by Tom Clancy
The Snow Maiden’s profile had been supplied by a man named Pavel Doletskaya, a former colonel with the GRU who had worked with and slept with the woman. The colonel had been captured in Moscow, dragged back to Guantanamo and then to Tampa, and broken by Dennison and her people, who’d told him about how the Snow Maiden had faked her death. They now had a valuable ally feeding them secrets, and Doletskaya’s information had been useful and comprehensive. That the Snow Maiden had an intense hatred for her own country fascinated Brent; that she’d already killed dozens of people in her quest to bring down her homeland kept the lump in Brent’s throat.
Brent’s attention was drawn to the main entrance, illuminated by a pair of colossal bronze wall sconces atop which rose tall, slender flames. The cycling team had arrived, and as planned, they had come in full biking uniforms: colorful blue-and-red jerseys covered with their sponsors’ logos, matching bib shorts, and even color-coordinated socks and sneakers. Their mechanics, coaches, drivers, and other support personnel wore team shirts and slacks, while the rest of the guests were suited up for this black-tie affair.
The waiters and waitresses began circulating with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres — stuffed mushrooms, fig and olive tapenade, and chutney baked Brie, according to one waiter. Voeckler, who’d been standing close to the main entrance, his gaze constantly scanning the growing crowd around the clusters of elegantly appointed tables, ambled over to Brent. “You see that woman there?”
Brent tensed and squinted across the room. The sun was beginning to set and the shadows had grown long, but he did see her, a real looker whose lithe form barely tented up her burgundy-colored dress. Her dark hair shimmered in the firelight.
“Is that her?” Brent asked with a gasp.
Voeckler sighed. “Soon as I nod at the orchestra leader, he’ll get them to play for me, and I’ll waltz with her.”
“She looks way too thin. That’s not her.”
“No, Brent, of course that’s not her. She’s just the woman I’ll dance with.”
“So this is how you guys play, huh? Come to rich people’s parties and dance with all the hot women? While me and my people eat dust and tiptoe around IEDs? Yep, there’s a world of difference between the NSA and the United States Army.”
“I thought you’d pull up my dossier.”
“I did. I know you were a Force Recon Marine, a hardcore operator. I respect that. You got the track record. It’s your brother I can’t figure out.”
“You and everyone else.”
“So he only got in because he’s your twin. Grim figured you’d have a perfect alibi with him.”
“He’s come a long way. He was a slacker his whole life. This is pretty amazing for him.”
“Well, I hope babysitting your brother doesn’t get in our way.”
“I’m not babysitting him, Captain. I’m babysitting all of you.”
“Whoa, I think you just hurt my feelings.”
“All right, enough with the BS.” Voeckler’s tone hardened. “Now listen. If the Snow Maiden is here, we’ll draw her out, just like a black widow from her web. The orchestra is going to play Tchaikovsky’s Opus Number Twelve. It’s her favorite.”
“How do you know?”
Voeckler snorted. “Opus Twelve is called ‘The Snow Maiden.’”
“Maybe she hasn’t heard it.”
“Oh, yes, she has. The NSA and Third Echelon like to do their own intel gathering, thank you. The report the JSF gave us is only fragmentary.”
“Then I’d appreciate you sharing the rest with us.”
“We will, soon as I get authorization.”
Brent sighed in disgust over the politics. “Well, all right, Mr. Voeckler. It’s your party for the time being.”
“Just get my back, Captain. I might be a little distracted.” Voeckler drifted off across the hardwood dance floor, toward his unsuspecting dance partner.
Meanwhile, Brent kept his gaze focused on Andrei Eskov, who’d taken a seat at the rectangular main table. All of the riders would be sitting in a row, facing the audience, not unlike the seating arrangement for a panel discussion. Perhaps each cyclist would be asked to speak, Brent wasn’t sure, but at any rate he had a perfect and unobstructed view of the target’s cousin, even though the room had grown crowded with dozens of guests now.
“Captain, it’s Lakota. Is it okay if we order a pizza?”
