by Tom Clancy
Her rounds drummed evenly across his chest, forming a perforated slash mark, and he flailed back like a leaf in the wind. She ran by, searching for the other guy, the kill as instantaneous and robotic as that.
She was taking a hell of a risk, all right, betting that the kid and the old man would be too scared to take off. Her attention was now divided between the car across the street and the row in front of her.
Then she saw it, movement just head. The tiniest portion of a green balaclava showed above the trunk of an old Mercedes. She threw herself beside the nearest car, rifle at the ready.
“Hey, fool,” she shouted in Russian. “Tell Green Vox to stop wasting my time.”
“You’ve already told him,” the thug replied. He’d chosen to speak in English but his accent was thick and familiar; South American, she knew. “I’m Green Vox!”
“Sure, whatever. It doesn’t matter. But let me ask you — how’d you find me?”
“You’re sloppy. You’re just very sloppy.”
She gritted her teeth. “Izotov’s helping you, Nestes. Isn’t he?”
“Do you want to talk now or embrace in death?”
“That’s dramatic. Unfortunately your death won’t be. It’s all very routine.”
“I’m glad you remember me…” Surprisingly, he shifted out from behind the car, rifle pointed skyward. He wrenched off his mask to reveal a bearded face and piercing blue eyes.
Jose Nestes (not his real name) was a drug lord from Colombia who had joined the Green Brigade Transnational in an attempt to form a splinter group he called “the Forgotten Army.” Nestes’s dream was to lead a terrorist organization large enough to undermine the efforts of the superpowers themselves. He claimed to have brought together several of the world’s most notorious terror organizations, including Hezbollah and the Taliban.
But Green Vox — or at least the original one the Snow Maiden had worked with — had rejected this idea, in favor of his ecological agenda. He fancied himself as more of a noble terrorist trying to save the planet than a crime lord trying to undermine the global economy, a goal that in and of itself seemed rather laughable to her.
Yet Nestes, if he was being honest, had somehow seized the Green Brigade’s reins and was, quite possibly, steering the group in another direction.
“I want to make a deal with you,” he said. “You know I’m serious, because you could kill me right now. We don’t have time to discuss details. But we need to talk.”
“If you wanted to make a deal, then why didn’t you just drop by for tea?”
“Can you blame me for trying to kill you? There’s a bounty on your head. A huge one. Didn’t you know that?”
“You’re right. We don’t have time for this.” She rose and started toward him, lifting her rifle.
He brought his rifle down and aimed at her. She should’ve shot him, but his offer sounded strangely intriguing, so here they were now, in a standoff.
“I guess we both die,” he said.
“Yeah, but you die first, and I always get the last word.”
The Snow Maiden’s cell phone began to ring. She cursed.
“That wouldn’t be Patti calling, would it?”
She froze.
In shock.
If you knew about the Ganjin, then you were in the Ganjin—or you didn’t live long.
“Who’re you working for?” she demanded.
“For you now.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“There are those who don’t appreciate your service and would rather terminate your employment.”
“What the hell does that mean?” she asked. “You’re just playing a little game. And I’m not biting.”
The fire trucks’ sirens resounded loudly as they turned the corner and barreled down the road.
She tossed a look to them, then summarily shot Nestes. He staggered back and fell to the ground. She bent down over him.
“You just made a big mistake,” he gasped. “I could have helped you…”
With a chill, she rose, ran across the street, and screamed for the old man and kid to get in the car. She jumped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine, and they tore away from the curb, riding on two flat tires.
In all her years of covert intelligence work and trade-craft, she had never made a more sloppy or pathetic escape. Maybe they were all correct. She had lost her edge.
Or maybe there were just too many forces working against her this time: the Americans, the Brits, the Russians, the terrorists, and now…
What the hell had Nestes been talking about? Were there enemies within the Ganjin that wanted her killed?
If they managed to get the hell out of the U.K., then she and Patti were going to have a very long talk. She glanced quickly at her phone; indeed, Patti had been trying to contact her.
* * *
Brent’s team arrived at the docks near Dover. Dennison confirmed that the Snow Maiden, along with Chopra and Hussein, had been at the West Bank Guest House, now ravaged by flames. They’d left, heading northeast up Folkestone Road, but they had lost sight of them at Dover Towne Centre, where a massive traffic jam still blocked all roads.
Brent and his Ghosts jogged the short distance to that business center, broke off in pairs, fanned out, and conducted an exhaustive search of a three-block radius. They found the Snow Maiden’s car, two wheels shot up, parked along a dense greenbelt near Priory Hill. She’d obviously broken out of the traffic jam and driven right through the woods, judging from the extensive damage to the vehicle, the tracks, and the gaping lines in the pavement from the rims.
Dennison tried to enlist the aid of the local authorities, but the request had been denied because they had their hands full with the massive crowds at the docks.
All Brent and his Ghosts had to do now was find the three people amid near-rioting crowds flooding toward the coastline.
Brent stationed Riggs and Schleck up on two of the highest buildings, where they’d maintain surveillance on the docks via Schleck’s drone.
