by Tom Clancy
* * *
“Sam? Sam? Sam? Sam? Sam? Sam…?… Sam…?… Sam…?”
I think I hear Coen’s voice. I’m not sure if it’s a dream or what the hell it is. I feel pain in my shoulders and back. I’m aware of a puffy balloonlike thing in my face and then realize it’s an air bag. I’m wedged in the front seat of the limo. I see my arms and hands flailing on the outside of the bag and there’s blood on them. I then notice the odd angle of the horizon outside the bent and misshapen dashboard. The road is perpendicular to the limo’s hood. Damn, the car is on its side and I’m stuck inside. And there’s water everywhere.
And then everything goes dark.
31
I open my eyes inside an ambulance. Coen is sitting beside me with an expression of concern on her face. The vehicle shakes and bounces over the road and I hear the piercing siren above the rumble of the engine. I take stock of my body and am happy to find no oxygen mask attached to my face. I feel pain in my side but for some reason I’m not dead.
“Hey,” Coen says. “Look who’s still with us.”
“What’s going on?” I manage to ask. My voice comes out hoarse.
“You’re on the way to the hospital, pal. Doesn’t look too serious, so you can relax.”
Then I remember. “I wiped out.”
“Yeah, but your bulletproof vest saved your life. And the air bag.”
Damn, I forgot about that, too. Lambert and Coen made me put it on under my civvies before I left the Sofitel.
“They have to X-ray you,” she continues. “You’re gonna be pretty bruised up. And your face looks like a pizza. But other than that you’re probably gonna be fine.”
I’m suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. “Then if you don’t mind, I’m going to take a nap until we get there,” I say.
“Go right ahead.”
And I do.
* * *
I’m released from the hospital around dinnertime. Coen was right, it wasn’t too bad. I have two cracked ribs that should heal on their own if I take it easy. There’s a bad gash on my left leg from when the limo crashed into the truck. That required eight stitches. My shoulders hurt like hell from the impact but thankfully nothing was broken or sprained there. I suppose my neck might have been broken, but as they say, I was lucky. Finally, my face looks like I’ve been through a perforator. Again, it appears worse than it is. The nicks and scratches should heal within days and leave me with no permanent scars.
However, for the wound on my heart — Katia’s death — they couldn’t do anything.
In the morning I’ll be flying to China via Osprey. Lambert and I had a long talk at the hospital and we agreed it was the best thing for me to do. If I went home to Maryland now I’d simply go nuts. I’d be so consumed with the thirst for revenge that I’d probably go berserk in a shopping mall. Cracked ribs aside, I’m in good enough shape to go after the bastards. Mentally, I’m focused and determined. I have to see this mission through to the end.
The three characters in Enemy Limo got away, of course. By the time the police arrived at the scene, the dead driver had been thrown onto the road and someone else had taken the wheel. Because of the rainstorm there were no police helicopters in the air to follow the car. However, the limo was found abandoned off of one of the freeway’s exits. We figure the passengers were Oskar Herzog, Eddie Wu, and Yvan Putnik. Where the trio is now is anyone’s guess but Lambert believes they’re already out of the country. A chartered plane registered to GyroTechnics and carrying three passengers left Burbank Airport a couple of hours after the freeway incident. An hour ago, when the FBI figured out that GyroTechnics was now a defunct company, it was too late to stop them. The plane had already landed in Hawaii and was left on a private runway. The three fugitives must have caught another means of transportation back to Hong Kong or wherever they’re headed. My guess is that they’re going straight to China to meet up with the controversial General Tun in Fuzhou. And they’re most likely carrying the MRUUV guidance system device.
As for the outspoken general, Tun has stepped up his television appearances in China. For the past two days he’s been delivering barbed speeches against his own government, accusing them of not having the guts to take what naturally belongs to them — that is, Taiwan. He pointedly states that China is afraid of the United Nations and the United States. The main thrust of his rhetoric is that it’s time for him to take the matter into his own hands, with or without the support of the Chinese government. Of particular concern is that Tun’s army, which has mobilized in Fuzhou across the bay from Taiwan, appears to be readying for an offensive strike.
