Checkmate

by Tom Clancy

  //ELEVATOR: NORTHEAST TWO//

  //STATUS: IDLE, LEVEL 14//

  //CALL TO THIS LEVEL? Y/N

  Sam punched “Yes,” then entered his floor number.

  Two hundred feet up the shaft he heard a distant buzz, followed by a metallic clank as the car’s gears engaged. An electrical whirring filled the shaft.

  //NORTHEAST TWO DESCENDING//

  As the car dropped toward him, the maintenance lights blinked out one by one as the car passed each floor. Moments later, the car appeared out of the darkness, slid smoothly past his face, and stopped.

  “Ready to ride,” Sam radioed. “Work your magic, Grim.”

  “Stand by.”

  Seven thousand miles away, Grimsdottir would be at her computer, threading her way through the hotel’s security intranet and loading her own algorithm and taking temporary control of the shaft’s cameras.

  This was the one and only drawback of security cameras running in random-offset mode. Guards in the security center had no point of reference, no way of knowing whether the cameras were moving as designed, or had been hijacked. It would only be after a camera failed to provide three circuits of complete coverage that the computer would detect the error and sound the alarm. He would need twenty seconds, no more, to get into position.

  “Got ’em,” Grimsdottir said.

  Fisher stood with his back against the wall, then reached over his head, grabbed the edge of the car’s roof, and chinned himself up. From one of his tac-suit pouches he withdrew the Shroud, unfolded it, then slipped his left hand and both feet into the hemmed pockets, drawing it taut across his back. He laid himself flat on the car’s roof. With his free hand, he scrolled the OPSAT screen:

  //ELEVATOR: NORTHEAST TWO//

  //STATUS: IDLE, LEVEL SUB ONE//

  //CALL TO THIS LEVEL? Y/N

  Sam punched in “Yes,” then “59.” The Shroud wouldn’t conceal his body heat long enough to reach the penthouse level; he’d have to do last floor the hard way.

  “Ready, Grim,” Fisher said.

  “Releasing cameras to hotel control.”

  With a slight shudder, the car started upward.

  20

  AS the car rose, Fisher slowed his breathing and concentrated on remaining still. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the guards in the hotel’s security center watching a split monitor showing both NV and thermal views. The Shroud would give nothing back, a perfect square of darkness on the car’s roof.

  Unless, Fisher thought. Unless his foot was sticking out, or the Shroud had failed, or—

  Stop, he commanded himself.

  The world was full of “unlesses” and “what ifs.” The trick was to control what you could, try to influence what you might, and let the rest go.

  On the OPSAT’s screen, he watched the floor numbers scroll upward: 25 . . . 26 . . . 27. Next to these numbers were the words “Seconds to Shroud Failure” followed by a clock scrolling down: 50 . . . 49 . . . 48 . . .

  With one eye fixed on the readout, he rehearsed the next phase in his head. To get past the last floor would require timing, patience, and stamina. Fisher felt a smile play over his lips. Just the kind of challenge he liked. Careful, Sam.

  Just as getting killed or captured was one of the hazards of his line of work, so too was adrenaline addiction. Living life balanced on the razor’s edge was a powerful drug, and without constant self-discipline, the pursuit of that drug could ruin an operator. At his age and given his level of experience, Fisher had for the most part insulated his mind to the lure of adrenaline, but it was always there.

  Especially now, especially given the stakes.

  He had little doubt the United States was marching toward war. Only one question remained; against whom?> The Trego’s aborted collision with the Atlantic Seaboard, combined with the rapidly rising death toll in Slipstone, would not go unavenged. So far, all signs of guilt pointed toward a Middle East player. Whether an extremist faction, a terrorist group, or a nation was responsible mattered little; in the coming weeks and months, many lives would be lost. It was Third Echelon’s job to make sure the right blood was shed. Fisher felt the mental weight of it.

  Questions over what he’d found on the now-destroyed Duroc plagued him. It seemed clear the yacht had picked up the Trego’s crew, transported them to Freeport City, and then executed them in an abandoned coffee warehouse. If so, why had the Duroc been manned by a Chinese crew? What was the disconnect? He wasn’t sure, but perhaps the man he’d come to see, this wayward hacker named Marcus Greenhorn, would have the answer.

