by Tom Clancy
No more bureaucratic bullshit. No more politics. No more red tape. It was a covert operator’s dream come true. Clandestine backing from the government without interference.
That Majid Sadiq had been dispatched and members of his group were dead or on the run was an important victory in the never-ending war on terrorism because it had proven that Fisher and his team were a viable asset.
Indeed, this was Fourth Echelon, and Fisher answered only to the President of the United States. He no longer worked alone in the field but relied upon his team. He’d come a long way since his early days of hanging out in a ventilation shaft at the Tropical Casino in Macau. However, the ghosts still hovered at his shoulders, the ghost of his old boss Lambert, a man whose life he had once saved but then had been forced to take . . .
“We’re going over the files from Istanbul,” came a voice from behind Fisher, jarring him back to the present. “But you still want to go back there?”
Fisher swung his chair around to face Anna “Grim” Grimsdóttir, her strawberry blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, her blue eyes narrowing with skepticism. She wore a black striped blouse and the shoulder harness for a SIG P229R 9mm pistol.
When he’d first met Grim, she never carried a weapon. She’d been secretly watching him run a CIA obstacle course at “the Farm,” Camp Peary, Virginia. Her spying on him should’ve been his first clue that he couldn’t trust her, but as they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. She’d begun her career as a programmer, hacker, and analyst, providing assistance for Fisher while he was in the field. Over the years they became friends, sharing jokes about the use of lasers being so 1970s and hi-fi versus Wi-Fi in such globetrotting locations as skyscrapers in New York and banks in Panama City. Grim relished reminding him that he was “old,” but her taunts were good-natured, and Fisher never took them lying down; in fact, he usually took them while suspended, inverted, from a rope.
Then, regrettably, their relationship had taken a very dark turn. They’d told him that his daughter, Sarah, was killed by a drunk driver.
That was a lie.
Grim had known the truth. For three long years he’d thought he had no reason to go on living, and she’d done nothing. Then, when 3E became gripped in conspiracy and corruption, she began working as a mole inside the organization, reporting directly to President Caldwell. Grim had used the promise of Fisher being reunited with his daughter to manipulate him into a mission he didn’t want to take.
He’d thought what she’d done to him was unforgivable, but she’d apologized, told him she’d had little choice, that it was all for the greater good and that she’d do it all again if necessary. The venerable nickname “Ice Queen” had been used to describe her before, but that seemed insufficient. He’d never known she’d go to such great lengths to protect their country. He’d never known her at all, and the emptiness he felt over that revelation ached every day.
He studied her now, acutely aware that she had not wanted him in this position, that Fourth Echelon had originally been her initiative and she’d wanted to be its commander. She hadn’t trusted his motives, but he thought he’d proven himself to her during the Blacklist mission.
“Grim, I know it’s a long shot, but maybe we missed something. There has to be another connection.”
“If there is, we’ll find it. Charlie’s acting like he’s possessed right now.”
“I’m glad you guys are getting along.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I’m telling you, Grim, when we worked for Victor, the kid was amazing. And you have to admit, the SMI would be nothing without him.”
Fisher was referring to his time working for his old Seal Team Two buddy Victor Coste, who’d formed Paladin 9, a private security firm. That’s where Charlie Cole, the twenty-five-year-old technophile and brilliant programmer, had gone to work after Grim had booted him out of Third Echelon’s R&D department—they’d been working on the SMI together—and that’s where they’d taken the call sign for their aircraft after Vic was injured in the first Blacklist attack and closed up his firm. The name “Paladin” was a tribute to him and a historical reference to chivalrous and courageous knights.
Grim shook her head. “Charlie hasn’t changed a bit. Still an uncompromising know-it-all who almost got us killed—”
Fisher frowned. “What’re you talking about?”
Grim winced, as though she’d let something slip. “Look, he’s great at what he does—”
“But what?”
“But I still don’t know if I can trust him.”
“Give him a chance.”
“Oh, I will. That doesn’t mean I’ll take my eyes off him.”
“Maybe I never earned your trust, but he will.”
She took a deep breath. “Sam, we’ve been through a lot together. And we’ll go through a lot more. The work always comes first.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.”
“I know, but we can’t let the past come between us.”
“I’m glad you finally said that.”
“Really?”
He smirked. “Yeah, because it’s the understatement of the year. You think we’ll ever trust each other?”
“We’re gonna have to.” She started off.
“Hey, Grim?”
She paused and glanced back.
“You made me realize I belong here. Not Vic. Not anyone else . . .”
A sheen came into her eyes before she turned and headed back to the SMI table.
Her reaction surprised him. It always seemed that her warmth and sympathy had been accidently uploaded and stored in the cloud instead of her heart. And admittedly, she was often a far better strategist than him, yet at the same time she was risk averse, unable to call an audible, and too worried about the consequences of going with your gut. But he needed her. More than ever.
Before he could ponder that further, the seal of the President of the United States appeared on their big screens, and Charlie came rushing out of his chair, tugging on the strings of his hoodie and raising his voice: “Got the POTUS on the line!”
