the flesh. Damn it, she had to stop letting that bother her. She needed to empower herself. But how was she supposed to do that when it was all about the team now? You couldn't just throw an "I" in front of "team" and get some trendy word that meant she was suddenly more important than the rest and should take credit and be recognized as a highly intelligent woman. . . .

  Was she bitter? Oh, God, don't get her started.

  Valentina looked down and realized she was clutching her armrest. She took a deep breath, then finished the rest of her champagne in one gulp.

  To accommodate onboard meetings, the seats were arranged in pairs and facing one another. She sat beside Hansen, and they faced Ames and Noboru, both of whom were scanning maps on their laptops. Gillespie had opted to take a seat behind them but had turned around and pushed up on her knees like a curious kid in coach staring over the top of her seat at the people behind her.

  On the way to the airport, Moreau had gone over the particulars: The Police municipale had received an anonymous tip that a man named Francois Dayreis was responsible for a brutal assault in a warehouse on the outskirts of Reims the night before. Five men had been severely beaten by a lone perpetrator, their IDs stolen. The story had made the local news and the Police nationale was now working with Interpol and the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence, France's FBI, to apprehend the criminal. The six victims were Romain Doucet, Georges Blandin, Avent Quenten, Pierre Allard, Andre Canivet, and Louis Royer. Doucet, it turned out, was a local thug and head of a gang that had intimidated his neighborhood, subsequently keeping him well stocked with alibis. However, he had nearly been implicated in the rape of a fifteen-year-old girl, and that, Moreau had said, took him to an even deeper level of hell. That Dayreis had pounded the crap out of these thugs was vigilante justice, no doubt.

  That Francois Dayreis was a known alias of Sam Fisher's had everyone at Third Echelon on the edges of their seats. Consequently, Delta Sly had some things to do and people to see.

  Since IDs had been stolen, Moreau had consulted a list of high-end forgers known to Third Echelon, and the name Abelard Boutin was not only at the top of that list but his apartment was located not far from the incident.

  "I have a few ideas on how to set up overwatch outside Boutin's place," said Ames, glancing up from his computer.

  "Can I stop you right there?" said Gillespie from her perch behind the seat. "If Sam went to see the forger, then he did so deliberately. He doesn't make mistakes like that."

  "Oh, and you're the Sam Fisher expert because he spent, what, about two weeks of his
life training you?" asked Ames. "The guy's getting old . . . and he's old school. He's stressed out. He'll make mistakes."

  "Sam Fisher, stressed out? Are we talking about the same Sam Fisher, the guy who also trained you?"

  "The world's changed. Sam knows that. And maybe he can't deal with it anymore."

  "Wow, that's all heady and philosophical and--"

  "Kim, what're you trying to say?" asked Valentina.

  "I'm saying I don't like this. I'm saying that maybe Nathan was on to something when he asked Moreau why we were picked for this job. Maybe they didn't want operators with more experience because we're not supposed to capture Sam."

  "Oh, don't give me that BS," said Ames. "We're new. We're unconventional. We're unpredictable. That's why we got picked."

  "I have to agree with that," said Hansen. "But it does worry me that Fisher confided in Boutin and the man turned on him so quickly."

  "Maybe they trusted each other, but Fisher screwed him over somehow, and he turned," said Valentina.

  Hansen sighed. "That's a possibility."

  "Sam went to the forger because he knew the guy would talk. He wants us to come to France," said Gillespie.

  "Oh, yeah?" asked Ames. "Why? So you can sleep with him again?"

  Everyone fell silent. Valentina blinked. A mental switch was thrown. And suddenly she burst from her seat and threw herself on the little bastard, wrapping her fingers around his throat. "Haven't you had enough with that mouth? Haven't you had enough!"

  Hands dropped onto her shoulders and wrenched her away from Ames, who panted and cried, "I'm just getting started, baby!" He cocked a thumb over his shoulder at Gillespie. "You don't see her getting all upset. Why? Because it's a fact! Maybe we ought to get that out in the open right here!"

