End Game

by Tom Clancy

  Chapter 27.

  BEST WESTERN HOTEL INTERNATIONAL LUXEMBOURG

  HANSEN had rallied the team back at Kayl, then received word from Moreau, who was flying into Luxembourg. They linked up with the ops manager at the airport, and Moreau seemed to be favoring his right arm but ignored queries about it.

  They all drove to the city of Luxembourg, and Hansen debriefed the team during the ride. They checked into the Best Western near the train station. Moreau said everyone back at the fort was working on picking up Fisher’s next location and that he had a few ideas of how they could accomplish it. But first … much-needed rest. Being strung out would result in grave errors. No one on the team argued with that.

  Much to Hansen’s surprise, he slept a full eight hours and was awoken to the sound of Ames on the toilet.

  “Jesus, can you close the door?”

  THIRTY minutes later, at about eleven, the team met in Moreau’s room. As the ops manager finished pulling up more data on his computer, Hansen drifted over to Gillespie and motioned her toward the window, away from the others. They spied a remarkable clock tower casting its long shadow over the train station below. The tower resembled Big Ben, and the clock’s white face shimmered above layers of gray stone. Beyond the station lay rows of train tracks and the requisite maintenance shacks. To the west and east lay more cobblestone roads, and Hansen felt as though he’d been transported back in time. He half expected a horse-drawn buggy to appear around the corner, hooves clacking as the driver worked his quirt to urge the steeds onward. Luxembourg was a country as old as it was beautiful. Hansen’s gaze remained on the window as he spoke. “You know what I’m going to ask you.”

  “And you know what I’ll say,” she answered quickly.

  “What if I don’t?”

  “Then you don’t trust me.”

  “I need to trust you.”

  “You can.”

  He took a long breath. “All right, then.” He started away from the window.

  “Ben. He jumped before I could shoot.”

  Hansen nodded.

  She pursed her lips. “You don’t believe me.”

  “I do.”

  They headed back into the suite’s living room, where Moreau had turned away from his computer to face them:

  “All right, boys and girls, here’s what we know—”

  Moreau’s expression shifted markedly, and, for a moment, Hansen couldn’t tell if the man was in pain or if an idea had just struck him like shrapnel.

  “Mr. Moreau, are you all right?” asked Noboru.

  Moreau took a deep breath. “Aw, I might as well tell you. Some clown broke into my room last night. Thought he’d whack me. Fool got off a shot. I’m all right. Just sore.”

  “Damn,” said Ames.

  “Did you go to the hospital?” asked Valentina.

  He waved her off. “I’m fine.”

  “Damn,” Ames repeated.

  “Yeah, that about sums it up,” said Moreau. “All right. Now, Ames, you got another reason to say damn, since you danced with the devil himself last night.”

  Hansen watched as Gillespie and Valentina turned their evil eyes on the little man. They were loving the moment.

  Ames fired up his best smirk. “Sir, to be honest, Fisher’s not much of a dancer.”

  “Well, I’m glad you can joke about it!” Moreau cried, rolling the dial on his voice up from 2 to 10. “I’m glad you can joke about how Sam Fisher got your goddamned OPSAT and relieved you of your weapon!”

  Ames shrugged, ever the haughty bastard. “These are trivial facts we’re all familiar with. I thought we were focusing on Fisher’s next move.”

  “Shut up. I’ve switched all the frequencies and cut off your old OPSAT so Fisher can’t use it anymore. He knows how we play. He may or may not still have your weapon. But we suspect he’ll try to better arm himself now.”

  “Why do you expect that?” asked Gillespie.

  “Well, he knows about you, for one thing.”

  “But there’s something else,” said Hansen.

  “Don’t get ahead of me. Fisher needs to resupply—”

  “The caches,” said Hansen.

  Moreau pointed at him. “Exactly. We’ve got three in Luxembourg and another four in Germany, Belgium, and northern France. Closest one to our location is in Bavigne.”

