by Tom Clancy
“Okay.”
Fisher stepped away from the car and faced the oncoming vehicles. He waved with both hands as the rotor wash whipped over him and tugged at his parka.
At least six men burst out of the SUVs with pistols drawn. They screamed in Russian and Spanish for him to get down on his knees and place his hands behind his head.
He took a deep breath and complied.
As big Anatoly approached, Fisher shouted in Russian, “I’m an American. I have an offer from President Caldwell. Tell Kasperov we’ve rescued his daughter from the GRU!”
“Oh, really, you’re an American?” Anatoly asked. “Then to hell with you, American! I saw you back in the mine!” He kicked Fisher in the stomach, knocking him onto his side.
Boots were everywhere now as Kasperov’s men surrounded him, one cuffing his right wrist and fighting to cuff the left as he fought to pull away.
More shouting erupted from the lead SUV.
Fisher glanced up—
And there he was, the man himself, Igor Kasperov, removing the black fur ushanka from his head and allowing his long, sandy hair to flutter free in the wind. His expensive black parka was fitted with military-style Velcro and zippered pockets, suggesting he was some general come down from the mountain to inspect his troops. He scratched at the pearl-colored stubble on his cheeks and squinted toward the helipad.
Watching him emerge from the SUV was, for a moment, like seeing the bronze statue of some legend come to life. For a moment, even Fisher felt a little starstruck, since he had reviewed hours of interviews and had scrolled through hundreds of photos that suggested the software genius was some media-created persona and not a real human being.
“I want to talk to him!” Kasperov cried. “Bring him here! Now!”
Anatoly hauled Fisher to his feet. They searched him, and Anatoly confiscated his phone before ushering Fisher back toward the SUV. The handcuffs were on tight now, the blood cut off to Fisher’s hands, which were already growing numb.
Two of the other guards were hauling Hector the miner out of car, and Fisher yelled, “Don’t hurt him! He’s just my ride!”
Kasperov had climbed back into the SUV, out of the wind and cold. One of the other guards held open a back door, and Fisher was shoved inside, falling into a seat beside Kasperov and his supermodel girlfriend, her perfect face encircled by her parka’s white fur trim.
“Who are you?” demanded Kasperov.
Fisher took a few seconds to compose himself, then spoke rapidly in Russian. “Sir, I’m here with an offer from President Caldwell. She’ll offer you political asylum, but more than that she’ll help rebuild your company.”
“Everyone wants a piece of me now.”
“We’re just here to help.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You gave your daughter a pendant with some gold inside, some gold from the mines here.”
Kasperov looked startled. “How do you know that?”
“Because she told us. She helped us find you.”
The man grabbed Fisher by his parka’s collar and spoke through his teeth: “Where is she?”
“The GRU was holding her in Sochi. My team got her out. We flew her back to the U.S. She’s in a safe house near Langley. If you want, you can talk to her right now.”
“Bullshit! You’re holding her prisoner!”
“Anatoly took my phone. Let me have it. We’ll call Nadia. I’ll prove it to you.”
“You’re stalling for some reason. You’re a Russian agent, aren’t you?”
“We just captured the agent who’s been after you. They call her Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden. I think she’s working alone, but we can’t be sure.”
Kasperov drew back his head. “Snegurochka? I know her.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“We worked on a case together.”
“Then you know what a hard time we’ve had. Please, let me have my phone. Let’s call your daughter. It’ll just take a minute.”
Kasperov glanced to his girlfriend, who whispered something to him. He faced Fisher and said, “All right.” He motioned to Anatoly outside, who opened the door. “Take off his cuffs. Give me his phone.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Take off his cuffs!”
Anatoly reluctantly complied, freeing Fisher and returning the smartphone. Fisher rubbed his wrists, thanked Kasperov, then quickly called Charlie back at the plane. “I’m sitting here with Mr. Kasperov.”
“Whoa, really?”
“Calm down. I need you to patch me through to the safe house. He needs to speak with Nadia right now. Tell Grim to get the POTUS on the line and have her standing by.”
“Gotcha. Just give me a second.”
A commotion outside sent the other bodyguards jogging by, and Fisher craned his head to spot another car, a dilapidated sedan missing its front bumper and bouncing on worn-out shocks toward the helipad.
“That’s my partner,” Fisher told Kasperov. “And he’s got the Snow Maiden with him. Can you tell your men to back off?”
Kasperov fished out his own smartphone and made a call, barking orders to Anatoly.
“Sam, I’ve got her on the line.”
“Nadia, it’s Sam again. I’m here with your father. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, please, let me talk to him.”
Before handing the phone over to Kasperov, Fisher glanced empathically at the man. “Like I said, all we want to do is help. You have to believe that.” He handed over the phone.
Kasperov scrutinized Fisher before tentatively accepting the phone.
“Nadia? Is that you?”
While Fisher could not hear what Nadia was saying, Kasperov broke down almost immediately, backhanding away the tears and telling her how sorry he was and how much he loved her. He asked if she was safe, and Fisher suspected that she told him more than enough to help their case.
