by Tom Clancy
The road was narrow, snow-and-ice covered, and Fisher didn’t dare push past fifty miles per hour, so it was generally slow going.
From the backseat, Ames announced that is was nearly 5:00 P.M. and the sun was beginning to set. “What’s the plan?”
“Depends on our target,” Fisher answered. “If he keeps going, so do we.”
Hansen agreed and asked Ames if he had a problem with that.
“Not really,” said the man, crossing his legs. “But can we take a bathroom break?”
Hansen snorted. “Hold it.”
* * *
Their target finally paused at 7:00 P.M., about twelve miles from the lake’s northern tip, in a town of twenty-seven thousand called Severobaikalsk. With nightfall came even heavier winds and snow, and Hansen, serving as navigator and sifting through satellite intel from Grim, led Fisher toward a shantytown of hunting huts on Cape Kotel’nikovskiy. The town was no more than a dozen or so thick-canvas yurt-style tents, circular structures with cone-shaped roofs.
Fisher explained to the pestering Ames that the roads were icing up and that most of the path for the next fifty miles was a single lane running along the cliffs above the lake. They could easily slide off the road, and that would be that. Moreover, their target had stopped for the same reason: weather. Ames argued that he could have reached the auction site. Fisher said that maybe he had, but others were coming and they, too, would be delayed, so they would make the best of it until the front passed. They hauled their gear into the most secure-looking hut, where they found eight wooden bunks with thin straw mattresses organized in a circle around a potbellied stove. After they’d fired up a pair of kerosene lanterns hanging from the crossbeam, Hansen spotted a sign, handwritten in Cyrillic, on one of the posts: Honor system. If you stay here, leave something: money, supplies, etc. Together Siberia is home; separate, a hell.
Ames said he was going to leave them something, all right, and headed back outside toward the outhouse.
Fisher looked at Hansen and cocked a brow.
* * *
Noboru got the high sign from Fisher and went outside to help him carry in some more gear. Fisher asked about their little project, and Noboru reassured him that he felt good about the modified paintball guns and estimated a 90 percent chance of their operating correctly. Noboru said he wasn’t comfortable keeping their plan a secret from the rest of the team, as Fisher had instructed him to do, but Fisher assured him that all would be revealed in time.
Back inside the yurt, Gillespie was complaining about her sleeping bag: “It looks like it’s from the Cold War!” She went on to moan about the bag’s moldy stench.
Hansen said she’d have to live with the smell, but at least he’d bought them for a dollar a piece — a bargain!
Ames, of course, couldn’t allow anyone to have any fun and immediately dampened the mood by asking Fisher why they couldn’t just blow up the 738 Arsenal.
“Two reasons,” Fisher replied. “One, I doubt whoever arranged this auction is stupid enough to keep it all in a big pile; we’re talking about tons of equipment. We don’t have enough Semtex for that. Two, they’re going to be our Trojan horses. Once they leave here, we’ll track them wherever they go. In the space of a week, we’ll learn more about this group’s logistics and transport routes than we’ve learned in the last five years. When they arrive at their destination, we mop them up, along with anyone else we find.”
Ames tried to poke holes in the plan.
Fisher said he’d make a deal: “If this all goes to hell and we’re both still around when it’s over, you can say you told me so.”
* * *
Hansen glimpsed at the time on his OPSAT: 11:00 P.M. The others were fast asleep. He sat up and glanced over at Fisher’s bunk. He was already awake and nodded to Hansen. They rose and slipped into their cold-weather gear, then moved to Ames’s bunk. Fisher pricked Ames just below the ear with an anesthetic dart, while Hansen held his mouth. Ames nearly bit Hansen before he went limp.
Holding his breath, Hansen lifted the rat bastard in a fireman’s carry and went outside, taking Ames to another yurt. Inside, he lay Ames spread-eagled on a bunk and used some old paracord to bind his wrists and ankles to the rickety wooden platform. They’d removed the mattress; that would come into play later.
