by Tom Clancy
“I guess I’m more of a straight-up fighter. I’m really sick of this.”
Hansen suddenly looked away, and Valentina realized he was being contacted through his own subdermal. He turned back, eyes wide.
“What?” she asked.
“Car accident at a McDonald’s on rue du Luxembourg in Audun-le-Tiche. Yellow Aveo. It’s just a couple of minutes away!” He went storming back toward the SUVs.
Valentina fell in behind him. She really was getting tired of all the lies. If there was a certain artifice to their chase, then Grim and Moreau should come clean about it. But maybe they couldn’t, and maybe whatever Fisher was up to was so important that, as Hansen has implied, they needed to engage valuable human resources like themselves in order to get the job done. That was an eloquent way of kidding herself and continuing to live in denial about what she really was: a Barbie doll on a fake spy mission.
She could only hope that Fisher didn’t see it that way, and if they stayed close to him, she would definitely see some action. The real stuff, no doubt.
He was, after all, a magnet for mayhem.
THE sun was already on the horizon, the sky fading from light blue to deep saffron as they reached the McDonald’s parking lot. There they found several police cars, along with a few gendarmes talking to witnesses in front of the restaurant.
Fisher’s yellow Aveo was smashed into the rear bumper of another subcompact. The Aveo’s door was still hanging open. The vehicles’ positions made it difficult to see who had been at fault. Fisher could have been in some sort of frenzy, perhaps pursued by someone else—and had hit this other car. Or this could be another bread crumb, Valentina thought. He slammed his car into the other to bring the team here.
She spun around, studied the area, saw a train station in the distance and some kind of commotion up there. The side streets were blocked off by a few barricades. Some kind of party?
Hansen approached after having questioned one of the witnesses. “They say a guy in a red shirt. They weren’t sure which way he ran.”
“Nathan and I will go up there, toward the train station,” Valentina said.
“Good. We’ll spread out south toward that greenbelt. Everybody open a channel and put on your SVTs.”
Valentina applied the flesh-colored transmitter to her throat and took off running, with Noboru at her side.
They headed up rue du Luxembourg, then turned northwest toward what her map called the Audun-le-Tiche station, where a train had just come in from its run to Esch-sur-Alzette on the other side of the border in Luxembourg. Valentina did a double take because the train was a nineteenth-century locomotive pulling three carriage cars and seemingly transported right out of Disney’s Magic Kingdom.
If Fisher’s plan was to cross the border, then he had picked an excellent avenue of approach. There was so much traffic moving between France and Luxembourg, so many connections between the inhabitants of each country and the sister cities of Russange and Esch-sur-Alzette, that it was quite routine for a French family to spend as much time in Luxembourg as it did in its own country, crossing the border dozens of times each week. As a result, border standards were loose and fast, and Fisher could very well exploit them.
As they neared the station, Valentina spotted a large billboard that announced the decommissioning celebration and carnival of the Audun-le-Tiche rail line. Ah, there was the explanation for the old train; it was part of the festivities and making hourly runs across the border. She and Noboru were running smack-dab into a crowd of weekend revelers—yet another perfect situation for Fisher to exploit. Hundreds of colorful balloons had been tied to the platform, and rows of equally festive flags billowed above rows of vendors’ portable stalls with awnings striped red, blue, and white. Valentina could smell the coffee and the pastries, and her stomach growled as she ran past the stalls. There were, she estimated, at least five hundred people at the station, perhaps more, and she and Noboru began cutting through them, trying their best not to shove people and draw attention.
A cry of “All aboard!” in French lifted above the din of the crowd, and with a clank, groan, and sudden hiss, the train broke forward, and those still standing on the platform raised their arms and waved to their friends seated in the carriages.
As Valentina neared the station doorway, she and Noboru strained to see past all those arms and spot a man with a red shirt on board the train. By the time they reached the edge of the platform, the train had already pulled away.
“He might be on the train,” said Valentina. “We’re just not sure. Moreau? Do you see it?”
