Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath

by Peter Telep

  “Hey, Sam, it’s Kobin here.”

  “What the hell’s he doing on the channel?” Fisher asked.

  “I wanted him to monitor,” said Grim. “Not talk.”

  “Yeah, but I got something else, comes straight from Kestrel’s old mentor. So that’s not just any butcher shop. Kestrel used to work there when he was fourteen. His foster father made him lie about his age. It was all the blood and gore that made him run away to St. Petersburg.”

  “It seems the blood and gore don’t bother him anymore.”

  “No shit. Do us both a favor and leave that fucker there to rot.”

  Fisher groaned. “Okay, Grim, get him off the line. Briggs, you in position?”

  “Roger, up top, weapon ready in thirty seconds.”

  “Okay, stand by.” Fisher skulked his way around the corner, along the frozen earth behind the buildings, then reached the butcher shop’s rear door, whose tarnished brass handle and splintering wood around the knob were darkened by decades-old bloodstains. He slowly turned the knob, finding the door unlocked.

  When noise of any kind was your enemy, you always came prepared. From his breast pocket he withdrew a pen-sized bottle of silicone spray and doused the door’s hinges; the pump action was quiet enough to be dampened by the wind. He waited a few seconds more for the silicone to soak in.

  Now, clutching his Five-seveN in one hand, he eased open the door, which pulled effortlessly aside, then he moved in, becoming one with the darkness. Holding his breath, he reached back and shut the door after himself.

  A voice came from another room ahead, the Russian cadence at first strange, but then, as he pricked up his ears, Fisher recognized the voice.

  Before advancing, he scanned his surroundings. He was crouched in a warehouse area of sorts where orders must’ve been wrapped and prepped to be delivered out the back door. The butcher-block tables had remained, the cabinets mounted to the walls emptied, the doors hanging open.

  The narrow hallway ahead led straight out to the customer cases and butcher shop proper, with an intersecting hall lying between. Dim light filtered down from the right side of the intersection, with long shadows shifting across the wall.

  “Sam, Briggs here. I got you on sonar. Looks like just two ahead, right of your position. One guy might be standing on something.”

  Briggs had beat him to the punch. Fisher had been a breath away from activating his own sonar. He used his OPSAT to reply silently:

  Good. Mark targets. Wait for me.

  “Sam, Kestrel’s too important to lose,” said Grim. “And if he’s got Yenin, they’re both valuable assets.”

  He knew that, too, but Kestrel had assumedly found and removed his tracker, meaning he was not honoring his end of the bargain to feed Fourth Echelon information when they needed it. If he had gone completely rogue, then what would stop him from trying to kill Fisher? A whole lot of cash, maybe, but not much else. Kestrel might assume they were even now. He owed Fisher and Briggs nothing for saving his life. No more deals.

  In truth, Fisher had no idea how Kestrel would react, and so as he eased forward, wary of every creak of floorboard, he shoved up his trifocals and held his breath. Once he reached the intersection, he brought himself to full height and clutched his pistol with both hands before turning the corner—

  To confront the man.

  14

  STRAIGHT ahead lay an open meat locker door, and beyond came more of those long shadows, one shaped like a figure crucified against the corrugated aluminum wall. Cobwebs spanned the ceiling above the flickering silhouettes, and the walls rattled a moment as a strong gust came through.

  Fisher took advantage of that noise to step forward as a stale, dry odor wafted into his face. He turned into the locker.

  And froze.

  His gaze panned up to the naked man suspended from four meat hooks.

  Wow. He mouthed a curse.

  The sharp ends of those hooks had been driven through the soft flesh on the man’s shoulders and slammed right through his palms, Old Testament style. Small incisions like slash marks from a whip covered his legs and rump, and blood pooled down across his ankles and dripped off his toes. He was a big man, six feet at least, probably two hundred pounds with biceps chiseled in the gym. From this angle, Fisher couldn’t see his face and was glad for that. The panting and gasping that escaped his lips was hard to bear.