After a moment to catch his breath, Hansen found and lit another kerosene lantern, though he kept it dim to conserve fuel. Fisher went off to fetch the others.
A few moments later, they all filed into the tent, shocked about what they were seeing. Fisher warned them about what was happening, while Hansen slipped outside to fetch the bottle of gasoline they had earlier prepared.
Within five minutes, Ames woke up, and after voicing his questions and demands, and being summarily dismissed, Fisher cut to the chase: “You’re a traitor.”
Ames whined like a little boy, denying everything, and even tried to emphasize that he was a Splinter Cell.
Hansen wanted to tell Ames what a rat he was, and then pummel the runt to within an inch of his life, but he held back. Fisher was asking the questions and went on to tell Ames that they knew he’d contacted Kovac’s office when he’d gone off to use the outhouse. Fisher said he could prove it because he had a transcript, which he’d sent to all their OPSATs. He instructed the team to review the script, and there it was, in black and white, Ames’s full text report. He’d given up everything: their location, make and model of their vehicles, weapons, and the details he had regarding the auction and planned attack on the Laboratory 738 Arsenal. It was all there. Hansen guessed the little bastard had been desperate enough to send the text because he no longer had access to a cutout.
“Ames has been working for Kovac for a while,” said Fisher. “We’re not sure how long, but we’re about to find out.” Fisher went on to explain how Ames used Karlheinz van der Putten as a scapegoat, since he couldn’t reveal that he’d learned where Fisher would be through Kovac’s office. Fisher said that van der Putten had not received any money for the information. Fisher had personally gained access to van der Putten’s financials, and they reflected no payoff from Ames.
Fisher also explained that he’d been in Vianden to visit an Austrian named Yannick Ernsdorff, whom he’d already told Hansen about and who was, he now shared with the rest, the banker for the auction they were hoping to infiltrate. Kovac was nervous because he and Ernsdorff were working for the same man.
“And who is that?” Noboru asked.
Fisher sighed deeply. “We don’t know.”
“Does he?” asked Valentina, gesturing to Ames.
The little man began his whining again. Fisher cut him off, saying the best case was that Ames was working for Kovac simply to push Grim out. Worst case was that Kovac was, indeed, a traitor and was helping whoever was behind the auction. Either way, though, Ames had been a mole from the start.
And Hansen found it even more ironic that Ames had done nothing from the beginning to hide his disdain for the others. In fact, he’d actually made himself the most obvious person to be suspected as a mole. Maybe that was his plan? Be too obvious? No, Hansen figured that Ames just didn’t care, that he hated them so much he figured he’d play it that way and just enjoy the ride. There was no deep-seated rationale behind his thinking. He was just a little runt bastard who needed to be taught a lesson.
“Ames thought he was talking to Kovac on the OPSAT. He probably knew Kovac was going to pass on the information. When we reached the auction site, we would’ve been walking into an ambush.”
Gillespie made a face and said, “There are a lot of ifs in there, Sam.”
“True. We can settle this pretty easily. We know Ames is working for Kovac. We have the proof. What we need to know is whether Kovac’s just an ass, or a traitor, and whether Ames is in on it.”
Hansen got his signal from Fisher. He shoved the straw mattress under Ames’s bunk; then Fisher took up the bottle of gasoline and poured a little around the edge. The odor spread strong and fa
st, and Ames’s expression tightened in horror.
* * *
Katy stood at the window, coughing, staring at Ames, reaching out to him as the flames danced at her shoulders. Ames’s mother screamed something, her words turning into a shriek as his father cried out her name — suddenly an explosion rocked through the house.
And Ames stood there on the front lawn, immobile, knowing he should have run back inside but too scared to do anything, a coward in the face of the flames. A coward. A boy who didn’t save his family. A boy who’d watched them die. A boy who should be punished. A man who took every risk he could in his life because he knew he deserved to be punished.
Fisher was looking at Ames now, saying something, but Ames was just shaking his head, not against Fisher’s words but against the inevitable, the image of those three bodies being carried from the house, draped in white sheets.
