by Tom Clancy
There’s a noise outside in the hallway. I freeze as I realize that someone’s coming down the creaky stairs. Whoever it is shouts at the sleeping guard, giving the guy a thorough dressing-down for drinking and falling asleep on the job. I hear the guard, disoriented and hoarse, try his best to apologize.
More footsteps. There are several guys out there. What the hell am I going to do? There’s no way out of this office. No windows, no vents, nothing. I move to the door and stand behind it, my Five-seveN drawn and ready. If I have to shoot my way out, I’ll do it.
Then I hear the newcomer ask the guard why the bookcase upstairs was open. The guard doesn’t have an answer. An order is given to search the premises.
I reach into my trouser leg pocket and grab a smoke grenade. After lowering my goggles, I clutch it in my left hand and prepare to pull the pin with my teeth and throw it. Suddenly, the office door pushes inward, slamming against me and revealing my position.
21
I switch on my thermal vision, pull the grenade pin, reach around the open door, and drop it. The men shout in alarm and then there’s a tremendous explosion in the hallway. It’s just a smoke grenade but the tight confines of the quarters magnifies the intensity of the blast. Total chaos ensues outside the office as the door is bombarded with gunfire. I fall to the floor, facedown, and crawl out beneath the line of fire. With my head in the hallway I can count four warm bodies in the smoke. Three of them are shooting blindly toward the office. I calmly aim my Five-seveN and take them out—one, two, three.
“Stop!” the fourth man shouts. “Stop shooting, you fools!” The poor guy doesn’t realize his men are already dead. I can see him moving toward the staircase, feeling his way along the wall. I stand, grab him in a one-arm choke hold, and place the barrel of my handgun to his head.
It’s Anton Antipov.
“I should just kill you now,” I say in Russian.
The guy is trembling. “Wait!” he says in English. “Please!”
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“If you kill me you’ll . . . you’ll never know what’s going on.”
“I know what’s going on.”
“Surely you don’t know the details.” The guy is desperate. The coward is ready to spill his guts. He’s right, though. I don’t know the details. I pull him back through the hallway and out of the smoke. We end up in the storeroom with the weapons. I throw him to the floor, quickly frisk him, and find that he’s unarmed. Standing over him with the Five-seveN in his face, I say, “Okay, Antipov. Tell me the details. I’m listening. Don’t leave anything out.”
The man squints at me and asks, “Who are you?”
“The Avon Lady. Now what’s the Shop doing with the MRUUV material?”
“You’re Fisher! Are you not? The Splinter Cell!”
“I asked you a question.”
“I was afraid you might show up sooner rather than later. Andrei . . . Andrei wouldn’t believe you’d be on our trail so quickly.”
“Are you going to answer me or not? You have three seconds.”
“Wait!” Antipov puts up his hands defensively. “Don’t shoot!”
“Okay, I’m waiting. Now talk to me.”
“We’ve sold the MRUUV plans to General Tun in China. He plans to attack Taiwan with his army. He’s mobilizing in Fuzhou and war is imminent.”
Is the general nuts? “He’s crazy if he thinks he can attack Taiwan without retaliation from the United Nations, not to mention America. Surely he knows that.”
Antipov nods. “The general apparently has a plan for that scenario.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“I don’t know!”
The guy is too scared to lie. I think back to the information I gleaned from Zdrok’s computer. “What’s this final piece that’s coming from California?”
“You know about that?”
“Answer me.”
“It’s the guidance system for the MRUUV. A firm based in Los Angeles is designing it according to Tun’s specifications. You know how the MRUUV works?”
Yeah, I do. It’s an undersea torpedo that can be guided remotely from a submarine or ship. “Why the hell would Tun need one of those to attack Taiwan? Does he have a bomb? One of your Russian nuclear bombs? Is that what came in this crate?” I indicate the one that was marked as containing beets.
