Endgame (1998)

by Tom Clancy

  Finally, Gillespie looked up and said, "He's still alive. I know it."

  "He could have lost us on the other side of the bridge," said Hansen. "I don't know, Kim. I got a look at him before he got in that car, and--"

  "And what? He looked suicidal?"

  "I don't know. He looked troubled. But it doesn't make any sense."

  "He got away," she insisted. "I'm telling you. He got away."

  Hansen sighed, feeling helpless to console her. "I'm sorry. Maybe you're right. Or maybe he overestimated his chances. I think we need to be realistic. He's a ballsy guy, but driving off a bridge? Man, that's insane."

  Moreau took in a long breath. "If I had to bet on it, I'd say he drowned."

  THEY booked a few rooms at the Holiday Inn just north of the airport and waited while Moreau and Gillespie monitored police communications and checked back with the NSA via the Trinity System.

  The local news stations were all over the story, and Hansen sat on the sofa, watching and shaking his head. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, Fisher had had enough and had decided to go out with a bang, or a splash, as it were. Given their line of work, the stress, and what Fisher's life had become, it wasn't unreasonable to assume that he'd grown depressed, perhaps tired of running, of mercenary work, of everything. Hansen suddenly blurted out, "Maybe Fisher killed himself."

  "I'm sure he did," Ames responded, quick to jump on the Fisher-bashing bandwagon. "That old man was a coward who murdered his boss. Then he becomes a two-bit merc, gets bummed out, and offs himself when he knows we're going to bust his ass. What a freaking loser. I wish he were here right now so I could tell him to his face."

  It was a good thing Gillespie had left the room to get a drink and hadn't heard that, Hansen thought, otherwise Ames would by lying on the floor with a woman's nails sunk about an inch into his neck.

  However, she wasn't the only one who'd take issue with Ames's assessment. Moreau rose slowly from his desk and loomed over Ames, who was seated in one of the reclining chairs, sipping a bottle of beer. "You have no idea who you're talking about. And if you ever become one-tenth of the man Sam Fisher was, then you might make a name for yourself in this community. Do you get that, Mr. Ames?"

  Ames rose and had to look up into Moreau's eyes. "You don't intimidate me, old man. And I thought you liked me."

  "I did. But then I spent more than five minutes around you."

  "Hey, man, give me an hour, and you'll be suicidal yourself." Ames chuckled under his breath and returned to his seat.

  "What do you think, Moreau?" Hansen asked. "You think he did it? You think Fisher killed himself?"

  "Not intentionally. But if he survived that little Olympic swan dive into the Rhine, I'll buy the man a steak dinner."

  "You all keep talking like he's a hero," said Ames. "He's a thug and a murderer for God's sake. How can you even get past that? All the missions he ran just wipe the slate clean? I don't think so. Lambert's dead."

  "Ames, you're done," said Hansen, firing a hard look at the man. "You're done."

  "Yep, we're all done here."

  RESCUE teams were out searching the Rhine for most of the evening. The next morning Fisher's BMW was found nearly a mile away from the bridge, having been dragged along the bottom by the Rhine's current. There was no sign of the body, which had been separated from the car and assumedly drifted off on its own. Teams were searching the shoreline down river.

  New orders came in. Hansen and the others would be flying back home aboard a commercial airliner. Moreau had already booked the tickets. Hansen thought returning was odd and highly premature, since they still hadn't found Fisher's body. Moreau said the order had come in from Grim and that they were leaving, period, unless the team planned to go rogue again.

  After returning their rental cars (and Moreau had a good time discussing the damage to the one Mercedes), they boarded a shuttle. Hansen bit his lip and glanced around at the others. They looked as exhausted as he felt. Maybe it was time to go home and reflect on everything, on a mission that left him more and more confused. He closed his eyes and spoke to Fisher in his head:

  "Why did you kill Lambert?"

  "It's complicated."

  "I see. They want me to bring you in."

  "I can't let that happen."

  "Then I'm sorry."

  This time, though, Hansen couldn't pull the trigger.

