by Tom Clancy
I’m conveniently three blocks away from I-695 and can do most of my food shopping at a market a block away on York Road. My Krav Maga class meets in the same strip mall. My instructor, Katia Loenstern, left me an intriguing message on my answering machine.
“There’s going to be a special class on Thursday and I’d really like you to be there,” she had said. “Please.”
Well, it’s Thursday, so I change into my jumpsuit for the workout. I grab a small gym bag to carry a towel and an extra T-shirt, and I’m ready to go. It’s still winter in Maryland so I wear a slick red ski jacket and set out on the five-minute walk from my subdivision. But before I shut the front door and lock it, I hear the house phone ring. I keep two phone lines—one has an unlisted number that’s for personal use. Friends and family—what little of them I have—use that number. The other phone is a secure line to Third Echelon.
Since not many people have my home number, I can usually bet that a caller is not a telemarketer but instead someone I don’t mind talking to. I rush back inside and grab the phone in the kitchen, which is on the ground floor next to the front door.
“Fisher,” I answer.
“Dad!”
I feel my smile stretch across my face. It’s worth turning around and coming back into the house to get a phone call from my daughter, Sarah.
“How are you, honey?”
“I’m fine. It’s cold here. You got snow?” In my mind’s eye I picture her at five or six years old, which isn’t the case anymore. It’s hard for me to accept the fact that she’s no longer a little girl.
“No, it’s melted but it’s cold outside. I was just about to walk over to my gym class. How’s school?”
“Good. You know why I’m calling, don’t you?”
I think for a second. “Um, because you love your dad and just wanted to hear his voice?”
She laughs with her unique girl-giggle that tugs at my heart. “No, silly. Well, sure, that’s true, too, but I called to wish you Happy Birthday!”
Damn. I nearly forgot. My friggin’ birthday is tomorrow. I chuckle and shake my head. It figures that it conveniently slipped my mind.
“So why don’t you call me tomorrow, too?”
“Well, I’m in school all day and then I have play rehearsal tomorrow night.”
“Right.”
“So, here goes!” She starts to sing the stupid song and I laugh some more. When she’s done, I thank her profusely.
“You should be getting something in the mail,” she says. “I gotta run. You gonna be home for a while now that you’re back?”
“I hope so. At least until my next overseas sales conference.”
She snorts. “Yeah, right. We wouldn’t want you to miss it.”
Sarah knows what I do. I was able to keep it from her for a long time until the incident last year, when the Shop got hold of her. With the loss of innocence comes the responsibility of living life as the child of a Splinter Cell.
We chat for another minute, send each other our love, and hang up. As an afterthought, I kiss my index finger and touch her photo that’s held on my refrigerator door by a magnet. Then I head out the door once again.
As Splinter Cells go, I’m fortunate that I’m not assigned to a static location. Most of the other Splinter Cells are stationed in parts of the world where I certainly wouldn’t want to stay all the time. I guess I have a special position within Third Echelon. Being the first Splinter Cell and an agent who can adapt easily to just about any place they send me, I’m more useful as a “contractor.” In the old days, spies were often diplomats or embassy intelligence officers stationed in the country where they did the spying. With Third Echelon, though, the Splinter Cells are guys who have no affiliation with the U.S. government—at least they don’t in a public sense. I’ve used numerous cover identities when I’m on a job and I have to sometimes learn trades and skills to make the cover more legitimate. At any rate, it’s nice to be able to come home between assignments in order to see Sarah.
Third Echelon sure beats the CIA, which is where I worked before Colonel Lambert recruited me. In the CIA I had to spy in the traditional way—usually posing as a diplomat or someone in an official capacity. Later on I moved to a stateside job in weapons development. I thought I came up with some pretty good theoretical work on information warfare but the bureaucratic machine always managed to hamper my creativity. I’ve always been and will continue to be a man of action until my health or age prevents me from doing the job. Right now I’m pushing fifty. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have with Third Echelon before they forcibly retire me, but you can bet I’ll stay until they do. I don’t really know what I’ll do with myself without the work. I truly believe it keeps me young. It’s something about the danger, the thrill of the hunt, the most dangerous game. When your life is on the line, not to mention the lives of your countrymen, it tends to keep the adrenaline flowing. And I’m addicted to that rush.
