Endgame (1998)

by Tom Clancy

  "Why?"

  "Because I don't."

  "Even the hot women?"

  "No."

  "So you didn't see this guy?"

  "Maybe. I'm not sure."

  "Maybe is not an answer." Ames hardened his tone. "Did you see him or not?"

  "Are you the police? Where's your ID?"

  Ames sighed and turned away. There was a strong chance that Fisher could have run from the stadium or gotten a ride and caught that train. He walked back to the SUV, opened the door, and said, "I'm bored. Let's have sex."

  Gillespie spoke through her teeth. "I would rather eat your entrails."

  "Oh, Pippi, my dear, Pippi. I guess you would. You want the good news or the bad?"

  She rolled her eyes. "What now?"

  "Last train already left. We might've missed him."

  "I'll call Hansen."

  "Don't. Not yet."

  "Why?"

  He wriggled his brows. "Because I want to talk to you."

  She smirked and activated her OPSAT. "Ben, it's Kim. We're at the station here. Last train left already."

  "Roger that. Hold position. If he missed it, Fisher might think there's another train."

  "All right." She glanced up at Ames. "Get back to the station."

  "No." He grinned.

  "If you're insubordinate, we can get you removed. Don't put that past me."

  He nodded slowly, then narrowed his gaze on her, making sure she could feel its heat. "You let him go, didn't you?"

  Her brows tightened. "What're you talking about?"

  "You had Fisher, up on that roof. You had him in your sights, but you let him go."

  "I don't owe you anything."

  "I got your back, but I'm not sure if you got mine--and you owe me that . . . Pippi."

  "Get back to the station."

  "Okay. But if I see Fisher, I won't let him go. I'll shoot him. You hear me?"

  She shook her head. "Just get out."

  "I don't want to be mean to you. And I want you to think about what I've said."

  "I'm about to draw my pistol."

  "Me, too." He winked.

  Ames exited the SUV and smiled to himself as he started back for the station. Gillespie had some nice color in her cheeks now.

  RUMELANGE, LUXEMBOURG

  RUMELANGE, population about four thousand, was known for its underground iron mines; otherwise, it was but a blip on Valentina's map, and she and Noboru had established an effective observation post off the main highway near a small petrol station. They began to survey the main road with their night-vision binoculars.

  "You see anything?" she asked.

  "No."

  And then, two minutes later:

  "You see anything?" he asked.

  "No."

  And then another two minutes later:

  "You see any--"

  He cut her off with a loud sigh. "I don't see anything but a beautiful woman next to me."

  Had he said that aloud?

  He wasn't sure.

  "Nathan, can I ask you something?"

  Whew. Her tone said that he hadn't. He'd only said, "I don't see anything," but he'd heard the rest in his head as clearly as if he had.

  "Hello, Nathan. Are you with me?"

  "Yeah, sorry. Just thinking."

  "You were born and raised in the United States, right?"

  "Yeah. I lived in San Francisco until I was about sixteen; then my parents moved back to Japan."

  "Who taught you how to treat women?"

  "That's a weird question. My mom, probably . . . She never let my dad get away with anything. Women have come a long way in Japan, but there are still a lot of old-school attitudes there. My father was pretty open-minded."

  She began to say something, stopped, then finally: "I know it's not right for me to be attracted to you."

  He glanced over at her, his heart beginning to race. "I'm . . . sorry."

  "For what?"

  "I don't know. We're going to do a good job here. I've wanted to be a Splinter Cell more than anything."

  "Me, too."

  "So we have to think about that."

  She grinned weakly. "I know. It's not like I'm Kim and sleeping with Fisher."

  "Maya, I think you like me because I treat you like an equal, not because you like me."

  "That's not true."

  "Maybe it is. I believe in you. That's all you really need."

  "Well, I believe in you." She laughed. "Well, we're a couple of believers, but that doesn't change the fact that Sam Fisher is still on the loose."

  He smiled, wishing he could tell her how he really felt. The exquisite agony of her lips there . . . right there . . .

