by Tom Clancy
No no no. This was not acceptable. Ames began to hyperventilate. If this fat ape reported trouble back to Bratus, then the meeting could go to hell. Ames looked to Sergei, still sitting there like a little bird in a nest, waiting for his mother. The fool! Ames flicked his gaze back to the helicopter, then back to the fat man, who was already on his phone. Ames’s mouth fell open.
* * *
Two men exited the chopper and moved toward the group, ducking slightly against the wash. Hansen zoomed in even more, and the floodlights from the hangar revealed both men as Asian, assumedly Chinese. They shook hands with Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao, who steered them toward the chopper, where another pair of men was unloading a black Anvil case about the size of a coffin, with a pair of heavy locks. Hansen couldn’t get a good beam with his laser mic so he pocketed it and just observed.
Abruptly, Bratus raised a phone to his ear, then suddenly backed away from the group and drew a pistol.
“Oh, my God,” Hansen muttered aloud.
Even as the words came from his mouth, Bratus shot Zhao in the head; then he fired at Murdoch, striking him in the chest. Both men dropped to the icy tarmac.
But Bratus wasn’t finished. He shot the two men unloading the large case, then pushed into the open chopper and shot the pilot and copilot.
He killed everyone except Murdoch’s driver, who attempted to squeal away in his car, but not before Bratus put four bullets into the driver’s-side window and the car simply came to a slow halt on the tarmac.
Just then a baritone voice rose from behind Hansen:
“Hello!” The cry was in Russian. “I am Rugar! What is your name?”
Hansen whirled back, tore off his trifocals, and found the business end of a suppressed pistol in his face. The man holding the gun, Rugar, was of inhuman proportions, and besides offering a promise of death, he flashed a carnivorous grin that left Hansen as shocked as he was breathless over his grave error. He’d been so engrossed in the images coming to him via his goggles that he’d failed to check his six o’clock, and the snowstorm had done an excellent job of helping to conceal the big Russian’s approach.
“You didn’t answer my question,” added the fat man. “What’s your name?”
Hansen just stared.
Rugar chuckled lowly, clearly enjoying himself. “What’s the matter? You don’t speak Russian?”
Before Hansen could reply, Rugar’s phone rang, and in the instant he flicked his gaze down, Hansen lifted onto his left leg and delivered a roundhouse kick to Rugar’s hand, knocking the gun from the fat man’s grip. The pistol flew through the air several meters and landed in a pile of snow beside the service road.
Hansen then rolled around, reaching for his own pistol, but Rugar dropped on him like an avalanche, the snow blasting into Hansen’s face and blinding him.
As he groaned and struggled against Rugar’s immense weight, he realized the man had already seized his hand, the one going for his gun. He blinked, tried to move it, but then an elbow came down into his cheek, striking like a lead hammer.
In point of fact, Hansen had never been hit so hard in his life, even during all his training exercises, where they “trained as they fought.” Pinpricks of light winked among the snowflakes, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. The blow now seemed to reverberate through his entire head, the pain growing roots that wrapped around his brain.
Nearly blind now, Hansen reached out, all his martial-arts training escaping from his memory, as though squeezed away by the man’s sheer weight, but he still had sheer instincts and muscle memory. He found Rugar’s cold ear, just beneath his hat, and seized it between his fingers.
Hansen tugged so hard that the fat man screamed and broke his grip, and as he moved slightly up, Hansen, in one massive expenditure of energy, rolled from beneath him. He came around onto his knees, drew his SC pistol, but Rugar was already there, delivering a solid jab to Hansen’s jaw that sent his head back even as once more the Russian seized his gun hand and began to pin him back onto the snow.
The knife. Where was the knife Grim had given him? In its hip sheath, Hansen remembered. He tried to reach across with his left hand, but he couldn’t get the angle, and Rugar was repeatedly hammering at his fingers to get him to release the gun.