  He saw Noboru telling him that Fisher had saved his life.

  He watched as Fisher nodded at him before getting in the BMW.

  That nod, one of mutual respect, now had a growing importance in Hansen's life. It was as though Sam Fisher had said, "Yes, you are one of us now. You are worthy. You are a Splinter Cell. I'm passing you the baton." Hansen wanted to believe that so badly that he could taste it.

  "Sam, are you alive? What're you doing?"

  Fisher put a finger to his lips.

  HANSEN had assumed that once they arrived in Maryland, Grim would need to debrief them. Nope. She told them to take a week off. Enjoy some R & R. She didn't even want to see them. They'd all been pushing it really hard. Hansen could hardly believe what he was hearing: the blow-off from his boss on a mission that she'd implied was more important than anything else that had ever come across her desk, a mission that implicated Kovac in criminal activity? No debriefing? And she wanted them to take a vacation? Had marijuana been legalized while they were in Europe?

  Gillespie concluded that Grim's order for time off was proof positive that Fisher was alive. They were being pulled off the pursuit to buy Fisher time to do whatever he had to do. His assumed death might satisfy Kovac for a while.

  AT the airport, as they each picked up their bags, they said their good-byes.

  "Where are you going?" Valentina asked Hansen.

  "This cowboy's heading back to Texas. You?"

  She glanced over at Noboru. "Not sure yet."

  Hansen nodded and wriggled his brows. "Be safe."

  "Always."

  Ames came over and slapped a palm on Hansen's shoulder. "You should come down to Florida with me. I'm going to watch the Yankees during spring training."

  Hansen forced a smile. "Have a good time."

  He shifted away and went over to Gillespie. "You all right?"

  She nodded and said, "I don't want any time off. I'm going back to the situation room to go over the intel."

  "That's a mistake. Grim won't let you in."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know."

  "Then what am I supposed to do?"

  He hoisted a brow. "You like Texas barbecue?"

  THIRD ECHELON SITUATION ROOM

  GRIM tensed as Kovac stormed into the room and raised his voice, his gray brows knitting in fury. "I just heard you pulled the team out of Germany! They're already back here in the States?"

  "Fisher's trail had gone cold, which is to say, we believe he's dead."

  Kovac took a deep breath, and his words came out in a growl: "I'll believe he's dead when his pale and bloated body is lying across my desk. . . ."

  "Sir, please calm down."

  "Oh, I'm calm."

  "Look, my people have been running on overdrive for days. If we get a new lead, I'll have them back out there ASAP. You're the deputy director, sir, but this, I believe, is my call."

  "Your predecessor wouldn't have been as careless . . . or as bold."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way."

  "Maybe you need to take a little vacation yourself."

  Grim removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I wouldn't go there, sir. I've already brought the director up to speed on this, and we've got his full support. And since he's your boss, you might want to talk to him directly about this. . . ."

  He took a step toward her. "Let's cut to the chase."

  She smiled, nodded, moved to the door, and opened it. "Sounds great. This is the part where you leave."

  "Whatever you're up to, Grim, I urge you to remain cautious."

  "Is that a threa
t?"

  "I'm just concerned about your future here."

  "Well, that makes two of us. Enjoy the rest of your day, sir."

  He left. The door closed behind him.

  And Grim nearly passed out.

  FORT STOCKTON, TEXAS

  HANSEN and his father--who resembled a bespectacled, gray-haired scarecrow--were out on the front porch of his parents' three-bedroom ranch house, about two miles down the road from the school where his dad taught. They'd just finished having dinner--barbecued ribs, along with Mom's homemade macaroni and cheese and some baked potatoes, and were now nursing some beers and staring up at the night sky while seated in their rocking chairs. Mom and Gillespie insisted upon doing the dishes, even though that was Dad's job: She cooked it; he cleaned it up. But since Hansen was visiting, the rules had changed, and Gillespie was having fun chatting with Mom, so she'd volunteered to help clean up. The conversation seemed to lift her spirits.

