Endgame (1998)

by Tom Clancy

"Marty, you hearing this?" Hansen whispered into his SVT.

  Moreau's voice came through the subdermal. "I'm hearing you calling me Marty."

  Hansen repressed a snicker and widened his gaze on Boutin. "Do you know where Dayreis is now?"

  "He said he had a friend in Tuscany."

  "He's not in Tuscany," said Valentina.

  Hansen looked at her. "How do you know?"

  "Because he had to go see another forger since our friend here ruined his plans. So, monsieur, if you were Dayreis, who would you go see?"

  "I don't know."

  Valentina sighed loudly for effect. "Give us the name, and you can get back to your TV show."

  Boutin closed his eyes. "I would go see Emmanuel Chenevier. He is very good."

  "Spell the last name," Valentina ordered.

  Boutin did.

  "Run that name," Hansen whispered to Moreau.

  "On it," snapped Moreau. "Give the old man some money for his door."

  Hansen reached into his pocket and produced two hundred euros (about $270). Boutin took the bills and counted. "That door was an antique. I'll need twice as much."

  With a snort, Hansen looked to Valentina, who managed to produce another hundred euros. "That's all we have," she said.

  "It will have to do," said Boutin. "And you, lady, you are a smart one to ask me about another forger. I think you will find Mr. Dayreis. And when you do, tell him I said hello and that I hope he dies."

  "I'm sure he'll be pleased," said Valentina.

  Hansen tipped his head toward the door, and they hustled out of the apartment, notifying the others that they were on their way.

  MOREAU and Grim were still connected through the Trinity System and watching as Hansen and his team went though a series of maneuvers to discreetly collapse back in on their vehicles. The team was at its most alert now, and Moreau was impressed by how deftly they came together, if not by the fact that Hansen had chosen to park both rental cars in one spot.

  "Look at that," said Grim suddenly. "There's someone on the park bench, right there."

  "You're not thinking what I'm thinking . . . " Moreau began.

  Grim reached out toward a compasslike control and used it to zoom in on the satellite feed, where they glimpsed a bum with a newspaper folded over his head but lying on his side so that he could peer out from beneath it.

  "I don't believe it," said Grim. "Look at Kim. She's walking right by him. Thirty feet! I told Sam to keep them close. But not that close!"

  As the cars drove away, the bum rose and began photographing them, and, yes, Moreau and Grim made a positive identification of Mr. Sam Fisher, Splinter Cell--the man who was going to bring down Kovac and stop an even bigger threat in one fell swoop.

  Grim felt a pang of guilt that she couldn't tell Hansen and the others everything; however, she was even more thankful now that she hadn't. Kovac's man Stingray was close. Too close.

  18

  DOUCET WAREHOUSE REIMS, FRANCE

  HANSEN and Moreau had agreed that questioning Emmanuel Chenevier would need to happen in the morning, lest they catch the man in a very foul mood at 1:00 A.M. The team was now driving straight out to Doucet's warehouse to confirm that Fisher had been there and see if there was anything that might indicate his next move. It was a long shot, to be sure, but failing to at least inspect the warehouse would be foolish . . . and Hansen had already made one such mistake.

  Taking a tip from Moreau, Hansen made sure that the team parked its rental cars about a quarter mile apart. He should've had them do likewise back at Boutin's apartment, but he was so pumped full of adrenaline that his better judgment had been clouded. Parking the cars together was a tactical error he would not make again. Paying attention to the minutiae kept you alive. Period.

  Doucet and his thugs had been living out of a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot Quonset-style warehouse within a mostly deserted industrial park on Reims's west side. Brown and green quilts of tilled fields unfurled to the south and west, dropping off into darkness, with the only significant light coming from the streetlamps dotting the road.

  After a quick radio check, the team fanned out. Noboru and Gillespie would descend from the north and set up overwatch. Valentina would advance from the south and cover the loading dock entrance. Hansen and Ames were threading between the buildings just east of the warehouse and would cross to the dock itself and enter through that rear door.