The vice president has flown to Beijing to speak with China’s president. So far the word is that General Tun has been sternly warned to temper his statements but we all know that means nothing. General Tun apparently has the support of most of the CCP Politburo. The highest authority in China rests with the Standing Committee of the Politburo, which comprises twenty-five members, and, below that, a 210-member Central Committee made up of younger party members and provincial party leaders. The CCP also controls the State Council, which supervises the day-to-day running of the country.
Another wild card in all this is the power of the military branch in China. The nearly three million members of the People’s Liberation Army are divided into seven military regions, each with its own leadership and strong territorial affiliations. The Chinese army, navy, and air force function under one banner and stand as a very strong voice in the actions of the government. General Tun is considered something of a folk hero in his region and has been successful in recruiting the common men and women from the rural areas around Fuzhou to join his cause. To discipline Tun would be embarrassing to the Chinese government. As we all know, the culture there is about saving face. I suppose if General Tun makes a stupid blunder, attacks Taiwan and fails miserably, then the government can then discipline him and say, “I told you so.” On the other hand, if he attacks and is successful, the government could rally to his defense and challenge the rest of the world. It could be an extremely serious situation.
Lambert provided me with satellite photos of General Tun’s camp on China’s southeastern coast. His army is nearly 200,000 strong, consisting of land, naval, and air forces. There are three suspicious structures built right on the coast that appear to be airplane hangars. I have a feeling they’re submarine pens. It’s difficult to determine what kind of firepower Tun’s got up his sleeve but we know about the MRUUVs, of course. And we know he probably has the missing nuke that was shipped to Hong Kong from Russia. The problem is that our intelligence has no idea what the general plans to do with the MRUUVs. Attacking Taiwan with a nuke doesn’t make sense. But the presence of the submarine pens tends to refute that line of thinking, doesn’t it?
My job is to find out what the hell the guy plans to do with his nuke.
When we get to Edwards Air Force Base, Coen and I spend several hours going over my equipment. She helps me restock my supplies and ammo, fixes the bullet hole in my backpack, and provides me with maps, papers, and passports. It’s tricky going into a Communist country on a Third Echelon assignment. I’ll have to enter illegally and for all intents and purposes I do not exist. Coen will not be going with me; it’s just too dangerous. The political ramifications of being caught in China would be a public relations disaster for the NSA. I’ll pick up my equipment and be in direct communication with an official at the U.S. Consulate General in Guangzhou, but even the consul will Protocol Six me if I’m arrested. I don’t relish the thought of being accused of spying in the People’s Republic of China. The unfortunate souls who have had that experience most often do not live to talk about it.
Before I retire for the night, I arrange for five hundred dollars’ worth of flowers to be delivered to Katia’s mother. Coen tells me that Katia’s body was shipped to San Diego, where she’ll be buried after a quick Jewish funeral. The official explanation for her death is that she was a victim of gang violence and caught a stray bullet. I suppose her
mother is not going to question why gang violence erupted at Beverly Center, one of the more fashionable parts of Los Angeles.
In my note to Katia’s mom, I say that I was one of her daughter’s students and was very fond of her. I also provide my personal contact information in case there’s anything I can do to help settle Katia’s estate in Maryland. There will be the Krav Maga class to deal with and all… hell, perhaps I should offer to take it over. I’ll have to think about that. It would be a good way for me to honor her memory.
As I settle in for the night, I think of Regan. I haven’t thought about my former wife in depth in a while and I try to define my feelings for her at this point in time. I’ll always love Regan even though she’s a distant figure in my past. Katia would never have replaced her. No one could. After a stormy and intense relationship, Regan and I ultimately couldn’t continue living together. She’s been gone a long time but our hearts were always linked. At least I still have the result of our union, my dear Sarah. I’ll have to call my daughter in the morning before I leave.