  "This was such a great surprise, Ben," Buck Hansen said. "And it gets me out of KP duty."

  "Like I said, Pop, sometimes they just throw us some time off. Good to be home. Just to smell it, you know?" He took a long breath through his nose and sighed. Texas. He could already hear the drawl returning to his voice.

  The older Hansen laughed. "The ribs smelled great. But if you're talking about all the horse dung and Joey Reynolds's old pickup truck, the one that's still burning oil . . ."

  "Yeah, I actually was."

  "Well, then you're nuts."

  "Just smells like home. So how's it going?"

  "Same old, same old." His father squinted into the night sky, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin.

  "I'm afraid to ask what you're looking for."

  His dad turned suddenly and faced him. "Two nights ago I was out here, and I saw something again."

  Hansen took a long pull on his beer. "I believe you, Dad."

  "You know, I was thinking, what with you working for the government all this time, maybe you'd be willing to change your mind about this. I've got some pictures I can show you."

  After tensing, Hansen sighed and said, "Dad, I'm just a low-level analyst. So is Kim. We can't be hacking into government computers looking for UFO encounters and cover-ups. If I have any close encounters with hacking the system, I'll be fired."

  "I know that, Son, I know it. But you can't blame your old man for trying."

  "Why is this so important to you?"

  "Well, it's like Charlton Heston said in Planet of the Apes: I can't help thinking somewhere in the universe there has to be something better than man. Has to be."

  "Why?"

  "Because we're all doomed to destroy ourselves."

  "I like your positive outlook on life."

  He took a sip of his beer. "And I like your taste in women. I do love a redhead."

  "She's just a friend from work."

  "Good kisser?"

  "Dad, come on."

  "You're no fun."

  Hansen thought for a moment, then said, "Can I ask you something? You ever know anyone who killed himself?"

  "Yeah, I knew a fella once."

  "Why'd he do it?"

  "Wife left him. Took the kids. He got depressed. Starting messing up on the job. Got fired. Then one night we heard the gunshot, not that anyone was surprised. Why you asking me this?"

  "I don't know."

  "You're not depressed, are you?"

  "Me?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "No, I've been busy with work, but we had a guy who might've done that."

  "Why you say that? Could've been murder."

  "No, he just kind of vanished. Might be dead or not. No body."

  Dad leaned forward in his chair. "There are certain members of our government who are more susceptible to alien abduction, you know that, Son, right?"

  Hansen repressed the desire to roll his eyes, sipped his beer, and said, "Good point, Dad. Good point."

  "All I'm saying is that you cannot rule out the possibility."

  "No, sir."

  Gillespie came out onto the porch, beer in hand. "Mr. Hansen, I want to thank you for dinner. I really enjoyed it."

  "You're welcome, sweetie. Anytime. Now, I'd better close my mouth because anything else I say is going to deeply embarrass my son."

  Hansen smiled at his father. "Dad, after all these years, you're finally learning."

  He winked. "Sometimes we teachers are the worst students."

  35

  ODESSA, UKRAINE

  THE call had come in at 3:00 A.M., and Hansen and the team were back in the air and racing toward Odessa, with a plane change in Frankfurt.

  Unsurprisingly, Fisher had quite literarily returned from the depths of the Rhine and had resurfaced in the Ukraine. According to Grim, Fisher was seeking medical treatment from an old friend, Adrik Ivanov, a former medic in the Russian army. Ivanov was single, in his fifties, and a compulsive gambler who'd been hard-pressed to hold a steady job since being discharged.

  It wasn't until they were on the ground in Odessa, at 9:40 P.M., that Grim came through with the particulars: Ivanov lived in a duplex near the Tairov cemetery but spent most of his free time at a bar adjacent to the Chornoye More hotel. Hansen had asked if the man was an alcoholic, and Grim had only snickered. Of course he was. Moreover, something in her tone told Hansen that Fisher wasn't really going to see Ivanov for medical attention; in fact, all of it sounded exactly like another ploy. Hansen already had his guard up.