I reach the strip mall and go inside the small dance studio that Katia rents for her class. She’s already there, limbering up, and I’m not surprised to see that we’re the only two people in the place. I’m usually the first to arrive.
“Sam!” she says as she bends her torso over her left leg and pulls on her foot. As usual, she’s dressed in a leotard and tights. It’s impossible not to notice her spectacular long legs. “I’m glad you’re back. How was the trip?”
“Busy,” I say as I place my gym bag on the floor next to the big mirror on the wall. “Where is everyone?”
She smiles flirtatiously. “I guess they’re late. Go ahead and warm up and then you and I’ll get started.”
I start in on my stretches as I watch her. Katia, as I’ve mentioned before, is an Israeli-American and she’s extremely attractive. She’s thirty-six and keeps very fit and buff. She’s got great brown eyes, a long nose, and a wonderful pouty mouth. Her long, curly dark hair flows wildly around her head unless she ties it into a ponytail. Even then the hair is so curly it just sticks out in a bunch rather than hanging like a true ponytail. I think it’s cute.
While I’m warming up, Katia stands and goes over to her things to retrieve a water bottle. She takes a swig and allows the spillage to run down her chin, neck, and front of her leotard. Katia’s got nice, natural breasts, and the moisture serves to accentuate them. Damn, she’s never done that before and I’d swear she’s doing it for my benefit. What the hell is going on here?
“So,” she says, “a little bird tells me your birthday is tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah? What little bird is that?”
“Your registration form you filled out for the class.”
“Really? Does it fly?” I’m on the floor now, stretching my legs. She approaches and stands over me.
“How about I bring you breakfast tomorrow?” she suggests.
“What? Katia . . .”
“No, really, Sam.” She squats to my level. “You never go out and I’ve had enough of our friendly get-togethers to ‘just have coffee.’ I want to bring you a birthday present and I’m volunteering to bring you breakfast. I know where you live; it’s on your registration form. How’s eight-thirty sound? Or would you rather sleep in for a while? I can make it nine-thirty or ten if you prefer.”
I stop stretching and look at her. The woman is serious. “Katia, we’ve talked about this before. I’m really not in the singles market. I really appreciate the offer but I’d rather not—”
“Bullshit, Fisher. Enough excuses. Now get up. It’s time to work.” She stands and moves away.
I’m beginning to understand why no other students have shown up for class. I’ve been set up. “The others sure are late,” I say.
“Forget the others, Fisher,” she says. “I wanted you all to myself today. I need you to spot me on some new moves. You game?”
I stand and shrug. “Sure, Katia.”
Before I have a chance to defend myself, she charges and delivers a powerful spinning heel kick, knocking me to the mat.
I fall flat on my ass.
“What’s the number one rule in Krav Maga, Fisher?” she asks.
I sit up wearily. “Avoid getting hit.”
She shakes her head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk . . .” Katia gestures with her hand for me to stand. I do so but now I’m on my guard. When she comes at me again I block the kick, grab her calf, and twist. She’s prepared for the maneuver, though. She rotates her body in the same direction as the twist and touches her hands to the floor to support herself. At the same time she sledgehammer kicks me in the abdomen with her free leg. This forces me to let go of her calf. I step back and look at my instructor with renewed respect.
Katia’s on her feet. “Throw me, Fisher,” she says. “If you can.”
“Katia, you know I can.”
“Then shut up and do it.” Before I can move, she says, “If I pin you, I’m serving breakfast at your place tomorrow. Deal?”
“Whoa, Katia. Wait a second.”
“Deal?” This time she grins mischievously.
