Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath

by Peter Telep

  They split up at the rental car office. She drove off in a small green Chevy sedan, heading south for about twenty kilometers to the hotel. Fisher and Briggs picked up a black Mercedes SUV and left for a meeting that, God help them, Kobin had arranged. Briggs was at the wheel while Fisher called up the GPS location with his smartphone.

  * * *

  SHE was a heavyset babushka, probably pushing seventy, and they met her about three kilometers outside the airport, beneath the rusting hulk of an old bridge that had been condemned by the local government. Her real name was Vera, but Kobin just called her “Bab” and instructed Fisher to do likewise. She climbed out of her brown minivan whose driver’s side front tire was merely a donut spare. She waddled around to the rear doors, pushing back the yellow scarf covering her head to unloose a shock of gray hair as dense and matted as steel wool. She’d probably stopped wearing makeup decades ago, and her face was a relief map reflecting a long and exacting life.

  “Do you have it?” she asked in English.

  “The money?” Fisher asked.

  “No, peanut butter.”

  Fisher hustled back to the SUV and produced two jars of extra crunchy that Kobin said they needed to seal the deal. He’d told Bab about Charlie’s peanut butter addiction, and apparently she had one of her own.

  “This is gold,” she said, pressing one jar to her cheek. “Now, let me see money.”

  “We speak Russian,” Fisher reminded her.

  She chuckled under her breath. “No, you don’t.”

  Briggs and Fisher exchanged a look, then Fisher handed over the money.

  After tucking the jars under her arm and licking her thumb, she flicked through the rubles with thick, wizened fingers. “In nineteen sixties I work for CIA,” she said with great pride. “Everyone knows Bab. You need something, come to Bab. Now, market is bullshit. People like Kobin ruin everything.”

  “So you don’t like him, either,” Fisher said with a grin.

  She returned to the van, where she stowed her peanut butter, then turned back and threw up her hands in disgust.

  Suddenly, the minivan’s back door swung open and two young men in their twenties hopped out.

  Briggs and Fisher responded by ducking to either side of the van, but Bab was hollering, “Oh, my grandsons, don’t worry! They carry boxes for me.”

  “Be nice for a little heads-up,” Briggs told her.

  The taller kid was wearing a faded AC/DC T-shirt and jeans, while the shorter, heavier one wore a hockey jersey, a replica of those worn by the Russian men’s national team. After some obligatory handshakes that revealed their shyness, the two men opened several anvil cases to display more than a dozen handguns—Berettas, SIGs, Glocks, and a few others that even Fisher did not recognize. Longer cases held six rifles, one of them a Dragunov sniper rifle. They unzipped some oversized nylon bags to reveal several tactical vests along with holsters and heavy leather gun belts.

  Briggs reached forward, but Bab slapped away his arm. “First, we make promise.”

  “What?” asked Fisher.

  “First we make promise that you don’t die using my guns. Second, money is for rental. Not keep. Ammo is yours. No return if you don’t use it all, but guns and pistols come back to me. Understand?”

  “We’ll make all the arrangements,” Fisher said.

  “Do you have any frangible rounds?” Briggs asked. “Such as the Reduced Ricochet, Limited Penetration round?”

  Bab frowned and looked at Fisher. “Where you find him?”

  “He’s okay,” said Fisher. “Whatever you have will be fine.”

  “Yes, I have good bullets for you. And oh, yes, here, Kobin was very specific.” She crossed to the front of the van, opened the passenger’s side door, then produced two pairs of trifocals, older multivision models without sonar to be sure, but classified trifocals nonetheless. Along with them, she had a pair of OPSATs—again, dated ones, but lo and behold, OPSATs.

  “Where the hell did you get those?”

  “Old Third Echelon dead drop in Grozny.”

  “How do you know about Third Echelon?”

  She waved him off, as though the question bored her. “Do you want fancy watch and binocular or not?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Briggs, collecting the gear.

  “So, we have deal?” she asked, proffering her hand to Fisher.

  “Okay.”

  Fisher took her hand. She squeezed his tightly and jerked him down toward her face. “Come on, just one kiss.” She puckered up and pulled him closer.