  Since Vasily Yenin had been a double agent, the NSA and CIA had good records on him. Grim had shown Fisher the man’s dossier and accompanying photographs. Once Fisher caught the man’s profile, he nodded in confirmation, then tensed at the sound of creaking floorboards.

  Kestrel came out from behind a row of metal shelving that ran along the far wall. He trained a Makarov on Fisher’s chest.

  “Fisher?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just picking up some roast beef.”

  Kestrel almost smiled. “Me, too.”

  Fisher took a step toward him. “We called. You didn’t answer.”

  “You put tracker on me.”

  “We had a deal.”

  “You have no trust. Without trust, we have no deal.”

  “Sam, Briggs here. I got you covered. I’ll take him out right through the wall if I have to . . .”

  Fisher drew in a long breath, then gestured to Yenin. “Old friend of yours?”

  “You know who he is.”

  “Get him down. I need him alive.”

  “Oh, you do? Maybe old friend of yours? Friend who kept me in coma? Maybe I have to kill you, too.” Kestrel leaned toward Fisher, his heavily tattooed right arm flexing as he clutched his pistol with both hands in an aggressive thumbs-forward grip. He took another step, exposing an area behind him where the floorboards had been pried up with a screwdriver. On the table to his right sat a Nike gym bag covered in dirt.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Pajamas.”

  “How much you got in there? Stashed it here for a rainy day?”

  “Shut up, Fisher. What do you want?”

  “Get him down. I want information on Igor Kasperov—and this guy can get us into the Voron database.”

  Kestrel shook his head. “He’s no good now. He’s like me. Ex-Voron. Passwords locked out. He can’t get you shit.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Fool. Think about it. He went missing. As soon as that happens, they lock you out. They think maybe you have been taken prisoner. Simple.”

  “So you’re leaving him here to bleed to death?”

  “No, I leave him for the wolves. After Chernobyl, the wolves and wild dogs fed on roe deer, and when the deer were gone, the wolves fed on dogs. Now dogs and deer are gone. So wolves are very hungry. They can eat twenty-two pounds of meat in one feeding.”

  “Wolves don’t eat humans.”

  “Tell that to the wolves.”

  Fisher kept his pistol pointed at Kestrel’s heart but flicked his glance up to Yenin. He spoke quickly in Russian, “I can offer you help in exchange for information. I’m looking for Igor Kasperov and his daughter, Nadia. I know the SVR and Voron are looking for them, too. Do you know anything about their investigation? Maybe something they found? Anything? If you tell me, we’ll let you go.”

  Yenin opened his mouth, but before he spoke, Kestrel raised his voice. “Don’t tell him anything.”

  “He’ll talk to me, Kestrel, otherwise I’ll shoot you both in the legs and leave you here. Like you said, the wolves are hungry.”

  “You’ll shoot me?” Kestrel asked. “You don’t see me or my gun right here?”

  Fisher sighed. “Briggs? Hit the bag.”

  The words had barely escaped Fisher’s lips when the Nike bag was blasted off the table by a perfectly placed 7.62mm round. The bag fell to the ground with a nice hole in its side.

  “Thank you, Briggs.”

  Kestrel, who’d ducked and whirled around with his pistol, searched all ov
er the ceiling and found the entry hole in the wall.

  “He never misses,” Fisher added. Indeed, Briggs had vowed to step up his game, and step it up he had.

  Fisher crossed toward Kestrel. “You run, I shoot you. You run, he shoots you. Simple.”

  Kestrel lifted his pistol. “How ’bout I put a bullet in your head?”

  Fisher shrugged. “Then we’re just two miserable men, dying in a radioactive shithole like this.”

  “Maybe that is for best.”

  “I have no more time for you, Kestrel.” Fisher gestured to Yenin. “Maybe he wants to tell me something. Let him talk, then you get to walk, no questions asked.”

  “Bullshit, Fisher. I said no trust. No deal.”

  Fisher glanced up at Yenin. “Do you know anything about Kasperov? Do you know anything about the nuclear material stolen from Mayak?”

  Yenin groaned and gasped, his eyes narrowed in agony, tears staining his stubbly cheeks. His breathing grew more labored, reaching a crescendo, then, finally, a word exploded from his lips: “Snegurochka.”