  While the weapons caches were small and had been in place for years (and assumedly contained outdated weaponry), they could be life savers for operatives on the run. Third Echelon had such caches stashed all over the world. Sam Fisher was either well aware of their locations, or he knew who was.

  “Sir, any idea why Fisher’s here and where he’s headed?” asked Ames.

  “You think asking politely will get you a straight answer?”

  “I could ask you like this: All right, fool, what’s up with this BS wild-goose chase? Tell us where Fisher is!”

  Moreau chuckled till he winced. “That’s more honest. Well, obviously Fisher’s been hiding out in Europe. He’s still got more contacts and resources he can tap here. It’s anyone’s guess what his master plan is, but we’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

  “Why don’t you make an educated guess?” asked Hansen.

  Moreau grinned crookedly. “All right, cowboy. Fisher’s here in Europe on a beer-tasting tour. How’s that?”

  Hansen shook his head in disgust.

  “So what are we waiting for?” asked Valentina. “Let’s get going.”

  HANSEN and Ames were en route to Bavigne, which is about sixty to seventy kilometers northwest of the city, deep in the countryside. The place is about as European small town as you can get, with only about 125 residents living within a community whose architecture seemed torn from the pages of a children’s fairy tale. It was Old World Mayberry, and when Hansen tried to make that comparison to Ames, the guy didn’t get it. He’d never seen any of the old reruns of the Andy Griffith Show. Ames was an uncultured swine.

  While Moreau remained behind at the hotel, Gillespie, Valentina, and Noboru went off to check out several of the youth hostels. Fisher wouldn’t play the credit card game now, unless he wanted to be caught, so he’d probably stay in one of the hostels, where he could pay cash, no questions asked. Then again, the people at those hostels tend to be very discreet and not at all forthcoming with information. The others would have to play their hand just right if they wanted to learn anything.

  Hansen checked his watch. It was nearly 1:00 P.M. They were heading up E411, near another small town, Thibessart, when the Zafira’s engine sputtered and stalled. Hansen glided to the side of the road, stopped, and for the next few minutes tried to get the engine to turn over. They had a full tank of gas.

  Groaning through four-letter words, they got out, raised the hood, and attempted to diagnose the problem.

  “You know anything about cars?” asked Hansen.

  Ames rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”

  BETWEEN the tow truck, and the drive out to deliver their replacement rental car, this one an upgraded Audi A8 like the one the others had rented, Hansen and Ames did not reach Bavigne until nearly three in the afternoon.

  During the two hours they’d spent waiting, they’d coordinated with the rest of the team, who’d been scouring the hostels around Luxembourg and come up dry. There was another weapons cache in Birkenfeld, Germany, about eighty-seven kilometers away from the hotel, so Valentina said they would go check it out.

  Hansen and Ames stopped at a restaurant, the Auberge du Lac, and ordered some sandwiches to go. The woman at the counter suggested they have some lobster soup, and Hansen agreed. Ames went off to use the restroom and returned in time to help carry the bags out to the car.

  “So we’re in the middle of a mission, and we’re stopping for lunch,” quipped Ames.

  “Yeah, but we’re eating in the car, if this one doesn’t break down.”

  “Where’s our sense of urgency?” asked Ames.

  Hansen shrugged. “I left
mine back at the hotel.”

  They ate quickly, though Hansen wished he’d had more time to savor the heavenly soup. They drove northeast, then turned south again, according to the map, weaving between farmers’ fields and the banks of a narrow river. They passed through a covered bridge and into a clearing where rose a log cabin that might have been built a century before.

  “This is it,” said Ames, as they climbed out of the car.

  Hansen nodded, started forward, then crouched down. “Footprints.”

  “And they look recent. He’s sloppy, all right. He was here.”

  “You keep calling him sloppy. I find that hilarious. If he’s sloppy, then what are you? Fisher didn’t bother to clean up these tracks because he’s confident we can’t use them. He’s deliberate. Always. Come on.”

