by Tom Clancy
The big guy flashed an ID: NSA. Then he ended his call.
“Great,” Hansen said through a sigh. “Am I under arrest or something?”
“Not technically.”
“But technically I have to go with you.”
“Technically, yes.”
“Do you think you can outrun me?”
“Dude, come on. I’m a fat bastard. Don’t make my life miserable. Just come along and play nice.”
“Where are we going? Back to Hawaii?”
“Someplace out in the ’burbs. That’s all I know.”
“How long’s the drive?”
“Not long.”
“Not much of a detail-oriented guy, are you?”
He snorted. “You sound like my wife.”
“You got an iPod?”
“Yeah.”
“You got any AC/DC?”
The fat man grinned.
* * *
They arrived at a small, one-story house on a narrow street lined by old oak trees and warped telephone poles. A late-model SUV was parked in the driveway. This was typical middle-class America, about as nondescript as you could get. The front lawns were beginning to turn green from their long winter brown, and the ticking of a sprinkler sounded in the distance. Two black boys, about seven or eight, were standing on the driveway and shooting each other with water rifles that resembled antitank guided missile launchers.
“This is it,” said Hansen’s well-dressed NSA taxi driver.
Hansen shook his head. “What am I doing here?”
The man rapped a knuckle on the GPS unit mounted on his windshield. “Look, bro. This is where they told me to bring you. You mind getting out? I’m sure they got some pizzas they want me to pick up.”
Hansen sighed, grabbed his small carry-on bag, and climbed out of the car. As soon as he slammed the door, the driver floored it, leaving a trail of sarcasm and echoing AC/DC in his wake.
With a deepening frown, Hansen started up the driveway, breathing in the sweet scent of hamburgers grilling on a barbecue from the house next door. One of the boys looked at him, wriggled his brows, then shot Hansen in the face with his water rifle.
“Hey!” Hansen cried, blinking through the incoming fire.
“Tyler! James! I told you to stay in the backyard,” came a voice from the front door.
Hansen met the gaze of a young black woman, about thirty-five, wearing expensive business attire and alternating her gaze between him and the smart phone in her hand.
He was about to open his mouth when she added, “Come on. They’re waiting for you in the basement.”
“Okay… ” Hansen started for ward and asked, “Am I supposed to introduce myself?”
She made a face. “No one else did.” She led him through the modestly decorated living room and toward a door adjacent to the kitchen. Hansen descended the narrow wooden staircase, reached the bottom, and turned to face the rest of his team, who were sitting in metal folding chairs arranged in a semicircle.
Standing before the group was a bald black man with a gray goatee. His muscular chest tented up a black silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal the requisite bling around his neck. His expensive pants looked cut by a tailor, and his matching shoes were shined to a rich gloss. He also sported a large gold class ring on his left pinky. He could easily be mistaken for a retired NBA star, and when he looked at Hansen, it was with an eerie fire in his eyes, the way you’d look at someone you planned to kill.
He spoke loudly, aggressively, establishing within the first sentence who was in charge: “Well, it’s nice of you to join us, cowboy. There’s a cooler over there with sodas. Grab yourself one and take a seat.”
Hansen glanced incredulously at the others, who simply shrugged and returned his frown. They each had a soda and a seat, but Hansen wasn’t quite ready for either. “Uh, excuse me, but who are you?”
“My name is Louis Moreau. Most people around 3E call me Marty. You’ll call me Mr. Moreau. I’m your new technical operations manager, basically taking Grim’s old job and kicking it up a notch.”
“Where’s Grim?”
“Couldn’t make it.”
“You got ID?”
Moreau began to chuckle. “Get your soda and sit down.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
Moreau crossed the room. Hansen hadn’t quite realized that the man was a full head taller than him, and he seemed to grow wider as he drew near. “The only tough guy in the room is me. Mad Dog Moreau. Get over it. Get a chair.”
Hansen rolled his eyes and complied. He flicked his glance to the pipes spanning the ceiling, the cinder-block walls, the laundry piled on the washer and dryer. “Nice basement. You got, like, a secret panel where you keep all the high-tech crap?”