  “Shut up!” cried Kestrel.

  “Briggs, on the count of three, you’re going to shoot Kestrel in the head.”

  “Roger that. I’m on target.”

  “Okay, Briggs, one, two—”

  “Wait!” cried Kestrel, eyes widening back on the wall where that first round had penetrated. “All right. Let the fool talk.”

  “Hold fire, Briggs.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Snegurochka,” Yenin repeated.

  “What the hell is he saying?” Fisher asked.

  Kestrel made a face. “That word means Snow Maiden.”

  “Does that mean something to you?”

  Kestrel’s eyes grew wider. “Oh, yes, it does. Snow Maiden is the code name for Major Viktoria Kolosov of the GRU.”

  “Grim, you get that?”

  “Got it. Running it now.”

  “Yenin, what about this woman? You tell me, and I’ll get you down. It’ll be over.”

  Yenin’s face was beginning to twist in improbable angles as the pain really set in. His eyes barely focused on Fisher now, but then, after a few gasps, he said in broken English, “Big shoot-out in old metro tunnel. Nadia’s bodyguards and two GRU agents killed. Girl captured. Snow Maiden ordered to hold her.”

  “Hold her where?” Fisher asked.

  “Take me down, and I tell you,” said Yenin.

  Fisher glanced ironically at Kestrel. “I guess he learned his negotiation techniques from you.” Fisher holstered his weapon, much to Kestrel’s shock. “Okay, he doesn’t want to talk, so he’s all yours. Leave him here for the wolves, I don’t care. We’ll find the girl.”

  Fisher started for the door.

  “Wait!” Yenin croaked. “They’re holding girl in Sochi. She’s in Sochi. They’ve got safe house there. Now take me down! Please!”

  “Sam, Charlie here. Got the four-one-one on Sochi. Black Sea resort city. Lots of tourists . . .”

  Fisher widened his gaze on Yenin. “Where in Sochi?” Fisher lifted his voice to a roar. “WHERE?”

  Yenin closed his eyes, as though he had to think about it. “Hotel Olesska on Lenina Street. We use as safe house sometimes.”

  “I got it, Sam,” said Charlie. “I’ll start hacking into every cam within a ten-K radius.”

  “If you’re lying . . .” Fisher warned the agent.

  “I’m not,” Yenin said.

  “Do you know anything about Mayak?”

  “No, nothing. Only rumors. No way could terrorists steal material. Must be inside job.”

  “No shit,” Fisher said. He turned to Kestrel. “You’d better start answering my calls. Have a good night. Briggs? We don’t need any more loose ends here.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Sam, what’re you doing?” Grim asked.

  “Mopping up.”

  As Fisher stepped out of the meat locker, a gunshot thumped into the room, and he didn’t bother looking back. He knew Yenin had been taken out with a perfect headshot.

  “Fisher!” Kestrel screamed.

  “Don’t come after me,” Fisher cried. “I told you. He never misses.”

  15

  THE girl was asleep again. Her left eye had swollen shut, and the Snow Maiden was contemplating whether to get her some ice or just let her suffer. The little princess had never known such pain. Stress for her was deciding between five-star restaurants and which charity balls to attend with her father. Physical pain involved nicking her legs while shaving. She’d never been interrogated and beaten down to the floor like a dog. She’d never been waterboarded or electrocuted, had her nails and teeth forcibly extracted, her toes removed one at a time. There was a whole new world of torture waiting for her, and she didn’t even know it. All she’d known for the past few hours were the contours of the Snow Maiden’s knuckles. And all she could do was weep and deny that she knew anything about her father’s whereabouts.

  It was all perfunctory at best, with both of them dancing around each other until they really got down to business. Of course, it was important for the Snow Maiden to keep the girl alive, and she would; however, that didn’t mean she couldn’t work out a few issues and relieve some of her own stress.

  The Snow Maiden glided across the plush red carpet to the window and pushed open the curtains. She stared out at the shimmering lights from the Black Sea coastline. The hotel was only a ten-minute walk from the water, and in addition to the incredible views, it offered a Finnish sauna and traditional Russian banya where she planned to relax later this evening.