He returned the phone to Fisher, who spoke once more with Charlie: “Is the president standing by?”
“I have her now.”
“Good. Madame President, Mr. Kasperov is here.” Fisher widened his gaze. “You just spoke to your daughter. Now I’m giving you the President of the United States. If, after this, you still think I’m a Russian agent, then you’re not the genius they say you are.”
Kasperov’s eyes had grown pink. He stared at Fisher for a moment, his gaze much softer now as he lifted the phone to his ear and spoke in English: “This is Igor Kasperov . . .”
He didn’t say much at first, probably because Caldwell was selling him hard on coming to the United States. In Fisher’s humble opinion they had a viable and convincing offer: They would reunite the man with his daughter, provide him with protection against the wrath of the Russian government, and help him rebuild his business empire. No amount of cash could buy those outcomes now.
“I can’t say why I fled Russia. Not here, not now,” said Kasperov. “But, okay, I go to Juliaca. I board your plane, but I want your guarantees in writing. All right, then. Good-bye, Madame President.”
He handed over the phone, and Fisher reassured him that they’d videoconference with Nadia once they returned to the plane, and they’d provide any other proof he needed.
Kasperov resumed his native tongue. “So you really are an American agent. Do you have a name?”
Fisher grinned wearily. “You heard it. I’m Sam.”
Kasperov glanced away and began to laugh.
“I’m sorry?” Fisher asked, wondering if Kasperov would let him in on the joke.
“I want to know your whole name. Your real name.”
“I could tell you anything I want, and it could still be a lie.”
“But you won’t, because we’re going to trust each other now.” Kasper
ov reached over and proffered his hand.
Fisher took the man’s hand and shook it firmly. “Very well, then, sir. My name is Sam Fisher.”
25
BEFORE they boarded the chopper, Kasperov wanted to take a moment to speak with the Snow Maiden, and Fisher indulged him, escorting the man back to Briggs’s car, where the Russian agent sat, brooding, her gaze burning through the open window. “Igor, you got fatter,” she said with a crooked grin.
“They told me you were holding my daughter in Sochi.”
“We had fun. We got ice cream.”
“I’d like to kill you right now, but I’m going to do worse . . . much worse. I’m going to hand you over to the Americans.”
She threw back her head and cackled.
“I’m thrilled that amuses you.”
“Igor, that’s no threat. You think they’ll torture me? There’s no extraordinary rendition or black sites. They’ve lost the stomach for it. The Americans are weak now, controlled by a liberal media, a Congress at war with itself, and a president too concerned with appearances. I’ll be going on vacation.”
Fisher shouldered up beside Kasperov to face the Snow Maiden. “You won’t be interrogated by the government. At least not at first. You’ll be interrogated by me. And I have the freedom to get what I need through any means possible. You don’t have to believe me now, but I’ll prove it to you, and the experience will be anything but a vacation.”
“You’re a comedian,” she told Fisher. “Do you have more good jokes to entertain me?”
Fisher gritted his teeth. “When we get back to my plane, you’ll understand.” Fisher turned to Briggs. “Let’s go.”
As they headed toward the chopper with the Snow Maiden clutched by two of Kasperov’s men, Fisher thanked Hector once more, along with the other miners.
“Your sons would be proud of what you did today,” Fisher told the man.
“Thank you.”
They boarded the chopper, with the Snow Maiden in the back row, seated between Anatoly and Briggs.
“Grim, it’s me. We’re taking off with Kasperov. Should be there shortly. Tell the flight crew to get prepped for takeoff.”
“You got it, Sam. Nice work.”
He smiled inwardly. Compliments from Grim were rare gems indeed. “See you in a few.”
The chopper pitched forward and began to rise, the force throwing Fisher back into his seat.
As the pilot wheeled around, taking them across the snow-covered slopes and continuing to lift off, Briggs cursed, then cried, “What the hell?”
Fisher craned his neck—
Just as the Snow Maiden bolted up from her seat a second before Anatoly was finished with her seat belt.
Hunched over in the tight cabin, she made two carefully placed hops, then turned, slamming her back against the side door and getting her hands on the latch.
Fisher’s mouth fell open.
She had timed it perfectly.
While they’d been filing somewhat victoriously into the cabin, their guards down, she’d been working.
She’d studied the door handle, the angles and forces involved, the push-button lock. She’d judged the distance from her seat to the door. She’d guessed about how much maneuverability she’d have and knew she’d need to make her break before Anatoly buckled her in.
As Briggs lunged for her, the side door slid open behind her, the cold air whooshing into the cabin and beginning to howl. She wriggled her brows at Fisher before letting herself fall backward—
Into the air.
Fisher threw off his buckles and came in behind Briggs, the wind nearly blinding now.
“Shut the door!” cried the copilot.
They watched as the Snow Maiden plunged ten, maybe fifteen meters, slamming hard into the snow and plunging at least another meter through the ice crust and into the softer powder beneath.
“Circle back!” shouted Fisher.
As Briggs rolled shut the door and locked it, the pilot banked hard, taking them back toward the Snow Maiden, a mere dot against a sheet of pale white.
