by Tom Clancy
Oops. Fisher gave a mea culpa shrug of his shoulders, then shouted, “Phone for you!”
Zahm handed his drink to one of the girls and headed for the stairs. Fisher sprinted back to the villa, scooped up his gear, and then returned to the hallway where he shed the Hawaiian shirt. He brought up the SC pistol, took a step forward. The sliding door whooshed open, then banged shut. When Zahm appeared in the living room and started toward the kitchen, where the phone was located, Fisher tracked him for two seconds, then fired. The dart hit Zahm beneath the right earlobe. He gasped, stumbled; then his knees went out from under him and he collapsed. Fisher crossed to him and snagged him by the collar and dragged him down the hall into the master bedroom, where he flex-cuffed his hands and feet. Five down or out of the picture.
He gave Zahm a quick pat down and found a Colt .25 semiautomatic pistol in his waistband. This complicated things. If the boss was armed, the underlings would be armed. Probably. Another assumption Fisher had to make. He considered trying a Cottonball shot, but the distance and the wind made accurate hits difficult. He would need to get close and dart them. And that was iffy. Even in their drunken state, the remaining three men were ex-SAS. They’d lived and breathed firearms for many years; even if they were drunk, Fisher didn’t put his odds above 50 percent.
Alternatives, he thought.
The kernel of an idea formed in his head.
He found the servants’ changing room, a small closet off the laundry room, by the garage door, and found a white smock and a pair of khaki pants and sandals that fit reasonably well, then went to the kitchen.
SITTING on the counter were a dozen liquor bottles, but the emptiest ones seemed to be those needed for mojitos. Perhaps it was time for a special Sam Fisher concoction. He found a glass pitcher in one of the cabinets, mixed up a batch of mojitos, then set it aside and turned to his SC-20. How many? he wondered. Three men, four women, all already drunk . . . He ejected five Cottonballs from the rifle’s modular magazine, dropped them in the pitcher, and then, using a long grilling fork, probed the liquid until he’d perforated all the Cottonballs. He waited three minutes to let the tranquilizer diffuse, then gave the pitcher a good stir, added ice, found a silver tray and six highball mugs, and poured. Finally, he shoved the SC pistol into his waistband and headed for the door. He paused before the foyer mirror to check himself, then stepped out.
He was halfway down the terrace steps before he was noticed. Welcoming shouts and cheers rose from the group around the pool, and by the time Fisher reached the deck they were walking toward him. Fisher’s Portuguese was rudimentary, but his French was better, so he switched mental gears and said in French-accented, halting Portuguese, “Mojitos. Senhor Zahm’s compliments.”
The sweating glasses disappeared from the tray. Fisher turned to leave but was stopped short by a shout from one of Zahm’s men: “Hey, I thought Charles gave you guys the night off.”
Fisher turned. “No, sir. I am here.”
“You’re not Alberto.” The man pointed a wobbly finger at the embroidered name on Fisher’s smock.
“No, senhor. Pierre.” Fisher gave the man a subservient smile.
“Huh. Pierre.”
“Yes, senhor.”
“Okay, then. Keep ’em coming, Pierre.”
“Yes, senhor.”
Fisher walked back to the steps and started upward. When the curve of the stairs blocked the pool area from view, he stopped, crouched down, and set aside the tray. He crab-walked back down until he could again see the pool. He was under no illusion about his Cottonball ruse: The tranquilizer would probably not be enough to render everyone unconscious. What it would do—what he was now seeing—was effectively double the group’s inebriation level and give him the advantage he needed. One of the women, the skinniest of the group, was the first to react, stumbling toward a chaise lounge, where she collapsed, giggling and holding her mojito glass aloft in a babbled toast.
Fisher gave it another ninety seconds, then retrieved his tray and trotted back down the steps. As he walked onto the deck, he held the tray up to shoulder height with his left hand as though announcing the arrival of another round, while reaching behind him and gripping the butt of the SC with his right hand. He walked directly to the densest cluster of people—two of the men and two of the women—and closed the distance to ten feet before he was noticed.
