EndWar: The Missing

by Tom Clancy

  “You saved us all.”

  She nodded. “But I broke my plane.”

  He almost smiled. “That’s okay. I just want to say thank you. I mean it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She shut her eyes, and Lex faced McAllen, about to give the man a reassuring nod, but the sergeant’s tear-stained face and trembling hands were too much to bear. Lex glanced away and returned to his seat, buckling himself in. He lowered his head and buried his face in his palms.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Mamaison All-Suites Spa

  Hotel Pokrovka

  Moscow

  General Sergei Izotov saw his massage therapist, Polina, every Friday evening at six P.M. at the Algotherm Spa Center within the hotel. He’d been a loyal patron for more than twenty years, and the staff knew him well and often expressed their honor to serve him. He much preferred the spa setting to having his therapist come home, where his wife caused constant interruptions.

  Recently, he’d been asking Polina for the “Deep Blue Massage Bora Bora,” which was performed with Polynesian massage stamps and seaweed and aimed at detoxifying his body, improving his circulation, and toning his muscles.

  His two bodyguards always accompanied him and waited dutifully outside his treatment room. Presently, he lay on the massage table, facedown, his cheeks and the sides of his head balanced between the cushion, his mouth, nose, and eyes exposed to the white marble floor. Polina had already begun burning the frankincense to promote calming and peace, and the music was, of course, Tchaikovsky, his “Serenade for Strings in C Major.” Izotov had already had his second glass of Belver Bears, his favorite vodka, and was, indeed, feeling enormously relaxed.

  He’d spent most of the day working with the acting president, persuading him to make the “right” decisions and assuring him that limiting the American oil supply was, again, a provisional measure. Christopher Theron had also called to share with him their failure up on Jan Mayen Island. Izotov had sent that strike force at Theron’s request. What else was he supposed to do? Every order brought with it the promise of extreme pleasure and was too powerful to resist. He was aware that his actions were reprehensible, but he regarded them as a cold intellectual. He’d had the president murdered and had felt nothing.

  The door opened, and a shadow passed over him. “Polina, what took you so long?”

  “I was preparing the towels. I’m sorry. Are you ready? We’ll begin with the oil.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve had a very busy week. This is going to feel very good.”

  “I doubt that,” came another voice.

  Suddenly, hands were on Izotov’s wrists, binding them to the table with heavy straps. He tried to kick, but his ankles were already being held down, they too bound, immobilized.

  And there she was, Viktoria Antsyforov, taking a seat on the floor below the table, sitting cross-legged so she could stare up at him.

  “Hello, Sergei.”

  Izotov swallowed. “Did he send you?”

  “Who?”

  “Theron.”

  “No, I’ve come alone.”

  She looked rejuvenated, her face fuller and darker, her hair a little longer, her lithe frame poured into a white, long-sleeved top and black slacks. The knee-high boots, too, always the boots, were partially hidden beneath the pants.

  “So let me guess: You’re looking for work . . . or you’re here to kill me.”

  “Actually, you are my work. Now, don’t raise your voice. Polina is with me. The security cameras have been switched off. Your bodyguards are dead, and so are those agents you’ve put in place around our acting president’s house. You can’t threaten his family anymore, and when I’m done with you, he’ll negotiate a cease-fire with the president of the United States.”

  Izotov smiled bitterly. “I thought you were tired, Viktoria.”

  “Exhausted. But I’ll get to sleep soon.” She narrowed her gaze on him, probing. “Tell me, Sergei, did they put a chip in your eye?”

  “You already know the answer.”

  “Funny, I like you better this way. You’d probably apologize for killing my husband and my brothers.”

  “You know I didn’t. But I would.”

  “And you killed Kapalkin, didn’t you?”

  “You should be happy.”

  She snorted. “You did the world a favor.”

  “Maybe, but there’s always another.”

  “Like Theron? Who is he? What does he want?”

  Izotov winced. The question sent a shock to his brain. “I can’t answer that. But let’s talk about you. I can have our acting president grant you a full pardon. We can reinstate you with the GRU. You’ll direct the foreign service.”

  “But your friend Theron will have to put a chip in my eye first, right?”

  “Viktoria, listen to me. Do what I say, and all the pain will go away.”

  She got to her feet.

  “Wait, where are you going? You won’t kill me?”

  “I’m sorry, Sergei, I already have.”

  His mouth fell open.

  “Yes,” she said. “Your favorite vodka. Every man’s vice can be his undoing.”

  “How long?”

  She checked her smartphone. “Another two minutes or so to think about what you’ve done to me, to everyone else like me. The people you’ve tortured and murdered. The innocents. There’s no repentance now, no place for you in heaven. And the last thing you’ll remember is me spitting on you as I leave . . .” She did.

  “Viktoria, I never . . . I’m sorry, please!”

  * * *

  The Snow Maiden left the room, closed the door after her, and fell back against it, eyes hot with tears. She hunched over and retched it all out.

  Oh, yes, he’d been wrong.

  Only she could make the pain go away. Not him. Not anyone else.