They swooped down, and Fisher riveted his gaze on her, searching for any signs of movement.
“That fall must’ve killed her,” said Briggs. “Probably snapped her neck.”
“Yes, she would rather kill herself than be taken prisoner,” said Kasperov. “They’re trained to do that. If there’s no way to escape, then they’ll try everything they can to commit suicide. I guess the days of the poisoned tooth are over, otherwise this could’ve been avoided.”
“I don’t think she was trying to kill herself,” said Fisher. “And I don’t think she’s dead. Just unconscious. We need to go back.”
“Nowhere to land down there,” said the pilot. “That means it’s the helipad or nothing, and you’ll need to hike back up there on foot to get her.”
“And carry her back down,” said Briggs, staring out the window. “She looks dead. She wasn’t the target. But if we need to confirm, then let’s do it.”
“Grim, we’ve got a complication,” Fisher said.
“What, exactly?”
Fisher struggled for the words. “The Snow Maiden accidentally fell out of the chopper.”
Briggs looked at him and winced.
“What?” cried Grim.
“Point is, we’re going to be late.”
“No, no way.”
“Maybe an hour. It’s nothing.”
“Sam, listen to me. We’ve got two jets inbound and they’ll be on the tarmac within an hour. They’re both owned by MCS Charter out of Moscow, a known front company for the GRU. Same company that owns that Gulfstream G650 that I’m thinking must’ve dropped off the Snow Maiden.”
“Shit, maybe she blew an alarm.”
“Or maybe they’re tracking her and she didn’t know it. Either way, we need to get the hell out of here. Now.”
Fisher stared hard at the Snow Maiden’s motionless form as the helo continued to circle overhead. They had nothing, not even the agent’s cell phone to bring back. She had to be operating rogue to head up to La Rinconada with no comm.
Fisher looked at Briggs, then at Kasperov and his girlfriend. He bit back a curse and lifted his voice, “All right, pilot. Just get us back to Juliaca. Top speed.”
* * *
THE Snow Maiden waited until the sound of the helicopter grew faint.
Then she sat up, scowling over the deep aches in her back and shoulders. Was anything broken? She wasn’t sure but she didn’t think so. She blinked hard, and then it finally dawned on her—what she had just done. She began to chuckle so hard that she nearly choked.
Down below, near the helipad, some of the miners who’d been watching the helo lift off began hiking up the slope, toward her.
* * *
GRIM and Charlie were waiting for them as they rushed up Paladin’s rear loading ramp. Kasperov came forward, ringed by his bodyguards, his girlfriend clinging to his arm.
“And who are they?” he asked Fisher.
“The rest of my team.”
Fisher made the requisite introductions, with Charlie shaking Kasperov’s hand and stammering like a groupie. Then, as the loading ramp groaned up behind them, Grim lifted her voice and said, “Mr. Kasperov. We can’t tell you exactly who we are, and we’re going to ask that you and your party forget everything you see here, but nevertheless, I want to welcome you aboard Paladin.”
Kasperov crossed quickly to the SMI table, throwing up his hands, his eyes growing wide and bright. “This . . . is this what I think it is?”
“No,” Grim said with a smile. “And you never saw it.” She tapped a few screens, and abruptly they had a live stream to Nadia’s room back at the safe house. She was watching TV, then turned at the light turning green near the compu
ter monitor.
“Oh my God, Dad?” She moved to the video camera, her pale face filling the screen, her bruises beginning to turn purple and yellow.
“Yes, I’m here! What happened to your eye? Did she hit you?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Dad, please, we have to stay with the Americans now. We can trust them. Okay? Listen to me for once.”
“I already have,” said Kasperov. “And I’m so sorry, Nadia. I did this to you.”
“Shut up. You’re always so dramatic. And maybe what happened to us is not such a bad thing. Now you don’t have to complain about the government anymore. You’re free of them, yes?”
“Yes, you’re right. I love you.”
“And I love you.”
Grim lifted her chin. “Nadia, we have to say good-bye for now. We’ll have your father call you when we land in Virginia.”
“All right, thank you.”
Kasperov nodded his thanks and blinked back the tears welling in his eyes.
Grim faced the group. “We’ve got jump seats on the wall toward the back. Everybody needs to buckle in for takeoff.”
Charlie came over to Fisher and slapped him on the shoulder. “Great job, Sam. You and Briggs rock-starred the shit out of this operation.”
Fisher ignored the praise, his thoughts still locked on the slopes outside the mine. “Can you get me a satellite on the mountain where we lost the Snow Maiden?”
“Not sure we got anything within range right now, but we can try.” Charlie rushed over to his station and, as was his wont, banged on his keyboard in a fury that sounded as though the keys might snap off. Screens and access codes flashed by so quickly that Fisher got dizzy. Charlie patched into a satellite that snapped an image of the mountainside.
“Shit, I knew it,” said Fisher.
“Knew what? I don’t see anything.”
“That’s what I mean. She was right there. Now she’s gone. She wasn’t dead.”
“So what? We’re so gone now she’ll never catch us.”
“You tell me how she found us here?”
