by Tom Clancy
NSA HEADQUARTERS FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
THREE days later Hansen was sitting inside the situation room with Grim. He'd told her he was ready to talk the moment he'd stepped off the plane in Baltimore, but she'd insisted that he receive a complete physical exam and get a day's worth of bed rest. The X-rays revealed no permanent damage, and his eye, though still purple, was far less swollen.
"Before we begin, I assure you, Ben, that we're very happy with the work you did. No plan survives the first enemy contact, right? You were able to improvise. Now we know Kovac is watching us. We know he got to Sergei. And we know he had some kind of relationship with Bratus and Zhao and that there's a list of names."
"Who drove off in Bratus's car? You said you were tracking it."
"We were, but we lost it. And we don't know."
He stared at her. "You lost it?"
She returned his gaze. "That's right. The weather finally cut us off."
"Any leads? Speculation?"
"A few, but I can't comment at this time."
Hansen thought for a moment. "Can I ask you a question?"
She frowned. "Sure."
"Was I really working alone? I mean, just Sergei and me out there? No one else?"
Without hesitation she said, "I sent you out there myself. One agent, one runner. Why do you ask?"
He averted his gaze. She had not flinched, and her voice had not wavered. They could hook her up to a polygraph and the needle wouldn't budge. She was either the most proficient liar he'd ever met or she really didn't know.
He blurted out, "I was in the hangar. Rugar was going to torture me. I wouldn't have broken. I know that. But Sergei was there, and he shot Rugar. And then . . . he was going to shoot me."
She set down her cup of coffee. "But you took him out."
"I was lying on the floor with my hands cuffed behind my back."
"What' re you saying?"
He closed his eyes and he was back there, squinting toward the shadows, the cold rafters, the long seams in the metal ceiling. "Someone shot Sergei and left me there. I think that same person took off in Bratus's car."
The tension in Hansen's chest began to loosen, and he finally opened his eyes and looked at her.
She'd removed her glasses, and her gaze had gone distant. "Oh, my God . . ." she muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"And I'm going to sit here and let you tell me nothing?"
She sighed. "I can't say much more."
"You know who it was."
"I can't confirm that."
Hansen leaned toward her. "But you have an idea. Did you send someone to babysit me? Yes or no?"
"I told you no. And you'd best watch that tone."
He huffed. "Sorry. And if I can still ask . . . Did we get anything from the phones or that tag number?"
"They've wiped clean any traces. You shouldn't expect anything less."
"I guess not."
She took a long breath, then said, "I'm putting together a squad."
"Squad?" He'd uttered the word as though he'd never heard it before.
"Five field operatives, all new recruits, and you've earned your place as the team lead."
"Are you trying to change the subject?"
"I'm not trying, Ben. This is my meeting."
He nodded. "Okay, but one more thing. About Sergei. His body got back here okay? He'll get a proper funeral? Family notified?"
"It's all been taken care of. Kovac used him, Ben. He knew Sergei was vulnerable, and he used him. I feel terrible about that, and even more concerned about our current operations."
"So . . . you've decided to build a team? Wouldn't a group pose a greater security risk?"
"Or would a team be even more proficient than a single operator?"
"Depends on the situation."
"Exactly. And, you know, you never work alone. You always have a runner, you have us, you have eyes in the sky, watching."
"It's a test, isn't it? A test to see if the new guys have what it takes. I just told you that someone bailed me out of my mission, and now you're giving me team lead."
"Someone helped you evacuate. That's all. You got the information. You earned the spot."
"I'm not sure I want it."
Her frown deepened. "Are you kidding me?"
"Who are these people? I don't even know them. We've been training alone. And now I'm supposed to trust my life to them?"
"You'll start training together."
"I've been out there alone. I'm ready."
"You are. But I still want you to play nice with others."
"Do we at least get a cool code name?"
"It was randomly generated."
Hansen rolled his eyes. "What is it? Lard Barrel? Cow Dung?"
She almost smiled. "Delta Sly."
