Endgame (1998)

by Tom Clancy

  Indeed, that longer range would come in handy, since now Ames would use the Splinter Cell's favored rifle to kill the program's most lethal operator. Ironic? Fitting? Oh, it was hardly that dramatic. He just wanted to make sure he got credit for the kill.

  He took his first shot, the pop much sharper than the one produced by Valentina's Cottonball.

  "Is that live fire?" cried Gillespie through her SVT.

  Ames gritted his teeth, spotted even more waves, and realized he'd missed.

  He adjusted aim and fired another round.

  That one must've hit Fisher.

  "Ames, is that you? Hold fire! Hold fire! I already got him with the Cottonball," said Valentina.

  "You missed."

  "I'm telling you, I didn't!"

  "All right, hold up," said Ames.

  "Ames, are you firing live rounds?" Hansen demanded over the channel.

  "She missed him. I'm not shooting to kill. Just forcing him toward the shoreline."

  More BS from the king of BS, Ames thought.

  "We're trying to take him alive," insisted Hansen.

  "Roger that. He's still in the water. He has to come up soon. We'll get him."

  "I'm coming down," said Hansen.

  "You sure? We'll need you up there," said Ames. "If he heads farther north, you'll need to circle around. I'll let you know."

  "He's right," said Moreau. "Stay with the SUVs."

  "All right, but you watch that fire, Ames!" ordered Hansen.

  A moment passed, with Ames just listening to the sound of his own breathing.

  "I don't see anything now," said Gillespie.

  "Me neither," added Valentina.

  Below the huge concrete embankment to the northeast lay patches of thick weeds Fisher could use for cover. Ames focused on that area and waited.

  No sign of movement. He slowly lifted his rifle to pan farther west, to an unpaved road running beside the opposite shoreline, then back down to the weeds. Fisher might try to rise from the water and break there.

  "Moreau, you got anything?" Valentina asked.

  "No sign of him yet. I've got a good image of the reservoir right now."

  Ames frowned. What was Fisher waiting for? Distance was survival. They both knew that.

  And then, out of the corner of his eye, Ames caught the faintest shift in the shadows that seemed to be gathering along the road. He swung around his rifle, brought it to bear on the movement, and saw the silhouette of a running man.

  Ames wanted to take another shot, but he couldn't. He had to exercise some reserve lest he betray himself. Two shots was already pushing it. The kill had to come naturally, organically, not in a hell-bent fury.

  Fisher dropped down into a depression in the road and vanished. Ames swore.

  "I've got him now," reported Moreau. "He's heading toward the woods just north of the road. Hansen? Noboru? Looks like if you take the SUVs north and west, you might be able to cut him off while the rest of you keep pushing him forward."

  "That's the plan, everyone," said Hansen. "Let's go!"

  Ames struggled to his feet. The women were already ahead of him, running along the trees, the water rippling down below. His footfalls were heavy, his pulse high, and in the seconds that followed he relived the shots he'd taken at Fisher. What kind of a marksman was he? Certainly this demonstration did not reflect his Third Echelon training or his police background. Was he just succumbing to the pressure? No, he couldn't think that way. He'd nail Fisher. In time. Patience. No hell-bent fury. He would neither beat himself up nor get too far ahead of himself. At least now the old man knew they meant business. Perhaps he'd step up his game and make the kill more interesting.

  KIMBERLY Gillespie turned northwest, heading straight for the pine trees near which Moreau reported he had last spotted Fisher. She was moving in directly behind him, from the south, and began to slow as she neared the first cluster of pines, their boughs still. Not a sound. She raised her rifle, made sure the fire selector was set for Cottonball.

  She tried to ignore her eyes. The burning. The old aches and pains. The guilt of taking from him what she shouldn't have, and still hoping that somewhere, deep down below all those shields against emotion, there was a man who would, at the very least, remember her.