  Fisher tugged back, and she smacked him across the face before he could pull free. He turned away, his cheek smarting, as she and her grandsons broke into a fit of laughter. “Just kidding!” she said. “Pick pistols and rifles you want. Do you need explosives? I have some.”

  Maybe she had more than that, Fisher thought. “If you have access to a dead drop, then maybe you’ve got more of our old gear? Sticky cams? EMP grenades?”

  “No, sorry, already sold.”

  “Sold?” Briggs asked, his jaw going slack.

  “It’s no worry. Most clients use spy gear to catch cheating wives.”

  The two grandsons nodded over that.

  “All right, let’s see what you’ve got,” said Fisher, his eyes riveted on a .40-caliber SIG P226 tac ops edition not unlike his SEAL pistol. He placed the gun in one of his own bags, then picked up a Glock 19 for his secondary. Briggs chose a Beretta 92FS and a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield as his backup. The world-famous Dragunov was, of course, also coming along for the ride. Selections made, Fisher and Briggs collected magazines and ammunition.

  Briggs took one look at the ammo and whispered to Fisher, “Are you serious?”

  “Just take it,” Fisher ordered.

  Their ammo had come unboxed, stored in plastic bags, and was the cheap reloaded crap most discerning marksmen would avoid.

  The entire exchange took no more than another three minutes, and when they were finished, Fisher returned to Bab and said, “I’ll give you a kiss on the cheek if you really want one.”

  She blushed. He’d called her bluff. She shouted for her grandsons to get back in the van. They did.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and presented her cheek. He gave her the customary three kisses on alternate cheeks, then said, “Bolshoe spasibo.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, opening her eyes. “You seem like good man. Do good things with my guns, not bad ones.”

  “Okay.”

  “And thank you for peanut butter. At my age, not many things make me excited. American peanut butter is one.”

  “Glad we could help.”

  Back in the SUV, Briggs brought their OPSATs online, and Grim, who had already booked her room in the hotel, received a rather surprising call from Fisher, who told her to boot up her computer, that he and Briggs were checking in.

  “Where did you get those OPSATs?” she asked, her voice coming through their subdermals.

  “At the Russian Flea Market,” answered Briggs.

  “And let’s just say closing down 3E was a better idea than we thought,” said Fisher. “It seems some of our dead drops have been compromised.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Tell that to the babushka we just met.”

  “Wow.”

  “So, we’re armed and ready to move in once the sun goes down. Got anything else?”

  Grim spoke quickly: “I walked the entire hotel. I haven’t pinpointed their room or rooms yet. Video showed what appeared to be five people in all with Nadia, but that’s not to say they don’t have more posted here.”

  “Hey, Sam, it’s Charlie. I’ve got eyes on their security cameras. Thing is, they’ve only got cameras in the lobby, main entrance, and parking lot. Just two more on the exterior of the building. Nothing in the hallways, rooms, or elevators—so we’re blind there.”

  “We need to mark one of the guards and tail him back to their rooms.”

  “I
’m ready when you are, Sam,” said Grim.

  “On our way.”

  17

  JUST after midnight, when the last guest had retreated from the hotel’s brick paver terrace, Fisher and Briggs ascended into the pine trees growing beside and overshadowing the building. The hotel reminded him of one he’d stayed at while visiting the Grand Canyon as a kid, nestled in the forest and with balconies that afforded the place a motel/alpine ski resort facade. A row of steeply pitched dormers covered in bright green shingles crowned the roofline, their windows glowing.

  From this vantage point they had an excellent view of three sides of the building. Charlie covered their blind spot via the security cameras, but what made the job more challenging was the lack of a rooftop entrance.

  Charlie, however, had already keyed his way into the hotel’s registration system. They’d run all the names of the guests through the SMI, not expecting to encounter red flags since the FSB and SVR had assumedly taken care of all that, their rooms permanently booked. A map of the hotel appeared in Fisher and Briggs’s OPSATs. The highlighted vacant rooms were clearly marked on every floor. They were close enough to descend and cross from their trees directly onto the roof. From there, they could reach a balcony, pick the lock or cut the glass, and get inside.