  Moreau said that surveillance on Ivanov's duplex apartment indicated no lights, assumedly no one home, but Hansen sent Valentina and Gillespie up for a look anyway. They picked the lock, searched the place, and found no evidence of Fisher having been there or any medical treatment performed.

  Grim then told them that Ivanov worked as a night watchman at a LUKOIL warehouse annex at the city's northern industrial docks. LUKOIL was the largest oil company in Russia and its largest producer of oil, with obviously relaxed standards for its security guards. Grim followed up with the warehouse's location, uploaded directly to their OPSATs. Hansen found it interesting that she selectively released information, as though buying someone on the other end a little more time. . . .

  The team jammed into a single rental car and drove from Ivanov's place to the warehouse, which was set off the road and about a hundred yards from the beach. Other warehouses were clustered around it, but most looked abandoned, with signs in Cyrillic indicating they were for lease.

  They parked about two hundred yards away and skulked off into the complex, a refinery hub whose innards swept overhead, making Hansen feel as though they were in the bowels of a dying old beast. Some of the larger pipes snaked down through the lot and plunged into the sand at the beach line.

  With a little help from Moreau, they pinpointed the LUKOIL annex, a redbrick building splotched with graffiti and long rust stains where broken gutters sent rainwater down the walls.

  After a cursory scan of the building's blueprints, and realizing that the annex had only one main door, Hansen ordered the team to fall in behind him.

  "You want us to get in there with goggles and scan for heat signatures?" asked Gillespie.

  "I'm not worried about it. I think we'll find Ivanov, but I think Fisher's long gone," answered Hansen.

  He worked his magic on the door's lock and eased it open, stepping through with his SC pistol leading the way. The place was dimly lit by weak overhead bulbs and smelled like a combination of mold and rusting metal.

  Gillespie, Valentina, Noboru, and Ames moved in behind him, and he sent Ames and Valentina off toward an office area visible behind glass walls while hand signaling Gillespie and Noboru to work the perimeter and finish clearing the place.

  The annex was relatively small, perhaps fifteen hundred square feet, and split on the right side by twenty-foot-tall rack shelves buckling under the weight of boxes and crates. A few rows of fifty-five-gallon drums labeled as cleaning solution were stacked three high, off to the left, creating
a wall of curving metal.

  "I think we have our boy," whispered Valentina into her subdermal. "Don't move, buddy," she added in Russian. "You're coming with us."

  "All clear back here," said Noboru.

  "Roger that," answered Hansen. "Clear. Okay, bring him out."

  Hansen started over toward the office, where Ames ordered Ivanov forward, and the old man's arms splayed outward in a froglike manner. Apparently, the old man wasn't walking fast enough for Ames, who suddenly shoved him much too hard, and Ivanov hit the concrete, belly first, right in front of Hansen.

  Ivanov tried to pull himself up, but Ames jabbed his heel into the man's butt and forced him back down.

  Hansen glared at Ames. "Enough, Ames. Leave him be."

  Ames mumbled something about trying to soften up the guy, but Hansen translated it into: Bite me, boss man.

  Kneeling beside Ivanov, Hansen helped the man to his knees and confirmed his identity. He looked leaner and more haggard and weatherworn than his file photo.

  "Who are you? What do you want?" asked Ivanov, his English a bit broken but certainly acceptable.

  "We're looking for a man," Hansen said. "An old friend of yours named Sam."

  Ivanov's expression turned guilty. He denied knowing any Sam. Hansen insisted that Fisher had been there, and the old man went on about how he worked alone and had come in at six o'clock. Hansen cut him off: "You owe some people money."

  Ivanov raised his voice, saying he'd paid them off.

  Hansen explained about how computers were wonderful tools and could make people seem as if they still owed money. In fact, Hansen went on to say that they could make it appear that Ivanov owed a lot of money to some very dangerous people.

  Ivanov protested.

  "Tell us what he wanted," Hansen insisted.

  The old watchman gave an exaggerated shrug, then spread his arms in confusion, but there was something--something in the glimmer of his eyes that told Hansen he was lying.