  She once again smelled the chicken they'd roasted that night, tasted the wine--too much wine--and listened to him speak softly in that near whisper that at once captivated and drove her insane with lust. And for just a moment, she was back there, feeling his lips on hers, and then . . .

  "This was a mistake," he'd said afterward. "You were my student."

  "And now I'm your lover."

  He shook his head. "I'm sorry this happened. You can do better. You deserve better."

  "Relationships are about people, not numbers on a calendar."

  "It's not the numbers I'm worried about. It's me."

  Gillespie's foot came down and snapped a branch. Loudly.

  She mouthed a curse. Froze.

  Then she waited a few breaths more and crossed to open ground, heading west now.

  Had she heard something? Breathing? She thought for a moment that he was close, watching her, his gaze warm on her cheek. She wanted to call his name, beg him to turn himself in, to end the game here and now. She could help. She would do anything. She imagined him emerging from behind the trees, hanging his head, reaching out to her.

  She heard herself, "Sam, come home. Just come home."

  Then she shook free the thoughts, willed herself back to the task. She scanned the trees. That's right, back to work. Get rid of the baggage. She'd made a promise to Hansen. All right. If Sam had cut to the north instead of crossing the road . . . But she couldn't abandon the plan or the others. She had to keep moving. It was all part of small-unit tactics. She could still hear his admonishments as she continued, carefully measuring her steps, wincing at the crunch of twigs.

  Her pulse began to slow, and then, reaching out with all her senses, she tried to detect him, taking her mind beyond the flesh to see if maybe, just maybe, the connection they'd had could transcend physical distances.

  A cold breath washed over her.

  She stopped, looked around, and something told her that Sam Fisher was already long gone.

  THEY were getting just a little too close for comfort, thought Moreau. He was alone, using the Trinity System, floating over the reservoir now and watching as Fisher neared the Esch-sur-Alzette's train station. Fisher stepped onto the dirt shoulder just as a motorcyclist came barreling toward him. Moreau winced and through a gasp cried, "Get out of the way, Sam!"

  This was hardly planned. Unless Fisher had decided to suddenly check out and wanted to be run down by a motorcycle, he needed to move.

  But then the guy on the bike swerved to avoid him and wound up dumping the bike in a ditch, his body tumbling off at shockingly steep angles, as though he were an action figure tossed aside by an angry kid. Fisher ran down after him. Others gathered around; then Fisher took off, northward up the road, moving another fifty yards.

  Moreau checked the locations of the team, the pieces on his chessboard, as it were, and so far everything was falling into place.

  "I've found some clothes here," called Valentina. "No more red shirt! He's changed!"

  Of course he has, thought Moreau.

  "Anything, Moreau?" asked Hansen.

  "Still looking," he answered. "But we've got a motorcycle accident. That'll back up some traffic."

  Fisher was now positioned between the highway to the left and a large soccer stadium to his right, its lights burning brilliantly.

  Hansen's SUV was up on the north side of the road, picking up Gillespie, Valentina, and Ames, while Noboru remained behind, and he would be in plain sight to pick up Fisher. A little nudge from Moreau couldn't hurt at this point.

  "Hey, Bruce Lee, you still with us? Wake up, Grasshopper."

  "I'm here, Mr. Jules Winnfield. Would you like me to get you a Royale with cheese?"

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nbsp; Moreau laughed under his breath. "Fisher might be heading your way, just behind you."

  "I'm out for a look."

  NOBORU pushed forward in the seat of the SUV, grabbed his binoculars, then hopped out of the SUV and crouched down near the wheel. He trained his binoculars on the road, about a quarter mile back.

  "Nathan, we're coming around, back to your position," said Hansen.

  "Roger. Nothing yet . . . Wait . . ."

  Noboru zoomed in toward a hurricane fence that was twisted and had fallen in all directions. The fence had once secured an ancient- looking building with towers and crumbling bricks and exposed girders and more stone, like an old fortress abandoned a hundred years ago.

