by Tom Clancy
The old Russian cocked a brow. “Hello, Captain. It’s my understanding that you came very close to capturing her.”
Brent carefully measured his words and his tone. “Not close enough, sir, but I’m confident we’ll bring her in.”
“Pride cometh before the fall, Captain. You won’t get her without my help.”
Brent repressed a shrug. “I will say she’s one of the best escape artists I’ve ever seen, except for a few muhajadeen I met while in the ’Stan. She knows how to misdirect and set up those decoys, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, I can assure you, Captain, she’s much better than anyone you’ve ever met. You’ll see.”
“I hope I don’t. We’ll get her in London. What’s she after? The boy? Maybe we can get two steps ahead and set up an ambush.”
The Russian turned to Dennison and grinned darkly. “You’ve sent a butcher to capture an artist.”
“No, I’ve sent an unconventional thinker. Now then, Captain Brent, we know that Chopra is trying to find Hussein. And we think the Snow Maiden may be after the boy as well. Find the boy and we find the Snow Maiden.”
“It’s that simple,” Brent said sarcastically. “Now what about Warda? She give us anything else?”
“She won’t tell us where her brother is, and I don’t blame her, so we’ll have to tail Chopra. We have to assume he’s gone undercover as well, so it’s going to take me a while to pick him up. Once we do, you’ll need to move quickly.”
“I understand, but that seems to preclude any chance of an ambush. We need to get ahead of them, not chase.”
“In a perfect world, Captain,” snapped Dennison. “At least the Voecklers will arrive in London ahead of you. They’ll remain with Warda and her sisters until we pick up Chopra. I’ve worked out a deal with the Brits to provide a security force for Warda and her sisters, once we’re gone.”
Brent nodded and directed his gaze to Doletskaya. “Colonel, is there anything else you can tell me about our target? I mean something not in the files, something you think might help us catch her?”
The old colonel simpered. “If she’s going to London, you might find her at a little pub called the Bread and Roses on Clapham Manor. It’s run by a trades union council and associated with the Workers’ Beer Company. They raise money for workers’ rights causes. She always fought for the little guy, donated money to lots of causes, cancer research, and many others. She’ll be in the big beer garden out back.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?” Dennison asked the colonel.
“It didn’t occur to me until he asked.”
Dennison shook her head in disgust. “Brent, I’ll get some people there a-sap.”
He nodded. “And I’ll send two as soon as we land.”
Doletskaya snorted. “Good luck.”
“Sir, can I ask you something? You seem willing to help us capture her, but you doubt we will. She’s just an individual on the run, and I don’t care how many resources she has. Eventually, she’ll make a mistake. And we’ll bring her in.”
Doletskaya’s lips curled in amusement. “Captain, I’ve spent enough time with Viktoria to know there are few people in this world who can stop her. If by some miracle you do happen to accidentally capture her, I believe she will have surrendered and that it would have nothing to do with your skills. Her cunning is unmatched.”
Brent returned a lopsided grin. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir.”
Dennison told Brent to stand by while she spoke off camera with the colonel. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, and after a moment, Dennison returned while the colonel was escorted out of the cell by two armed guards.
“Major, you really think that old man can help us?” Brent asked. “What if he’s lying?”
“He’s not. At least not entirely. He’s already helped with a number of items and issues.”
“It’s my understanding that he had a relationship with the Snow Maiden. What makes you think he’s not still working with her?”
Dennison smiled. “You’re sharp, Captain, no matter what they say about you.”
Brent grinned himself. “Are you setting him up?”
“Of course. We’ll give him enough bait… see if he tries to contact her. That’ll give us her location as well — and I know the Voecklers will continue questioning Warda. She still doesn’t trust us, but if she’d just give in, we could end this quickly and set up that ambush.”
“Can I ask you something? Once we capture the Snow Maiden, do you really think she’ll talk?”
“I don’t know. But it’s clear she poses a major threat to the JSF and the Euros. She’s even working against her own government — and that’s what really scares me. Now Captain, I need for you to capture her in London. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Brent shrugged. “Yeah.”
He remembered the five-minute meeting he’d had with her, just before they’d taken off. Her words were off the record, and they had stung:
“You’ve done some exceptional work in Special Forces and earned your recruitment into Ghost Recon. There’s no denying that. You did a fine job up in Canada during the Russian invasion, but since then it’s been downhill. I’m just saying that this operation has to go by the numbers — for both of us. I can’t promise you what’ll happen if you lose her in London. I just can’t.”
“Ma’am, what’re you saying?”
“I’m saying there’s no room for mistakes like failing to check that taxi. She slipped away once. That can’t happen again.”
“Otherwise, I’m gone.”
“They were thinking about removing you from Ghost Recon before I brought you on board for this.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. I’m taking a risk on you because I need someone who’s got more at stake than just a mission. I’ll be honest. I figure that if your whole career depends on capturing the Snow Maiden, you’ll probably get the job done. Some of your colleagues have less to lose — but you’ve got it all.”