“I’m on it. I’ll let you know if I spot anything.”
THE automatic streetlights were beginning to switch on as Hansen called back Ames and Gillespie from the greenbelt area. They hadn’t spotted anything, and Moreau had done a thorough scan of the area with the help of his satellite feeds. They rallied back at the SUVs, where Valentina and Noboru were already waiting for them.
“We searched the entire station,” said Noboru. “Very crowded. But no red shirt.”
“Did you know that on Star Trek the guys who wear red shirts always die?” asked Ames. “I wonder if Fisher knows that. I wonder if, maybe, he’s suicidal. But subconsciously, you know? That’s why he picked a red shirt.”
Nearly in unison Gillespie and Hansen told Ames to shut up; then Valentina said, “If I were him, I’d be on that train.”
“Then let’s go up there and have a look.”
Hansen cocked his thumb back in the direction of his SUV, and Gillespie and Ames jumped in while Valentina and Noboru rushed back to theirs. They took off, heading up rue Napoleon 1er and veering off along a side street running parallel to a large, triangular-shaped reservoir in the distance.
Suddenly Hansen slowed to stop. Gillespie hopped out the back door.
“What’s going on?” asked Valentina.
“I see something down there. Looks like a bike,” said Hansen. “Moreau, can you get a fix on it for us?”
“No, I’ve got a signal issue right now. Give me a minute.”
“Great timing,” grunted Hansen.
“Take the wheel,” Valentina ordered Noboru; then she grabbed her weapon and hopped out. She crossed to the black SUV and joined Gillespie, who’d donned a long trench coat, just like Valentina had. Ames climbed out as well, and all three started down the slope, toward the bike Hansen had spotted. They were shouldering their SC-20K rifles with long-range scopes and under-barrel attachments loaded with Cottonballs, LTL (less-than-lethal) projectiles that resembled shotgun shells but were, in fact, aerosol tranquilizers with stronger, faster-acting agents that began taking effect on impact. The round would strike the target, release its contents, and render the subject unconscious for about twenty minutes, depending upon the size of the dose, the target’s body weight, and a host of other factors. Valentina thought it’d be a small miracle if they actually got to fire one of those rounds.
“Keep going. It’s right there,” came Hansen’s voice through their subdermals. “Near the bottom of the slope.”
“Wait a minute … wait a minute …” began Ames. “I got movement. Wait … red shirt! There he is! He’s running!”
Ames sprinted off ahead of them, and Valentina cried out for him to wait up, but then she saw him, too, climbing up the opposite slope and heading toward the trees—and for a moment it was like a dream, utterly surreal—Sam Fisher dressed like a goofy tourist but Sam Fisher nonetheless, stealing looks over his shoulder as he bolted away from them and spirited into the dark cover of the woods.
Valentina’s heels dug deeply into the soft earth, and she and Gillespie fought to catch up with Ames. They reached the top of the slope and once more spotted Fisher darting into the woods, heading east.
“You’re about 120 feet from the reservoir, 200 feet across, and there’s a dirt road on the other side. Looks like he’s headed there,” said Moreau.
“We’re standing by in the cars,” said Hansen. “Noboru and I wi
ll be ready to pick you up. Just don’t lose him!”
“No chance of that now,” said Ames.
Valentina was about to snort when the short man in front of her lost his footing and suddenly dropped to his rump. And in the next second she and Gillespie found themselves stumbling downward as the forest gave way to a forty-five-degree slope. Gillespie fell; then Valentina lost her footing and slammed onto her butt, and now all three of them were careening down, gliding across thick beds of leaves, trying to push off trees and find a path toward the flickering sheet of darkness that was the cool, calm surface of the reservoir.
And then … a splash … and Ames grunting into his SVT: “He’s in the water.”
Chapter 22.
BORDER CROSSING RUSSANGE, FRANCE
AMES smacked into the tree so hard that he was wrenched sideways and his rifle flew off his shoulder. He whipped his head as the weapon slid away and landed beside another tree a few meters away.