“Hey, there!” one of the men called. “More—”
Fisher let the tip of his foot catch a seam in the deck and stumbled forward, dropping the tray as he did so. As it sailed toward the group’s feet, he drew the SC, brought it up, and fired three times in rapid succession, taking down both men and one of the women. The fourth one reacted surprisingly fast for a drunk, spinning on her heel and running toward the couple who stood twenty feet away. She got halfway there before Fisher’s dart in the nape of her neck took her down. Even before she sprawled to the deck, Fisher shifted aim and fired again, taking out the woman on the chaise lounge. He turned, focused on the couple. From eight feet he fired twice, but a gust of wind took both darts wide, giving the man a chance to reach toward the gun in his waistband. Fisher fired again and this time the dart struck home, hitting him in the hollow of the throat. Beside him, the woman stood still, her arms raised and her mouth agape.
“Please, don’t—”
Fisher darted her in the thigh. She went down.
He spun, SC extended, looking for more targets. There were none.
FISHER immediately realized he’d made a mistake, but given the plethora of fatal errors that accompanied all missions, it was an oversight he could manage: He’d brought flex cuffs enough for only Zahm’s men, so after dragging the bodies closer together he secured the three men and four women in a convoluted daisy chain, wrists and ankles crisscrossing one another until the group resembled a Twister game that had gone awry. Even sober, the best the group could manage would be a disjointed scuttle across the deck; the stairs would be impossible.
Fisher trotted back up to the villa, trussed together the couple in the guest room, then returned to where he’d left Zahm. He was still unconscious. Fisher pulled his balaclava down, then checked his watch. He waited another ten minutes, then went into the kitchen, filled up a pitcher of ice water, and dumped it over Zahm’s upturned face. The improvised waterboarding had the desired effect. Zahm convulsed and sputtered and rolled onto his side, where he vomited. Fisher let him catch his breath, then knelt down beside him and stuck the barrel of the SC into his eye socket. Hard.
“Hey! Who—”
“Shut up.”
Retired or not, drunk or not, Zahm’s soldier instincts kicked in at once. He snapped his mouth shut in midsentence and studied Fisher with a special operator’s gaze.
“I want the combination to your safe,” Fisher said.
Zahm didn’t answer.
“You can talk.”
“Go to hell, mate.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“And if it isn’t, what? You’re going to shoot me?”
Fisher shook his head. “Yes or no?”
“No.”
“I thought as much. On your feet.”
22
FISHER cut Zahm’s feet free, then stood back as the man got up. Normally, Fisher would’ve felt confident keeping a couple of arms’ lengths from an adversary. Zahm rated three.
“What now?” Zahm asked.
“That depends. The safe?”
“Can’t help you, mate.”
“It looks like we’re going fishing.”
“Huh?”
Fisher jerked his head toward the door, then followed Zahm down the hall and out the sliding doors toward the terrace steps. Zahm started down. Fisher kept his eyes alternately fixed on the small of Zahm’s back and his shoulders; if the former SAS man tried to make a move, one or both of those spots would telegraph his intentions, giving Fisher the extra split second he needed.
The lack of any computers in Zahm’s home suggested that
the man was technologically unsavvy, but Fisher didn’t believe this. Zahm led one of the most successful gangs of thieves in British history and hadn’t even come close to being caught. So the question was, why no computers? Fisher suspected Zahm simply didn’t trust digital storage. While he wasn’t certain he’d find what he was looking for in the safe—or that it even existed—it seemed the logical place to start.
His choice regarding Zahm’s interrogation, however, was based solely on instinct: The former SAS man wasn’t likely to crack under normal methods. What Fisher had planned was abnormal in the extreme.
When Zahm reached the pool deck, he stopped and stared at Fisher’s handiwork. “They dead?” he asked.
“No.”
“What did you do to them?”
“Stop talking. Keep walking.”
When they reached the beach, Fisher ordered Zahm to the jetty.
“Stop here,” Fisher ordered as Zahm drew even with a skiff. “Get in.”