“I don’t believe this…”
“I’m sorry, Captain. They could even bust you down to the regular Army. I can make recommendations, but ultimately it’ll be their call.”
“So, if we don’t get her in London, I’m done.”
“Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as your chance to bring in the world’s most dangerous woman and earn a reputation for yourself as one of Ghost Recon’s top operators.”
“So it’s all or nothing.”
Brent tensed as Dennison now nodded and said, “I’ll be in touch once you’re on the ground.”
He returned the nod, and she abruptly broke the link.
All he could do was sit there, the seat straps feeling as though they were tightening like a boa curled around his shoulders and back, ready to suffocate him.
He’d dedicated his entire life to service. He’d tried his best to be a good soldier, a good man, and to atone for his sins. He’d tried to set the world right by taking another man’s place. And now they were presenting the ultimatum, as though they’d seen through him, knew that his heart hadn’t truly been in it from the beginning, that he’d joined the Army out of guilt, and that he wasn’t destined to retire as a Ghost Recon operator. He couldn’t fool them anymore. And now they were giving him enough rope to hang himself.
All right. You didn’t get into Ghost Recon without rising to the top of SF, he told himself. He needed a stronger bond with his people. He needed them more than ever now, and he wondered how forthright he should be. “If we don’t get her in London, I’m done.” Would that inspire confidence in them, or would that place them under more pressure?
They needed to hear something. Once they landed, the operational tempo would pick up, and there’d be no time for idle chatter. He unbuckled and rose from his seat, turning back to face the group, seated in pairs down the long aisle.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.
They, like him, also wore headphones and mic
rophones and were patched into the intercom, so they could hear each other over the tremendous booming of the Sphinx’s engines.
“I just finished my briefing with Major Dennison. Although we had some complications in the Seychelles, she’s confident we can get the Snow Maiden in London — and so am I.”
Lakota raised her hand. “Sir, honestly, I think it’ll be more difficult to get her now. Big city. So many places to hide. We haven’t even dusted her. And we need to worry about Haussler’s people on our back. I’m just thinking this whole op belongs to the NSA and not us.”
“We’re unconventional fighters. That means one minute we’re spies, the next we’re stand-up warriors. We think, move, shoot, communicate, adapt, and drink beer.” He winked at the group and got a few quick chuckles.
Then he added, “I know you’re worried about this. We need a win. But I want to tell you that I couldn’t have been more impressed with your performance on Mahé.”
Noboru lifted a finger and said, “Captain, I know we did a good job — based on the limited information we had — but the mission failed. Not sure how impressive that is.”
Brent stared a moment into the Japanese man’s frown, then quickly responded: “I wrote it up as, ‘Due to circumstances beyond our control and limited intelligence, we arrived at the target location too late to run either an ambush or an effective blocking operation.’ We couldn’t control that. And I’m not focusing on losing the target. I’m talking about what we did do…”
“I thought we rocked the house,” said Riggs, wriggling her brows at the others, even turning around so those behind her could see. “We took out nearly half that Spetsnaz team — and not a single one of us took a hit.”
“Hoo-ah!” cried Heston.
“You’re damned right we did good,” said Brent. “Now we’re going to drop into London and do it again. It’s not the misses that count; it’s the hits.”
“So we’re back to wearing civilian clothes, packing very light, and running tight surveillance,” said Heston with his Texas drawl.
“I know you’d all prefer a stand-up fight. But you’ve been around long enough to know how it goes. I’m counting on every one of you to give one hundred and ten percent here.” Brent lifted his voice. “Are you with me?”
They all cried in unison, “Sir, yes, sir!”
Brent held up a fist, shook it, then returned to his seat and closed his eyes. He was trembling.
* * *
About fifteen minutes before they were set to land, Lakota took the chair beside Brent. She motioned for him to turn on his intercom to channel three so they could talk privately.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I’ll help you.”
“That’s nice,” he said, unable to disguise his sarcasm. “I was kind of hoping for that.”
“You know what I mean.”
He gave her a look. “Uh, I don’t.”
“Rumors get around, and I’m sure your briefing with Dennison didn’t go so well. Here’s what I think. I think she told you if we fail in London, it’s all over for us. They’ll break up the team again, and as for you… I don’t know… but she gave you the ultimatum, right?”
“What are you? A fortune-teller?”
“You’re just like my ex-husband. Easy to read. When he was trying to tell me he wanted a divorce, I’d already had the papers drawn up.”
“Ouch.”
“For him, not for me.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I’m sorry you haven’t asked about it. That’s your problem, Captain. You need to be more nosy. You need to know us better. Pry. I mean, you haven’t even hit on me.”
“Are you crazy? I respect your privacy.”
“We don’t want it respected. Ask about our personal lives. There isn’t a hell of a lot there anyway. This is pretty much all we got. But ask.”
Brent shrugged. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’re right. I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
“And like I said, we’ll help. You were good back on the island. I’m proud to serve with you. We just need to get her in London.”