Hansen grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it in the man’s eyes, but Rugar didn’t need to see a damned thing in order to keep holding down Hansen’s wrist and pummeling the hell out of his hand. After three more blows, Rugar groaned and opened his mouth, a rabid dog ready to take his bite.
Suddenly Hansen’s fingers gave out, and the weapon fell free. Rugar grabbed the pistol and fell back on his ass, the snow falling on him, the wind cutting across them as Hansen sat up to face him. His hands throbbed as he lifted them and, in a voice that cracked, said, “I do speak Russian. My name is Dmitry Anatolyevich Medvedev.”
Rugar did not appreciate the quip. Hansen was certainly not the president of the Russian Federation. Rugar cursed at him and, still holding him at gunpoint, finally answered his ringing phone: “Yes, I have him. What? You did what? Oh, no. Okay? You want me to kill him?”
Rugar lowered his phone.
“You can’t kill me,” Hansen told the man in a jovial tone.
“Oh, really?”
Hansen began to laugh. “Yes. My gun is empty, you fool.”
In the moment it took for Rugar to look down at the weapon, Hansen was rushing away, up toward the service road, where Rugar’s weapon had landed.
Rugar screamed for Hansen to halt, and Hansen wasn’t sure why he did, but he stole a look back just as Rugar fired.
The anesthetic dart struck on the neck, just below Hansen’s left earlobe.
The fat Russian recoiled in surprise. “Tranquilizer?” “See you when I wake up.” Hansen grinned and collapsed to the snow. A warm wave broke over his head and traveled down into his feet. The throbbing from Rugar’s beating withered away, and every other ache and pain was replaced by the strange sensation of being weightless in a dark pool, in which he saw Grim shaking her head at him.
She opened her mouth, but when she spoke, a fat Russian man’s voice came out: “He’s unconscious but alive. I’m going to bring him back, and I will question him.”
10
Sergei had remained behind the fuel truck and watched in shock as Bratus gunned down his colleagues, the two loading men from the chopper, and the pilots. The Russian operative was a one-man killing machine, his silenced weapon thumping, his shots expertly placed. He’d taken out Murdoch’s driver, and then, almost matter-of-factly, he’d made a phone call.
Following that, he’d begun trying in vain to open the big Anvil case that now lay on the snow-swept tarmac. The locks must have had digital combinations, because he didn’t bother to check the bodies for keys. At one point he rose, stepped back, and fired a round into one lock to no avail.
And then a most amazing sight: A lumberjack of a man came forward from the service road with a body slung over his shoulder. Not until he came much closer did Sergei realize that the giant was carrying Hansen.
With his pulse beginning to race, Sergei thought of heading back to the car, but he had to be sure that Hansen was dead. At least the job had been completed, if not by Sergei’s hand. He wouldn’t collect the money, but perhaps they’d leave Victoria alone. Who was he kidding? Nothing was certain now.
For just a moment Sergei allowed himself to feel the pain of his friend’s loss. He heard Hansen assure him, “I’m your friend.” He remembered their time together at the CIA, their training on “The Farm,” the practical jokes and the camaraderie, the pain they’d shared in Somalia, and that time Hansen had taken him out for drinks on his birthday and treated him like a brother…
With eyes beginning to burn, he shifted around the truck to get a better view. The giant in the funny little hat set Hansen’s body down near one of the cars; then, as Bratus shouted, the gaint hurried over to the Anvil case. They carried the case to Bratus’s car and we
re able to open the pass-through so they could load it between the trunk and backseat, along with Murdoch and Zhao. They transferred all the Chinese bodies from the helicopter into Murdoch’s car, since Zhao had left his car at the pub and had ridden along with Bratus.
After that, the big guy picked up Hansen and headed toward one of the hangars. Meanwhile, Bratus stood by his car and made another phone call, waiting impatiently for an answer.
Sergei frowned. The fat man was taking Hansen inside the hangar. Why? To question him? That meant Hansen might still be alive. They’d knocked him out? How? And why would they remain here, at the scene of multiple murders, to question a spy they’d captured? Why not take him someplace else? Maybe they didn’t feel rushed. Maybe this was all planned from the beginning.