“Good morning, everyone,” said the president.
Patricia Linklater Caldwell was an absolute rarity in American politics, having reached the highest office in the land while single. Her husband, Tobias Linklater, had lived long enough to see Caldwell become a senator before he’d succumbed to pancreatic cancer. In many ways Caldwell was a survivor, having suffered the loss of her husband even as she weathered a tumultuous bid for the presidency and an assassination attempt after she’d been elected. As chief executive, she was results driven, did not frighten easily, and her willingness to get things done by taking quick action had easily won over Fisher. Knowing she lacked Fisher’s perspective from the ground, she wasn’t afraid to listen to his advice.
“Hello, Madame President. If this is about Rahmani, let me assure you—”
“I’ll cut you off right there, Sam. I know you’re on your way to Istanbul, but there’s been a change of plans.”
The SMI began flashing with imagery and data bars, and the big screens above the infirmary hatch displayed images of a handsome middle-aged man with long sandy blond hair and piercing eyes.
“I assume most of you recognize Igor Kasperov, founder and CEO of Kasperov Labs in Moscow.”
“And one of the greatest antivirus programmers ever,” added Charlie. “A legend like Gates, Jobs, and McAfee.”
“That’s right,” said Caldwell. “And I’ve met him before. He’s quite a character.”
“What’s going on?” Fisher asked.
“Just a few minutes ago his headquarters in Moscow abruptly shut down and his employees scattered. His offices around the world have been left hanging. No one knows where he is, but we just received some good HUMINT. Our agents in the Kremlin suspect
that he wasn’t taken prisoner by the government because a localized virus just infected security systems all over the city, bringing down surveillance cameras. They also report that the Federal Security Service has dispatched agents to all the transportation routes.”
“I’m checking on all that now,” Charlie said, drumming hard on his keyboard.
Fisher nodded. “Sounds like Kasperov is on the run.”
“That’s a pretty loud exit,” said Grim. “If he wanted to bail, why didn’t he sneak away?”
“Yeah, and why shut down the company—unless he was worried about reprisal or something? Did he want to save his employees? From what, though?” Fisher asked. “What’s he running from?”
The SMI now glowed with a map of flashing blips marking the locations of Kasperov Labs offices around the globe. Grim tapped on Moscow and zoomed in on the Kasperov HQ.
Caldwell went on: “Between the robbery at Mayak and now Kasperov on the run, we’ve got something very dangerous going on in the Russian Federation, and maybe he knows what it is. Maybe he knows why the Russians are, as we speak, pulling their sovereign wealth funds out of American markets.”
“You want us to find him?” Fisher asked. “We’ve still got a hundred pounds of weapons-grade uranium floating around out there—”
“Which I’m well aware of,” she snapped. “It’s time for a little multitasking. I want you to find Kasperov and extend my offer for protection and political asylum. While you’re doing that, the Special Activities Division will back up your investigation to find the uranium. I need you to find that material and Kasperov.”
“Madame President, sorry to interrupt,” said Briggs from behind Fisher. “But if you want the CIA to back us, then let me suggest a few good operators.”
“Excellent. You send me those recommendations.”
“I will.”
“But we’re still off the books here,” Fisher reminded the president.
“Of course. I don’t think the CIA would have a problem with that, do you?”
Fisher cocked a brow at Briggs, who vigorously shook his head.
“Madame President, you think there’s a link between the missing uranium and Kasperov?” asked Grim.
“That’s what I need to know. As usual all our intel assets will be available to you.”
“We’re on it,” said Fisher. “We’ll get to Turkey and refuel there. Hopefully by the time we land we’ll have a lead on Kasperov’s location.”
“Stay in touch. I’m counting on you.”
The president’s seal reappeared, then the screens went blank.
“Charlie, full profile on Kasperov,” Grim ordered. “Right down to the brand of vodka he likes. Briggs, see what you can dig up on his employees, people from his past. We’ll have the SMI analyze possible escape routes.”
“Got something good already,” said Charlie, who’d already been diving into his databases while the president was speaking. “He was married for thirteen years, but his wife died of ovarian cancer. They have a daughter, Nadia, now twenty. We’ll locate her. Right now he’s got an American girlfriend, Jessica North, super hottie. We can follow up with her entire family. Also, he was a Soviet intel officer. I’ll search for old buddies. Says he attended the Institute of Cryptography. Could find an old teacher or somebody providing a safe house.”
“Go for it,” said Fisher.
Briggs chimed in: “Kasperov’s right hand was a young guy named Patrik Ruggov, aka Kannonball. Big Russian bear. I’ll see if I can find him. In the meantime, the NSA’s telling us they’ve already flagged Kasperov’s family members’ and known intimates’ landlines and cell phones for intercept. They’ve been logging in every incoming and outgoing phone call for the last couple of years.”
“I’ll get the SMI on that, too,” said Grim.