  However, this would be anything but a routine rescue. They had unfamiliar weapons, no Kevlar protection, and outdated trifocals and OPSATs whose custom batteries said they had approximately 51 percent worth of charge, but you never knew. And Briggs had twice reminded Fisher about their questionable ammo, which had probably been reloaded by a couple of dedicated Russian college students in their basement shop and sold for extra money.

  Shoving his trifocals down over his eyes, Fisher zoomed in on a man who’d just left the main entrance. He came down the short flight of steps, slowed as he reached the terrace, then reached into his suit pocket to fish out a cigarette. No, it wasn’t a real cigarette but one of those electronic versions: he was trying to quit. The Bluetooth receiver in his ear caught Fisher’s attention. Fisher and Briggs were wearing their subvocal transceiver patches on their throats—the SVT patches were easily smuggled past customs in Turkey as “Band-Aids”—and thus Fisher immediately called in this guy.

  “I have him, too, Sam,” said Briggs.

  “Could be just some assclown playing on his cell phone and smoking,” said Charlie. “But if I can get a better look at his face, we’ll run him through facial recognition.”

  “Patch into my trifocals,” Fisher ordered him.

  “Gotcha, Sam, okay, zoom in some more.”

  “Zooming.”

  “Tell him to say cheese.”

  Fisher did. Only in Russian. Charlie liked that, said he’d captured an image, and began running it.

  “Grim, come down to the lobby,” Fisher ordered.

  “I’m already here but can’t talk.”

  “Okay. Stay put. Let’s see where he goes.”

  “Hey, Sam, Charlie here. There’s a fat old Russian bastard trying to hit on Grim.”

  Fisher stifled a laugh. “Keep an eye on her.”

  “Will do. And there we go, got him,” said Charlie. “Dude’s name is Travkin, FSB. Shot, scored! He’s got to be one of our men.”

  “Nice work, Charlie.”

  “I’m not after the fame and fortune—”

  “Just the Swiss baristas,” Fisher finished.

  “She hasn’t called me back.”

  “Wonder why.” Fisher took a long breath. “All right, let’s get ready. He’s heading back inside.”

  “Have a look, Sam . . .”

  Charlie sent the security camera imagery directly to their OPSATs. Fisher watched as Travkin strode into the lobby. The reception desk seemed antiquated and straight out of an old Soviet Union newsroom, complete with nine wall clocks showing the Coordinated Universal Time, or UTC, zones across Russia. A presidential proclamation cutting Russia’s times zones from eleven to nine explained two dark circles where the paint hadn’t faded. Travkin steered himself toward the elevators. Grim dropped in behind him, and Fisher tried to ignore the way her flight attendant’s uniform clung to her hips.

  But then Fisher’s heart rose into his throat as he thought about Grim getting inside that elevator, alone with the agent.

  However, that didn’t happen. The heavyset man Charlie had mentioned came into view and joined the trio. They vanished into the lift.

  “It’s Grim’s show now,” said Charlie.

  “I’m not liking this,” Fisher said. “She should’ve stayed back there with you.”

  “You don’t think she can handle herself?” asked Charlie.

  “Armed, yes. But right now—”

  “And there we go, she’s opened a line,” Charlie reported.

  Fisher listened to the conversation in Russian. Grim had both men enthralled with a story of a “crazy” passenger aboard one of her flights. The elevator chime sounded, and then . . . silence.

  “We’re on the third floor,” she whispered. “Front of the building. There it is . . . all the way at the end, room 301. He’s turning, key-carding the door. I’m heading back to my room now. Stand by.”

  Fisher pulled up the hotel’s blueprints and zoomed in on the room in question. Another box showed that the room was booked in the name of Jacques T. Laurent of Quebec, Canada, a fake identity to be sure. Here was a moment when he missed the new sonar, but hell, he wouldn’t trade his years of tactical experience for any single piece of gear. He’d cleared hundreds of rooms in his day and knew how to reach forward with all of his senses to detect even the slightest shift of weight from someone behind a door.