  Within two minutes, the calls came in:

  "Nathan here. I'm in position. All clear."

  "Kim here. Same deal on my side."

  "Ben, I'm just behind the white truck near the dock," said Valentina. "There are a few cars parked across the street, but they look empty. I can see a Range Rover and a couple of others. You're clear to go."

  "Roger that. Hold positions. Here we come."

  Hansen and Ames darted along the building directly east of the warehouse, the sheet-metal walls already growing damp with dew. On three they sprinted across the parking lot, bounded up the stairs to the loading dock, ducked under the blue police tape, and reached the front door.

  Hansen covered Ames, who was about to pick the lock when he simply tried the handle: open.

  "Nice police work here," Ames said softly. "They didn't even lock up on their way out."

  "Works for me," Hansen replied.

  Drawing their pistols, they eased into the warehouse and switched on their penlights, illuminating the open spaces in dim shades of red. Off to their right was a living room of sorts, with torn-up couches and recliners positioned around a big flat-screen TV, fifty inches or larger. Nearby sat a DVD player with literally hundreds of movies stacked beside it. Most of the titles were either kung fu flicks or porn. A trash can near one sofa was overflowing with garbage, and a rat scurried off as Hansen caught it with his light.

  Directly ahead stood a flight of metal stairs leading up to a loft along which ran a metal railing. "I'm going up. Find me something down here."

  "I'm sure I will," said Ames. "Fisher's getting sloppy. I'm telling you. . . ."

  Hansen sighed and quickly mounted the staircase. At the top, he moved along the railing, then crossed into the kitchen. Farther back were a breakfast nook and laundry area partially obscured by a makeshift bedsheet divider.

  Oddly, the door to the base cabinet under the kitchen sink hung wide-open. Hansen thought about that as his light played over the floor, looking for any signs of blood. Nothing. He moved out of the kitchen and found a bathroom with a simple toilet and sink. Again, his light swept along the floor, where he spotted a tiny sliver of black plastic. He reached down, picked it up, turned it over.

  Plastic from what?

  Hansen lifted the toilet seat, saw that someone had urinated but not flushed. Urine stains were on the seat and the floor. He thought about that. Then he turned to a door, swung it open, and found that he was in a closet with wall-mounted ladder leading up to a skylight. The warehouse had obviously been a conversion project; thus the closet had been constructed to preserve that roof access, probably for maintenance purposes or even escape in case of a fire.

  "Ames, anything?" Hansen called into his SVT.

  "Not yet."

  "Get up here."

  "You got something?"

  "Maybe. Move it."

  Ames's footfalls came soft but swiftly, and within a few seconds he stood beside Hansen.

  "How much you want to bet that skylight was opened from the outside?"

  "Nothing, because it was." Ames mounted the ladder and climbed up twelve feet to the top. He pushed open the skylight, which folded soundlessly out of the way.

  Soundlessly.

  Hansen followed, and they both emerged onto the roof. Hansen leaned over and ran his finger along one of the skylight's hinges. His finger came up slick. "Fisher sprayed the hinges with silicone so they wouldn't squeak. This is definitely his entrance point."

  "How'd he get up here?" Ames crossed the roof and spotted the air-conditioning unit. "Oh, here we go. I
think he climbed up on the AC; then he could reach the ladder there." Ames climbed down the ladder and jumped onto the AC unit affixed to the wall. Again, Hansen followed, and in a few moments they both stood on the ground, staring up at the building.

  "So if he came in from up top . . . " Hansen began aloud. "Wait a minute." He jogged around the front of the warehouse to the door, his gaze probing . . . and then he saw it--a long two-by-four lying near the wall about twenty feet away. He went over, picked up the wood, and inspected the ends. As he suspected, the wood was indented on one side. He brought the piece up to the door handle, and the indentation matched.

  "If we go back to the loading dock, we'll find another two-by-four over there."

  "He locked them in," Ames concluded.

  "Then he came in from up top. They didn't stand a chance."

  Ames snorted. "Yeah, well, they were fools. Fisher's playing with us now. Old man Fisher's going to cry like my sister when I get down with him."