  Now she was free. Kapalkin and Izotov were gone. The motherland would have new leadership, a new path.

  Only two things remained: having the tracker removed from her arm . . . and losing her American escorts.

  FIFTY-THREE

  DreamRunner Motor Yacht

  East of Madagascar

  0910 Hours Local Time

  Christopher Theron had fallen asleep in his office chair for the second night in a row. He’d been on the phone, repeatedly grilling his sources regarding their failure at Jan Mayen Island. Scouts reported that the submarine had long since sunk, that multiple helicopters had been destroyed on the island, and that the place was now occupied by Norwegian troops who’d captured a small contingent of Spetsnaz operators. The airfield had been cordoned off, and some of the wreckage was being transferred into a C-130 by a team of American Air Force personnel. The Norwegians had no doubt discovered his operating room, along with all of the surgical equipment and supplies.

  Even worse, he’d lost contact with Werner, and the media was in a frenzy with reports of Izotov found dead in Moscow.

  Theron would continue with his damage control, purging databases and breaking his ties with six different South African aviation companies, along with his shadow partners from India. He knew how to consolidate his operations and shield himself. He’d done it before; he’d do it again.

  Business was bad. So was pleasure.

  Dennison was nothing but a mannequin to him now, their sex tiresome no matter how hard she tried. Without the challenge, without the hunt, she’d become a toy, half-broken, about to be forgotten. She’d been lying in their quarters, sick with a stomach flu for the past two days, the crew unable to help her.

  He rubbed his tired eyes and checked his e-mail account once more. His liaison with the Bilderberg Group had sent him a message: The directors had called for an urgent meeting, in person, no exceptions. He took a long, slow breath. He would not survive that meeting.

  Swearing, he opened the desk dra
wer, searching for his Vektor SP1, not that he planned to kill himself, hardly, but he thought he’d hang off the deck and empty a magazine into the ocean to release some rage.

  The pistol was gone. He searched two other drawers, then turned at the sound of the salon’s door creaking open.

  A male steward barely familiar to him brought in a tray with two glasses of fresh orange juice, coffee, and croissants.

  “You’ve forgotten to knock?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  “You . . . you came aboard when we stopped in Toamasina, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” The young man placed the tray on Theron’s desk.

  “This crew has been with me for years. I trust the captain’s recommendations, but if he’s hired someone who’s forgotten how to knock . . .”

  “I haven’t forgotten, sir. You simply haven’t earned my respect.”

  Theron frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that your captain is a man of conviction who only wants to do his job and obey the law. He may be loyal to you, but he doesn’t plan to spend the rest of his life in jail, either.”

  Theron took a step back, away from the desk. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Thomas Voeckler. I’m an intelligence officer from the United States of America. Perhaps you’ve heard of us. We’re a big country with a powerful military.” He glanced back to the door, where two men in full scuba gear and clutching military-style rifles stood, dripping all over the floor. “These guys are Navy SEALs, and they’ve got ten more friends outside. And oh yes, this, by the way”—Voeckler reached into his pocket—“is your gun.” He held up the pistol, then tossed it back to Theron, empty of course.

  Theron tossed the gun back onto his desk and snickered. “All you are is an inconvenience. I’ve got my own army of attorneys.”

  “You’ll need ’em. We’ve linked you back to the Forgotten Army with a witness named Aslan. We’ve got you tied to the kidnapping of Dr. Helena Ragland and to that operating room on Jan Mayen Island. We even captured one of your doctors on the island who’s confessed to everything. Dennison provides us hard evidence of your chip technology, as will Izotov’s body. Oh, and speaking of the Russians, there’s an SVR agent up on deck as well. They’re interested in what you might know about Izotov’s murder—as well as Kapalkin’s.”

  Theron’s breath shortened. “Be as smug as you like, little man, but you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  Voeckler frowned. “Actually, I looked you up on Wikipedia. They left out the part about you being such a douche, so yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  He gestured to the SEALs, who moved forward, and one of them grunted, “Don’t make any trouble, otherwise you will get wet.”

  “Sorry about your girlfriend, too,” added Voeckler as they escorted Theron out. “I gave her the stomach bug so she’d be confined to quarters and not recognize me. Kind of thing we spies like to do . . . she’ll make a full recovery so we can get that chip out of her eye.”

  “I don’t care. Tell me this, little man, have you found the Snow Maiden yet?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because if we can’t destroy the superpowers, she will.”

  Voeckler raised his brows. “One woman? I don’t think so. Anyway, she works for us now.”

  Theron felt his temples throbbing, and by the time the SEALs wrestled him up onto the deck, he was cursing and screaming, railing against the audacity and indignity of it all, blasting himself for his failure, and trying to wrench free as the SEALs wriggled him into a pair of zipper cuffs.

  “All of you,” he shouted. “All of you, look at me. This is what power looks like. This is what success looks like. Not you in your pathetic uniforms, slaves to your governments. Not you, slaves to all the lies. You’re being controlled and you don’t even know it.”