Hansen repeated the name. "Not too bad. And there's no significance?"
She shook her head.
The door behind them suddenly opened and a rather short, clean-cut man with dark eyes and a deep tan that looked more manufactured than natural strode into the room.
"Hi, Grim. Sorry I'm late."
Hansen rose from the table and turned to their visitor.
"Ben, let me introduce you to one of your new teammates," Grim began. "This is Allen Ames."
Ames beamed at Hansen. "Hi, Ben. Nice to meet you."
13
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND PRESENT DAY
AFTER returning from the mission in Houston, Hansen was accosted at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport by a pear-shaped man in his fifties wearing shorts, Birkenstocks, and a Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with purple parrots and palm trees. The guy had a camera case strung around his neck and a thick beard encrusted with pieces of his lunch (a thick sandwich, probably). He squinted through a pair of Harry Potter glasses and asked, "Are you Matthew Pine?"
Hansen froze. That was his alias for the work in Texas. "Who's asking?"
"If you'll come with me, Mr. Pine?"
"You have to talk sexier than that."
The fat man sighed, then spoke in an agitated singsong. "I don't have time for this. I was told to pick you up. If you won't come, I'll have to call my boss."
"Let me call mine." Hansen tried to hail Grim on his OPSAT. No response. He whirled back to the man, who was speaking rapidly on a cell phone. "Who are you?"
The big guy flashed an ID: NSA. Then he ended his call.
"Great," Hansen said through a sigh. "Am I under arrest or something?"
"Not technically."
"But technically I have to go with you."
"Technically, yes."
"Do you think you can outrun me?"
"Dude, come on. I'm a fat bastard. Don't make my life miserable. Just come along and play nice."
"Where are we going? Back to Hawaii?"
"Someplace out in the 'burbs. That's all I know."
"How long's the drive?"
"Not long."
"Not much of a detail-oriented guy, are you?"
He snorted. "You sound like my wife."
"You got an iPod?"
"Yeah."
"You got any AC/DC?"
The fat man grinned.
THEY arrived at a small, one-story house on a narrow street lined by old oak trees and warped telephone poles. A late-model SUV was parked in the driveway. This was typical middle-class America, about as nondescript as you could get. The front lawns were beginning to turn green from their long winter brown, and the ticking of a sprinkler sounded in the distance. Two black boys, about seven or eight, were standing on the driveway and shooting each other with water rifles that resembled antitank guided missile launchers.
"This is it," said Hansen's well-dressed NSA taxi driver.
Hansen shook his head. "What am I doing here?"
The man rapped a knuckle on the GPS unit mounted on his windshield. "Look, bro. This is where they told me to bring you. You mind getting out? I'm sure they got some pizzas they want me to pick up."
Hansen sighed, grabbed his small carry-on bag, and climbed out of the car. As soon as he slammed the door, the driver floored it, leaving a trail of sarcasm and echoing AC/DC in his wake.
With a deepening frown, Hansen started up the driveway, breathing in the sweet scent of hamburgers grilling on a barbecue from the house next door. One of the boys looked at him, wriggled his brows, then shot Hansen in the face with his water rifle.
"Hey!" Hansen cried, blinking through the incoming fire.
"Tyler! James! I told you to stay in the backyard," came a voice from the front door.
Hansen met the gaze of a young black woman, about thirty-five, wearing expensive business attire and alternating her gaze between him and the smart phone in her hand.
He was about to open his mouth when she added, "Come on. They're waiting for you in the basement."
"Okay . . . " Hansen started for ward and asked, "Am I supposed to introduce myself?"
She made a face. "No one else did." She led him through the modestly decorated living room and toward a door adjacent to the kitchen. Hansen descended the narrow wooden staircase, reached the bottom, and turned to face the rest of his team, who were sitting in metal folding chairs arranged in a semicircle.