  Hansen made a face. "Pride cometh before the fall."

  "You quoting Shakespeare?"

  Hansen smirked. "No, Oprah. Let's go."

  They crossed to the loading dock, where Hansen did, indeed, spot the second two-by-four, the indentation once again matching the door handle.

  They went back inside the warehouse and Hansen crossed to the oak coffee table, where at each leg he found a black plastic ring: flex-cuffs. He was painfully familiar with them and felt his wrists ache from that night in Korfovka. Sure enough, the plastic matched the sliver he'd found upstairs in the bathroom.

  So there it was: Fisher had probably lured them one by one upstairs, where he'd neutralized and cuffed them. But he'd saved the questioning of Doucet for the main arena. He imagined Doucet bound to the table and Fisher conducting the interrogation in his deadpan voice:

  "We're done with questions. You talk. Otherwise, pain."

  "No!" Doucet cried.

  "All right. You choose pain."

  Hansen flinched and shuttered as he noticed, on the floor, the scratch marks where Doucet had tried to free himself. All of it jibed with the police report.

  Hansen and Ames spent another fifteen minutes searching for anything else of interest. Hansen discovered that the clothing dryer had been pulled back from the wall, and the floor was clear of dust in an area about the size of a briefcase. Something had, no doubt, been stashed there and removed.

  Outside, they slipped back to their cars and took off, with Hansen, Ames, Noboru in one car, the women in the other. They would take separate routes back to the hotel, yet another tradecraft detail Hansen employed this time around.

  He and the others were about five minutes away from the warehouse when Moreau called: "Ben? Maya and Kim are okay, but it looks like you boys have picked up a tail."

  After swearing under his breath, he answered, "Talk to me."

  "Black Range Rover. Two occupants. Driver's got the lights out. Can't see their faces. The driver's a pretty big guy, though. They're keeping pretty far back. What're you going to do, cowboy?"

  "You testing me?"

  "Life's a test, young man. Every day. Every hour. Every minute."

  Hansen sighed and looked over at Ames, who was at the wheel. "Just keep driving."

  Ames frowned. "You kidding me? I can lose these bastards, but you'll need to hang on."

  "No. If they followed us out here, then they saw us leave the hotel. They know where we're going. Let's just head back and see what they do."

  "I agree with that plan," said Noboru. "We don't know who they are, and if we react, we will lose the element of surprise."

  NOBORU had forced the emotion out of his voice--and that wasn't easy. Two men were following them, one larger. This wasn't his paranoia rearing its ugly head. Horatio and Gothwhiler were back there in that Range Rover. They had tracked Noboru to France. They were coming to finally, inevitably, settle the score.

  But how had they found him? Had someone within Third Echelon tipped them off? As far as Noboru knew, only Grim was aware of his past. But perhaps that wasn't true. Perhaps there were others, those who worked for Kovac . . . those who would like nothing more than to expose another conspiracy within the organization: that one of Third Echelon's Splinter Cells had once been employed by Gothos, a corporation currently identified as an enemy of the United States.

  Noboru swallowed. He reached for the door handle, saw himself leaping from the car, rolling down the ditch, then coming around to bring his pistol to bear on the car. He would kill them. The nightmare would end tonight.

  But what if he were wrong? What if these men had been hired by Kovac or even Fisher himself? If Noboru were to confront them, he'd be doing the very thing he had just advised Hansen against: tipping his hand to the enemy.

  But to remain silent, in place, knowing that they could be back there, would take inhuman reserve. He could barely breathe and the bile was building in his throat.

  "Moreau?" Hansen called. "We're not reacting."

  They drove on, all the way back to the hotel, with Moreau finally telling them that the Range Rover had pulled into a parking garage about five blocks away.

  As they parked in their own garage, Moreau continued to feed them reports. Still no sign of the drivers.

  "Ben, I suggest we search our cars," said Noboru.

  "Good idea."

  And within five minutes they found a pair of GPS tracking devices, both placed within the back sides of the cars' rear bumpers.