Zahm turned and gave Fisher a smarmy smile. “Sure you don’t want to take the Dare? Great boat.”
“This’ll do. Get in.” Gun trained on Zahm, Fisher knelt down and steadied the boat’s gunwale as Zahm stepped aboard. “Sit in the bow, facing forward.”
Zahm complied. Fisher cast off the painter, then stepped down and took his seat at the motor. It was a low-powered trolling model with electronic ignition. At the touch of the button the motor gurgled to life and then settled into a soft idle. Fisher cast off the stern line, then twisted the throttle and pulled out, aiming the bow for open ocean.
WHEN he was a mile offshore, he throttled down and let the boat coast to a stop. Almost immediately the boat began rocking in the wind. Water lapped at its sides. He shut off the engine.
“So, what now?” Zahm asked again. “We reenacting the Fredo scene from The Godfather? ’Cuz I—”
Fisher nudged the SC’s selector to DART and shot Zahm in the right bicep. It was a grazing shot so the drug took longer to do its job, but after ten seconds Zahm slumped forward. His head hit the gunwale with a dull thump.
Fisher holstered the SC, drew his knife, and went to work.
WHEN Zahm awoke twenty minutes later he found himself hanging over the side of the rowboat, his flex-cuffed wrists secured to the cleat. “What the hell is this!”
“You’re in the water.”
“I can see that. . . .” Zahm struggled, trying to chin himself up, but gave up after ten seconds. “What the . . . What’s around my legs?”
“The anchor.”
Now Fisher saw the first signs of fear in Zahm. The man’s eyes flashed white in the darkness as he turned his head this way and that. “What the hell is this?” he shouted again.
“Psychologists call it a stress trigger,” Fisher replied. “I’ve got a theory about you, Zahm: First you volunteered for one of the toughest units in the British military. Probably saw your fair share of action, I’m assuming?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Then you leave the SAS and dive headfirst into writing novels; then you buy a seven-million-dollar yacht and spend most of your time at sea.”
“What’s your point?”
“My theory is this: When something scares you, you attack it. The more it scares you, the more of it you do.”
“Go to hell.”
“You’re afraid of the water, Chucky.”
“No chance, mate.”
“Drowning, sharks . . . Whatever it is, you hate the ocean.”
Zahm shook his head a little too quickly.
“Let’s put it to the test,” Fisher said, then scooted forward, drew his knife, and flicked the tip over Zahm’s forearm, opening a one-inch cut. Blood trickled down his skin and began plopping into the water.
Now Zahm’s eyes bulged. He thrashed in the water.
“Wouldn’t do that,” Fisher said. “Sharks love that. What kind do you have in these waters? Tiger? Bull? Great white?”
“Come on, mate. Get me out of here.”
“As soon as you tell me what I want to know.”
Zahm didn’t reply immediately. He craned his neck around, checking the water around him. “What . . . what did you say?”
“As soon as you tell me what I want to know I’ll bring you back aboard.
“Talk! Come on!
“You and your Little Red Robbers—
“Hey, that’s . . .”
Fisher stopped talking. He simply stared at Zahm until the man barked, “Okay, okay . . .”
Fisher continued. “You and your Little Red Robbers did some work for a man named Yannick Ernsdorff.” This was half a hunch, but with men like Zahm, bravado was currency. “I want you to tell me what you did for him. The what, the when, the where—everything.”
“And if I do?”
“Are you bargaining with me, Zahm?”
Zahm jerked around in the water. “Something bumped me! Something bumped my feet!”
“Didn’t take long, did it?” Fisher observed. “That bump is a test. It’s trying to figure out if you’re a threat. Next it’ll give you a test bite.”
“Oh, God . . .”
“You done bargaining?” Fisher asked.
“Yeah, sorry, sorry . . .”
“Here’s the upside for you: One, you stop being live bait. Two, we part company and never see each other again. And three, I’ll keep your sideline job a secret— providing you and your boys retire permanently. I assume you can afford to do that.”
“Yeah, we’re set.”
“Do we have a deal?”
Zahm nodded. “Now, for the love of bloody Christ, get me out of here!”