Standing before the group was a bald black man with a gray goatee. His muscular chest tented up a black silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal the requisite bling around his neck. His expensive pants looked cut by a tailor, and his matching shoes were shined to a rich gloss. He also sported a large gold class ring on his left pinky. He could easily be mistaken for a retired NBA star, and when he looked at Hansen, it was with an eerie fire in his eyes, the way you'd look at someone you planned to kill.
He spoke loudly, aggressively, establishing within the first sentence who was in charge: "Well, it's nice of you to join us, cowboy. There's a cooler over there with sodas. Grab yourself one and take a seat."
Hansen glanced incredulously at the others, who simply shrugged and returned his frown. They each had a soda and a seat, but Hansen wasn't quite ready for either. "Uh, excuse me, but who are you?"
"My name is Louis Moreau. Most people around 3E call me Marty. You'll call me Mr. Moreau. I'm your new technical operations manager, basically taking Grim's old job and kicking it up a notch."
"Where's Grim?"
"Couldn't make it."
"You got ID?"
Moreau began to chuckle. "Get your soda and sit down."
"I'm not thirsty."
Moreau crossed the room. Hansen hadn't quite realized that the man was a full head taller than him, and he seemed to grow wider as he drew near. "The only tough guy in the room is me. Mad Dog Moreau. Get over it. Get a chair."
Hansen rolled his eyes and complied. He flicked his glance to the pipes spanning the ceiling, the cinder-block walls, the laundry piled on the washer and dryer. "Nice basement. You got, like, a secret panel where you keep all the high-tech crap?"
"It's just a basement. And you can thank my sister for opening up her house to us. Now, I know you have a lot of questions. But most of them I won't answer, so just forget about those."
Valentina threw back her blond hair and snickered.
Ames raised his hand. "Uh, sir, I don't have a question, just a comment. You're an asshole."
Moreau widened his eyes in disbelief, narrowed them into a glower, then broke into a broad grin. "I like you, Brooklyn. I like that large attitude. Helps compensate, you know?"
"So that's how we get on your good side?" asked Gillespie, sipping her Coke. "We insult you?"
"You get on my good side, Ms. Longstocking, by doing your job."
"What did you call me?"
"Oh, I forgot--you guys aren't even thirty. When you're bored or drunk sometime, look up Pippi Longstocking. You'll have fun. Now I want to talk about Houston."
Everyone groaned.
"Sir?" began Noboru.
"You don't have a question, do you, Bruce?"
"Uh, no, sir. Uh, my name is Nathan."
"No, you're Bruce Lee. Deal with it. Now, what do you want to say?"
"Um, nothing, sir."
Moreau moved over to Noboru and leaned down. "Speak."
"Sir, I just wanted to say that--"
"What, that you're honored to be here? That the United States of America has become your new home? That what happened in Houston wasn't your fault?"
Noboru thought for a moment. "That's right, sir."
"Good. Very good, Bruce. Now we can move on."
Valentina rose from her chair. "This is ridiculous. Are you going to conduct a meeting or entertain yourself by giving us nicknames? And God help you, if you give me one . . ."
Ames leaned forward and grinned at Hansen.
"Take a seat, Ms. Valentina, before I assign you a nickname you'll regret." Moreau faced the group. "So . . . excellent job in Houston."
Ames nearly spit out his soda. "Excuse me, sir, but this morning I went online to see how I'm supposed to file for unemployment--and you're telling me good job?"
"Leonard's dead. His data was destroyed in the house fire. We've confirmed that. In trying to kill him, the Chinese destroyed their prize."
"Who tipped them off?" asked Valentina.
"We're working on that."
Valentina shook her head in disgust. "I don't like leaks that I can't control."
"Me neither," said Ames. "I scanned the perimeter for heat signatures at least ten times. And suddenly I've got a shooter. What's up with that?"
Moreau took a deep breath. "If every operation went according to plan, none of us would be here. Third Echelon wouldn't exist. So 'what's up with that' is the unexpected. And we like that. It keeps us in business."