All right, if that’s the way she wants it. “All right, Katia. Deal.”
“Then throw me.”
I move in to her live side, that is, the inside of an opponent using a basic stance with one foot forward. She has her left foot forward so I move ahead and to my left. Moving to this angle places me in a position where I can be struck by either her hands or feet. I want her to attack.
Katia tries another kick but I sidestep and try to grab her leg, but she moves away quickly. She circles so gracefully it’s like fighting a ballerina. Before I know it, she’s behind me and slap-kicks me in the kidney. I turn and let her have it on the chin with a right hook. I’ve never before hit my instructor with such force but she’s asking for it! The blow shocks her a little. She rubs her chin, shakes her head, and then glares at me.
“You all right?” I ask. I’m actually afraid of hurting her.
“Shut up,” she says. She’s mad now. Katia comes at me like a wild tiger, leaps onto me, and wraps her lithe legs around my waist. She then repeatedly delivers nerve-wracking ridge-hand blows to either side of my neck. She knows where the exact pressure points are, too, so I feel sparks of pain shooting down my spinal cord like lightning. I can’t help but fall to my knees with Katia still attached.
She then delivers a straight punch to my nose. I swear I see stars. But I have the presence of mind to block the next blow and then spear-chop her sternum, right between her breasts. It does the trick—she releases me from her leg lock and pushes away from me. I just hope I didn’t hit her too hard.
“You all right?” I ask again.
“Shut the fuck up,” she says. Before I have a chance to stand, she propels herself at me, slamming my lower back to the mat. I use the momentum of her own weight to throw her over my head. She lands with a hard slap. I quickly twist to a facedown position and grab her shoulders. Our heads are parallel, facing each other with my chin to her forehead and vice versa. She struggles for a moment and then brings her legs up. With amazing agility, she kicks me in the face with both feet. Needless to say, I let her up.
What’s come over this woman? Does she want a date with me that badly? I admit I’d been thinking about her a lot lately and was wondering whether or not it was time to end my years of celibacy. She’s being very persuasive!
We’re both on our feet now. She moves in to my dead side before I can adjust my stance. This is the opposite angle of the live side. I have my right foot forward, so she steps with her left and moves so that more of her back is to me. I attempt to grab her under the arms in order to apply a full nelson, but she wiggles out of that with ease. At the same time, she back kicks my knee and stomps on my bare foot. An elbow to the lower abdomen sends me to the floor.
The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back again and she’s on top of me. I push her shoulders and am fairly certain I could fling her off of me—but I just don’t want to. This little “exercise” of hers has caused me to become aroused. Katia lowers herself until her face is an inch from mine. I no longer resist.
She kisses me on the mouth. It’s a long, passionate, animalistic kiss, with tongues and biting and sucking. It goes on for at least a minute before we part. Her eyes are alive with excitement and she’s panting with pleasure.
That’s when I throw her off of me.
She topples onto the mat and looks at me as if I’d just committed a grievous sin. I do believe I’ve offended her.
“I’m sorry, Katia,” I say. We’re both out of breath. “It’s just . . .”
“Forget it, Sam,” she says. “You just don’t want to admit you liked it.”
She’s right. I did like it. And damn it, it has been too long since I’ve had any sort of romantic involvement. Is it time? Can I forget Regan’s ghost and stop ignoring the feelings in my loins and in my heart? Can I do this without someone getting hurt?
“So,” she says, “I pinned you. What time is breakfast?”
And she smiles. I laugh and shake my head in resignation.
9
SERGEANT Kim Lee Wei enjoyed his early morning beat in Tsim Sha Tsui East because it allowed him the opportunity to watch the sunrise from the Promenade. This amazing waterfront walkway offered some of the best sights in Hong Kong. Specifically, one could see a postcard-worthy view of the central skyline on the island across the harbor. The scene was particularly mesmerizing at night.