  Fisher felt the car’s acceleration slow, then glide to a halt.

  “I’m stopped,” he radioed.

  “Hold position,” said Grimsdottir. “When I give you the word, stand up and step to the ledge directly behind you. To your right will be a stanchion. Press yourself against that and hold position.”

  “Roger.”

  “Ready . . . move!”

  Fisher stood up, flipped the Shroud off his back, and took a step back until he felt his foot touch the ledge. He flattened himself against the wall and slid right until his shoulder bumped the stanchion.

  “Releasing the elevator,” Grimsdottirsaid.

  The car groaned, then dropped away into the darkness.

  Fisher tapped buttons on his OPSAT until the overhead schematic of the shaft appeared. Surrounded by green lines that represented the walls, his own position was a pulsing blue square. To his right, on the other side the stanchion, was a red dot. A camera. Opposite him, on the other side of the matching stanchion, another red dot, another camera.

  “You next move is a leap, Sam,” Grimsdottir said. “Straight across the shaft to the other ledge.”

  It was an eight-foot jump onto a ten-inch ledge. He was good, but not that good. He glanced down the shaft; it was a bottomless pit.

  “I’ll be hanging by my fingernails, Grim,” he said. “How long?”

  “Twenty-two seconds. After that, climb back onto the ledge, slip around the stanchion, and hang again. The cameras will pan right over your head. At my next mark, you’ll stand up and reach above your head. There’ll be a maintenance ladder. Climb five rungs, then freeze.”

  “Got it,” he said.

  His destination was a maintenance crawl space that ran over the length of the penthouse’s ceiling. Once there, away from the ever-watchful cameras and sensors, he could access a hatch the led to the roof.

  He switched his trident goggles to NV and scanned the route Grimsdottir had indicated. He’d be dancing between the blind spots of two cameras. No room for error; no room for hesitation.

  “Ready,” Grimsdottir radioed. “Hold . . . hold . . . Go!”

  He jumped. He hung in midair for what seemed seconds with a thousand feet of nothingness yawning beneath him. His hands slapped the ledge. He clamped down and lifted his knees to minimize his swing, which lasted only a few seconds. He let his legs dangle.

  “Almost there,” Grimsdottir said. “Camera’s coming around. . . . Okay, go.”

  Fisher chinned himself up, then hooked his heel on the ledge and levered his body up. Then, using his right hand, he grabbed the stanchion and pulled until he could twist himself into a sitting position. He slid up the wall to a standing position.

  “In place,” he called.

  “Next move in four seconds. Three . . . two . . . Go.”

  Fisher turned to face the stanchion, grabbed it with both hands, and leaned out, letting his own body weight and momentum swing him to the other side. He backed up until he felt his heels slip over the edge, then took a breath and stepped backward into space. He dropped straight down. As the ledge swept past his face, he snagged it with both hands.

  “Seventeen seconds,” Grimsdottir reported. “Hang in there.”

  Fisher thought, Very funny.

  “Sorry, poor choice of words,” she said. “Okay, up the ladder and you’re home free. Go in five . . . four . . . three . . .”

  Fisher was tensing h
is arms and shoulders for the movement when alarms began blaring.

  “Go, Sam, move!”

  He chinned himself up onto the ledge, snagged the rung above his head, and started climbing.

  21

  HE pushed through the maintenance hatch and squeezed himself into the crawl space. He was surrounded by water pipes and electrical conduits. He contorted himself until he was turned around, facing the hatch again. “What the hell just happened?” he asked.

  “Not sure. I’m checking.” Ten seconds later she was back: “Okay, it looks like they had a power surge. It threw the camera algorithms off. They must have caught a glimpse of something moving—probably not enough to know what it is, but enough to raise the alarm. Hunker down and wait. Company’s coming.”

  The words had barely entered his earpiece when he heard the squelch of a radio somewhere below him, followed by a ratcheting sound. It took him a moment to place the noise: The guards were forcing open the elevator doors.

