by Tom Clancy
Was it because they’d abducted Lacey and would threaten to kill her?
FIFTEEN
Dassault Falcon 7X
Speed: Mach 0.80
Destination: Unknown
The Snow Maiden glared at the handcuffs, then spread her legs once more, trying to stretch them against the tension of the ankle cuffs.
Losing this much control was a shock to the system, and her emotions leapt from utter despair to sheer anger, arcing like an electrical current that left her tense one second and gasping the next.
During her tenure with the GRU, she’d never been captured. There’d been a few close calls—operations within the borders of the United States—but she’d managed to ghost her way out of the country before the FBI or CIA knew what had hit them.
The pair of Spetsnaz officers charged with her transfer had buckled her into the jet’s rich leather seat, but it was hardly comfortable; the chain extending between her wrists and the ankle cuffs allowed only a few inches of movement.
She threw her head back and closed her eyes. This was President Kapalkin’s personal transport, one of the many large-cabin business jets he’d purchased with taxpayers’ money and the reason why they’d had to wait so long in Vladivostok. After they’d plucked her off Sakhalin Island, they’d flown her straight to her hometown, and for a moment, she thought they’d kidnapped friends and relatives from her past to use as bargaining chips during her interrogation. No, the city was just a transfer point.
Captured. She still couldn’t reconcile with that. This was someone else’s nightmare, that of a poorly skilled operative who’d left a hot trail and made one too many mistakes. This wasn’t her. She’d grown so confident, so bold over the years that a moment like this was . . . she couldn’t find the words.
She tried to reassure herself that it had been a good fight, a good run while it had lasted, even though she’d been unable to stand back and watch Moscow burn. She’d told herself never to trust anyone, and she’d never swayed—until she’d met Patti and the Ganjin. They’d paid her well, told her what she wanted to hear, and her plan was to use them to help bring down the Russian Federation. But their relationship had made her too soft, and they saw what a danger a rogue operative like her could be.
And now here she was, trying to give herself some credit, even though it was all about to end.
Kapalkin was flying her straight to Moscow, where she’d be stripped, dragged before him, and thrown to her knees. The president would raise his muscular arms and whip her until she bled. This brand of barbarism was well within his reach. She’d been forced to help his administration cover up the deaths of several prostitutes who’d been tortured, raped, and murdered. The task had turned her stomach, but she’d kept her focus on the larger picture of taking down not only him but the entire government. She’d fought against the desire to expose him right then and there, but she’d had to be patient—another regret she could add to the long list . . .
Yes, Kapalkin would spend hours torturing her, if only because she’d made him look foolish before the Americans and the rest of the world. She’d double-crossed him during the Canadian invasion, temporarily joining forces with the Green Brigade Transnational terrorists, and forced him to seek help from the Americans when she’d threatened to detonate suitcase nukes and destroy the Canadian reserves. She grinned to herself. She’d betrayed the Russians by using her relationship with the terrorists, and once that was finished, she’d betrayed the terrorists as well and murdered their leader, Green Vox.
And all of this was the result of her association with the Ganjin. They had become her true employers—
Until now.
In her business, everyone betrayed everyone. Eventually. Why had she forgotten that?
She shivered as she once more thought of Kapalkin, of his hand raised high above his head, the venom in his eyes. He was an avid swimmer, she recalled, which kept him in excellent shape for a man nearly sixty. She envisioned drowning him now. Watching his eyes bulge. Watching his eyes go vague. The gurgling screams drifting off into silence.
A flicker of light shone in her peripheral vision. There, outside, were the lights of another aircraft, and she looked across the cabin to spot another pair of lights off the jet’s wing. Fighter escort. She was precious cargo.
She fantasized about a rescue attempt, the Ganjin having second thoughts, sending some mercenary squadron of fighters to shoot down the escort, electronically disable the president’s jet, with another pilot hacking into the controls and taking control of the aircraft to fly her to some remote airbase in Siberia, where she’d be returned to them—
And fitted with one of their chips.
Some rescue.
When she’d joined the GRU, she’d had to sign a series of legal documents allowing the government to place a chip in the back of her head that would allow them to both track and “terminate her operations,” should her loyalty be called into question.
But with every piece of technology came a thriving black market of hardware, software, and hackers who could render useless and/or have removed from one’s person such “inconveniences.” While Izotov had warned her that tampering with the chip would result in certain death, the hacker who’d removed hers had scoffed at that, completing the entire operation without removing the expertly rolled joint from his lips. He’d even offered her a twenty percent discount on a tattoo if she wanted to stick around . . .
She raised her head as the officer with snowy white hair, the one she’d recognized from her days with the GRU, although she couldn’t remember his surname, rose from his seat at the front of the cabin, drifted back, and attached a tablet computer to the seat in front of her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“You have a call.”
A data box appeared and maximized. A small green light warmed to life atop the device.
And for just a moment, she stopped breathing.