  AS Moreau boarded the single-engine prop plane bound for Luxembourg, the pilot, a French woman about his age, looked him over and said, "Nice suit, monsieur."

  "Merci."

  Moreau took his seat, buckled up, then checked his OPSAT. He scrolled through a police report regarding a body that had turned up in Russange. The body matched the description of the tail they had placed on Stingray. All right, Kovac's boy was a clever bastard, but he was dealing with the king of the bastards, who was not only clever and cunning but one hell of a sharp dresser. Moreau decided that when this was all over, he and Stingray would have a very special "conversation," and Moreau would make sure to dress appropriately for that occasion.

  27

  BEST WESTERN HOTEL INTERNATIONAL LUXEMBOURG

  HANSEN had rallied the team back at Kayl, then received word from Moreau, who was flying into Luxembourg. They linked up with the ops manager at the airport, and Moreau seemed to be favoring his right arm but ignored queries about it.

  They all drove to the city of Luxembourg, and Hansen debriefed the team during the ride. They checked into the Best Western near the train station. Moreau said everyone back at the fort was working on picking up Fisher's next location and that he had a few ideas of how they could accomplish it. But first . . . much-needed rest. Being strung out would result in grave errors. No one on the team argued with that.

  Much to Hansen's surprise, he slept a full eight hours and was awoken to the sound of Ames on the toilet.

  "Jesus, can you close the door?"

  THIRTY minutes later, at about eleven, the team met in Moreau's room. As the ops manager finished pulling up more data on his computer, Hansen drifted over to Gillespie and motioned her toward the window, away from the others. They spied a remarkable clock tower casting its long shadow over the train station below. The tower resembled Big Ben, and the clock's white face shimmered above layers of gray stone. Beyond the station lay rows of train tracks and the requisite maintenance shacks. To the west and east lay more cobblestone roads, and Hansen felt as though he'd been transported back in time. He half expected a horse-drawn buggy to appear around the corner, hooves clacking as the driver worked his quirt to urge the steeds onward. Luxembourg was a country as old as it was beautiful. Hansen's gaze remained on the window as he spoke. "You know what I'm going to ask you."

  "And you know what I'll say," she answered quickly.

  "What if I don't?"

  "Then you don't trust me."

  "I need to trust you."

  "You can."

  He took a long breath. "All right, then." He started away from the window.

  "Ben. He jumped before I could shoot."

  Hansen nodded.

  She pursed her lips. "You don't believe me."

  "I do."

  They headed back into the suite's living room, where Moreau had turned away from his computer to face them:

  "All right, boys and girls, here's what we know--"

  Moreau's expression shifted markedly, and, for a moment, Hansen couldn't tell if the man was in pain or if an idea had just struck him like shrapnel.

  "Mr. Moreau, are you all right?" asked Noboru.

  Moreau took a deep breath. "Aw, I might as well tell you. Some clown broke into my room last night. Thought he'd whack me. Fool got of
f a shot. I'm all right. Just sore."

  "Damn," said Ames.

  "Did you go to the hospital?" asked Valentina.

  He waved her off. "I'm fine."

  "Damn," Ames repeated.

  "Yeah, that about sums it up," said Moreau. "All right. Now, Ames, you got another reason to say damn, since you danced with the devil himself last night."

  Hansen watched as Gillespie and Valentina turned their evil eyes on the little man. They were loving the moment.

  Ames fired up his best smirk. "Sir, to be honest, Fisher's not much of a dancer."

  "Well, I'm glad you can joke about it!" Moreau cried, rolling the dial on his voice up from 2 to 10. "I'm glad you can joke about how Sam Fisher got your goddamned OPSAT and relieved you of your weapon!"

  Ames shrugged, ever the haughty bastard. "These are trivial facts we're all familiar with. I thought we were focusing on Fisher's next move."

  "Shut up. I've switched all the frequencies and cut off your old OPSAT so Fisher can't use it anymore. He knows how we play. He may or may not still have your weapon. But we suspect he'll try to better arm himself now."

  "Why do you expect that?" asked Gillespie.

  "Well, he knows about you, for one thing."

  "But there's something else," said Hansen.