The Promenade became crowded with people as the day went on, so Sergeant Wei relished the quiet and relative emptiness at dawn. Of course there were the usual early morning tai chi practitioners, joggers, and fishermen, but the number was negligible. Later the walkway would be full of musicians, photographers with tripods, strolling couples, mothers with prams, clowns and jugglers, and an overwhelming horde of tourists. During the Chinese New Year, which had recently occurred, the Promenade was the place to watch the harbor fireworks display. The June Dragon Boat Festival always drew a mass of humanity as well. Sergeant Wei was grateful that his beat was almost always in the morning and he didn’t have to work those chaotic evening events. Like a good session of tai chi, the Promenade-at-dawn patrol was good mental therapy.
The policeman usually walked back and forth between the Star Ferry pier and the Hong Kong Coliseum. In his ten years of pounding the beat he had never encountered any serious trouble. Once he came upon a group of teenagers attempting to paint graffiti on the wall. There had been his share of drunks that had spent the night on benches. And there was the time he had found a woman’s purse. She had reported it stolen the previous day and made a big stink about it. Everything was intact within the purse, including her money and credit cards. Sergeant Wei figured she had simply dropped it and not noticed until later.
On this particular morning, the sergeant strolled west from the ferry pier, past the clock tower, and on around the southern tip of Kowloon. Near the New World Renaissance Hotel, Wei always encountered “Jimmy,” a fisherman who tried to catch his breakfast every morning. Wei didn’t know Jimmy’s full name but they always greeted each other with respect and friendliness. Wei figured the vagabond to be in his late sixties and had most likely seen it all. Jimmy never bothered anyone and was always gone by seven o’clock.
“Good morning, Jimmy,” the sergeant said in Cantonese.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Jimmy replied. “It will be a very nice day, I think.”
“Looks that way. Catching anything?”
“Not yet. The fish are not biting. Something else has their attention.”
“And what might that be?”
Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know. If you find out, you let me know.”
Wei laughed. “Will do. Have a good day.”
“You, too, Sergeant.”
Wei continued up toward the East Ferry pier and smiled to himself. Had he ever known Jimmy to actually catch a fish? He wasn’t sure.
When the sergeant reached the point where the Hong Kong Bypass was directly overhead, he noticed something odd. A metal stake had be
en hammered into the concrete at the edge of the walkway. A rope was tied around it and connected to something in the water. The line was taut.
What the hell? Wei thought. He had never seen that before.
He stepped over to take a closer look and saw that there was indeed something in the harbor being kept from floating away. Wei moved to the very edge, supported himself on the rail, and began to pull the rope. It was surprisingly heavy. After four hand-over-hand tugs, a burlap bundle broke the surface. It appeared to be elongated, roughly five or six feet long and maybe one or two feet wide. Wei continued to pull it up until he was able to grab the bulky end and drag it onto the walkway.
There was no doubt about it. It was a body.
An hour later, the Promenade was swarming with policemen. Sergeant Wei had provided a statement and the homicide detectives had taken over the case. Wei couldn’t believe he had run across a murder. A Caucasian man had been shot in the head, wrapped in burlap, and dropped in the water. The strange thing was that the killer or killers wanted the corpse to be found; hence, it was tied to the waterfront.
The dead man was logged as a “John Doe” at the morgue. It would take several days before the corpse was successfully identified as Professor Gregory Jeinsen.
IT was crunch time again at Third Echelon.
Carly St. John sometimes brought a bedroll with her to work when things got bad. As temporary technical director, she was more or less second in command of the team, reporting only to Colonel Lambert. Anna Grimsdottir, her superior and the regular technical director, was on the Company’s mandatory annual psych leave and was due back soon. In the meantime it was Carly’s responsibility to make sure Third Echelon functioned efficiently and accurately—mistakes could come back to haunt her and everyone involved in the security of the nation. That was why last year’s leak of Splinter Cell names to the Shop was so demoralizing. She’d never rest until she learned how it had happened.