  Noboru lowered his binoculars, brought up the map on his OPSAT, then tapped on the building to get more data. A box indicated that the place had once been a steel foundry. Noboru raised the binoculars once more. Still nothing, but the place presented a definite point of cover, so they had to check it out. "This is Nathan. Still nothing, but there's an old steel foundry down the road. He might be going there. Let's check it out."

  Not thirty seconds later, Hansen arrived, and they pulled a couple of U-turns and headed south toward the old building.

  "All right, boys and girls, better get a move on, because Bruce Lee is right," said Moreau. "I've picked him up near the foundry."

  "Damn it, the traffic's backed up," said Noboru, slamming on his brakes and looking for a spot where he could rumble onto the embankment and skirt around the other cars.

  Just then, the traffic moved, and they rolled closer to the foundry's main driveway and shifted into the turning lane to cut across the road.

  The size and decay of the building unnerved Noboru. If Fisher wanted to lure them into a gauntlet of horrors and systematically dispose of them, the abandoned foundry presented the perfect opportunity.

  23

  STEEL FOUNDRY NEAR RUSSANGE, FRANCE

  HANSEN barked his orders, but Valentina barely listened and deliberately partnered up with Noboru, the one man on the team who regarded her as an equal. She led him toward a vertical slit where it seemed the sheet-metal wall had been pried back enough to permit a person to enter.

  She slipped inside and flicked on her light to reveal a cavernous warehouse of sweeping concrete ceilings with shattered skylights, as though bombs had been dropped through them to explode inside and tear apart the brick walls and rusting ladders and catwalks. A latticework of iron girders and concrete lintels was spanned by thick cobwebs, and dust motes trickled through her flashlight's beam.

  Valentina wondered if the dust in her light had been created by their entrance or by someone else's movements. She worked the light a moment more and could almost hear the ghosts of steel workers bustling about while fires spat, water hissed, and more men shouted to get the next load ready. It was the early 1900s, and the place thrived.

  Noboru suddenly cursed in Japanese behind her, and Valentina heard a splintering of wood.

  She whirled and saw that one of his legs had dropped through the floor up to his knee. "Hold on, hold on. . . ."

  He began falling onto his side and caught himself, groaning as his leg twisted. She wrenched her arms under his, swore, then hauled him up. . . .

  Only to have both her legs plunge through the same rotting floorboards. She released him and broke her fall at midknee with a hard slap of the palms and a gasp. She hung there for a moment, legs kicking in midair, coughing as the dust billowed into her face. Yes, they'd just learned the hard way that the foundry had a basement. Noboru managed to pull his leg free, then crawled around and got behind her.

  "Don't put too much weight," she whispered as he lifted, and within a few seconds, she was sitting back on the wood and inspecting her legs for cuts.

  They took a quick breather, and she directed her light back toward the floor, as did Noboru. More ash, dust, and something else, silt or loam, maybe, lay across a dark avenue of broad wooden planks, and within that dust were footprints, dozens of them, some larger than others. Kids, adults, all sorts of people had ventured into the foundry to play or explore over the years. She tried to find any that looked fresher than the others. It took a moment before she finally noticed a fresh break in the floor, a place where wood and soil had given way. She crossed to it, directed her light into the hole to reveal intersecting pipes and the reflective sheen of water far below. She shifted the light to pick out a canal far below. And now, from this new angle, she looked up again.

  And there they were: a fresher set of footprints leading off to a staircase. She tipped her head to Noboru, and they rose.

  Valentina's foot clanged loudly on the steps, and she grimaced. Her light showed footprints clearly evident on the third step but no others. Odd.

  Noboru shone his light above the staircase.

  "What?" she asked; then she understood.

  Fisher had gone vertical.

  And now they were easy prey. She imagined him descending, inverted, like a spider, only to sink the fangs of a tranquilizer or something worse into her neck. She held her breath, and for a few seconds thought she would be sick.

  GILLESPIE found herself paired up with the little runt Ames, and as she followed him along the foundry's east-side exterior wall, she twice plotted his murder.