Before he could get up, Valentina and Gillespie were already back on their feet and running past him. He cursed, rose, and crawled on his hands and knees to scoop up his weapon.
He stood and headed farther down the embankment to where the women had dropped down to their bellies, along a rocky ledge with the water about ten feet below.
“Wait for him to come up,” said Valentina. “I have the first shot when he does.”
“No, I got it,” snapped Ames, hurrying up to the edge himself.
“I have it,” Valentina insisted. “Do not test me, little man… .”
Ten, twenty, almost thirty seconds passed… .
Ames impatiently stared through his scope, searching in vain across the dark waves dimly lit by the moon. The night scope lit up the darkness, but there was still some distortion coming off the water. Mist perhaps.
And then, sans any forewarning, Valentina launched a Cottonball.
Ames jerked his rifle left, toward the sound, and spotted Fisher in the water. The old man had come up to steal a lungful of air, and Valentina’s round hit him perfectly in the back of the head.
But that wasn’t how Ames would interpret it.
“You missed,” he said through his SVT. “Damn it, you missed!”
“No, I didn’t! He’s hit,” barked Valentina.
“No, he’s not!” Ames insisted, paving the way for what he’d do next… .
He tracked Fisher’s intended path, and he assumed that the man, clearly alerted to their presence, wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Fisher had taught Ames that water was cover, escape, and safety, and he’d also taught him to swim on his back and steal breaths so that only his mouth broke the surface, not his head. This was a basic escape-and-evasion technique often forgotten by operative in the heat of the moment.
Imagining Fisher doing just that, Ames zoomed in with his scope and spotted a faint outline in the water, the slightest disturbance across the waves.
Ames shuddered. He had him.
But now to set it up for the others.
“He’s getting away,” Ames cried. “But he’s submerged. The Cottonball’s no good. I have to stop him.”
With Kovac’s orders to kill Fisher echoing through his head, Ames took in a long breath and steadied his rifle. Fisher was shifting through his sights. Ames would not waste this opportunity. No way.
Was there any guilt? Even the faintest trace? No. It was just business. Time to put the old boy out of his misery. Fisher’s ghost would probably thank him for it.
Ames blinked and stared more intently through the scope. He took another deep breath, held it. Then he trained his crosshairs over the disturbance in the water.
Moment of truth. He was ready, with thirty 5.56-mm bullpup rounds at his disposal. The SC-20K’s bullpup design meant that the magazine and action were located behind the weapon’s trigger, allowing the rifle to have a longer barrel length relative to its size. The design was popular with NATO operators and quite useful for Splinter Cells who needed the capabilities of a longer- range weapon in a compact design for stealth.
Indeed, that longer range would come in handy, since now Ames would use the Splinter Cell’s favored rifle to kill the program’s most lethal operator. Ironic? Fitting? Oh, it was hardly that dramatic. He just wanted to make sure he got credit for the kill.
He took his first shot, the pop much sharper than the one produced by Valentina’s Cottonball.
“Is that live fire?” cried Gillespie through her SVT.
Ames gritted his teeth, spotted even more waves, and realized he’d missed.
He adjusted aim and fired another round.
That one must’ve hit Fisher.
“Ames, is that you? Hold fire! Hold fire! I already got him with the Cottonball,” said Valentina.
“You missed.”
“I’m telling you, I didn’t!”
“All right, hold up,” said Ames.
“Ames, are you firing live rounds?” Hansen demanded over the channel.
“She missed him. I’m not shooting to kill. Just forcing him toward the shoreline.”
More BS from the king of BS, Ames thought.
“We’re trying to take him alive,” insisted Hansen.
“Roger that. He’s still in the water. He has to come up soon. We’ll get him.”
“I’m coming down,” said Hansen.
“You sure? We’ll need you up there,” said Ames. “If he heads farther north, you’ll need to circle around. I’ll let you know.”