  They mounted the porch, knocked, waited. No one was home. They crossed to the back of the house and found a locked door leading down into a basement. Ames picked the lock and they eased themselves into a damp, dark root cellar, the musty stench making Hansen crinkle his nose. Back in one corner lay some fruit boxes, and Hansen flicked on his penlight to reveal a small wooden hatch set into the dirt floor. The hatch had been recently uncovered. Hansen flipped open the lid and found the hole below empty.

  If Fisher had not been there, Hansen and Ames would be staring at a DARPA-modified model 1650 Pelican case with an encrypted-keypad lock and a C-4 tampering system that went boom! Larger than a suitcase, the pack held a standard equipment loadout: SVT; OPSAT; Trident goggles equipped with night-vision, infrared, and electromagnetic settings; SC pistol; SC-20K modular assault rifle with all the accoutrements; Mark V tactical operations RhinoPlate suit; and six grenades, three flashbang, two fragmentation, and one White Smoke. Fisher, it seemed, had now gone from the old school of jury-rigged cell phones to the newer Splinter Cell school, though the equipment now in his possession was still from the previous generation. Delta Sly had the latest and greatest toys, and they sure as hell would need them against Fisher.

  “All right, everyone, this is Hansen. We’re at the cache, and Fisher’s definitely been here. He’s got the weapons, the suit, the Tridents, the whole nine.”

  Ames drew in a long breath. “I think I liked him better in that goofy red shirt.”

  WITH Fisher’s projected path into Luxembourg and up to Bavigne clearly evident, the team was now able to narrow the search for him, focusing on a grid northwest of Luxembourg and reaching up past Bavigne. Moreau kept close tabs on all the rental-car agencies in the area via Third Echelon’s help, though it now seemed probable that Fisher had clean cards and ID (having secured them from Emmanuel Chenevier). Fisher had rented a car with impunity. He would be found on his terms. The other weapons cache in Germany had not been touched, and the rest of the team returned to the hotel, worn-out from the long drive and frustrated by the continued string of unknowns.

  Hansen met alone with Moreau and asked what they were supposed to do now. The trail had ended at the weapons cache.

  “Not exactly,” said Moreau. “Those tire tracks you photographed before leaving are SUV tires. So I checked the rentals, and there was a little mom-and-pop agency that rented out a dark green 2001 Range Rover to Fisher. I went down there myself, and there was an old lady who recognized his picture.”

  “So he’s in a Range Rover.”

  “Yes, that’s a start. I’ll run the tag, and we’ll have the locals track it down.”

  Hansen took a deep breath. “Can I call you Marty?”

  “No.”

  He moaned. “Mr. Moreau, you’re stalling us.”

  “There’s a difference between stalling and being very thorough. When you get older, you’ll better appreciate that. You’ll better appreciate the artistry of your work.”

  “Whatever. So what now? Should I just order the team to go driving around in the hopes that we happen to spot a Range Rover somewhere between here and Bavigne? You’re not going to alert the authorities. You’re just going to tell us you have.”

  “Watch your tone, cowboy. There are some traffic cameras we can patch into as well. I’ve already put in that request.”

  “Waste of time! Fisher could already be in Germany … or back in France. We could do a much better job if we knew more. You want us to play your game? Give us a few more rules.”

  “Where’s the love, cowboy? Where’s the trust? Where’s the patience? Go relax. Go have a nice dinner. You deserve it.”

  “I’m still full from lunch.”

  “I heard about that. Lobster soup? Where’s mine?”

  Hansen stiffened. “When I went to Russia—that was being a Splinter Cell. I don’t know what this is, but I hope, in the end, you make me believe it was worth it.”

  Moreau smiled, and a twinkle came into his eye. “I can’t do that for you, cowboy. That’s all up to you.”

  Chapter 28.

  HANSEN gathered the team in his room. “He’s just putting us through the motions. He already knew the weapons cache in Bavigne would be empty. He sent you guys to Germany to keep you busy. Checking the hostels was a waste of time. He says Fisher’s driving a rented Range Rover. He says he’ll have the locals help find it. I don’t believe him. He’s just telling us what we need to hear.”

  “So what’re you saying, cowboy?” asked Ames.