“It’s just a basement. And you can thank my sister for opening up her house to us. Now, I know you have a lot of questions. But most of them I won’t answer, so just forget about those.”
Valentina threw back her blond hair and snickered.
Ames raised his hand. “Uh, sir, I don’t have a question, just a comment. You’re an asshole.”
Moreau widened his eyes in disbelief, narrowed them into a glower, then broke into a broad grin. “I like you, Brooklyn. I like that large attitude. Helps compensate, you know?”
“So that’s how we get on your good side?” asked Gillespie, sipping her Coke. “We insult you?”
“You get on my good side, Ms. Longstocking, by doing your job.”
“What did you call me?”
“Oh, I forgot — you guys aren’t even thirty. When you’re bored or drunk sometime, look up Pippi Longstocking. You’ll have fun. Now I want to talk about Houston.”
Everyone groaned.
“Sir?” began Noboru.
“You don’t have a question, do you, Bruce?”
“Uh, no, sir. Uh, my name is Nathan.”
“No, you’re Bruce Lee. Deal with it. Now, what do you want to say?”
“Um, nothing, sir.”
Moreau moved over to Noboru and leaned down. “Speak.”
“Sir, I just wanted to say that—”
“What, that you’re honored to be here? That the United States of America has become your new home? That what happened in Houston wasn’t your fault?”
Noboru thought for a moment. “That’s right, sir.”
“Good. Very good, Bruce. Now we can move on.”
Valentina rose from her chair. “This is ridiculous. Are you going to conduct a meeting or entertain yourself by giving us nicknames? And God help you, if you give me one…”
Ames leaned forward and grinned at Hansen.
“Take a seat, Ms. Valentina, before I assign you a nickname you’ll regret.” Moreau faced the group. “So… excellent job in Houston.”
Ames nearly spit out his soda. “Excuse me, sir, but this morning I went online to see how I’m supposed to file for unemployment — and you’re telling me good job?”
“Leonard’s dead. His data was destroyed in the house fire. We’ve confirmed that. In trying to kill him, the Chinese destroyed their prize.”
“Who tipped them off?” asked Valentina.
“We’re working on that.”
Valentina shook her head in disgust. “I don’t like leaks that I can’t control.”
“Me neither,” said Ames. “I scanned the perimeter for heat signatures at least ten times. And suddenly I’ve got a shooter. What’s up with that?”
Moreau took a deep breath. “If every operation went according to plan, none of us would be here. Third Echelon wouldn’t exist. So ‘what’s up with that’ is the unexpected. And we like that. It keeps us in business.”
“We were hoping to retrieve the data and arrest Leonard for selling secrets to the Chinese,” said Hansen. “We failed on both accounts. You call that a good job? Hell, I’d like to see what you call a screwup.”
“The data didn’t fall into the hands of the Chinese. That’s all that matters right now. And Leonard’s ties to Rus
sia have also been severed. It began with Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao, Mr. Hansen, and it may have ended with Leonard. Be proud of the work you’ve done so far.”
“If you say so.”
“I know so.” Moreau took a deep breath. “Boys and girls, I’ve been with the NSA longer than you’ve been alive, so you’ll have to accept my apologies in advance.”
“Why is that, sir?” asked Hansen.
“Because I have no patience and even less tolerance for inefficiency. God, young man, is in the details. And that’s where I come in. I will speak. You will listen. You will learn. You will act on my information. You will not fail. Now, excuse me for a moment.” Moreau crossed to another chair, picked up his laptop, and took a seat, balancing the computer on his knees.
Meanwhile, Valentina leaned over to Hansen and lowered her voice. “Grim had to do major damage control in Houston, and we’re getting pats on the back?”
“Maybe they’re sweetening us up to feed us to the wolves,” said Gillespie.
Ames leveled an index finger at her. “Now, that’s the first intelligent thing I’ve heard you say, Ms. Longstocking.”