Brent grinned inwardly—“ordering a pizza” was her way of saying no contacts or anything else worth reporting. “Still clear out there?”
“Good to go,” she responded curtly.
A familiar face appeared at the doorway. Riggs. Now it was her turn to join the festivities. God, she looked stunning in her blue dress, matching purse, and heels. The spiky hair had been toned down and softened, and her makeup appeared delicate and expertly applied. She had a folder tucked under her arm as she sashayed across the room and homed in on Eskov. Okay, Brent was a man and couldn’t help but gape at her cleavage, though as her commanding officer he did feel guilty about that. She reached Eskov, said hello, and asked for his autograph.
The young Russian was all too eager to comply, wearing a silly grin fueled by raging hormones. As Riggs continued to chat with him, the orchestra, numbering some thirty musicians, began Opus Number Twelve.
Voeckler took his lady onto the floor and began to waltz. They looked dramatic and stunning, and Brent frowned. Voeckler was taller and better looking and had a better job. He could pick up women with ease, and his organization seemed to have better intelligence than Brent’s.
“Brent, Schleck here,” began the team’s sniper, positioned in the hills overlooking the castle. Schleck was a bird with long torso and pointy jaw, the “string bean” Brent had called him on his cheat sheet. But the bird ate like a pig and gained nothing. “Car just pulled up. Got three guys in tuxedoes getting out. Looks like the Mafia or the Secret Service. You hear anything about added security, Captain?”
“Negative. Stand by.”
Brent slipped off toward the back of the room, where he discreetly donned his Cross-Com: an earpiece with integrated camera, microphone, and attached monocle that curved around his eye. He tapped a button on the earpiece and whispered, “Cross-Com activated.”
Brent’s monocle glowed with screens displaying his uplink and downlink channels and icons representing his support elements, among other bits of data. These images were produced by a low-intensity laser projecting them through his pupil and onto his retina. The laser scanned horizontally and vertically using a coherent beam of light, and all data was refreshed every second to continually update him.
The system was connected via satellite to the entire Joint Strike Force’s local — and wide-area networks LAN/WAN) so that even President Becerra in the White House could see what he was doing and speak to him directly on the battlefield (not good, according to Brent). That level of Network Centric Warfare — all part of Ghost Recon’s Integrated Warfighter System (IWS Version 9) — was just a leash of technology. But that’s the way the game was played. Fortunately, the old tricks still worked: “Uh, sorry, command, uh, you’re breaking up. What was that order? Oh, I think the signal is dropping…”
He issued a subtle voice command to bring up the camera built into Schleck’s Cross-Com. Now he took in the scene from the sniper’s point of view. “I see your boys, Schleck. What do you think?”
“I think I don’t know what to think. Heads up, though.”
“Roger that. They could be team security.”
“Okay. Standing by.”
Brent removed the Cross-Com and shoved it back into his inner jacket pocket, replacing that earpiece with the one issued to him by the French security force.
The guys Schleck had spotted now moved toward the security line and metal detector. They would have to pass through those checkpoints before they could get anywhere near the main banquet room. Schleck was just being paranoid, but you wanted your sniper to be hypersensitive to his surroundings.
Brent retuned his gaze to the banquet room.
Voeckler was now wooing the entire crowd with his dance moves; he could probably win a national contest, billing himself as the “dancing spy” after he retired. His partner was fully in lust with him, and again, Brent thought of murder.
Riggs was now surrounded by Eskov and two other cyclists, and if the Snow Maiden wanted to get near her cousin, she’d now have to rub shoulders with a very sexy Ghost Recon operator.
Once more Brent scrutinized the guests, focusing on each female. He assessed, dismissed, and moved on. He took a deep breath, and something ached deep down in his gut.
The first salvo of gunfire — originating somewhere outside near the security checkpoint — sent his head jerking back. The second drove him toward the wall and reaching for his pistol as the three men Schleck had spotted burst into the room, brandishing snub-nosed machine guns.
They opened fire.