As sleep overtakes me, I wonder who will occupy my dreams tonight. Will it be Regan or Katia? One or the other would be nice. I just hope it’s not both of them. I couldn’t face being in the same dream with two lost loves.
I don’t think I could handle the guilt.
32
I make an unscheduled stop before slipping into China. Lambert knows I’m doing it but no one else does.
I’m in Kowloon again, keeping watch over the Purple Queen nightclub. It’s the middle of the afternoon and I’m waiting for Jon Ming to arrive. The entrance to the back parking lot is visible from my seat in Chen Wing’s coffee bar, located across the street from the club in Tsim Sha Tsui East.
A slightly altered passport and visa got me into the colony. We changed it just in case the authorities might have linked me to some of the violence that occurred here a few days ago. It will also be much easier for me to enter mainland China from Hong Kong instead of trying to get in through Shanghai or another major city. From Kowloon it’s a straight overland journey to Fuzhou. I can stop in Guangzhou and visit the consul, pick up my stuff, and make my way to the east coast. It’s a good plan.
The only problem now is that I’m unarmed and without my uniform. With Mason Hendricks gone, there’s no one in Hong Kong I can rely on to provide me with a weapon. My chat with Jon Ming will have to depend on the old Sam Fisher charm, what little of it there is.
Contacting Ming proved to be much easier than I expected. When I arrived and checked in to a fleabag hotel in Kowloon, I phoned the Purple Queen and in my best Cantonese asked to speak with Ming. The exchange went something like this:
“There is no Jon Ming here. Wrong number.”
“Excuse me, but I know this is Ming’s nightclub. I’d like to speak to him.”
“You have the wrong number.”
“Tell Ming I will call back in five minutes. Tell him I have information about the Shop, Andrei Zdrok, and General Tun.”
I hung up, waited the allotted time, and called back.
“Who is this?”
“Did you give Mr. Ming my message?”
“Yes. Just a minute.” There was murmuring in the background before the guy got back on the phone. “Mr. Ming wishes to talk to you. Come to the Purple Queen at three o’clock today.”
At exactly five minutes of three, Ming’s Roll-Royce slides into the parking lot and disappears behind the building. I finish my tea, pay the bill, and walk across the street. The big Sikh standing guard glares at me, ready to pull his weight.
“Don’t sweat it, big guy, I’m here to see Ming,” I say.
The Sikh goes inside and I wait nearly three minutes before I become impatient and step into the club. Two Chinese thugs in suits are waiting for me. With no questions being asked first, thick strong arms grab me from behind and hold me with a viselike bear hug. It’s the Sikh and he’s a walking lump of muscle. Once I’m sufficiently immobile, “Joe” and “Shmoe” move forward and take turns delivering spear-hand chops to the sides of my neck. On top of the injuries I suffered in the L.A. limo crash, the pain is immense.
“Hey! What’s this about?” I gasp.
“Who are you? Why are you here?” Joe asks in English.
“I was invited. My name is Fisher.”
He says, “You were the man at the warehouse. You are an enemy of the Lucky Dragons.” The thug gives me another spear-chop that sends shock waves down my spine.
At first I don’t know what he’s talking about — there have been so many warehouses in my life. Then it comes to me. The time they had the device that wreaked havoc on my implants. I ended up killing a handful of their men.
“That’s before I was on your side.” I cough.
“We don’t believe you,” Shmoe says. He moves in to hit me again but I use the Sikh’s arms as leverage, raise my legs, and kick the man in the face. Before Joe or the Sikh can retaliate, I swing my legs back, bend my knees, and ram the soles of my boots into the Sikh’s knees. He bellows in pain and releases me. That gives Joe time to perform a jump kick, hitting me squarely on the sternum and knocking me backward into the Sikh. The two of us tumble to the ground. The Sikh is pretty much out of the game — I may have broken his kneecaps — so I concentrate on the two Chinese hoods. As Shmoe moves in to kick me in the ribs, I roll toward him like a log and manage to trip him up. He falls into his partner, allowing me the opportunity to jump to my feet. I immediately spin, thrust out my right foot, and connect the heel to Joe’s chin. I follow through, place my right foot on the floor, bend the right knee, and spring forward with my left foot pointed at Shmoe. Bull’s-eye, right in the solar plexus. I drop back, assume a defensive stance, and wait.