Sergei waited a moment more; then he darted away from the fuel truck toward the back of the hangar. He found the rear service door locked, of course, but he always carried his picking tools, and within a few breaths the knob turned freely.
Wincing, he carefully opened the door and slipped, save for a slight gust of wind, soundlessly inside. He now crouched behind a pair of helicopters, small ones reserved mostly for business travel. Nearby was a wall of mechanics’ stations with power and air tools cluttering the benches. A pair of rolling carts with stacks of drawers sat beside one bird, and Sergei took up a position behind the taller cart while the fat man switched on a light near another station on the opposite side of the hangar. Once more he set down Hansen’s body. Then he went into a small adjoining office and returned with a wooden chair. He propped Hansen on the chair and proceeded to flex-cuff him to it. That the fat man walked around with flex-cuffs in his pocket said a lot about his line of work.
He grabbed Hansen by the hair, stared into his face, then grumbled something and let Hansen’s head drop. He began searching Hansen’s pockets and weapons belt, along with the pack, which he’d removed before setting him down. After the fat man moved the gear to a nearby table, he grabbed Hansen’s wrist, studied the OPSAT, whose touch screen remained dark, then decided to remove the device and toss it down with the other stuff.
Just then Hansen began to stir, his head lolling from right to left, and suddenly the fat man smacked him across the face. “Wake up! Wake up!”
Slowly Hansen lifted his head, glancing vaguely, and that was when the fat man reared back and delivered a solid blow to the jaw. Sergei flinched and glanced away for a moment, even as the Russian let loose another fist.
Then the bastard went over to the table, took something, and returned.
A blade sprang to life in his hand.
Sergei wasn’t sure he could watch any more of this. In his mind’s eye, he saw Hansen’s severed fingers dropping to the floor… then an ear… another ear… and shrieks of agony from his old friend.
“We know why you’ve come,” growled the fat man. “Now, if you tell me what I need to know, you will live.”
Like Sergei, Hansen had been trained on how to steel himself against torture, but you never really knew how you’d react until it was real. Would Hansen really hold it?
And then Sergei wondered why he was crouched there, just watching. Why hadn’t he already reacted? Would he let the fat man kill Hansen? Why not? Wasn’t it easier that way? But then, what about Victoria? He needed to ensure that she would not be harmed, and all he had left was the mission.
“You won’t break me.” Hansen gasped.
The fat man grinned and leaned over to stare directly into Hansen’s eyes. “It’s going to be a long night for both of us.”
I don’t think so, thought Sergei.
* * *
Ames was at a precipice between sheer panic and utter violence. The bile was already gathering at the back of his throat, and he clutched his binoculars with a white-knuckled grip.
Then — as if watching Bratus kill everyone wasn’t enough, as if the universe had a personal vendetta against him, one Allen Ames, Third Echelon operative and NSA mole — someone from somewhere took a shot at the Russian operative, who’d been standing by his car, on the phone.
Bratus’s head snapped back like a PEZ dispenser, and he dropped out of sight behind his car.
Trembling and swearing aloud, Ames scanned the area. He searched the low-lying forest, the ditches, the hangar areas, and all along the service road.
It was as though the bullet had been fired by an apparition that had dematerialized into the night.
Now everyone — save Bratus’s fat driver, Hansen, and Sergei — was dead. Ames thought of that Anvil case inside Bratus’s car. If he could recover it… But there was a shooter out there.
As much as he hated the decision, Ames knew what he had to do. Nothing. Except watch.
* * *
Sergei slid from behind the tool cart, took aim at the fat man, and fired a single suppressed round into the back of the man’s head.
As the Russian fell forward, Sergei sighed and shrank behind the cart, just breathing and wondering if he could go through with the rest.
And then, for just a few seconds, his hackles rose and he sensed that someone else was inside the hangar.