President Kapalkin sat in the library of his mansion, walled in by rows of leather-bound first editions and dressed in a black T-shirt, his eyes heavy with sleep. He’d obviously been roused from slumber to learn of her capture and direct her transfer. What his weary eyes could not convey, his mouth did as he flashed a broad-toothed, ridiculously white smile.
“I thought you’d call sooner,” she snapped, before he could launch into his bloated tirade of gloating.
“Hello, Colonel,” he began, rasping through his grin. “We’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”
She returned her best sarcastic smile. “Yes, I seem to recall all those fools you sent after me—the German especially. And if I remember correctly, oh, yes, that’s right, I killed them all.” Her last had come through clenched teeth, and she found herself fighting against the cuffs.
“What happened to you, Snegurochka? What happened to the beautiful woman I used to know, the best GRU operative we ever had, the pride of the motherland?”
“I was never any of those things. You have no idea who I am, and you never will.”
“Oh, I think you’re mistaken. I think we’re going to spend a lot of time together—getting to know each other, as you say . . .”
She snorted.
He went on: “General Izotov told me that you hold us responsible for the deaths of your husband and brothers. You know that’s not true.”
“Your administration authorized that project. You covered up the mistakes, the leak. You keep denying responsibility!”
“Viktoria, please. Nothing will change the past. Let’s talk about your future.”
She laughed bitterly. “Maybe we should talk about yours . . . and what little time you have left.”
He leaned back in his chair and began to chuckle. “You’re such a remarkable woman. Even in the face of certain interrogation, torture, and death, you can still make threats.”
“No, this is a promise. You have
no idea what’s about to happen. You’re just a fey little man, and when the war’s over, you’ll be long since forgotten.”
Kapalkin leaned forward. “Viktoria, you’re a woman I’ve never taken more seriously—so let’s be honest now.”
“Absolutely,” she said, widening her eyes. “The people I work for are much more powerful than you, the Americans, or the Europeans. Your government is about to collapse, and you don’t even know it.”
“Have they fed you?” he asked.
“What?”
“You’re not dehydrated? Hallucinating?”
“Listen to me, and listen carefully. When I get to Moscow, I want to make a deal. I’ll hand you my employers, I’ll tell you everything they have in mind, in exchange for my freedom.”
He sighed and set his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled until he suddenly smote his fist on the hardwood and cried, “Do you know what I’m going to do to you? Do you have any idea?”
“You won’t get your chance. Moscow will be under attack, and the motherland will be in ruins before you ever get near me.”
“You sound pathetic now. And it’s sad.”
“Where’s General Izotov?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“He’s been on personal leave. He used the excuse of his sister’s cancer to take some time off, did he not?”
“So you’ve hacked into his smartphone and are detailing his personal life to me. Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“Listen to me, you stubborn bastard. Izotov wasn’t on leave. I brought him to Sakhalin Island.”
“That’s interesting—because I just spoke to the general, and he’ll be returning to work tomorrow. He’s never left Moscow.”
“That’s what they wanted you to believe, but he’s not working for you—”
“Don’t belittle yourself any more.”
“Shut up and listen to me, old man!”
“Please—”
“Get your people to the SinoRus refinery. He was there!”
“I’m so sorry, Viktoria, but I can’t bear to see you like this.”
“I told you, I’ll hand you my employers. You have no idea what’s going on here.”
He leaned forward, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh, I know exactly what’s going on. This is a woman begging for her life, grasping at any story she can use to buy time. Good-bye, Colonel.”
“Wait!”
The screen went blank.
And the officer returned and removed the tablet. He cocked a brow and said, “Would you like some peanuts or a warm towel?”
She glared and cursed at him.
He shrugged, smiled tightly, and headed back up the aisle.
Maybe it was a misstep, trying to bargain with Kapalkin, but if the Ganjin controlled Dennison and Izotov, and, perhaps, key players within the European Federation, then their ambitions might become much more aggressive.
“Hey, don’t you remember me?” she shouted to the officer.
He turned back to face her. “Does it really matter?”
“Yes.”
“I have orders not to speak to you unless absolutely necessary.”
“Answer the question.”
“Shut up. Otherwise, I’ll gag you. The rest of the trip will be very unpleasant.”
“I remember you.”
“Shut up.”
She hoisted her brows. “I was on the committee that vetted you for this job, you asshole. I know all about your service career, your wife’s death, the son with Down’s syndrome. I’ve seen your entire record, and back then I thought you were someone who might bring change, someone who might eventually earn the president’s ear. But here you are, just an ass-kisser.”
“What do you want?”
“When we land, you let me go.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“And in exchange, I’ll tell the truth about your wife.”
His tone suddenly darkened. “What do you mean?”
She repressed a chill. Maybe he would buy the lie. Maybe she could soften him up just enough.
“The president didn’t want you to know the truth.”
The officer, whose surname finally came to her—Gorelov—shot from his seat and stormed to her. “What are you talking about?”
The Snow Maiden braced herself. Here we go . . .