Antipov nods. “Yes, he’s got it. All he needs now is the guidance system. It will be on its way here from California any day if it isn’t already.”
I’m confused. The plan doesn’t make a bit of sense. Why would the general use a nuke on Taiwan? Isn’t the whole point to annex it to China? A nuke would completely obliterate such a tiny country. And what about the Chinese government? Do they know what he’s up to?
Antipov shivers. “Please. Let me go. We just . . . we’re just b-b-businessmen.”
Why in the world would China want to destroy Taiwan? They’ve been trying to get the rogue island back into their sphere of influence for decades. You’d think they’d want to inhabit the place, take it over, and exploit its resources. No, there’s something missing here.
“What else do you know, Antipov?” I ask. “There’s more to this than you’re telling me.”
I see a flicker of triumph in the man’s eyes. “Let’s . . . let’s work out a deal. Then perhaps I can tell you more.” He grins, nods, and pleads with his eyes like a hungry dog. “I can pay you! I’ll give you a million dollars. American! Let’s deal, Fisher!”
The guy makes me sick. The Shop doesn’t care who lives or who dies after they broker a transaction. They don’t think twice about selling a nuclear weapon to a mad-man for a bit of cash. At the moment I can’t think of anything more evil. The bribe only makes me angrier.
“Sorry,” I say. “No deals.”
Coldly and deliberately, I squeeze the trigger. Another quarter of the Shop’s leadership is eliminated.
I turn and walk through the corpse-ridden hallway back to the staircase. Once I’m upstairs I fire a couple of rounds at the store’s front plate window, shattering it to pieces. This sets off an alarm. Good. Let the Hong Kong police deal with the mess downstairs. I’m sure the little cache of weapons will interest them.
Lambert’s probably not going to approve of what I’ve done. But I have no regrets. Just like General Prokofiev in Moscow, Antipov needed to be taken out of the picture. When I run into the other two, Herzog and Zdrok, I plan on doing the same thing to them. If Lambert wants to remove me from the assignment, then so be it. The way I see it is this: A job that began over a year ago was never finished. The damage the Shop has done to Third Echelon is immeasurable. They killed several of our agents. Mike Chan and the Triad may have been responsible for Carly St. John’s murder, but if it hadn’t been for the Shop pulling the strings it wouldn’t have happened. So I say enough is enough.
I quickly leave through the back door, stick to the shadows, and make my way back to the ferry.
22
JEFF Kehoe looked at his watch and whispered into the microphone of his headset. “Thirty seconds. On my signal.”
“Roger that.”
The FBI field office had provided Kehoe with six men to stage the raid on Eddie Wu’s apartment. As long as no other Triad members were present, the operation was expected to go smoothly.
Kehoe had waited until the two Wu brothers were safely inside the eight-story apartment building and then set up a stakeout until nightfall. At just after one in the morning, the team arrived in full riot gear, ready to storm the residence. The Bureau had previously taken care of contacting the building’s management to warn them of what was about to take place. Warrants and legal formalities were executed by the book. An ambulance and fire truck were waiting a block away in case they were needed.
The apartment was on the top floor, one of three penthouses in the building. There was only one way in—and out. Since the brothers must be asleep, the element of surprise was in the team’s favor.
Kehoe gave the signal and three men moved down the hall with the battering ram. Assault rifles ready, the trio looked at Kehoe for confirmation. The special agent nodded. The first man knocked loudly on the door.
“Open up! FBI!”
By rote, the team didn’t wait for the door to open. They slammed the battering ram against the door, knocking it off its hinges. The two other agents stormed into the living room, followed by Kehoe and the four remaining officers.
Mike Wu was in a deep sleep when the crash of the door jolted him to reality. The feds surrounded him before he could sit up in bed. With three rifles pointed at his head, Wu had no choice but to raise his hands.
As the Third Echelon traitor was taken into custody, the other men searched the rest of the apartment for Eddie Wu. He was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s your brother?” Kehoe asked Mike as the handcuffs were snapped onto the man’s wrists.