Now Fisher was pouring gasoline all over Ames’s body: the cold, foul liquid seeping through his clothes.
They were going to kill him, and it’d be too easy, out in Siberia, in the middle of nowhere.
But he deserved it. He should take his punishment like a man. He needed to burn like them. Burn…
But an unconscious need for self-preservation kicked in, and Ames began bucking against the cord, the bunk rising and falling from the floor.
Fisher told the others that Ames would know the name of the man they were tracking. If he did, then it was clear Kovac gave it to him and that Kovac was in up to his eyebrows.
“Ames!” Fisher screamed.
And with a gasp, Ames fell still.
Fisher spoke slowly, the foreboding in his tone making Ames swallow in fear. “Tell me the name of the man we’re tracking, or I’m going to set you on fire.”
The name, Aariz Qaderi, came out with no hesitation. Ames wasn’t telling Fisher a name; he was telling his father that he was sorry for not saving him, for not saving the family.
“Ben’s going to ask you more questions. Answer him,” said Fisher; then he gestured to the door for the others to leave.
Once they were alone, Hansen glanced down at Ames, then reached into the man’s right front pocket, where Ames kept his Zippo lighter.
“Maybe Fisher wouldn’t roast you alive,” Hansen began. “But you can rest assured, I will. Let’s start at the beginning. How long have you been working for Kovac?”
“Grim found me, but he recruited me only a week after that.”
“How could you do this to us?”
“It’s only business. And, by the way, your buddy Sergei? He worked for us, too.”
Hansen’s eyes grew wider. He bared his teeth, then flipped open the lighter.
“Careful with that!” cried Ames. “I’m telling you this because I’m willing to talk. I’ve got enough stuff on Kovac to put him away forever, and you guys will need that, so you don’t want to hurt me. I’m your ticket to bringing him down. Do you understand me, cowboy?”
“I told you—”
“I can call you whatever I want — because I still hold all the cards here.”
“You could’ve fooled me, tied up to a bed, about to be burned alive. What else do you know about the auction?”
“As much as you. He keeps me on a strict diet. But you have to believe that I can help you.”
* * *
The front passed, and the team was able to get an early start, putting in about ninety minutes of road time before sunrise. Fisher drove the lead SUV while Hansen followed behind. Hansen and Fisher had cleaned up Ames, tied him once more, and stuffed him in the cargo area of Fisher’s SUV, where he remained, although Hansen was certain the guy still smelled like gasoline. Hansen hadn’t been able to get anything else out of him.
After another few miles of travel, Hansen’s OPSAT beeped with incoming intel from Grim. Qaderi was moving again. He was already outside Severobaikalsk and heading — and this was odd — heading south back toward them.
Fisher suddenly stopped his SUV, backed up, and followed a side road that splintered off the main one and wandered into walls of pine trees.
“Where’s he going?” asked Gillespie.
Hansen shrugged. “I don’t know.”
39
NEAR SLUDJANKA LAKE, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
The mountains were haloed in pink and orange as the sun began to rise, and Hansen continued following Fisher up and into the woods and inland. It now seemed clear that Fisher was putting them on an intercept course with Qaderi, following the heavily rutted and snow-covered path through a series of tortuous runs. Fisher shut off his headlights, and Hansen did likewise. Visibility was limited but the sun was rising fast.
They swept around yet another curve, and then, off to their right, peeking out from below a carpet of trees that unfurled to the shoreline, lay the calm, cool waters of a small lake, perhaps a half mile wide.
“I know where we are,” said Gillespie. “Sludjanka Lake.”
“Maybe this is it. Maybe we’re here,” said Hansen.
“Ben, there’s another SUV on the other side of the lake,” said Valentina, staring through her binoculars. “That’s the target.”
Fisher pulled along the side of the road, their vehicles hidden behind the thick stands of pine trees. They met between the cars. Hansen asked Fisher if this was the auction site. Fisher wasn’t sure and lifted his own binoculars. “I’m not sure if that’s Qaderi.”