  Voices in Arabic echoed in the shaft. Light from below seeped around the edges of the hatch as the guards panned their flashlights around. Fisher’s Arabic was good, but the guards were talking in rapid-fire, so he caught only snippets:

  “Anything? Do you see anything?”

  “No, there’s nothing. What did they see?”

  “Let me check.”

  A radio squelched again. There was another exchange, too muffled for Fisher to make out, then a voice: “They’re not sure. Just movement.”

  “Well, there’s nothing here. We’re a thousand feet up. What could be moving around?”

  Radio squelch. “Control, all clear. Nothing here.”

  A few seconds passed. Fisher heard the thud of the elevator doors closing, then silence.

  “Moving again,” he said, and started crawling.

  FIVE minutes later, having found the hatch with no trouble, Fisher crouched at the edge of the roof, looking down at the penthouse balcony. Somewhere down there Marcus Greenhorn waited.

  The speed with which the hotel guards had responded to the alarm told Fisher they were very close by—as were, he assumed, the Emir’s Al-Mughaaweer special forces soldiers. Fisher neither needed nor wanted a fire-fight on his hands, so he’d have to step carefully and get Greenhorn under quick control before he could call for help.

  He flipped his NV goggles into place, then lay down on his belly and scooted forward. Slowly, inch by inch, he lowered his torso over the edge of the roof until he was hanging upside down, arms braced on the eaves.

  The balcony stretched the length of the penthouse, some hundred feet, and had its own hot tub, fountain, and outdoor dining room. Through the windows he could see the interior was mostly dark, the only light coming from a two-hundred-gallon aquarium glowing a soft blue. He switched to IR, scanned again, and saw nothing. He did a final check for sensors and cameras using EM, and likewise saw nothing. However many Al-Mughaaweer guards there were, they were probably stationed in the hall outside.

  In one fluid motion, he slid himself over he edge, did a slow-motion somersault through his arms, hung for a split second, then dropped noiselessly to the balcony. He turned to face the windows, pistol drawn. He waited, stock still, for thirty seconds until certain he was alone.

  The penthouse was accessed through three sets of French doors set at regular intervals down the balcony. He chose the one to his left. It was unlocked. He slipped inside. After spending the last hour sweating, the sudden chill of the air-conditioning on his face took his breath away.

  The suite was done in earth tones, with gilded-frame mahogany walls, lush carpeting, and enough tapestries and artwork to stock a small museum. The fish tank, filled with a rainbow assortment of tropical fish, gurgled softly and cast wavering shadows on the ceiling.

  He punched up the penthouse schematic on his OPSAT to get his bearings, then moved on.

  HE found Greenhorn snoring in the master bedroom. Splayed a few feet away on the double king-sized bed was a nude woman that Fisher assumed was the girlfriend to whom Greenhorn had sent the invitation. Greenhorn was dressed in white jockey shorts, a T-shirt that said EAT MY ONES AND ZEROS, and a white terry-cloth robe bearing the Burj al Arab’s crest. Despite being not yet thirty years old, Greenhorn looked ten years older, with his potbelly, pasty complexion, and mostly receded hairline.

  Fisher walked to the woman’s side of the bed, and was about to dart her when he noticed a medic alert bracelet on her wrist. Ah, hell, he thought. If he were to dart or Cottonball her, there was no telling how the drugs would interact with whatever condition she suffered, and he wasn’t inclined to kill her simply because she was stupid enough to get mixed up with an idiot like Greenhorn. Besides, he consoled himself, she was all of five feet tall and ninety pounds. If she woke up, he’d deal with her.

  He walked back to Greenhorn’s side. He removed a dart from the pistol, then bent over and scratched Greenhorn on the forearm. He stirred, then mumbled something, rubbed his arm, and started snoring again. The dose wasn’t enough to render Greenhorn unconscious, but rather dazed and docile for a few minutes.

  Fisher gave the drug ten seconds to work, then removed his goggles and knelt beside the bed, one hand resting on the hilt of the Sykes Fairbairn sheathed on his calf. He lightly shook Greenhorn by the shoulder. “Mr. Greenhorn,” he whispered. “Mr. Greenhorn, you need to wake up.”