“I don’t know!” Mike said. “He was here when I went to bed.”
Kehoe had not seen the guy leave the building. He couldn’t believe Eddie wasn’t there. He angrily turned to two team members and told them to tear the place apart. Kehoe then jerked his head at the men holding Mike and said, “Let’s go.”
Unbeknownst to the FBI or to his brother, Eddie Wu had built an escape hatch in the closet floor of his bedroom. The idea to do so had come from Jon Ming himself back when Eddie set himself up in Los Angeles. The FBI would eventually find the trapdoor, but not until after Wu was safely away. The door led to a passageway much like an air vent through which Eddie could crawl to the stairwell on the eighth floor. When Eddie heard the crash at the front door, he immediately went for the closet. He knew he couldn’t save his brother; the important thing was to get away quickly. It took him forty-two seconds to move from his bed to the closet, open the trapdoor, and snake to the stairwell. It was then a simple matter to run down the stairs and leave the building without the FBI ever seeing him.
It worked like a charm.
“I want a lawyer.”
It had been twelve hours since his arrest.
Mike Wu sat in the bare interrogation room under intense bright lights with nothing but a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. Other than the mirror on the wall, which Wu obviously knew was for observation, nothing else adorned the cold, concrete space.
He was exhausted and uncomfortable. His hands were still cuffed behind him and he was barefoot. Wu had been forced to discard the T-shirt and boxer shorts he had been wearing in bed and now wore standard prisoner’s trousers and a tunic.
Kehoe and L.A. FBI chief Al Nudelman sat at the table with the captive and were getting nowhere.
“Mike, you’re being held under the Homeland Security Act,” Kehoe said. “You don’t have the same rights normal, ordinary, everyday criminals have. If I had my way, I’d organize a little lynch party right here and now for what you’ve done. You’ve betrayed your country by passing classified defense secrets to enemy organizations and you’re responsible for the murder of a federal employee and the murder of an Oklahoma state employee. You’re up shit creek, mister.”
“I still want a lawyer. And something to eat, man. You can’t treat me like this. I’m an American citizen.”
“You sure don’t act like one.”
There was a knock on the steel door. Nudelman stood, opened it, and conversed with another agent. The chief nodded and closed the door. He stepped over to Kehoe and delivered the message.
“Oh, good news, Mike,” Kehoe said. “An old friend is here to see you and he’d like to ask you some questions. He flew all the way from Washington, D.C., today just to do so.”
The door opened and Colonel Lambert walked in. Mike Wu shut his eyes and shuddered. He had honestly respected his boss at Third Echelon and dreaded the moment when he would have to face the colonel.
“Hello, Mike,” Lambert said with no indication of warmth.
Mike looked up and nodded. “Colonel.”
Lambert sat across from the prisoner and acknowledged Kehoe. “Good afternoon.”
“Is it afternoon already?” Kehoe asked. “Feels like next year already.”
“Thanks for letting me know about this. I got here as soon as I could.”
“I think you made it in record time, Colonel. Did they beam you here?”
Lambert looked at Mike and said, “So has this lowlife said anything yet?”
“Not a thing. Keeps asking for a lawyer.”
Lambert grunted. He stared at his former employee and then leaned forward. “Mike, listen to me. It’s in your best interest to make a statement. Sign a confession. You know what you’ve done and we’ve got the proof you did it. Now we could go through a lengthy trial and cost the taxpayers a lot of money and draw this out to painful proportions . . . or you can simply confess and we’ll try to go easy on you.”
“Easy? How easy can a death sentence be?” Mike asked.
“Well, for one thing, maybe you’ll get life. I’ll recommend it. No guarantees, though.”
Mike didn’t say a word. He looked at Lambert for a full minute as if they were in a stare-down contest. Finally, the prisoner leaned forward and said as slowly as he could, “I. Want. A. Lawyer.”