  The first scenario involved a knife. The second had her putting a bullet in the back of his head. But then she realized those methods were too merciful and too quick. She considered slower ways that had her getting creative with water and insects and, lest we forget . . . fire.

  She wondered if the others knew about his past. They were all spies, and you had to assume they had thoroughly investigated one another, both professionally and personally. Gillespie had many friends in military intelligence who could get her whatever she wanted. She'd read the news stories about Ames's family dying in the fire. The world was unfair, and Ames railed against it with much more than words. His entire personality had been shaped by two facts: the loss of his family and his height. He probably asked himself: Why did my family have to die? Why can't I be taller? Gillespie thought she had him all figured out, and there were times when she saw through his remarks and found the frightened little boy behind them. She wanted to sympathize with him, feel his pain, tell him he'd be all right, and say that if he'd just drop all the defenses, there were people who could help.

  But he was such an ass that he made helping impossible.

  "Slow down," she told him. "You're not going in there alone."

  "You worried about me, sweetie?"

  "Well, if something happens to you, I want to make sure it's permanent."

  "Great. I got your back, too."

  "And remember, we're taking him alive."

  "So you can have your little reunion?"

  "Sure. You want to watch?"

  He snorted. "Look, there's the door." He yanked open the bent metal, and they entered a stairwell. Her flashlight's beam raced up toward the distant ceiling.

  HANSEN had opted for a classic Sam Fisher entrance by coming in from the roof. He felt a bit wistful about that. Here he was emulating a man who should have been his mentor but was his target. The assumption was that you had to think like Fisher to capture him, but, then again, he knew you'd be doing that, so perhaps he'd be engaged in some very un-Fisher-like maneuvers. . . .

  Maybe that was thinking too hard and second-guessing himself, Hansen thought--which was, of course, thinking. Again. Mr. MIT Education needed to turn off the big brain.

  Hansen startled a group of sleeping pigeons, which nearly knocked him off his feet as he reached the top of an exterior staircase running along the foundry's west side. He waved them off, then slipped quietly toward a rooftop doorway. The door itself was long since gone, lying near the opposite wall, and Hansen eased himself down the metal stairs, one hand clutching the rail. He reached the top floor, the floorboards of which had been torn up here and there, perhaps by looters, and carefully worked his way toward the center of the vast room.
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  "We think he's gone up to the second floor," said Valentina.

  "Roger that," said Hansen. "I'm above." Hansen glanced down through a rectangular opening in the floor, lost his balance, and reached toward the wall, but his hand came up empty. He slipped down onto the floor, landing across a piece of broken pipe and breaking off several chunks of concrete that went tumbling down through the hole. He bit back a curse, stood, and then carefully chose his next path, across sturdier-looking boards, and searched for a way down to the second level.

  He spotted a wrought-iron spiral staircase off to his left and stepped toward it.

  Even as his foot came down, he realized the floor plank would not hold him. Yes, he was a fine judge of sturdy-looking wood, all right. The plank suddenly split. . . .

  And down he went, keeping silent in an act of utter self-discipline. His fall already betrayed his location. No need to betray anything else.

  Finally, he allowed himself a breath and strained to push himself up, feeling the burn in his shoulders and triceps. His one leg had folded, so he was propped on the knee, while the other foot and leg had crashed through the floor, wedging his upper thigh deeply between two more planks. He rolled his left foot so he could sit on it and ease the pain now shooting through his thigh. He tugged. Nothing.

  Some team leader. The man who'd been to Russia and back. The hero, right? He balled his hands into fists and thought of a string of epithets that would've had nuns fainting where they stood. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Admit the mistake and move on. There wasn't time for self-loathing.

  Resignedly, he whispered into his SVT: "I'm snagged up here."

  Hansen jerked his leg again, but now it felt as though he'd caught his leg on something, a power cord perhaps. "Shit!"

  Oh, man . . . He'd said that much too loudly.

  "Hang on. We're almost to you," said Ames in the subdermal.