  Greehorn groaned, and his eyes fluttered open. He turned and stared at Fisher through half-lidded eyes. “Huh?”

  Greenhorn’s breath was a fowl mixture of peanut butter, gin, and halitosis.

  “We have a phone call for you, Mr. Greenhorn. Come with me, please.”

  Fisher helped him sit up, then stand up, then walked him out of the master bedroom, expertly frisking him as they walked.

  “Who . . . who’re you again?” Greenhorn muttered.

  “Abdul, Mr. Greenhorn, from security, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, okay.”

  Fisher walked him to the opposite end of the penthouse to a seating alcove near the aquarium, then sat Greenhorn facing the aquarium, himself on the chair opposite. The backlight would cast him in shadow. Greenhorn slumped back into the couch and started snoring again.

  Sam waited five minutes for the drug to dissipate, then pulled his chair forward until he was knee-to-knee with Greenhorn. He reached out and pressed his knuckle into the base of Greenhorn’s septum. The pain snapped Greenhorn awake.

  “Hey . . . hey, what the, what the—”

  Fisher gripped him by the chin, thumb pressed into the hollow of his throat. “Don’t make a sound.” He jammed this thumb a little deeper; Greenhorn gagged. “Do you understand?”

  Greenhorn nodded.

  “I’m going to take my hand away and we’re going to have a chat. If you give me the answers I want, you’ll live to see another day. If you raise your voice or move a muscle, I shoot you dead where you sit. Understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Can I ask you a question?”

  Fisher nodded.

  “Did Big Joey send you? ’Cuz if he did, I’ve got the money, I just haven’t had a chance to—”

  “Big Joey did not send me.”

  “Then who?”

  “Santa Claus. You’ve been a bad boy, Marcus. You’ve been playing in cyberspace again.”

  Now Greenhorn understood; his eyes bulged. “Oh, Jesus . . .”

  “Another good guess, but wrong again. Question one: Who’s paying for your vacation here?”

  “I don’t know, I just got an e-mail.”

  “From?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s your second ‘I don’t know.’ Three strikes and you’re dead. I’m going to start a story, Marcus, and you’re going to finish it. Here goes: Once upon a time you were hired to code a virus for someone. Now your turn.”

  “Uh . . . uh . . . I was hired by e-mail, I swear. They’d already set up a Swiss account for me. I got a hundred thousand to start and another hundred when I delivered. You’ve got t
o believe me, I never dealt with anyone face-to-face.”

  Fisher did believe him. “When was this?”

  “Two months ago.”

  “When were you instructed to come here?”

  “A week, maybe ten days ago.”

  About the time the Trego would have been heading to the U.S. But why, Fisher wondered, if Greenhorn’s employers were so worried about him being a loose end, didn’t they just kill him?

  “No one’s contacted you since?”

  “No. When I was told to come here, they said to just wait until I hear from them.”

  “You’re sure the same person that hired you arranged this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clever guy like you would keep details, wouldn’t he? E-mails, bank information . . . A little insurance.”

  “Uh . . . come on, man, they’ll kill me.”

  Sam drew his pistol and pointed it at Greenhorn’s forehead. “They’ll be late.”

  “Jesus, okay, okay. Yeah, I kept some stuff.” Greenhorn reached into the pocket of his robe and handed over a thumb-sized USB flash drive. “It’s all there.”

  Fisher plugged the drive into the OPSAT’s USB port, waited for the OPSAT to download the contents, then stuffed it into his arm pouch.

  From the corner of his eye, Fisher saw something move. Gun still trained on Greenhorn, he slowly turned his head. Greenhorn’s girlfriend, now clad in panties and nothing else, padded across the room, rubbing her eyes. She saw Greenhorn and stopped. Fisher, still in shadow, lowered the pistol, leaned deeper into the couch.

  “Hey, Marcus,” she said, voice raspy. “Whatchya doing just sitting here in the dark?”

  “Uh . . . you know, just looking at the fish. Couldn’t sleep.”

  She took a step toward him. “Want some company?”

  “No, babe, that’s fine. Go on back to bed.”

  “Okay . . .”