  "Don't get ahead of me. Fisher needs to resupply--"

  "The caches," said Hansen.

  Moreau pointed at him. "Exactly. We've got three in Luxembourg and another four in Germany, Belgium, and northern France. Closest one to our location is in Bavigne."

  While the weapons caches were small and had been in place for years (and assumedly contained outdated weaponry), they could be life savers for operatives on the run. Third Echelon had such caches stashed all over the world. Sam Fisher was either well aware of their locations, or he knew who was.

  "Sir, any idea why Fisher's here and where he's headed?" asked Ames.

  "You think asking politely will get you a straight answer?"

  "I could ask you like this: All right, fool, what's up with this BS wild-goose chase? Tell us where Fisher is!"

  Moreau chuckled till he winced. "That's more honest. Well, obviously Fisher's been hiding out in Europe. He's still got more contacts and resources he can tap here. It's anyone's guess what his master plan is, but we've got a lot of work to do today."

  "Why don't you make an educated guess?" asked Hansen.

  Moreau grinned crookedly. "All right, cowboy. Fisher's here in Europe on a beer-tasting tour. How's that?"

  Hansen shook his head in disgust.

  "So what are we waiting for?" asked Valentina. "Let's get going."

  HANSEN and Ames were en route to Bavigne, which is about sixty to seventy kilometers northwest of the city, deep in the countryside. The place is about as European small town as you can get, with only about 125 residents living within a community whose architecture seemed torn from the pages of a children's fairy tale. It was Old World Mayberry, and when Hansen tried to make that comparison to Ames, the guy didn't get it. He'd never seen any of the old reruns of the Andy Griffith Show. Ames was an uncultured swine.

  While Moreau remained behind at the hotel, Gillespie, Valentina, and Noboru went off to check out several of the youth hostels. Fisher wouldn't play the credit card game now, unless he wanted to be caught, so he'd probably stay in one of the hostels, where he could pay cash, no questions asked. Then again, the people at those hostels tend to be very discreet and not at all forthcoming with information. The others would have to play their hand just right if they wanted to learn anything.

  Hansen checked his watch. It was nearly 1:00 P.M. They were heading up E411, near another small town, Thibessart, when the Zafira's engine sputtered and stalled. Hansen glided to the side of the road, stopped, and for the next few minutes tried to get the engine to turn over. They had a full tank of gas.

  Groaning through four-letter words, they got out, raised the hood, and attempted to diagnose the problem.

  "You know anything about cars?" asked Hansen.

  Ames rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"

  BETWEEN the tow truck, and the drive out to deliver their replacement rental car, this one an upgraded Audi A8 like the one the others had rented, Hansen and Ames did not reach Bavigne until nearly three in the afternoon.

  During the two hours they'd spent waiting, they'd coordinated with the rest of the team, who'd been scouring the hostels around Luxembourg and come up dry. There was another weapons cache in Birkenfeld, Germany, about eighty-seven kilometers away from the hotel, so Valentina said they would go check it out.

  Hansen and Ames stopped at a restaurant, the Auberge du Lac, and ordered some sandwiches to go. The woman at the counter suggested they have some lobster soup, and Hansen agreed. Ames went off to use the restroom and returned in time to help carry the bags out to the car.

  "So we're in the middle of a mission, and we're stopping for lunch," quipped Ames.

  "Yeah, but we're eating in the car, if this one doesn't break down."

  "Where's our sense of urgency?" asked Ames.

  Hansen shrugged. "I left mine back at the hotel."

  They ate quickly, though Hansen wished he'd had more time to savor the heavenly soup. They drove northeast, then turned south again, according to the map, weaving between farmers' fields and the banks of a narrow river. They passed through a covered bridge and into a clearing where rose a log cabin that might have been built a century before.

  "This is it," said Ames, as they climbed out of the car.

  Hansen nodded, started forward, then crouched down. "Footprints."

  "And they look recent. He's sloppy, all right. He was here."

  "You keep calling him sloppy. I find that hilarious. If he's sloppy, then what are you? Fisher didn't bother to clean up these tracks because he's confident we can't use them. He's deliberate. Always. Come on."

