by Tom Clancy
"So what're you saying, cowboy?" asked Ames.
Hansen leveled an index finger on Ames. "Don't call me that. Ever."
"How 'bout Tex?"
Valentina cursed at Ames.
"We all want you to die, Ames," added Gillespie. "Doesn't that bother you? When the bullets fly, we'll use you as a human shield."
Ames opened his mouth, but Hansen shouted, "Enough! Now, we either sit here on our hands, or we try to figure out what the hell's going on."
"How do we do that without them knowing about it?" asked Valentina. "We can't use our network or our personnel. They'll want to know why we're querying."
"She's right," said Ames. "We'd need someone outside of 3E but maybe still inside the NSA."
"Or the CIA," said Hansen, lifting his brows. "I have a friend. I owe him a favor, but maybe he'll make it one more for me, and I'll pay him back triple."
"What do you have in mind?" asked Noboru.
"If Grim and Fisher are talking, it must be through a cutout, and there's a chance that my CIA contact can drop a few names. Some of these guys in Europe work for more than one three-letter agency. If we can get the name of this cutout, maybe we can pay him or her a visit. . . ."
"That's a long shot," said Valentina. "It'll be like going to talk to Chenevier. The cutout won't hand over Fisher."
Hansen snorted. "Maybe, maybe not. But apparently, we have nothing else to do--until Moreau calls with a sudden and miraculous update."
"I'm all for it," said Ames. "Best idea you've had in, like, forever."
"You don't want to complain?" asked Hansen, dumbfounded.
"Hell, no. Call your buddy right now. But you can't use any of our cell phones. We need to get you one without Uncle Marty finding out."
Valentina opened her purse and tossed a cell phone to Hansen. "Try this."
"Yours?"
She cocked a brow. "Don't ask too many questions. And by the way, our Tridents should be here in an hour or so."
"How'd you pull off that?" asked Hansen.
She hardened her tone. "Like I said, don't ask too many questions."
AMES was very enthusiastic about finding Fisher because earlier in the day, when they'd stopped to buy lunch, he'd gone into the restroom and contacted Stingray.
Word from Kovac was that Ames could not allow Fisher to get anywhere near Vianden, Luxembourg. Fisher must be stopped before he got there.
The why was none of Ames's business. Kovac somehow knew that was where Fisher was headed. But more important, these orders placed Ames in a ridiculously complicated situation.
He couldn't tell the team that he knew where Fisher was going because he'd be unable to explain how he knew, which, in turn, would threaten his cover and his security as a mole.
But this . . . this was unexpected and quite beautiful. He would fuel Hansen's frustration and goad him into learning the truth about Sam Fisher's real mission--and Ames felt certain that Fisher's mission directly involved Kovac, which raised the stakes to the highest level of their organization.
And when you played a game that important, you'd be a fool not to have an insurance policy. Ames had already made certain that if Mr. Kovac decided to make him the fall guy, then together they'd take an express train straight into hell. Now all Ames needed to do was find a way to reveal the Vianden link via Hansen's desire for the team to investigate on its own. Or maybe Hansen wasn't the key. . . . Maybe someone else was. . . .
HANSEN used Valentina's phone to call his buddy back at Langley to see if the good old CIA could bail out the good old NSA--not, ahem, that there was any rivalry between those organizations. Hansen had to leave a message. Valentina and Gillespie went to their room to change. They were going down to the restaurant for dinner.
Ames ordered a T-bone from room service, and he raided the liquor, finishing off a couple of small bottles of whiskey before he realized how drunk he was getting.
Moreau came down and rattled off a list of possible leads on Fisher's whereabouts, and he reported that there was nothing yet from local police on the Range Rover. Hansen, Noboru, and Ames barely paid any attention to him. Moreau asked why they weren't following up on the leads immediately, and Hansen answered him with two words: "Just chill."
Mr. Moreau's gaze grew harder. He nodded, then left the room. Ames checked his OPSAT simply for the time, but the screen was blurry. "What time is it?"
"Almost midnight," answered Noboru.
"Are we doing anything else tonight except waiting around for your buddy to call?" asked Ames.
Hansen shook his head.
"That's good. I want to rent some porn."
Noboru glanced to Hansen. "Do we have to?"
"No, we don't."
"Aw, come on. You guys are going to sit there and tell me you don't like porn?"
Hansen lifted a brow. "Not as much as you."
VALENTINA ordered the vegetable plate and Gillespie decided that sounded good and ordered the same. They sat there, drinking sparkling water, staring at their vegetables, and wondering what the hell they were doing.
"I'm thinking about going back to being an analyst," Gillespie said out of nowhere.
"Maybe I'll join you."
"I thought we'd be doing something . . . I don't know . . . more dangerous."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," answered Valentina.
"And I sure as hell didn't think I'd be working on a team. No way."
"I hate your guts," Valentina said abruptly, then flashed a grin.
Gillespie smiled. "I hate you, too--because you're smart and pretty."
"And you're not?"
"You think I'm a slut."
"You're not a slut. I can understand how you feel."
Gillespie frowned deeply. "Oh, really?"
"Yeah."