  Gillespie lowered her gaze and shook her head. "You bastard."

  Ames pushed himself up and turned to Gillespie. "They need to know--because you could compromise this mission."

  "I don't want to go there," snapped Hansen. But then he glanced up at Gillespie. "But did you go there?"

  "Tell him, Kim. We don't have a choice," said Ames. "She slept with him. She's got feelings for him."

  "I don't have feelings," cried Gillespie.

  "Kim, you really slept with him?" asked Valentina.

  Gillespie moaned through a sigh. "I'm an idiot, okay? It was months after he trained me. He was in a bad place, and I took advantage of that. He didn't want to . . . but I . . . I just . . . I don't know what happened."

  Hansen pursed his lips, thought for a moment, then swore under his breath. "When we get to Paris, Kim, you stay on the plane. You'll fly back. I'll tell Grim. We can't have you here."

  "Don't do that, Ben. I'm telling you, this whole thing is bigger than we think. They put me here for a reason. . . . They put all of us here. And I'll promise you, right here and right now, that if it comes down to it, that if I have to kill him, I will. I'll do it."

  "I'm unconvinced," said Ames. "Me, on the other hand, I'd whack him in a heartbeat. I never liked the bastard. He was a crappy teacher, and he's got the weirdest sense of humor."

  "A team of rookies, and a woman personally involved with the target," Hansen began through a groan. "Like sending hamsters after a rattlesnake."

  "I am a special- forces operator," said Noboru, his tone steely. "I am nothing else."

  "We're happy for you, Bruce," said Ames. "Now, shut the hell up and let us figure out what to do with the slut back here."

  This time it was Gillespie who was ready to strangle Ames, but he slipped back into his seat and said, "I'm just kidding! I'm kidding!"

  Gillespie swore at him and looked to Hansen for help.

  "Who's got the terrible sense of humor?" Valentina asked Ames. "And you know something? I've been dealing with guys like you all my life. You wind up miserable and alone."

  "Not really. I wind up on a private jet, with a hot blonde, drinking champagne." He winked.

  Hansen hardened his voice. "Ames, I've had enough of you, too."

  "I'm just here for your entertainment pleasure--since you're not here for mine."

  Hansen snorted. "Show's over. Back to work. Now, we're going to go see this guy Boutin. Maybe Fisher's paid him a visit."

  "Ben, if Fisher is as good as everyone says he is, he may be long gone," said Noboru. "Maybe all we can do is follow his trail. Maybe he's not even in France anymore."

  "Good point. Why would he stick around?"

  Valentina thought about that. "Maybe there's something he needs to do. Someone he's waiting for?"

  "Like us," said Hansen. "Why do I get the feeling that we're being baited?"

  "Still no word from Grim?" asked Valentina.

  Hansen shook his head.

  "Look, guys, stop worrying," said Ames. "Like I said before, I've got some ideas for overwatch on Boutin's place. Let's talk about those, catch a few z's, then wake up and have breakfast in Paris."

  Valentina took a deep breath and folded her arms over her chest. "What makes you so confident?"

  "I'm more excited than anything else," answered Ames. "We take down Fisher and we've really done something. We'll be the guys who brought in the traitor. Then his legend becomes ours. . . ."

  15

  GRAND HOTEL TEMPLIERS REIMS, FRANCE

  THE flight to Paris took about six hours, and Reims was exactly six hours ahead of Baltimore, so while the team seemingly arrived at Paris-Charles de Gaulle International Airport at midnight their time, it was 6:21 A.M. by the local clock. Between yawns and the rubbing of red eyes, they rented a blue Opel and a green Renault and drove to the east side of Reims, to the Grand Hotel Templiers, where the agency had already booked two rooms. The five-story hotel was on rue des Templiers, a narrow street lined on both sides by subcompact cars. The place was about a ten-minute drive from Boutin's apartment, affording them enough distance for security yet reasonable proximity to the target.