“All right, people,” said Moreau. “We’re not just here to discuss Houston.”
Hansen raised his hand. “Mr. Moreau, I know you’re not answering questions, but before we go any further, could you tell us why we’re in your sister’s basement instead of the situation room?”
“We have reason to believe the situation room has been compromised.”
“What?” cried Hansen.
“You heard me.”
“So you think your sister’s basement is safer? Why don’t we go to Taco Bell?”
“We’re clear here, cowboy. Now, purge all that white noise from your head and listen up.”
Moreau turned his computer around so they could see the screen, and there, with a deep scowl lining his face, was a shaggy-haired, unshaven, all-too-familiar man.
“I was supposed to debrief you folks and get you set up for another operation in Pakistan, but it seems Mr. Sam Fisher has changed those plans. He’s just surfaced in Reims. If I’d received this information sooner, we’d be at the airport already.”
“Fisher’s in Reims. So what? Alert Interpol,” said Valentina.
“That’s already happened, but we like to take care of our own problems, thank you,” snapped Moreau.
“So Fisher’s where?” asked Ames.
“He’s in Reims. It’s in France, idiot,” said Gillespie.
“What the hell’s he doing there?” Ames continued, ignoring Gillespie’s barb.
Moreau shrugged. “You’re flying out today. And let me remind you: Fisher is not a Splinter Cell. He’s a traitor and a murderer. He killed Irving Lambert, a good friend of mine and your former boss.”
“No,” cried Gillespie. “I know Sam. There’s more to it than that.”
“I agree,” said Ames. “I’ve never doubted for one minute that Sam was anything but loyal to us. If he killed Lambert, then maybe Lambert was the traitor!”
Moreau raised his own voice. “Sam Fisher tried to bring down Third Echelon. As a consequence, you people are going over there, and he’s coming back in cuffs or a body bag.”
“Sir, to be clear, we have orders to shoot to kill if necessary?” Hansen asked.
“What did I just say, cowboy? Cuffs or body bag.”
Noboru raised his hand. “Uh, excuse me, sir? Why are you sending us?”
Hansen snorted and answered before Moreau could. “Because we’re the best.”
“Some of us,” corrected Ames.
“I was not privy to the selection process,” said Moreau. “And to be fair, no, I wouldn’t have selected you rookies to go after somebody like Sam Fisher. I told Grim it’s like sending hamsters after a rattlesnake.”
“Oh, my God, did you just say that?” asked Gillespie as the others swore and hissed.
“You don’t like that comparison, Pippi? Prove me wrong. Now, we’ll finish this up on the way to the airport.” Moreau consulted his watch. “The van should be here any minute.”
“Didn’t we just get off a plane?” asked Valentina, sighing in disgust.
“Look on the bright side, sweetheart. You’re going to France,” said Ames. “You can go shopping and get your nails done.”
“And when my nails are done, I can use them to reach into your chest and rip out your still-beating heart.”
“I was going to say you could scratch my back while we—”
“In your pathetic dreams.”
Ames wore a mock-wounded expression. “Why are you so mean to me?”
Valentina raised a perfectly tweezed brow. “Because when I was a kid, you were that boy who pulled my ponytail all through school.”
“I think you like me. I think you’re struggling with that. You’re afraid to admit it. Don’t be afraid, Maya. Don’t be afraid.”
“Ben, can you shut him up?”
Hansen waved them off and started up the stairs. In his mind’s eye he saw himself putting a gun to Sam Fisher’s head.
“Why did you kill Lambert?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I see. They want me to bring you in.”
“I can’t let that happen.”
“Then I’m sorry.” Hansen pulled the trigger.
Fisher crashed to the ground, lying faceup, and began bleeding all over the pavement.
With the hot sun on the back of his neck, Hansen shifted over Fisher’s body, his shadow passing over Fisher’s face, the eyes glowing, a third equally bright eye appearing on Fisher’s forehead as his mouth moved and he gasped out, “Ben, I need to tell you something… ”
14
CESSNA CITATION X EN ROUTE TO PARIS
The Cessna Citation X, the fastest civilian aircraft in the sky, swept over the Atlantic Ocean at six hundred plus miles per hour, climbing to a cruising altitude of some forty-five thousand feet.