  Her trance was broken as the two men outside the hotel and the two next door began to check in, the Bluetooth receiver in her ear buzzing with their voices. She sighed and answered them.

  Her superiors had foisted upon her four agents who deeply resented that she was in charge. The GRU had wanted her to turn over the girl to FSB agents because the investigation fell within their purview. This was an internal matter that did not belong in the hands of a foreign intelligence agent. But the Snow Maiden had implored her bosses, told them that she wanted to finish this job. Given her “excellent work” in the metro, they’d stood up for her and had convinced the FSB that they didn’t need to waste a seasoned agent to oversee a babysitting job. Those administrators had finally given in and had allowed her to take Nadia to Sochi—but not without the FSB baggage coming along. No, the Snow Maiden wouldn’t murder these men, although the thought had crossed her mind—four times to be precise. She’d already won the adulation she needed from her superiors, most notably Izotov himself, who’d bragged to his counterpart at the FSB that “no one but the Snow Maiden could have survived that gun battle, and she did!” That was glowing praise and would certainly contribute to her promotion; however, if she could get Nadia to talk, then that would be something. Really something. In her mind, this was not a babysitting job. This was an opportunity to single-handedly locate Igor Kasperov and bring him in.

  She traced a finger along the glass. It was hard not to appreciate the irony unfurling before her eyes. Here she was, involved in the darker side of human nature, while outside the city of Sochi lay in all its grand and burgeoning splendor. Electricity was in the air as this place, known by many as the “Russian Riviera,” prepared to host the 2014 Winter Olympic Games. Heavy construction was going on everywhere, even in the lot adjoining Hotel Olesska, where yet another hotel was being erected, one that would be crowded with media personnel once the games began. A ceaseless train of earth-moving dump trucks lumbered daily across Lenina Street, much to the chagrin of some guests—but not them. Their soundproofed room lay on the opposite side of the hotel, in its most private section, where intelligence agents often held political prisoners and others, keeping them far away from Moscow and from soiling the president’s hands.

  The FSB and GRU had developed a healthy relationship with the hotel’s staff, and the facility itself, being only four stories and surrounded by large pine trees, mad
e it easy to establish a defensive perimeter. Additionally, the hotel was only a five-minute drive from the train station and just ten minutes from Adler Airport. When agents like the Snow Maiden weren’t attaching battery cables to the genitalia of prisoners, they could visit the nearby water park, sports and entertainment complexes, the Sochi Dolphinarium dolphin park, and the Discovery World Aquarium—not to mention the soaring skyline of the new Olympic park.

  The Snow Maiden grinned darkly as she turned away from the window at the sound of Nadia stirring. “Are you hungry?”

  Nadia lay across the bed, looking more like a corpse than a pampered rich man’s daughter. They’d given her a change of clothes: a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that made her appear a few years younger. She lifted her head, and finally, after a deep-throated cough, was able to sit up.

  A flat-screen television sat atop a dresser behind them. “Would you like to watch TV?” the Snow Maiden asked.

  “No.”

  “Would you like to tell me where your father is?”

  Nadia widened her good eye on the Snow Maiden. “When this is over, I’m going to come back for you. My father has very powerful friends. He’ll make it happen. And when he does, I’m going to do ten times what you’ve done to me.”

  “Ten times? That’s impressive. They taught you some math in that fancy college. So, do you think we’re already done? Look at your beautiful fingernails . . . are those gels? And your nice teeth. You had them whitened? So beautiful . . .”

  Nadia closed her eyes and sighed in frustration. “I told you. I was on my way to the airport. All I know is I was supposed to get on the plane. I have no idea where the plane was going.”

  “It was heading straight into the mountains, where it crashed.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I can get my computer and show you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  The Snow Maiden dragged a chair over to the bed. She flipped it around and draped her arms over the back. “What’s it like to be you?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Tell me about your life.”

  “No.”

  The Snow Maiden glanced around the room. “There’s nothing else to do.”