  Much to Hansen's chagrin, Ames decided he was bunking with Valentina, who drove her heel into the short operative's foot, and that was the end of that. Ladies in one room, men in the other, thank you. When would that guy ever let up?>

  Hansen stared through the window at a courtyard whose landscape swept outward like a chessboard, its walkways cutting at right angles through perfect squares of sod and trees. The image was fitting, as the game was, indeed, afoot.

  He wrung his hands and checked his watch. He and Ames decided that after breakfast they would reconnoiter Boutin's place to be sure there wasn't anything surprising they hadn't seen on the maps. They would do a hasty drive-by, as Hansen felt certain that Fisher, if he was still in Reims, would be keeping a close eye on the forger. Hansen decided, though, that they wouldn't make their move on Boutin until 11:00 P.M. at the earliest, when they could be more certain that the streets would be deserted and the forger himself had settled down for the evening.

  Behind Hansen, Gillespie was munching on French toast, which she said tasted better in the States, and working her laptop's touch pad, scanning data from Moreau--Mr. Moreau. They'd searched the registrations of every hotel in France for a Francois Dayreis, along with every other alias Fisher had ever used during his tenure at Third Echelon, and they'd come up empty. They'd also searched for the names of the victims of the warehouse assault, but it seemed Fisher hadn't used those IDs yet. If Boutin didn't know anything about Fisher's whereabouts, Hansen wasn't sure what their next move would be.

  There were, however, two other leads to follow: Doucet and the warehouse.

  Noboru and Valentina were already out to meet the team's runner in Reims, from whom they would pick up the gear and be outfitted for their visit to see Doucet, who'd been admitted to the Centre Hospitalier Universitaire at 45 rue Cognacq-Jay, about four kilometers southwest of the team's hotel.

  Ames entered the room, car keys in hand. "You ready, chief?"

  Hansen turned from the window. "Hold down the fort, Kim, all right?"

  She nodded.

  "
And, you know, if you want, take a nap. Just leave the channel on in case I need to get you through the subdermal, all right?"

  "You got it."

  Hansen walked over to Ames and ripped the car keys out of the man's hand. "I drive."

  NOBORU took the Opel to the parking garage of the Hotel Azur, located just five minutes west. He and Valentina drove to the far end of the garage as instructed. Noboru let the car idle. He glanced over at Valentina, who draped an arm across her eyes and rested her head on the seat. He felt compelled to say something but simply sat there.

  "How come you're so serious, Nathan?" she blurted out.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't think I've ever seen you smile."

  "I smiled once. Back in 2007."

  She opened her eyes and smiled. "I like you. You're one of the first guys I've met who doesn't want to have sex with me."

  "What makes you assume that?"

  "Because you don't look at me that way."

  "It's impolite."

  "Yes, it is. Your parents raised you right."

  He took a deep breath. "I would still like to have sex with you."

  And then he shocked her . . . by smiling. "Does that make you feel better?"

  She punched him in the arm. Hard. "The smile part does. So . . . I'm going to try to take just a little nap, just rest my eyes, okay?"

  "Okay."

  Within a minute she was out. They were all exhausted, and Noboru repeatedly checked the rearview mirror while blinking his vision back to clarity and stifling a yawn.

  He didn't want to close his eyes, because if he did, he knew he'd begin to hear the car horns and smell the herbs and roasting meat from the restaurants.

  The back window of his second-floor apartment in Kao-hsiung was open, and below lay piles of trash surrounding a pair of Dumpsters. Noboru was lying in bed, reading a newspaper, when they kicked in his door.

  Horatio moved in first, lifting his pistol with an attached silencer. He was forty, broad shouldered like a linebacker but narrow waisted and light on his feet. He'd been severely burned on his neck and lost part of his right ear. He'd never talked about how or why. He kept his bald pate shaved and glistening, and his right arm was entirely tattooed, probably to disguise more scars.