“Stop!” Jon Ming stands a few feet away. He looks at me and says, “I’ve seen you before.”
“I’ve been in your club,” I say.
Ming turns to Shmoe and orders, “Frisk him. Then bring him to the conference room. There is no need to play rough.” He focuses on the Sikh, who is rolling on the floor in agony. “And see to his needs.” Ming shakes his head as if the guard hadn’t studied for a school quiz and had failed it miserably.
I hold up my arms and Shmoe does a thorough job of patting me down. When he’s satisfied I’m not there to assassinate his leader, he gives me the dirtiest look he can muster, jerks his head, and says, “Follow me.”
We walk through the empty club. I notice the pretty hostess who served me the night I was here. She’s busy wiping the tables, preparing the place to open. She looks at me and wrinkles her brow, trying to remember where she’s seen me before. Of course, all gweilo look alike to Asians.
They lead me through the Employees Only door and into the hallway where not too long ago I performed a clandestine search. I’m not surprised when I’m ushered into the very room that was once covered in plastic, the room where I took a specimen of dried blood. Now, however, the place is tidy and devoid of plastic. Jon Ming sits at the small conference table and gestures to one of the other empty chairs. Joe and Shmoe remain standing behind me. One of them shuts the door.
“Mr. Sam Fisher,” Ming says in English. “You are a Splinter Cell from the branch of the National Security Agency known as Third Echelon.”
Dripping with sarcasm, I say, “I can’t imagine how you’d know that.”
Ming smiles. “You have a sense of humor, I see. That is good.”
“Oh, it’s a million laughs that one of your people penetrated our organization and then sold information to the Shop. Yeah, we find that extremely funny, Mr. Ming, but that’s not why I’m here. By all accounts I should be at your throat. Not only were the Lucky Dragons in league with the most dangerous arms-dealing outfit in the world, but you also tried to have me killed not too long ago.”
“We thought you were a threat to us,” he answers. “I apologize. Since you did away with six of my men at the time, I assume you will agree that the score is settled. And you did just break one of my employe
es’ kneecaps just now. Are we even?”
“Perhaps,” I say. “That depends on how our conversation goes today.”
Ming is silent for a moment as he lights a cigarette. He offers one to me but I refuse it. “May I offer you a drink?” he asks instead.
“No, thanks.”
“Very well. What is it you wanted to speak to me about, Mr. Fisher?”
“Let’s go back to the beginning of all this. Once upon a time there was a physicist working in weapons development in my country. His name was Gregory Jeinsen. He died here in this room.”
Ming registers no reaction when I say this but he also offers no refutation.
I continue. “Through Mike Wu, your mole at Third Echelon, you obtained information from Professor Jeinsen over a period of time. This consisted of the specifications, plans, and everything else that’s needed to create an MRUUV. Am I right so far?”
“Operation Barracuda,” Ming says. “Yes, you are correct.”
“Of course I am. You then — wait, why do you call it ‘Operation Barracuda’?”
“Because an MRUUV is long and cylindrical, like a barracuda fish.”
“I see. Anyway, you then sold all of Jeinsen’s material to the Shop.”
“We traded it for goods, but that’s neither here nor there.”
“Whatever. There was one piece of the pie you didn’t give them, though — the guidance system that your illegal research outfit in Los Angeles created. By then you had called off your business relationship with the Shop and closed down GyroTechnics.”
“You are exceptionally well informed, Mr. Fisher. I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone with your aptitude and abilities.”
“Are you aware that Eddie Wu managed to sell the device to the Shop anyway? And that he and the Shop have delivered it to General Lan Tun in Fuzhou?”
For the first time since we began, Ming registers concern on his face by blinking several times. He adjusts himself in the seat and says, “Go on.”