Brent took in a long breath. “Yes, we do.”
She was about to get up, but he stopped her. “Thanks. I can’t do it without you. . or them. I know that.”
She winked. “Tell them.”
By the time Lakota made it back to her seat, their pilot was on the intercom, his voice tense. “Sorry, guys, but we’ve just been diverted to RAF Lakenheath.”
“Why’s that?” asked Brent.
“It doesn’t sound good,” answered the pilot.
“What’s happening?” Brent demanded.
“The Russians have some heavy troop transports en route.”
“They’re coming here? They’re crazy.”
“I thought the same thing. I don’t know if it’s an occupying force or what, and they’ve got fighters in the air. The Brits are worried about shooting them down because of collateral damage. Hold on a second. We’ve been locked! We’ve been locked!”
Suddenly, the Sphinx banked hard right, and Brent felt his stomach slam into his ribs.
“Oh my God,” gasped the pilot. “Brace for impact!”
NINE
Sandhurst, England
Warda had told Chopra that according to her father’s wishes, Hussein would be given lessons in all the major subjects by officers from the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, commonly known as Sandhurst. These officers would tutor the boy at a small, nondescript home on the outskirts of the town, where he would reside for nine months out of the year. The tutoring had begun last year, when Hussein had turned fifteen. Prior to that he’d been moved every few months and instructed by a select few teachers who traveled with him. The boy’s father had wanted him to be formally trained and educated, and he’d always had great respect and admiration for the British education system and for its military officers; thus, he’d left specific instructions for Hussein’s preparations to become a well-rounded individual.
The e-mails and videos from her father were difficult to read and watch, and Warda had spent many days crying over them. It seemed that in the months prior to the nuclear exchange, tensions had grown so high that her father had actually been planning for his own death and preparing as much as he could for the survival of his country. However, most of his wishes had been thrown by the wayside when, for the most part, the people who would have enacted them had also been killed during that fateful and horrible day.
With Westerdale’s help, Chopra had obtained excellent documentation and two things to alter his appearance: He’d bought a much thicker pair of plastic frames instead of his usual ultralight titanium glasses, and he had shaven his head completely bald. He typically wore a short, conservative haircut, his salt-and-pepper locks parted to one side and held in place with a squirt of hair spray. Now he was bald with thicker glasses and resembled an overage punk rocker or insecure artist type. Looking in the mirror proved unsettling.
Westerdale had also reported that Warda was now in the hands of the Americans, which was, for the most part, not a bad stroke of luck. He doubted they would hold her against her wishes and suggested that Chopra share this news with Hussein or Hussein’s people so that they might attempt to locate her.
Chopra arrived at London Heathrow Airport and caught a black cab out to Shepperton, where he changed cabs again, then headed down to Windlesham and did likewise once more, all in an effort to thwart anyone trying to tail him. He instructed the last driver to pull up outside the Premier Inn, where at such time a nondescript sedan was waiting for him. He paid the driver and climbed into the other car.
Ironically, he recognized the sedan’s driver, a white-haired man named John Southland, an American who had been working for the Al Maktoum family for decades as a professional mechanic and driver.
“Mr. Chopra, it’s been a long time,” said Southland.
“Much too long,” answered Chopra, growing a bit misty-eyed.
“I thought you’d been killed.”
“They sent me away early with the children. I urged them to come, but they insisted on staying. He thought if he evacuated he would be deemed a coward by the people. And he paid for that with his life. But we are still here and have been with the children ever since.”
“And how many others?”
“Just four of us. And two more with the sisters. They have an apartment nearby.”
“You’ve done an excellent job of protecting them.”
“We didn’t do it alone. And I’ve heard that everything could change now. We are understandably concerned.”
Chopra took a long breath. “I have what is rightfully his. And he, under the guidance of a regent, can now assume leadership of the country.”
“The Americans are calling Dubai the Wild West. No rule, with refugees moving in and out, and radiation still a problem. You are handing him a garbage heap.”
“No. Dubai will rise again. This needs to happen.”
“The Russians will not be happy.”
“That’s why we must protect him.”
“I’m confused, Manoj. It’s not even your country.”
“You’re wrong. I wouldn’t have a life if it weren’t for them. I’m a man of two countries. Hussein will rebuild his nation, our nation.”
Southland chuckled under his breath. “You’ll have fun convincing him of that.”
“Oh, really?”
“You’ll see. He’s not the boy you remember.”
They fell silent as Southland took them to the Owls-moor section of Sandhurst and turned down Horsham Road to park beside a four-bedroom detached house similar to an American townhome. These were modest quarters for the young sheikh, but that was part of remaining subtle and keeping a lower profile here in Europe. Time spent away in places like the Seychelles was obviously another matter.
As he climbed out of the car, Chopra frowned over the deep thrumming that emanated from the house, and as he followed Southland toward the side-entrance door, the thrumming became a distinctly deep and steady pulse.
“He likes to listen to his music in the morning,” said Southland.