Lambert and Kehoe looked at each other and sighed.
“Hey, Mike, you remember Sam Fisher?” Lambert asked.
“I met him once.”
“But you know who he is. You know what he’s capable of.”
Mike shrugged.
“Well, guess what. He’s on his way here. He finished his assignment in Hong Kong and I told him to head on back to the States. When he heard you were in custody, he couldn’t wait to have a word with you. He was very fond of Carly, you see. I have a good mind to let Sam in here and, well, Agent Kehoe and I will leave you two alone for a while. I can’t vouch for how Sam will react when he lays eyes on you. And seeing as how you’re in Maximum Security Unit Six, which no one the fuck knows exists, you might as well wish you’d died in a hail of bullets.”
Mike knew exactly what the colonel was talking about. Everyone at Third Echelon held the Splinter Cells in awe—especially Sam Fisher. It was almost as if the guy wasn’t human. He was a very dangerous machine.
Lambert stood and said, “You think about that for a while, Mike. It’ll take another half day or so before he gets here. Plenty of time to write and sign a confession. Come on, Agent Kehoe. Let’s leave this scum alone with his demons.”
The two men left the room and locked the door. Mike Wu nervously cracked his knuckles but stared defiantly at the mirror. He knew they were behind it, watching him. After a moment, he picked up the half-empty coffee cup and threw it against the dark glass. The brown liquid ran down the wall and made an ugly puddle in the otherwise stark and sterile room.
“I want a lawyer!” he shouted again.
ANDREI Zdrok was the only man in the Shop administration who knew the Benefactor’s identity. The man who acted as an agent for the Shop in the Far East had been a longtime associate of the group and had stepped up to the plate to help when the organization lost its foothold in Eastern Europe. To the others on the board, the man was known simply as “the Benefactor” because that was the way he wanted it. Zdrok was happy to comply with the man’s every wish. After all, Zdrok had to grudgingly admit that the Shop would be defunct had it not been for the Lucky Dragons on one hand and the Benefactor on the other. Now it appeared that the relationship between the Shop and the Triad was going sour. Zdrok knew the partnership with Ming would completely dissolve once General Tun had the guidance system in his possession.
The disaster at the antique shop would further deteriorate the Shop’s standing in the area. Antipov was dead. Their offices were destroyed and were now being picked apart by the Hong Kong police. No doubt several international intelligence agencies would be hovering like vultures over the remains. It now looked as if Zdrok might have to pick up roots and leave again.
He picked up the phone on his desk and dia
led one of the few numbers he knew by heart. The Benefactor picked it up and said in English, “Yes, Andrei?”
Zdrok attempted English as well since the Benefactor’s Russian wasn’t great. “Good day, sir. How are things in your new—”
“They’re fine, Andrei. What can I do for you?”
“One of our men in California was arrested. He was to be the one bringing the guidance system to the Lucky Dragons. And as you know—”
“Jon Ming canceled the sale. But I understand the men in California have offered to sell it to you directly. How much do they want?”
“That’s still being negotiated. Oskar will handle the transaction. But there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“This National Security Agency man. Sam Fisher. The Splinter Cell. He’s responsible for what happened at the antique shop. It’s time we do something about it. Once and for all.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. Go ahead. Make the call. I’ll front the down payment. Offer him more than usual.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.”
The Benefactor hung up and Zdrok dialed another number he knew without looking it up. The phone rang five times before the man answered. “Da?”
Andrei Zdrok said, “Thank goodness you’re there.” He told the man what had happened at the antique shop. “It’s the last straw. Sam Fisher must die. And you’re just the one to do it. You’re the only one who can do it.”
Zdrok waited twenty seconds before the other party replied. “I want double the usual fee. You can understand why.”
“Of course. Let’s say two and a half times the usual fee. How’s that?”
“Very generous of you. Where do I find him?”
“He has just left Hong Kong and is now on his way to Los Angeles. You can pick up his scent there.”