"We were hoping to retrieve the data and arrest Leonard for selling secrets to the Chinese," said Hansen. "We failed on both accounts. You call that a good job? Hell, I'd like to see what you call a screwup."
"The data didn't fall into the hands of the Chinese. That's all that matters right now. And Leonard's ties to Russia have also been severed. It began with Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao, Mr. Hansen, and it may have ended with Leonard. Be proud of the work you've done so far."
"If you say so."
"I know so." Moreau took a deep breath. "Boys and girls, I've been with the NSA longer than you've been alive, so you'll have to accept my apologies in advance."
"Why is that, sir?" asked Hansen.
"Because I have no patience and even less tolerance for inefficiency. God, young man, is in the details. And that's where I come in. I will speak. You will listen. You will learn. You will act on my information. You will not fail. Now, excuse me for a moment." Moreau crossed to another chair, picked up his laptop, and took a seat, balancing the computer on his knees.
Meanwhile, Valentina leaned over to Hansen and lowered her voice. "Grim had to do major damage control in Houston, and we're getting pats on the back?"
"Maybe they're sweetening us up to feed us to the wolves," said Gillespie.
Ames leveled an index finger at her. "Now, that's the first intelligent thing I've heard you say, Ms. Longstocking."
"All right, people," said Moreau. "We're not just here to discuss Houston."
Hansen raised his hand. "Mr. Moreau, I know you're not answering questions, but before we go any further, could you tell us why we're in your sister's basement instead of the situation room?"
"We have reason to believe the situation room has been compromised."
"What?" cried Hansen.
"You heard me."
"So you think your sister's basement is safer? Why don't we go to Taco Bell?"
"We're clear here, cowboy. Now, purge all that white noise from your head and listen up."
Moreau turned his computer around so they could see the screen, and there, with a deep scowl lining his face, was a shaggy-haired, unshaven, all-too-familiar man.
"I was supposed to debrief you folks and get you set up for another operation in Pakistan, but it seems Mr. Sam Fisher has changed those pl
ans. He's just surfaced in Reims. If I'd received this information sooner, we'd be at the airport already."
"Fisher's in Reims. So what? Alert Interpol," said Valentina.
"That's already happened, but we like to take care of our own problems, thank you," snapped Moreau.
"So Fisher's where?" asked Ames.
"He's in Reims. It's in France, idiot," said Gillespie.
"What the hell's he doing there?" Ames continued, ignoring Gillespie's barb.
Moreau shrugged. "You're flying out today. And let me remind you: Fisher is not a Splinter Cell. He's a traitor and a murderer. He killed Irving Lambert, a good friend of mine and your former boss."
"No," cried Gillespie. "I know Sam. There's more to it than that."
"I agree," said Ames. "I've never doubted for one minute that Sam was anything but loyal to us. If he killed Lambert, then maybe Lambert was the traitor!"
Moreau raised his own voice. "Sam Fisher tried to bring down Third Echelon. As a consequence, you people are going over there, and he's coming back in cuffs or a body bag."
"Sir, to be clear, we have orders to shoot to kill if necessary?" Hansen asked.
"What did I just say, cowboy? Cuffs or body bag."
Noboru raised his hand. "Uh, excuse me, sir? Why are you sending us?"
Hansen snorted and answered before Moreau could. "Because we're the best."
"Some of us," corrected Ames.
"I was not privy to the selection process," said Moreau. "And to be fair, no, I wouldn't have selected you rookies to go after somebody like Sam Fisher. I told Grim it's like sending hamsters after a rattlesnake."
"Oh, my God, did you just say that?" asked Gillespie as the others swore and hissed.
"You don't like that comparison, Pippi? Prove me wrong. Now, we'll finish this up on the way to the airport." Moreau consulted his watch. "The van should be here any minute."
"Didn't we just get off a plane?" asked Valentina, sighing in disgust.
"Look on the bright side, sweetheart. You're going to France," said Ames. "You can go shopping and get your nails done."
"And when my nails are done, I can use them to reach into your chest and rip out your still-beating heart."