Fisher was working through a sidebar on the SMI, sifting through magazine articles on Kasperov. “Jesus, this guy’s been everywhere. He sponsors an F1 race team: Kasperov-McClaren. Maybe he’s got contacts in one of the race cities. And look at this, he’s hung out with rock stars all over the UK, going on pub crawls and taking his people on lavish company retreats in Costa del Sol, Monte Carlo, and Cancún. Says here he threw a New Year’s Eve party with over a thousand guests. His company operates in more than one hundred countries. Gonna be tough to narrow down this search.”
“No kidding,” said Grim. “And that localized virus? It’s affecting ATC over Moscow right now. Look at these reports.”
Fisher scanned the airport map and the transcripts from intercepted radio transmissions. Domodedovo, Sheremetyevo, Vnukovo, Myachkovo, Ostafyevo, Bykovo, and Ramenskoye Airports were all reporting radar service disruptions, distortion, false blips on radar, and other unexplained interference.
“Like I said,” Charlie began, “he’s a genius. He won’t do anything stupid like use a credit card or allow his face to be photographed. He knows where the security cameras are, and he knows all about facial recognition software. Hell, he wrote some of it. If he wanted to run, then he planned it well, used his expertise with computers and viruses to cover his ass. Maybe he’s had an escape plan in place for years. The airport disruption suggests he flew out. We’ll pull up every flight plan we can.”
Fisher turned to the image of Kasperov glowing now on one of the big screens. “So, comrade, where are you going? Are you going to pull a Bin Laden and hide in the open? Or maybe something completely different.”
“You’ve gone underground before,” said Grim. “Where would you go if you were him?”
Fisher thought for a long moment but didn’t answer.
4
MAJOR Viktoria Kolosov—code-named Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden—had tied her long, black hair into a neat bun. This was not because she preferred it that way, but because most times when she knifed a man he tended to flail about, reaching violently for anything he could grasp—and she liked her hair, thought it was one of her best features, didn’t want any dying bastard to mess it up.
Unsurprisingly, Boris reached out as she punched the folding blade into his neck, ripped it free, then stabbed him in the heart, which was her original target before he’d turned and spoiled her whole attack.
As he fell to the asphalt with a gurgling “Why?” she raised the stolen PSS silent pistol at Oleg.
She cut loose with a pair of 7.62mm rounds that traveled at two hundred meters per second to impact squarely with his forehead, a textbook double tap that kicked him back into the old subway’s crumbling wall.
The knife attack on Boris was quieter than the gun and gave her enough time to shoot Oleg before he realized what was happening. Besides, she liked variety when it came to killing. Blade, pistol, weak arm, strong arm. Also, a combination knife/gun attack was riskier than just shooting both of them in the back of the head. There was no sport in that.
She leaned over, wiping the bloody blade on Oleg’s chest and thankful she had remembered her gloves, always a good idea when you planned to murder your partners. Was she insane? Of course not. This was an important operation with career advancement at stake, too important to share credit, so now the extra baggage was gone. Never mind the investigation into their deaths. There would be none. She would ensure that, too.
The Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, or GRU, the motherland’s foreign military intelligence agency, was headed by Sergei Izotov, who’d called upon any SVR operatives in the immediate area. They were to capture Igor Kasperov’s twenty-year-old daughter, Nadia, after the girl had made the fatal mistake of posting a status update to her VK page, saying good-bye to Moscow. She was, the SVR had assumed, rushing to the airport to link up with her father.
While a domestic job like this ordinarily belonged to the FSB, the Snow Maiden, Boris, and Oleg had been heading out to their airport themselves to catch a plane to Poland when they’d picked
up the daughter’s limousine. Nadia and her four bodyguards had either spotted the tail or been tipped off.
The Snow Maiden had enjoyed taking out both tires on the limo and forcing them off the road, but it seemed the bodyguards had already planned an alternate escape route and had reached it in the crippled limo. They took Nadia on foot into the “third basement” of Moscow State University, entering Metro-2, the informal name for the secret underground metro system that paralleled the public Moscow Metro. The Snow Maiden wondered if Kasperov and his people were also privy to the Yastreb Complex, that highly classified subterranean fortress beneath Red Square. These were all part of an interconnected system supposedly built during Stalin’s reign and code-named D-6 by the KGB. The tunnels, subway, and secure bunkers provided a fast and secure means of evacuation for leadership through concealed entryways and into protective quarters beneath the city, helping to maintain national command authority during wartime. The trains themselves were safeguarded by electronic surveillance and a small garrison of troops. Nadia’s bodyguards seemed to know about that, too, and they were escorting her down a series of abandoned access tunnels that ran adjacent to the tracks and well out of sight and earshot of that garrison. This section lacked any security and was, in effect, a dilapidated maze leading toward the VIP terminal at Vnukovo Airport.
The Snow Maiden sprinted off and turned left into the first arching entranceway, spotting the shifting lights in the distance. The bodyguards had improvised on the fly, using the flashlight apps on their smartphones to lead the way. The Snow Maiden did likewise. She grimaced as the musty scent grew thicker and the cobwebs wafting down from the ceiling blew across her face. The concrete walls were scarred by rust and mold, and the floors alternated between dirt-covered concrete and what felt like mushy earth.