He craned his neck, shot glances toward the big doors, the office, and all along the workstations. The shadows seemed to come alive as his paranoia grew, and he imagined a man dressed all in black and wearing trifocal goggles. He leapt down from an impossibly high rafter, stood before Sergei, and tore off his goggles.
It was Hansen, who took a deep breath and said, “Don’t kill me.”
Sergei ground his teeth, shuddered off the image, then reached into his breast pocket and dug out a cigarette. He placed it between his lips, stood, and moved around the cart.
Hansen had dug himself out from beneath the fat Russian and was lying there, asking questions.
Sergei barely heard the man. He grabbed his lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a long drag.
They talked, and it was a like dream, the words floating on currents of blood that wound their way through a dark forest at the end of which lay Victoria, on a stone altar, her hands folded over her chest, her skin alabaster white to match her diaphanous dress, which fell in great waves across the mossy earth.
Sergei took a deep breath and stared through the image and finally saw Hansen. There was so much he wanted to tell the man, but he feared that if he turned his apology into a speech, by the time he finished, his pistol would be back on his belt and he’d be helping Hansen off the floor.
All Sergei really wanted to do was thank Hansen for what he’d done in the past, for his unconditional friendship, for his belief that Sergei, despite his failures, could still make something of his life. Even Sergei’s own father did not believe in him the way Hansen had.
Hansen deserved the truth. At the very least. Sergei apologized and added, “They sent me to kill you.”
That was all he wanted to say.
But Hansen demanded the details, so without hesitation he supplied them. And again, he wanted to say so much more, to somehow justify what he was doing, but there were no words that could ever do that. All he could say was, “I didn’t want to see you suffer.”
When he showed Hansen the camera, his old friend cursed at him, and that was all right. That was natural. And that helped, didn’t it? It was better if the man hated him.
Sergei had been thinking about how they’d been trained to deal with torture, and now he would use the same methods to steel himself against the killing of a friend.
He was now a being of cold flesh and function.
Action. Reaction.
There was the camera, the tiny screen with its crystal-clear image of Hansen lying on the floor, glowering at him, but there were no emotions now, just the camera in one hand, the gun in the other, the cigarette dangling from his lips.
“You see, he is alive,” Sergei began for his audience of NSA thugs. “And now—”
A sharp pain woke deep inside his head, and for a heartbeat he thought he was falling forward, the world tipping on its side
and framed in darkness.
He didn’t feel the concrete, but he sensed he was on it and realized with a curious resignation that he’d been shot, that he wouldn’t have to worry about forgiveness or about them killing Victoria or about a career or about anything else except what lay out there, waiting for him…
11
Hansen had braced himself for death. He’d always imagined that if he were captured, he would use his last breath to curse his enemy and never, ever be broken. It was one of those grand dramatic moments in his mind’s eye, brought fully to life by his inflated ego and his arrogance.
And, yes, at that second when he knew Sergei would not change his mind, that his buddy from the CIA would not only kill him but record the act for his bosses, Hansen had fulfilled that promise and taken the starring role in the climax of his life. He had cursed at Sergei, yes, but his thoughts had not focused with rage on what was happening. He could only ask two questions: Was it going to hurt? And was there something more beyond this life?
The questions hung before him even as he faced the ugly truth that his own runner had been blackmailed into turning against him, and that his death wasn’t going to be glorious or noble or memorable… just pathetic.
Then came another improbable turn of events as Sergei himself was taken out by a shooter so stealthy that Hansen had wondered if the shot had come from some higher power. His father would attribute the miracle to the “visitors” who’d always been here among us. No, a little green man or a “gray” had not saved Hansen. The bullet and the blood had been real, and while the shooter was seemingly incorporeal and godlike, those facts remained.
Hansen did a quick search of the hangar but came up empty. His savior must’ve had a very good reason for concealing his identity, and that was already driving him mad with curiosity. As he frantically gathered up his gear, his neck felt warm, and he swung around and screamed again, “Who are you?”
His voice echoed off the metal walls.