  He stood there, panting, and Voeckler came up to him and widened his eyes. “Nice speech. The cuffs kinda ruin the success argument, though. Keep working on it.” He slapped his palm on Theron’s shoulder, then turned his gaze seaward—

  Where a Virginia-class nuclear submarine had just surfaced.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  River Oaks Apartments

  Oceanside, California

  2221 Hours Local Time

  Lex rented a little one-bedroom apartment not far from Camp Pendleton because he enjoyed the privacy and liked to turn in early without being teased by his colleagues. He was a morning guy, rising at five A.M. to go for his run, hit the free weights, then get on with the rest of his day. Discipline was remembering what you wanted, and living alone kept him focused.

  The clock on the TV’s channel guide read 10:21 P.M. He was lying there in bed, thumbing through the channels, and thinking about Slava and Halverson.

  Yes, that sweet lady who’d saved their lives had bled out before they’d reached Iceland. Holding back tears, Lex had told General Mitchell that if anyone deserved the Medal of Honor, she did, and he planned to initiate the package by gathering witnesses and submitting their written accounts to be passed up the chain of command. Major Stephanie Halverson had, beyond a shadow of a doubt, distinguished herself conspicuously by gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of her life above and beyond the call of duty.

  Her boyfriend, McAllen, was still broken up, beyond consoling for now. He’d come around. The Marine Corps Raiders had big plans for him.

  After returning to CONUS, Lex had gone up to Sharon Springs, New York, to visit with Slava’s parents and tell them what a brave and admirable NCO their son had been and how he’d sacrificed his life doing what he loved. Losing Slava was terrible enough, but sitting there, staring into his parents’ eyes, watching them cry and talk about their son, was pure torture, so much so that when Lex got back, he’d remained in his apartment for two days, wishing he’d spoken more candidly with them. Slava was dead, and Oksana was still out there, somewhere . . .

  Nothing made sense any more. He’d stopped watching the news. He wasn’t sure when he was due back on the base. He wondered if he’d wind up like Captain Willard at the beginning of Apocalypse Now, lying there in a hotel room, going crazy, waiting for them to bring up a mission like room service.

  At least he’d run out of vodka and was too lazy to buy more. Vlad and Borya had left a few messages that he’d failed to return. Maybe tomorrow he’d feel better. Maybe he was just getting old.

  He sighed, lifted the remote toward the TV to change the channel again—when a silhouette moved into the doorway.

  As he reached toward the nightstand to grab his M9 lying in its holster, the light switched on.

  She stood in a black leather jacket and matching knee-high boots. Pistol trained on him. Dark eyes riveted on his.

  “What the fuck?” he cried.

  “Speak Russian only,” she said.

  He sat up, glanced to his gun, then stammered and began to speak in English. He caught himself and switched to Russian: “God damn it, bitch, what are you doing? How’d you get out?”

  “Forget your weapon. Leave it there.” She moved into the room, still holding him at gunpoint.

  He raised his palms.

  She removed one hand from her pistol, reached into her pocket, and slipped out a data card. She tossed it on the bed.

  “What is that?”

  “The location of your sister, Oksana. She’s still in Siberia. They moved her to another sharashka farther north. I’ve confirmed she’s there. You can go get her now.”

  “How do you know about her?”

  The Snow Maiden looked insulted. “I used to be an intelligence officer—and I pulled your file from GRU headquarters while I was in Moscow. They know that when you were at Fort Levski, you ran a search for her.”

  Lex’s frown deepened. “Why are you doing this? Why should I trust you?”

  “I wanted to pay
you back.”

  He shrugged. “For what?”

  “For what you’re going to do to me tonight.” She raised her palm, then slowly, cautiously, lowered the pistol and placed it on his dresser. She faced him and began unbuttoning her leather jacket.

  She wore nothing beneath.

  He lost his breath.

  “I’m sorry about your door,” she said. “I think I broke the lock while I was picking it.”

  “You’re a crazy bitch.”

  She crawled across the bed and slid on top of him. “I like being a crazy bitch . . . but you . . . you look sad.”

  “You take the good with the bad, I guess.”

  “Let me take away the bad.”

  His fingers went up to the bandage on her arm. “What happened?”

  “I did a job for your president. They put a tracker on me. I had it removed. I wanted a little more privacy.”

  “So they’re going nuts, trying to find you right now.”

  She smiled. “They shouldn’t have let me go.”

  He grabbed her wrist. “I could go to jail for this.”

  “You won’t.” She placed a hand on his cheek and began to kiss him gently on the lips. “I heard about the pilot, too. Halverson. She had skills.”

  Lex closed his eyes. “Yes, she did.”

  “I know you’re hurting. I am, too. That’s why I came back. When you captured me, and I looked into your eyes, I was scared.”

  He snorted. “Scared of going to prison.”

  “No, scared because I found someone who really looked at me.”

  “Well, you got your wish. And here I am, in bed with the world’s most wanted terrorist.”

  “Not any more. I’m just a girl. And we need each other. Will you have me?”

  He rose from the bed, crossed to the light switch and shut it off. She lay there in the fluttering light of the TV, her body cast in shadow, her eyes glimmering. “Will you come with me to get my sister?”