Maya Valentina leaned back in her well-padded chair and sipped once more from her glass of champagne. Some bubbly was the least they could do. Since joining Third Echelon, she’d logged as many hours aboard aircraft as the average commercial airline pilot. Well, that was probably an exaggeration, but she was beginning to feel a constant state of lag taking hold beneath her eyes.
She glanced over at the black ash burl panels beside her seat and ran her fingers across the smooth, polished surface. She knew a lot about wood because of her father. He was a framer, trim carpenter, cabinet maker, and amateur knife maker in their hometown of Geneva, Florida. Her dad’s grandfather had been a wood carver in Sicily and had come to the United States in the early 1900s to find work in New York City as a piano maker. The family had eventually moved down to Florida, and her father continued practicing the family trade of woodcraft.
Valentina had been raised in a farmhouse built in the 1860s and nestled on ten acres that bordered state-owned lands. With all that room to roam, she and her four brothers spent their summers exploring the woods and creeks. She had been on a path to becoming a typical tomboy and could hunt, fish, and shoot with the best of them, but she was still attracted to fashion and makeup and all those things that made her feel like a girl. The colorful dresses she wore to Sunday-morning mass were some of her favorite clothes, and her mother had made sure that she had access to all of those feminine things and told her that, no, she was not just one of the boys, despite being outnumbered. Once she entered high school, she shed the last of her tomboy roots, and her mother taught her how to apply makeup and add highlights to her hair. Much to her father’s chagrin, the boys noticed… in droves. Her dad liked to show her dates his gun and knife collections, not because he was trying to threaten them, but because he was always trying to sell a piece or two. She had to yell at him for trying to solicit her friends.
What troubled her most, though, was the stereotypical dismissal given to her by her peers when she’d attended Rollins College to get a degree in political science with an aim toward doing somethi
ng in the government. Her colleagues couldn’t wrap their heads around the fact that a woman with her looks wanted to do something with her brains instead of her boobs. Her own roommate told her, “You’re either a beauty or a geek. Don’t try to be both. You could get a job as a stripper and make more in a few months than you’ll make in a year as a lawyer.”
There were darker days when she’d stand in front of the mirror, put a knife to her cheek, and wonder what the scar would look like, how it might change their perception of her. She’d trace a line down from the corner of her eye, across her cheek, then wind it down beneath her chin. Yet the scar would just draw pity, and they still wouldn’t see her as smart. The dumb-blond jokes would keep coming. What do you call a dead blonde in a closet? The 1986 hide-and-seek world champion. Hilarious. The injustice of that stereotype annoyed her so much that she’d developed a rant she’d often unleash on her dates.
All of which underscored the fact that when Hansen told her to go into Leonard’s office and seduce him, she’d died a little more inside. The degree from Rollins meant nothing. The three years she’d spent at the NSA as an intelligence analyst — demonstrating her understanding of world history, geography, and the social, economic, and political events that affected global change — were a waste of time. That she had been recruited from her desk job by Irving Lambert himself and somehow survived the Third Echelon training program didn’t mean a goddamned thing.
She was a pair of boobs and legs.
Why couldn’t she get past that? Just use her looks to her advantage, allow men to let down their guards as they dreamed of doing likewise with their flies. Why would they take her seriously only when she had a pistol jammed into their temples? Oh, yes, they were shocked that the dumb blonde, the piece of ass, was a whole lot smarter than they’d thought, so smart, in fact, that they would now lose their lives to her, and she wouldn’t give them a second thought because, like all the rest, they couldn’t see past the flesh. Damn it, she had to stop letting that bother her. She needed to empower herself. But how was she supposed to do that when it was all about the team now? You couldn’t just throw an “I” in front of “team” and get some trendy word that meant she was suddenly more important than the rest and should take credit and be recognized as a highly intelligent woman…