Splinter Cell Thomas, still bleary-eyed and distraught over the loss of his brother, volunteered to coordinate with Third Echelon and was communicating directly with them to gain more intel.
They spent the remainder of the day searching in vain, and as night fell, Brent stood near a roundabout opposite the harbor. “Hammer, you got anything? Anything at all?”
“Negative, Ghost Lead. Negative…”
He checked in with Thomas. The NSA had nothing either.
“She’ll turn up again,” said Lakota, drawing up to Brent’s side. “She might lay low here for a day or two, but I’ll bet she’ll cross into Europe. They’ll keep eyes in the sky focused on this route, and they’ll pick her up.”
Brent sighed. “They’ll disguise themselves and slip out in the middle of the night. And we can’t stay here forever.”
“What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying that… at least for me… this is the end of the line. Before the night’s over, Dennison will call me back with orders to pull out.”
“We can’t give up.”
“They want results. And we didn’t provide them. They’ll bring in fresh meat to get the job done. But hey, I had a good run. The Ghosts are number one, that’s for sure. At least I had a chance to play with you guys…”
Lakota shook her head. “I won’t let that happen. All right, you were a little too hardcore by taking us back to Robin Sage, but you’ve been an excellent captain, sir. I would serve with you anytime, anywhere.”
“Thanks.” He smiled wanly. “But I’m done here.”
She frowned. “You shouldn’t be taking this so well.”
“I’m not. It’s all an act. After you leave, I’ll curse. I’ll break something. I’ll get an ulcer, and my eyeballs will explode from my head.”
“Now that I can believe. But please, sir, if she pulls us off, you have to argue. You have to fight.”
“Trust me, I will, but I’ve been around long e
nough to know how these things go. The unit on the ground takes the responsibility for the loss.”
“That’s not always true. We’re only as good as the intel they provide. If they keep putting us two steps behind and can’t provide the assets, how can they hold us accountable?”
“Dennison went out on a limb for me. I owed her results. Simple as that.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“Forget it.” Brent extended his hand. “It’s been an honor and a pleasure.”
“No, I won’t take your hand. I won’t. It’s not over.”
Brent shrugged, lowered the hand, and stared out across the harbor, where crowded ferries and dozens of private craft thrummed toward the French coastline.
SIXTEEN
Geneva
Forty-eight Hours Later
After abandoning their car in the park, the Snow Maiden, Chopra, and Hussein had fled to the equipment storage room of a nearby tennis club. They’d hidden there until nightfall, at which time they were met by their old taxi driver, who brought changes of clothing and took them to the docks to link up with a yacht bound for Calais. Patti had arranged it all.
Though the crowds had thinned somewhat, there were still enough evacuees to create a wonderful diversion. Getting lost among them was not difficult, and the ball caps and coats certainly helped. She knew that dozens of electronic eyes were focused on them, so they’d kept to the crowds. Moreover, they weren’t the only ones boarding the yacht. A group of about fifteen others did so as well, all part of the guise. The Ganjin, it seemed, had a much larger network and sphere of influence than even the Snow Maiden had imagined. And that unnerved her.
The rest of the full-day road trip from Calais to Geneva unfolded uneventfully, though she imagined that Chopra and Hussein were plotting an escape. They occasionally glanced at each other, and when it became a little too obvious, the Snow Maiden addressed their unspoken communication outright: “If you run, I shoot you in the legs. Believe me — most gunshot wounds hurt. It’s not like TV or the movies. It’s serious pain. And I’ll still drag you to Dubai. It’s not worth it.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Hussein had asked her.
“My record is seventy-two hours.”
When they were just an hour away from Geneva, the Snow Maiden had called Patti and once again had asked what was going on with Nestes — and how did he know about the Ganjin? Patti said it was “complicated” and that she wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter at the present time.
Because of her reticence, the Snow Maiden decided to drop off the grid for a while. There were a few people she could call to follow up on Nestes’s actions, but Patti would, of course, be privy to those conversations.
When they arrived in Geneva, she spoke with the owner of a coffee shop where a friend, Heidi Lautens, stopped every morning. Heidi lived in an apartment near the Rhone River and was a professor at the University IFM Geneva, an international business school where she taught economics. Her husband, Aldo, had also been a professor and operative working for the GRU for more than ten years. He’d been killed in a terrorist attack in Paris while on an assignment for the Russian government, an assignment that the Snow Maiden had planned. That was just a year before the war, and because the Snow Maiden had worked closely with the man, she felt responsible to help his widow, despite the GRU’s insistence that she not make contact. Consequently, the Snow Maiden was vague regarding the details of Aldo’s death and only identified herself as one of Aldo’s research assistants. Izotov himself had learned of this security breach and had threatened her if she continued offering assistance. She’d threatened him: It was the humanitarian thing to do, a word, she’d said, the Russian government had never understood. If they didn’t allow her to help, a security breach unlike any they had ever experienced would occur. Izotov had snickered, “Your soft heart will get you killed.”