  They mounted the porch, knocked, waited. No one was home. They crossed to the back of the house and found a locked door leading down into a basement. Ames picked the lock and they eased themselves into a damp, dark root cellar, the musty stench making Hansen crinkle his nose. Back in one corner lay some fruit boxes, and Hansen flicked on his penlight to reveal a small wooden hatch set into the dirt floor. The hatch had been recently uncovered. Hansen flipped open the lid and found the hole below empty.

  If Fisher had not been there, Hansen and Ames would be staring at a DARPA-modified model 1650 Pelican case with an encrypted-keypad lock and a C-4 tampering system that went boom! Larger than a suitcase, the pack held a standard equipment loadout: SVT; OPSAT; Trident goggles equipped with night-vision, infrared, and electromagnetic settings; SC pistol; SC-20K modular assault rifle with all the accoutrements; Mark V tactical operations RhinoPlate suit; and six grenades, three flashbang, two fragmentation, and one White Smoke. Fisher, it seemed, had now gone from the old school of jury-rigged cell phones to the newer Splinter Cell school, though the equipment now in his possession was still from the previous generation. Delta Sly had the latest and greatest toys, and they sure as hell would need them against Fisher.

  "All right, everyone, this is Hansen. We're at the cache, and Fisher's definitely been here. He's got the weapons, the suit, the Tridents, the whole nine."

  Ames drew in a long breath. "I think I liked him better in that goofy red shirt."

  WITH Fisher's projected path into Luxembourg and up to Bavigne clearly evident, the team was now able to narrow the search for him, focusing on a grid northwest of Luxembourg and reaching up past Bavigne. Moreau kept close tabs on all the rental-car agencies in the area via Third Echelon's help, though it now seemed probable that Fisher had clean cards and ID (having secured them from Emmanuel Chenevier). Fisher had rented a car with impunity. He would be found on his terms. The other weapons cache in Germany had not been touched, and the rest of the team returned to the hotel, worn-out from the long drive and frustrated by the continued string of unknowns.

  Hansen met alone with Moreau
and asked what they were supposed to do now. The trail had ended at the weapons cache.

  "Not exactly," said Moreau. "Those tire tracks you photographed before leaving are SUV tires. So I checked the rentals, and there was a little mom-and-pop agency that rented out a dark green 2001 Range Rover to Fisher. I went down there myself, and there was an old lady who recognized his picture."

  "So he's in a Range Rover."

  "Yes, that's a start. I'll run the tag, and we'll have the locals track it down."

  Hansen took a deep breath. "Can I call you Marty?"

  "No."

  He moaned. "Mr. Moreau, you're stalling us."

  "There's a difference between stalling and being very thorough. When you get older, you'll better appreciate that. You'll better appreciate the artistry of your work."

  "Whatever. So what now? Should I just order the team to go driving around in the hopes that we happen to spot a Range Rover somewhere between here and Bavigne? You're not going to alert the authorities. You're just going to tell us you have."

  "Watch your tone, cowboy. There are some traffic cameras we can patch into as well. I've already put in that request."

  "Waste of time! Fisher could already be in Germany . . . or back in France. We could do a much better job if we knew more. You want us to play your game? Give us a few more rules."

  "Where's the love, cowboy? Where's the trust? Where's the patience? Go relax. Go have a nice dinner. You deserve it."

  "I'm still full from lunch."

  "I heard about that. Lobster soup? Where's mine?"

  Hansen stiffened. "When I went to Russia--that was being a Splinter Cell. I don't know what this is, but I hope, in the end, you make me believe it was worth it."

  Moreau smiled, and a twinkle came into his eye. "I can't do that for you, cowboy. That's all up to you."

  28

  HANSEN gathered the team in his room. "He's just putting us through the motions. He already knew the weapons cache in Bavigne would be empty. He sent you guys to Germany to keep you busy. Checking the hostels was a waste of time. He says Fisher's driving a rented Range Rover. He says he'll have the locals help find it. I don't believe him. He's just telling us what we need to hear."