“He’s right,” said Moreau. “Stay with the SUVs.”
“All right, but you watch that fire, Ames!” ordered Hansen.
A moment passed, with Ames just listening to the sound of his own breathing.
“I don’t see anything now,” said Gillespie.
“Me neither,” added Valentina.
Below the huge concrete embankment to the northeast lay patches of thick weeds Fisher could use for cover. Ames focused on that area and waited.
No sign of movement. He slowly lifted his rifle to pan farther west, to an unpaved road running beside the opposite shoreline, then back down to the weeds. Fisher might try to rise from the water and break there.
“Moreau, you got anything?” Valentina asked.
“No sign of him yet. I’ve got a good image of the reservoir right now.”
Ames frowned. What was Fisher waiting for? Distance was survival. They both knew that.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, Ames caught the faintest shift in the shadows that seemed to be gathering along the road. He swung around his rifle, brought it to bear on the movement, and saw the silhouette of a running man.
Ames wanted to take another shot, but he couldn’t. He had to exercise some reserve lest he betray himself. Two shots was already pushing it. The kill had to come naturally, organically, not in a hell-bent fury.
Fisher dropped down into a depression in the road and vanished. Ames swore.
“I’ve got him now,” reported Moreau. “He’s heading toward the woods just north of the road. Hansen? Noboru? Looks like if you take the SUVs north and west, you might be able to cut him off while the rest of you keep pushing him forward.”
“That’s the plan, everyone,” said Hansen. “Let’s go!”
Ames struggled to his feet. The women were already ahead of him, running along the trees, the water rippling down below. His footfalls were heavy, his pulse high, and in the seconds that followed he relived the shots he’d taken at Fisher. What kind of a marksman was he? Certainly this demonstration did not reflect his Third Echelon training or his police background. Was he just succumbing to the pressure? No, he couldn’t think that way. He’d nail Fisher. In time. Patience. No hell-bent fury. He would neither beat himself up nor get too far ahead of himself. At least now the old man knew they meant business. Perhaps he’d step up his game and make the kill more interesting.
KIMBERLY Gillespie turned northwest, heading straight for the pine trees near which Moreau reported he had last spotted F
isher. She was moving in directly behind him, from the south, and began to slow as she neared the first cluster of pines, their boughs still. Not a sound. She raised her rifle, made sure the fire selector was set for Cottonball.
She tried to ignore her eyes. The burning. The old aches and pains. The guilt of taking from him what she shouldn’t have, and still hoping that somewhere, deep down below all those shields against emotion, there was a man who would, at the very least, remember her.
She once again smelled the chicken they’d roasted that night, tasted the wine—too much wine—and listened to him speak softly in that near whisper that at once captivated and drove her insane with lust. And for just a moment, she was back there, feeling his lips on hers, and then …
“This was a mistake,” he’d said afterward. “You were my student.”
“And now I’m your lover.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry this happened. You can do better. You deserve better.”
“Relationships are about people, not numbers on a calendar.”
“It’s not the numbers I’m worried about. It’s me.”
Gillespie’s foot came down and snapped a branch. Loudly.
She mouthed a curse. Froze.
Then she waited a few breaths more and crossed to open ground, heading west now.
Had she heard something? Breathing? She thought for a moment that he was close, watching her, his gaze warm on her cheek. She wanted to call his name, beg him to turn himself in, to end the game here and now. She could help. She would do anything. She imagined him emerging from behind the trees, hanging his head, reaching out to her.
She heard herself, “Sam, come home. Just come home.”
Then she shook free the thoughts, willed herself back to the task. She scanned the trees. That’s right, back to work. Get rid of the baggage. She’d made a promise to Hansen. All right. If Sam had cut to the north instead of crossing the road … But she couldn’t abandon the plan or the others. She had to keep moving. It was all part of small-unit tactics. She could still hear his admonishments as she continued, carefully measuring her steps, wincing at the crunch of twigs.