  "Those are British made," said Moreau. "Interesting. Excellent encryption. They're not amateurs."

  "Let me shadow them," said Noboru. "Let me go alone."

  "I'd advise against that," said Moreau.

  "Sir, are you telling me how to run my team?" asked Hansen. "Is that within the purview of operations management?"

  "Young man, I'd like a word in private. Come on up here, ASAP."

  "Tell him you'll wear your sexy bathrobe," said Ames with a wink.

  "I heard that," cried Moreau.

  Hansen looked at Gillespie and Valentina, who were holding the tracking devices. "Stick them on two other cars. We'll have a little fun with our tails."

  The women smiled and got to work.

  BACK up in Moreau's hotel room, Hansen stood before the man and lifted his shoulders. "Time for answers."

  Moreau turned away from his computer, sat back in the chair, and pillowed his head in his hands. "You're getting ahead of me, cowboy. I haven't asked any questions yet."

  "I'm asking the questions. First and most obvious: What the hell are we doing here?"

  "I'm about to tear you a new one for your insubordination," answered Moreau. "After that, we can order ice cream."

  Hansen spaced his words for effect: "You know what I mean."

  "Mr. Hansen, we are in the middle of an operation to bring in a rogue agent. You didn't get the memo?"

  "Don't give me that BS. Geeks forgot to pack the goggles? Now we got a tail?"

  "What're you suggesting?"

  "You don't want us to capture Fisher."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "He's working with Grim. He's up to something. And we're running defense. We're the screen. And Kovac's beginning to figure that out, and he's got people all over us."

  "Your job is not to stand and speculate on what-ifs and maybes and, Oh, I think I got this all figured out with my MIT education. Your job is to bring me Sam Fisher's head." Moreau leapt to his feet and raised his voice. "Jesus Christ, cowboy! What part of that equation don't you understand?"

  "The part where you lied to us."

  Hansen took a step forward and riveted his gaze on Moreau.

  Standoff.

  19

  PARKING GARAGE REIMS, FRANCE

  WHILE Hansen was meeting with Moreau, Noboru was already three blocks down the street and heading toward the garage where the Range Rover was parked. The others thought he'd gone down to a little all-night cafe on the corner to bring back some fresh-brewed decaf.

 
With a woolen cap pulled tightly over his head and the collar of his trench coat turned up, Noboru entered the five- level parking garage and kept low behind the first row of cars. The attendant booth was empty, tickets and payment being issued by an automatic system.

  Noboru stole his way up to the first level, eyes probing with an almost mechanical precision. He dashed from car to car and ventured up to the second level, squinting once more at every dark vehicle he spotted.

  By the time he reached the third level, he was growing frustrated and breathless. There were plenty of open parking spaces within the garage, yet the Range Rover was not there.

  Again, no luck on the fourth level. In fact, there were even fewer cars parked this high up.

  He took himself all the way to the edge of a wall beside which stood the rooftop parking area. If the Rover had been parked there, Moreau would have picked it up via satellite. Noboru checked the lot anyway. No Range Rover.

  He began to panic. Wrong garage? Had the car pulled out while he'd been on his way there?

  Sweating profusely now, he sprinted all the way down to the first level and once more took up a position behind a small sedan.

  And then he saw it, a bank of garage doors located along the rear wall of the garage. A sign indicated that these were secured garages for rent.

  Fool! He'd missed that the first time around.

  The bad news: There were six garage doors, and the Range Rover could be behind any one of them.

  Noboru had tools but not much time.

  He reached the first door, then opened his coat, removed his lock-picking set, and used one of the handles to open up a small gap in the first door, where the rubber base met the concrete floor. Through that gap he inserted the end of a flexicam, activated the base unit, set it for night vision, and slid the probe up to examine the car. No car. Empty garage.

  On to the next one.

  A Renault. And the next one. Empty. And as he was about to check the next one, headlights flashed behind him. He dove for cover beside the nearest car and waited there.

  What the hell? It was the black Range Rover.