For a moment, Gillespie's thoughts raced, and then she finally built up the courage to ask, "You slept with Fisher, too?"
Valentina began chuckling. "No. No!"
"Then, what?"
"I'm just saying I know what it's like to have feelings for a teacher or a coworker."
Gillespie bit her lip. "I wish I could take it back. Had I known it would come to this . . ."
"Don't have regrets. Just move on."
Gillespie nodded. "You know, I don't hate you as much anymore."
"Yeah, but I'm sure the boys would love a good cat fight."
"At least Ames helped us out. We both hate him more than we hate each other," she said through a chuckle.
"That's right. So, let me ask you, if Ben decides to follow up on this without Moreau and Grim, are you going along?"
"You mean break off from them and go find Fisher ourselves?"
"Yeah."
"Sounds crazy, but, you know what? I'm in. I think we'll call Grim's bluff and she'll be forced to turn over what she knows."
"That could happen."
Valentina thought a moment, then said, "So did Ben ask how Fisher got away?"
She nodded. "I told him the truth."
"Which is?"
"That he got out of there before I had time to take a shot. And that is the truth."
"I believe you. Did Ben?"
"He says he did, but I'm pretty sure he's still wondering and hoping that I'm not the one who'll have to make that decision. If I were him, I'd feel the same way."
"But do you trust yourself to take the shot if it comes to that? If I were you, I don't think I could do it."
Gillespie eyed her plate. "I can say, yeah, I'd shoot him because, really, in the end, he was a bastard. But I really don't know."
THE phone rang sometime after 4:00 A.M., and Ames thought he was dreaming. He barely heard Hansen speaking on the phone, and it seemed the room was still spinning. . . . Finally, the fool shut his mouth, and the world seemed to balance itself on its axis. Ames settled back into the cool darkness. . . .
NOBORU was down in the hotel lobby lounge by 6:00 A.M., sipping a cup of coffee and thumbing through a local newspaper, which he could n
ot read, but the pictures were interesting. He observed the comings and goings of a few early-morning risers, and then, through the lobby's glass doors, he thought he saw a familiar face seated in a car parked across the street.
Gothwhiler.
No.
He rose, crossed over to the doors, but even as he squinted, to get a better look, the car pulled away from the curb and was gone.
It was just his paranoia. Again.
He turned around--and nearly knocked over Ames, who had glided up behind him.
"What's the matter, buddy? You look sick."
"Nothing. What're you doing down here so early? I thought you'd be hungover."
"I am. I came down for coffee. And now that you're here, I want to talk to you."
"About what?"
"We need your help. Hansen's got a good plan. I come from a law-enforcement background, but you . . . you were special forces in Japan, and I know for a fact that your agency has cross-trained with international forces. Now, listen to me very carefully. If I had to bet on it, I'd say Fisher's here on a job--and he's either working for Grim or at the very least getting help from her. And I'm willing to bet you've got a contact or two within the special ops community that could help us find him. People talk. Favors are owed. Money is exchanged, and information leaks."
Noboru didn't like the short man's tone; it implied that he knew a whole lot more about Noboru's background, and that was deeply troubling--especially after Grim's promise.
"I'm sorry. I can't help you."
"Nathan, let me put it to you this way: If there's anyone you know that could help us, you owe it to the team. You owe it to us. Do you understand?"
Noboru studied the man for a long moment. "You could die in an accident, and no one would question it."
"Come on, Brucie, don't be like that."
"Don't call me that."
"Oh, I forgot, only the big boy upstairs is allowed."
"I can't help you."
"Don't you want to put an end to this? Don't you think we should get Moreau to talk?"
Noboru considered this. He knew that if Fisher had gone mercenary, there was one man who might know where the ex-operative was.
Karlheinz van der Putten, a.k.a. Spock, lived in a village called Chinchon, southeast of Madrid, and Noboru had memorized his cell phone number and e-mail address. Spock had become a kind of "agent" and "packager" within the mercenary world, an old wizard of information who was once a formidable warrior himself and a dedicated collector of human ears, which he preserved and kept in glass trophy cases that he displayed on his office walls. His extensive collection had earned him his nickname, though he was hardly as even-tempered as that alien character. In the sixties and seventies, he had participated in more than a thousand operations, working for more than a dozen governments, and during that time he had formed alliances that now spanned the globe, alliances he had nurtured for nearly four decades.
Now in his early seventies, the once-muscular Aryan, with a jaw that appeared to have been hewn into shape by a hatchet, had grown fat, stoop shouldered, and hunched over, but he maintained the snow-white crew cut and narrow-eyed gaze that hinted at the menace of his past.
Indeed, Spock, the ear collector, always had his ear to the tracks, and maybe it was time to give him a call.
"I will give you a man's name and his number. But you cannot tell him where you got it, and you cannot mention my name," said Noboru.
"And you think this guy will know where Fisher is?"
"He might. . . ."
Noboru shifted in closer to Ames. "If you mention my name, it will be bad for you."
"I understand, Bruce. You're a badass. You'll kill me and all that. Now, give me the damned number."
29
AMES had no intention of calling one Karlheinz "Spock" van der Putten, but he had every intention of telling Hansen, in confidence, that Noboru had given him Spock's name and that Noboru didn't want anyone else on the team to know about it.