  But that still didn’t rule out using what he had.

  “Briggs, I’m going onto the roof to get in tight for a clean IR scan. I want to know how many inside.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Sam, I’m back in my room, and we’ve got a problem.”

  He gritted his teeth. “What’s wrong? Room service ran out of champagne?”

  “I’m serious. Charlie, tell him,” answered Grim.

  “All right, Sam, I’ve picked up some Bluetooth signals not linked to any phone receiver. These guys are wearing BioHarness watches that measure heart rate and heart rate variability. They give you a heart electrocardiogram, and they also monitor breathing, skin temperature, motion—including speed, distance, even posture—”

  “I know where this is going.”

  “Yeah, if any one of them takes off his watch or dies, a base station alarm gets tripped. The base station’s in that room.”

  “Well, if this was easy, they would’ve called the CIA,” quipped Fisher.

  “Hey, now,” said Briggs.

  Charlie continued: “Good news is we can wrap up the recon right now. I can tell you exactly how many guys have been fitted, and exactly where they are. There’s one in the lot behind you, one in the blind spot now. Two more up in the room, including Travkin, but a fifth is down in the restaurant.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Party of five. That’s it. Plus the girl. Don’t think she’s wearing one. That’s not to say they don’t have an overwatch team up in the mountains or at the airport, but that’s all I have for now.”

  “Sam, before you hit the room, we need to take out as many of them as possible,” said Grim.

  “You don’t need to remind me.”

  “Then I’ll remind you that you can’t kill them. Less-than-lethal measures only, otherwise we trip the bio alarm.”

  “You gotta love technology,” Charlie chipped in.

  Fisher swore under his breath. “Back in the good old days you could kill a guy, take his uniform, and no one was the wiser. Now everyone’s plugged in. All right, Briggs, you take the guy in the lot. I’ll get the one out back. Are we good to go?”

  “Wait a minute, so I need to take this guy out silently but not kill him?” asked Briggs.

  “Is that too old-school for you?” Fisher asked.

  �
��No, not at all. But after that, I assume we’ll be moving quickly, because they won’t be checking in.”

  “Exactly. Keeping them alive is only buying us a little time.”

  “Sam, I’ll get back to the third floor and see if I can get one of those maid’s carts to block the door. If you gain entry through the balcony, we’ll slow their exit. One of you takes the balcony, the other the hall.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Uh, are you forgetting something?” asked Charlie.

  Fisher frowned. “What’s that?”

  “You guys are going into a hot room. What’s to stop them from just shooting Nadia?”

  “She’s their bargaining chip with Kasperov,” said Fisher. “They’ll do anything to keep her alive.”

  “I hope you’re right. And don’t underestimate that Snow Maiden. I did a little digging on her, and she’s already got a major rep with the GRU.”

  “I don’t care who she is. They need the girl alive. That’s their weakness, and now we exploit it. Enough talk. Briggs? Move out.”

  * * *

  BY the time Fisher reached the terrace, his gloves were sticky with pine sap, so he removed them and fought back the desire to draw his pistol. There were a few silent ways to kill men, some said as many as eight, but the number of ways you could incapacitate a man without killing him and without relying on drugs, well . . . that was another story. Only a true artist could take a man to the edge of the abyss without sending him over, and in that regard, Fisher was a veritable Michelangelo.

  He skulked his way around the back of the hotel. The cool night air blowing in off the sea had a salty tang that was at once welcoming and sent a chill down his spine.

  His prey stood across a small driveway where taxis would pick up their fares during the day. He, like his comrade Travkin, was enthralled by his phone, and Fisher found it ironic how the general public despised those who were distracted by technology while he promoted it—promoted it because it made his job easier. During his early years, guards, lookouts, spotters, and other assorted thugs would, for the most part, actually pay a decent amount of attention if they weren’t playing cards or looking at dog-eared copies of porno mags; nowadays, these young bastards were all immediately drawn like addicts to the hallucinogenic glow of their screens when they were supposed to be observers. The only thing this guy would observe now was the void of unconsciousness.