SIXTEEN
Grozny
Capital City
Chechen Republic, Russia
Thomas Voeckler reached the end of the chain-link fence, his shoulder brushing against a rickety pole.
There, across the street, lay a bombed-out six-story apartment complex draped in nearly a meter of snow. The building’s south wall presented at least three separate openings through which Basayev, aka “the Bear,” could escape.
Voeckler continued to ignore the buzzing smartphone in his pocket and sprinted after the man, who, when he wasn’t smuggling arms through the mountainous North Caucasus region, was a semiprofessional bodybuilder running a small gym—or, rather, a front operation for recruiting soldiers for the Forgotten Army.
On behalf of the NSA, of Third Echelon (the sub-branch that supervised him), and of the U.S. government, Voeckler, a once-reluctant Splinter Cell operative, had been shadowing the Bear for nearly ten days, trying to find the location of his arms warehouse. The weapons moved from the Black Sea to somewhere in the Caucasus Mountains. It was there, in that treacherous and remote region, that the terrorists expertly concealed their trail, storing the weapons, sitting on them, and then making their transfers at random times and using random routes. One such shipment was discovered in the city of Vladikavkaz by an informant who’d told Voeckler that he, too, believed the terrorists had a cache hidden somewhere in the mountains. From Vladikavkaz, the shipment had moved on to Grozny and out to the Caspian Sea. Initial intel confirmed that the Bear directed this operation from his Grozny apartment; consequently, Voeckler had started his investigation there.
While he’d been exceedingly careful not to get too close, the Bear had left his meager apartment in the middle of the night, and Voeckler, who’d been alerted by the sensors he’d placed on the man’s door and car, had been forced to move in. Something was going down, and there was no way in hell he’d miss it. He’d even entertained the thought that the Bear would drive out into the mountains and lead him directly to the cache.
But God damn it, Voeckler had been spotted.
And the big Bear had launched his two-hundred-fifty-pound frame like a cannonball across the snow and vanished down the street, only to be picked up seconds later by Voeckler.
So this was it. If Voeckler didn’t take the man right here, right now, the entire operation was finished. Basayev the Bear would disappear into the forest, and within hours he’d completely dismantle his smuggling operation, go underground for a few months, then resurface somewhere else. Just another inconvenience for a man like him.
Voeckler wouldn’t let that happen. He swore to himself and drove on, across the broken pavement polished to a sheen by patches of ice and plowed snow, his boots giving way.
Just ahead, the Bear was swallowed by the largest of the gaping holes blown into the left corner of the apartment, his tracks in the snow shimmering in the light of a single halogen on the corner, a heat haze rising above to swirl in the icy wind.
Voeckler wove a bending path around piles of concrete and into the utter and frozen darkness.
He stopped and tried to silence his ragged breath. His nose was running, but he dared not sniffle.
Time to listen. Let his eyes adjust.
He thought of his trident goggles tucked inside the pack sitting in his car. Night-vision, thermal, electromagnetic, and electronically enhanced systems were all at his disposal, but he’d been observing the Bear on foot, waiting for the man to get in his own car, when the
plan had gone south.
Now Voeckler found himself standing in a bedroom, a few pieces of abandoned furniture shoved against one wall, their surfaces dusted by concrete, while a snowdrift rose behind him.
Many of the tenements on this street had been lying in decay for more than two decades, victims of wars past, while the northern part of the city had suffered more recent and horrifying damage. Spetsnaz troops had invaded not a month prior and slaughtered nearly one thousand people who were “suspected terrorists or those aiding and abetting terrorists.”
For their part, Third Echelon preferred a more civil and sophisticated approach, the scalpel versus the hatchet. The Forgotten Army had launched several attacks on JSF forward supply depots in Poland and Ukraine, escaping with man-portable surface-to-air missiles sent down to the Black Sea. Without question, the JSF had keen interest in recovering the stolen weapons and terminating those responsible—but instead of sending in the butchers, they’d sent in the surgeon—
Who’d unfortunately screwed up.
Footfalls shattered the silence. Where? There, outside the room, a hallway, narrow, more debris piled in the way. He nearly tripped, heard a door slam, went for it, right turn, racing across another room, a kitchen? Another door. Back into another hallway, this one between apartments—
And there he was at the far end, a silhouette in a knee-length woolen coat, turning to face Voeckler.
The Bear lifted his arm.
Voeckler’s Glock 21 had been fitted with a suppressor and cracked like a toy gun.
The Bear’s pistol boomed like a cannon, the echo resounding through the skeletal building as Voeckler hit the floor and returned fire, squeezing off three rounds that struck the door swinging open just as the Bear bolted away.
Voeckler gritted his teeth, cursed, and sprang to his feet. He charged across the broken concrete floor and wrenched the door out of the way—
To glimpse an intersecting hallway with a dim puddle of light at the far end where a door hung half off. The ceiling here was partially collapsed, trusses exposed like open fractures, bits of insulation and drywall blown free.