Now Ames had his cover story.
He would tell Hansen that he had called Spock, who said he had heard about an American special- forces operator heading up to Vianden on some mercenary job, probably to take out some rich businessman. It'd all click. Vianden was a small city, with about fifteen hundred inhabitants, and one of Luxembourg's main tourist centers, with a restored castle converted into a museum rising up on the rocks above the city. Several lakefront areas included the mansions of some very wealthy people who might easily wind up on a merc's target list.
Nevertheless, Ames still did not have enough information about Fisher's exact target, and he would need to contact Stingray and demand more specifics before revealing anything to Hansen.
So for most of the day Ames volunteered to partner up with Noboru and check out the leads that Moreau had fed them, even as Hansen, Valentina, and Gillespie did the same but were simply going through the motions as Hansen waited for a callback from his CIA buddy, who'd said he would try to help out. Ames and Noboru inspected the other weapons caches (untouched) and followed up on Range Rover sightings that all turned up empty. "I'm shocked," Valentina had groaned.
But not all was bad. Valentina, quite surprisingly, had managed to secure five pairs of Trident goggles and have them delivered to her at the hotel. When pressed, she finally revealed that there were two geeks at the NSA, twin brothers, who had both tried to date her. She promised them a date if they did what she asked and did not notify anyone else within the agency. It was a matter of national security, she'd told them. While she openly loathed using her body to gain friends, power, and classified Splinter Cell equipment, there was no denying that her cleavage and smoky voice worked every time.
By sundown, Ames was still awaiting his second update from Stingray, whom he had contacted earlier in the day. Ames, of course, had asked to know exactly where in Vianden Fisher might be, and he needed that information soon--because if Fisher was going to strike, he would more than likely do it at night, and the team needed to be up there and in position. It was only about a forty-minute drive from the hotel to Vianden, but forty minutes could be an eternity if they missed Fisher. Ames had considered the fact that they might have already lost Fisher, but if Kovac was as plugged in to the situation as he had suggested through Stingray, then they still had time. Fisher was a meticulous planner and was no doubt mapping every inch of his target, which might be why Moreau and Grim were so keen on stalling the team.
Finally, at about 1:20 in the morning, while watching porn with the sound turned off, Ames saw three flashes of light strike the nearby window. Hansen and Noboru were fast asleep. Ames told Hansen that he was going down to the exercise room, that he couldn't sleep and thought some cardio might help him out. Hansen groaned, muttered something, and drifted back into his faint snoring.
Ames changed, went down to the exercise room, used his key card to open the door, and found the cell phone planted under the first treadmill. There was a text message waiting on the screen:
Lat 49deg56'36.27" N, long 6deg10'39.10" E.
Target: Yannick Ernsdorff.
Occupation: investment banker.
Move now!
Ames scribbled the numbers onto the back of an old business card taken from his wallet; then he erased the text message and dumped the phone in the trash on his way out.
MOREAU was awakened from a sound sleep by a beeping from his OPSAT. He checked the screen and sighed heavily through a curse. "Where the hell are you boys and girls going?"
Uttering another string of epithets, he switched on a light and activated the Trinity System. Within two minutes he had Grim standing beside him, fresh and awake.
"How'd they find out about Vianden?" she asked.
"That's a very good question. And now it seems these youngsters have gone rogue."
"They're trying to force our hand."
"That might work."
She hesitated. "Sam can handle them."
"Don't be so certain. The cowboy is smarter than he
looks."
HANSEN drove one of their two black Audis, and Ames took the lead with the other. They were hauling ass up to Vianden in the middle of the night, in the wind and rain, on information that may or may not be credible, but the way Hansen figured it, all they had to lose was a night's sleep--and he simply loved the idea of sticking it to Moreau. And speak of the dark-eyed devil himself:
"Cowboy, where the hell are you going?" asked the irritated voice in Hansen's subdermal.
"We got the munchies."
"I'm not playing games here."
Hansen burst into laughter. "Dude, you've turned into the puppet master, but we just cut the strings. You don't like that, do you?"
"Just tell us who tipped you off. That's all I need to know . . . and trust me . . . I need to know. . . . Your life could depend on it."
"Trust you? You're kidding me, old man. You tell me what's going on, and I'll tell you."
"All right, Fisher's in Vianden, but you cannot interfere with him right now."
"Maybe I'd like to talk to him myself. Maybe he's going to tell me that you and Grim are the bad guys."
"I'm warning you, Hansen."
"Marty, what are you going to do?"
Moreau raised his voice. "Who told you about Vianden?"
"Spock did. Beam me up, Scotty. Hansen out."
MOREAU turned to Grim as they floated over Vianden, watching the team's cars below. "I'm sorry. I guess they won't play nice anymore."
"He wasn't joking," Grim said.
"Excuse me?"
"I said Hansen wasn't joking. I've heard the name Spock before. It's the nickname of a mercenary with ties all over the world. He was linked to Gothos, meaning Noboru would know of him. Nathan must've given up the name, and Spock might've tipped them off."
"How come I've never heard of this guy?"