  Hansen leveled an index finger on Ames. “Don’t call me that. Ever.”

  “How ‘bout Tex?”

  Valentina cursed at Ames.

  “We all want you to die, Ames,” added Gillespie. “Doesn’t that bother you? When the bullets fly, we’ll use you as a human shield.”

  Ames opened his mouth, but Hansen shouted, “Enough! Now, we either sit here on our hands, or we try to figure out what the hell’s going on.”

  “How do we do that without them knowing about it?” asked Valentina. “We can’t use our network or our personnel. They’ll want to know why we’re querying.”

  “She’s right,” said Ames. “We’d need someone outside of 3E but maybe still inside the NSA.”

  “Or the CIA,” said Hansen, lifting his brows. “I have a friend. I owe him a favor, but maybe he’ll make it one more for me, and I’ll pay him back triple.”

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Noboru.

  “If Grim and Fisher are talking, it must be through a cutout, and there’s a chance that my CIA contact can drop a few names. Some of these guys in Europe work for more than one three-letter agency. If we can get the name of this cutout, maybe we can pay him or her a visit… .”

  “That’s a long shot,” said Valentina. “It’ll be like going to talk to Chenevier. The cutout won’t hand over Fisher.”

  Hansen snorted. “Maybe, maybe not. But apparently, we have nothing else to do—until Moreau calls with a sudden and miraculous update.”

  “I’m all for it,” said Ames. “Best idea you’ve had in, like, forever.”

  “You don’t want to complain?” asked Hansen, dumbfounded.

  “Hell, no. Call your buddy right now. But you can’t use any of our cell phones. We need to get you one without Uncle Marty finding out.”

  Valentina opened her purse and tossed a cell phone to Hansen. “Try this.”

  “Yours?”

  She cocked a brow. “Don’t ask too many questions. And by the way, our Tridents should be here in an hour or so.”

  “How’d you pull off that?” asked Hansen.

  She hardened her tone. “Like I said, don’t ask too many questions.”

  AMES was very enthusiastic about finding Fisher because earlier in the day, when they’d stopped to buy lunch, he’d gone into the restroom and contacted Stingray.

  Word from Kovac was that Ames could not allow Fisher to get anywhere near Vianden, Luxembourg. Fisher must be stopped before he got there.

  The why was none of Ames’s business. Kovac somehow knew that was where Fisher was headed. But more important, these orders placed Ames in a ridiculously complicated situation.

  He couldn�
�t tell the team that he knew where Fisher was going because he’d be unable to explain how he knew, which, in turn, would threaten his cover and his security as a mole.

  But this … this was unexpected and quite beautiful. He would fuel Hansen’s frustration and goad him into learning the truth about Sam Fisher’s real mission—and Ames felt certain that Fisher’s mission directly involved Kovac, which raised the stakes to the highest level of their organization.

  And when you played a game that important, you’d be a fool not to have an insurance policy. Ames had already made certain that if Mr. Kovac decided to make him the fall guy, then together they’d take an express train straight into hell. Now all Ames needed to do was find a way to reveal the Vianden link via Hansen’s desire for the team to investigate on its own. Or maybe Hansen wasn’t the key… . Maybe someone else was… .

  HANSEN used Valentina’s phone to call his buddy back at Langley to see if the good old CIA could bail out the good old NSA—not, ahem, that there was any rivalry between those organizations. Hansen had to leave a message. Valentina and Gillespie went to their room to change. They were going down to the restaurant for dinner.

  Ames ordered a T-bone from room service, and he raided the liquor, finishing off a couple of small bottles of whiskey before he realized how drunk he was getting.

  Moreau came down and rattled off a list of possible leads on Fisher’s whereabouts, and he reported that there was nothing yet from local police on the Range Rover. Hansen, Noboru, and Ames barely paid any attention to him. Moreau asked why they weren’t following up on the leads immediately, and Hansen answered him with two words: “Just chill.”

  Mr. Moreau’s gaze grew harder. He nodded, then left the room. Ames checked his OPSAT simply for the time, but the screen was blurry. “What time is it?”