With a gasp, Brent dove onto the floor and looked up, trying to get a bead on the shooters, but the party guests were scrambling in all directions, legs shifting and blocking his view. He had no time to check on Eskov, Riggs, or Voeckler and only seconds to try to stop these bastards.
Finally, Brent had a shot as a heavyset man took a bullet in the chest and tumbled, exposing the shooter behind him. All three men had donned green balaclavas, and one cried in French, “We are the Green Brigade Transnational! We are your doom!”
Brent took out the lead terrorist with a single head shot and was about to shift fire to the next guy when a wave of rounds exploded from the French security guys, so much fire that their wider shots were striking guests cowering just behind the terrorist.
Another terrorist flailed under all that fire, dropped his weapon, and thudded to the floor as the screams and groans lifted and the sulfur stench of gunfire overpowered the room.
The third guy suddenly ducked around a table and bolted, vanishing past the doorway.
“Lakota, we got fire, two Tangos down. I’m chasing a third. He might be coming your way!”
“Roger that. Lock and load. Schleck? Get ready!”
“Ready!” cried the sniper.
Brent stole a quick look back, trying to find Riggs and Voeckler, but he couldn’t see them. He darted outside the hall and saw the thug bounding up a stone staircase just ten yards off to his left.
He scissored past dazed and frightened guests, reached the stairs, and took them two at a time, hearing the thumps of the terrorist above as the staircase jogged left. At the same time, he tugged out his Cross-Com and jammed it over his eye and ear.
On the next landing, Brent spotted the terrorist, who turned back and raised his pistol.
Brent fired a shot, missing the guy, even as the terrorist raised his machine gun. Brent dove back out of the guy’s bead as rounds stitched into the stone behind him and ricocheted wildly. Dust swirled as Brent rolled back and squinted.
More footfalls. The thug was still ascending. Something crashed to the steps above, and as Brent rounded another corner, he saw his prey ripping art and tapestries from the wall and dropping them down across the stairs to block the path. Brent slid his way past a tattered painting, its frame splintering across the stone, and kept on.
Meanwhile, the security guard earpiece still jammed in Brent’s other ear crackled with Lakota’s voice. She had taken over the rest of the team, as she was trained to do, and they were collapsing back in on the castle; however, Schleck would remain in his perch for overwatch.
Brent reached what he believed was the fourth-floor landing, where he found a narrow door hanging open. He dodged past it, coming into one of the circular towers.
He glanced up at the spiral staircase constructed of heavy oak planks. Thud, thud, thud. His boy was heading up, and unless he’d grown wings or had some other escape plan on the roof, Brent figured he had him. You never run up into a building to escape — unless the chopper’s up there waiting for you. .
And that thought made Brent prick up his ears, listening for the whomp-whomp. .
More gunfire rained down from somewhere above, and Brent crouched and returned fire, just to keep the bastard looking.
Then he resumed his charge upward, growing breathless now, the dress shoes hurting. He longed for his automatic rifle and a little Kevlar to catch stray rounds.
As he climbed, he popped out his near-empty magazine and slapped home a fresh one. Twenty steps later, a cool breeze filtered down toward him, and as he finally reached the top, he kept low, paused, saw the area was clear, then came into a small room whose single window hung wide open.
Brent spoke into the Cross-Com: “He’s on the roof.”
The window was barely wide enough to fit a person, and Brent resisted the temptation to stick his head out first to steal a look. The guy could be waiting just on the other side, out of sight and ready to blow Brent’s head off.
Instead, Brent came at the window from a sharp angle, able to see if anyone was standing just beside the edge. Then he dodged across it and checked the other side. Satisfied he was clear, he leaned forward, pushed the window all the way open, and looked down.
He lost his breath. The guy had leapt some four meters to the angled roofline and was working his away across it toward the adjoining curtain wall. He would leap down just a couple of meters to run across the wall walk — a place from where ancient bowmen had lined up to defend their home and from where modern-day scum-bags ran to escape.
“I have a shot,” said Schleck.
“Hold your fire,” Brent snapped. “I think I got him, and we need some answers.”
“He has a machine gun and you want to take him alive?” asked Schleck.