During the last few years, the Snow Maiden had kept in touch with Heidi and had even visited to have lunch with her several times. They’d had a lot in common and e-mailed each other a few times per month. Heidi was like the sister the Snow Maiden had never had and truly the only “real” female friend she’d ever had.
The trouble was, the Snow Maiden had never been honest with Heidi, but that was part of the Snow Maiden’s protection, her armor, and she’d always known that having a friend in Geneva who was in her debt would someday prove invaluable.
At the Snow Maiden’s request, the coffee shop owner contacted Heidi, who came to the shop and went into a back room, where a table had been set up for them. The Snow Maiden had, of course, paid the shop owner handsomely for this small luxury.
Heidi wore her hair a bit shorter than the Snow Maiden had remembered, and her new “academic” plastic-framed glasses reminded the Snow Maiden of the woman’s devotion to scholarship.
They spoke in English, as was Heidi’s wont. She was more than a little surprised. “Viktoria, I didn’t know you were in Geneva! It’s so good to see you! But why are you back here? Why all the secrecy?”
Chopra and Hussein were seated nearby and watching, and their uneasy expressions caught Heidi’s attention. “Are they your friends?”
“No, we are not,” said Chopra.
The Snow Maiden looked fire in the old man’s direction. “Please…”
“Viktoria, what’s going on?”
“I’m wondering if we can stay with you for the night.”
“We? You mean them as well?”
“Yes, I’ll explain everything, and I’ll take care of your rent for the rest of the year.”
Heidi shifted in her seat. “This is, uh, quite strange. You drop in unannounced with these people. Can’t you get a hotel?”
“No, I can’t right now. It’s complicated. I just need you to trust me. And we need to talk.”
“You know I don’t have much room.”
“We’ll sleep on the floor. I just need this right now, and I can explain everything once we’re up there.”
“I was about to have dinner. I don’t have enough food for us all.”
The Snow Maiden grinned. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Viktoria, what’s wrong? What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”
The Snow Maiden reached across the table and clutched both of Heidi’s hands. “You can trust me.”
* * *
Brent had bought himself a little condo just thirty minutes away from Fort Bragg. In fact, the place was almost paid off, and the resale value wasn’t bad, despite the ever-fluctuating market. Most folks who lived in his complex were military, and demand for such housing remained high. A condo was the way to go for a single military man: no lawn to worry about mowing, no building maintenance to perform, but the HOA fees would eventually bankrupt him, he knew.
He was on his way home after heading down to central Florida to see George Voeckler’s parents. They lived in a small retirement home in The Villages, and it was with great sorrow and resignation that he expressed his condolences in person. The NSA had already sent representatives to notify them of George’s death, but Thomas had beaten even them to the punch. He’d called his parents while en route back to the States, and as expected, neither Frank nor Regina Voeckler had taken the news very well.
Thomas had not been present during Brent’s visit. Regina had said he’d gone off to his time-share on Captiva Island. The Voecklers were exceedingly proud of their two boys and made a point of telling Brent about the great influence George had been on Thomas. They feared that without George’s continued guidance, Thomas might slip back into a depression and into his “old ways.” He’d already been talking about quitting the NSA job when he’d come home. Regina had taken Brent’s hand and had begged him to talk to Thomas. Brent said that he would.
But for now, he needed to get back home for a meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Susan Grey, DCO, 1st Bn, 5th Special Forces Group, a long title for a woman short on patience. Grey was a lean, athletic woman with short blond hai
r who seemed demure before she smiled and ate you for breakfast. She headed up Ghost Recon and had not endorsed Dennison’s selection of Brent to lead the Snow Maiden mission. She would remind him of that, and the meeting would, of course, determine his future in the military, if there was one at all.
As he’d suspected, the team had been pulled off the hunt and sent back home, and were about to be reassigned. Lakota’s eyes had burned when she resignedly had taken his hand at the airport.
Brent did something stupid and said that now that they weren’t working together, he’d like to take her out and buy her a beer.
“You mean a date?” she’d asked.
“I don’t know what I mean.”
“Well, when you figure that out, give me a call.” She’d given him a curt nod and walked away.
Oh, yes, he was quite an operator when it came to the ladies..
It was late afternoon when he got back home and he was too tired to cook, so he drove down to the Liberator for a burger and a drink or two. He sat alone in his usual booth, and Schoolie, the big boy with the scarred face, drifted over and slid into the seat opposite him. “Back from Europe.”
Brent made a face. “I know why you’re here, and I’m not talking.”
“You don’t have to. I got some scuttlebutt.”
“We’re friends now? Sharing secrets? I thought you wanted to bust my chops.”
“Well, that, too.”
“Then why are you talking like my buddy?”
“I’m still your buddy, Brent. But when I offered my hand before the mission, you should’ve taken it. You jinxed yourself.”
“Okay, whatever.”
“Look, let me tell you what’s going on…” Schoolie leaned in closer and scratched his stubbly jowls.
Brent rubbed his eyes, leaned back, and sighed deeply.
Schoolie’s tone grew emphatic. “Word is they’ve just assigned a new team to your old operation.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I’m on the new team. We just got briefed. You didn’t hear this from me — but they found her again.”