Fisher hauled him over the gunwale, leaving his feet jutting over the side and the anchor line trailing in the water. Fisher rolled Zahm onto his back and waited until he’d caught his breath. “Yannick Ernsdorff,” Fisher prompted.
“Yeah, he hired us about eight months ago. One job, six million dollars, U.S. Don’t know how he found us, but he had proof—enough to put us away for good. Knew every job we’d done. He never said the words, but I got the message: Do the job, take the money, and stay out of jail.”
“Where was the job?”
“China. Someplace in China, near the Russian border. I’ve got documents in my safe.”
Fisher smiled. “I thought you might. Insurance?”
“With a guy like Ernsdorff? Hell, yes, I got insurance.”
“You deal with anyone other than Ernsdorff?”
“Nobody by name.”
“Descriptions?”
“A Chinese bloke . . . lean, hair graying at the temples; a Russian . . . hoop earring and ponytail; an American . . . gray hair, crew cut.”
“Okay, go on.”
“So we spend three months prepping for the job. Turns out the place is a government-run research laboratory in the middle of nowhere. Disguised as a chicken farm. Good internal security but almost no external stuff. Tough nut, that place.”
“But you did the job?”
“Yeah, yeah. Ernsdorff didn’t tell us what we were after. Just told us where to go and what to look for. Just shipping crates—high-end Lexan stuff—with serial numbers on it. He told us not to look inside.”
“But you looked inside,” Fisher said. “You took pictures.”
“Damn straight we did. One of my guys is good with seals. We broke open the cases, took inventory, then sealed them up again, pretty as you like.”
“And? What was inside?”
“Weapons,” Zahm said.
“I assume we’re not talking about AK-47s.”
Zahm shook his head. “No, mate, we’re talking about World War III stuff.”
23
HAPPILY, Fisher found he was wrong about Zahm’s technological foibles. The man had no issues with modern conveniences. He simply enjoyed life too much to partake in them. In that alone, Fisher admired him.
What he’d found upon opening Zahm’s safe was not only a cardboard accordion folder filled with document scans and four-by-s
ix photos in both color and black and white but also a Sony 4 GB Memory Stick Pro Duo.
After making sure Zahm’s guests were still bound and unconscious, Fisher made sure the former SAS man understood both the benefits of forgetting what had occurred over the past two hours and the consequences of pursuing the matter after Fisher’s departure.
IT was almost 3:00 A.M. before Fisher returned to his Setúbal home. Just before 8:00 in Washington. He inserted the Memory Stick into the OPSAT’s multiport, uploaded the data, then waited for a response from Grim. It didn’t take long:Data received.
Proceed ASAP to Madrid safe house.
Lisbon Portela Airport. Flight 0835. Ticket at Iberia desk.
Contact upon arrival.
Short and sweet, Fisher thought. He’d worked with Grimsdóttir long enough to know what that meant: She’d found something of value.
HE caught three hours of sleep, then got up, packed, and drove his rental car to Cabo Espichel, a promontory overlooking the ocean. There he set the OPSAT for timed self-destruction and dropped it, along with the rest of his gear, in the backpack, into the ocean. However slight the chance of its being noticed, he was wary of repeating his DHL gear-shipment procedure one too many times. Patterns attract attention. And, though Fisher was not a superstitious man, he half believed in not pushing one’s luck too far.
He arrived at the Lisbon airport an hour before his flight, had a bite of breakfast in one of the concourse food courts, then boarded his flight, arriving in Madrid an hour later, two hours on the clock. He was at the safe house by eleven thirty, and talking to Grim on the LCD a few minutes after that.
“We got a break,” she announced. “Multiple breaks, in fact.”
“You have my attention.”
“First, this is mostly hunch work, but the three men other than Ernsdorff that Zahm claims to have dealt with . . . I think I know who they are: Yuan Zhao, Chinese intelligence; Mikhail Bratus, GRU, Russian military intelligence; and Michael Murdoch, an American. Does import and export, runs a handful of companies, most of them tech related. He’s also elbow deep in defense contract work.