“Oh, I do love a challenge,” Brent quipped.
Cursing, he hauled himself through the window, slid out his legs, hung on for dear life, held his breath…
And jumped.
He hit the next roofline solidly and turned back, lost his step, and fell onto his rump, nearly dropping his pistol. But at least he wasn’t rolling off the roof. He got back up on his hands and knees to spy the thug leaping down to the wall.
Brent followed him, reached the edge of the roof, took aim, and fired, striking the thug in the right calf. The guy screamed, rolled back, fired a wild salvo, then kept on, now limping.
Gritting his teeth, Brent levered himself off the roof and jumped to the wall. Now he raced across the stone, the moonlight picking out the guy ahead, and for a moment, Brent thought he had another shot until he realized with a start what was happening.
The guy had reached the door to the next tower, but it was locked. Seeing he had no time to try shooting it open, he whirled back and brought his machine gun to bear.
Brent dropped to his gut as the guy opened fire from about twenty meters away, but after only three shots that struck within a meter of Brent’s head, the gun fell silent.
Knowing that either the guy’s weapon had jammed or his magazine was empty, Brent launched to his feet.
The thug could have another weapon, but that didn’t occur to Brent until after he began his charge. He cursed and was about to fire when the guy did something quite extraordinary:
He dropped his machine gun, raised his hands, and tore off his balaclava, revealing his short, black hair and chiseled jaw. If he was twenty-one, that was being generous.
“All right, don’t move,” Brent ordered in French.
The guy responded in French: “You’re meaningless to me.”
“You came here looking for her, didn’t you.”
As Brent neared the guy he suddenly raced to the wall—
“No, no, no!” screamed Brent as the thug simply threw himself off.
Brent darted to the wall and watched as the guy plummeted toward the mounds of weed-encrusted rocks below.
“Oh, man, Captain,” called Schleck over the network. “He’s on the ground. No movement yet.”
“Of course he’s not moving. He just took a god-damned nosedive off this castle.” Brent
winced. Everybody back home had just heard him say that.
And he might as well have cued her. Major Dennison appeared in Brent’s HUD. “Captain, Voeckler reports from inside that Andrei Eskov was shot and killed. We’re not sure if the Green Brigade Transnational thought the Snow Maiden would be here, but I’m certain they were targeting her cousin for payback. You’re sitting in the middle of an international incident, and I want you out of there right now, lest the JSF be implicated in this mess.”
Brent was already heading toward the tower door. “Ma’am, you’ll get no argument from me. Would’ve been nice to take one of them alive — or at least question Eskov.”
“Just get to the airport.”
“Roger that.”
Brent shot out the lock on the tower door. Still locked. He fired again. Still locked. He swore. Dead bolt, maybe. “Schleck, I’m stuck up here. You see another way out?”
“Sir, the blueprints are available via your Cross-Com.”
“Schleck, I don’t want to think right now. Just find me a way out!”
FIVE
Banyan Tree Seychelles Resort
Mahé Island
Republic of the Seychelles
The Banyan Tree Seychelles was a five-star resort situated on the southwestern coastline of Mahé and offering breathtaking views of the Indian Ocean. Chopra had reserved one of the sixty pool villas perched on the hillsides. The brochure had described the rooms as combining contemporary, colonial, and plantation décor with sweeping ceilings; large, open verandas; and ethnic woven textiles, and every villa was equipped with all the modern conveniences.
Although Chopra hadn’t seen them yet, he’d read about the indigenous arts and crafts gallery, the spa, the health club, the library, the tennis courts, and the mountain-biking trails. Upon first glimpse, it was easy to see why this place was worthy of the young sheikh’s presence.
Within an hour of his arrival, Chopra met up with Harold Westerdale in the Banyan Tree’s La Varangue for an afternoon cocktail. The private investigator’s tropical-print shirt was soaked, his short, gray hair plastered to his head. The breeze had died off, and stepping onto the veranda was like stepping into a loaf of warm bread. Chopra took the bar stool beside the man and ordered a drink while staring out into the turquoise waters.