With everyone hidden behind the trucks, they watched as the SUV stopped at the top of a gradually sloping hill overlooking the lake. Hansen zoomed in and watched as the front passenger door opened and a man came out. He turned around, leaned back into the car, and took out a briefcase. When he turned back, his face was illuminated in the rising sun.
Hansen had reviewed the file photo of Aariz Qaderi. This was not him. “What the hell is this?” he asked Fisher.
“I think Qaderi just got uninvited to the auction.”
With his back to them, the man opened the briefcase, sifted through its contents, then rose and just stood there for about ten minutes.
Fisher made an affirmative grunt, as though he knew what was about to happen.
From the east came the whomping of a helicopter, and soon a blue and white Sikorsky S-76, a medium-sized single-rotor chopper, swooped down over the lake, hovered, then landed behind the SUV. The cabin door opened, and out rushed four men. They, along with the driver of the SUV, rolled the car over the edge of the hill and sent it plummeting toward the lake.
The SUV hit the icy water with a significant splash, then, amid the waves and foam, began to sink.
That the chopper had approached from the east and remained on that side of the lake was the only thing that saved the team from being spotted, Hansen thought with a shiver. Hopefully, they would not fly overhead. Otherwise, game over.
“They must’ve known Qaderi was tagged,” said Valentina, her breath hanging on the air.
And Hansen bet that Kovac had tipped them off.
Fisher agreed and mentioned that Grim had briefed Kovac a few hours before but had left out any mention of Ajax, so Kovac had probably assumed standard Third Echelon-issue beacons.
Hansen checked his OPSAT. “The bots are heading due east at 150 miles per hour.”
Fisher said they needed to hide. He’d explain why later.
* * *
Hansen found an abandoned mica mine built into the cliffs a mile west of the lake. It took them an hour to reach it, and they backed the SUVs into the broad main tunnel to keep them invisible from the air.
Noboru asked Fisher to explain why they were hiding, and Fisher obliged:
“They killed Qaderi because Kovac reported the trackers. Grim told Kovac we were still in Irkutsk, and the weather was causing problems with the GPS. That’s why the Sikorsky didn’t look for anyone tailing Qaderi’s car. My gut tells me they’ll be back — about the time we would have arrived if we’d left Irkutsk when Kovac thinks we did.”
Hansen said, “You and Grim put some thought int
o this, didn’t you?”
Fisher nodded.
“How long do we wait?” asked Valentina.
“Depends on where the Ajax nanobots go and how long it takes the Sikorsky to leave.”
* * *
Two hours later the chopper resounded in the distance, confirming Fisher’s suspicions, and after its search over the lake and foothills, the bird touched down 30 miles due east of their position, about 1.5 miles inland from Ayaya Bay. The location was about two-thirds of the way between the bay and a calmer, V-shaped lake called Frolikha.
“Middle of nowhere,” said Fisher. “The perfect spot for a black-market auction.”
Hansen said that location was on the other side of the lake. Gillespie added that there weren’t any roads to get around the lake. Fisher agreed. “We’re going to need a boat.”
They would have to wait, though, because Fisher warned them that the chopper would no doubt return. And it did, shortly before noon, spending several more hours searching for them. During that time, they checked their gear and Gillespie discussed the operation of the hands-free headsets she and Valentina had found as well as a jury-rigged flexicam they’d constructed. Hansen showed them all the black uniforms and web gear he’d bought, along with full balaclavas. Noboru unveiled his paintball project, then mentioned that he’d forgotten something out in the SUV.
A moment later he called out, and Hansen rushed over to see what was wrong.
Ames was gone.
* * *
Keeping a straight-edged razor blade hidden in your boot heel was one of the oldest tricks in the book, perhaps way too obvious for the team to have considered — but that was Ames’s style: That would be way too obvious. And so he’d managed to contort himself into a position to gain access to the blade and use it to saw through the plastic flex-cuffs they’d used to bind him. He’d slipped right past them, abandoning the cuffs at a triple branch in the tunnel and laughing as he did so.