by Tom Clancy
Fisher nodded. “You know, we do have one more resource we haven’t tapped . . .”
“What’s that?” Briggs asked.
Fisher widened his eyes. “Kobin.”
“Aw, hell, are you kidding me?” Briggs cried.
Fisher nodded. “Let’s go get cleaned up. Then I’ll go have a word with the little man.”
* * *
ANDRIY Semyon Kobin was a fast-talking runt and the son of a Ukrainian American shipping clerk from Baltimore. His black hair was slicked back and now graying at the temples to match the soul patch beneath his lower lip. He had a penchant for bling—gold necklaces in particular—as well as large-collared silk shirts and dress slacks that made him resemble some oddball Euro-pimp-wannabe-gangster, even though in his own mind he was trying to flaunt his wealth. He’d fallen in with the Ukrainian mob, smuggling drugs and weapons, then graduating to his own “business,” where he’d established worldwide connections within the underworld. He’d been uncovered and captured by Third Echelon, then kept on as a useful and deniable asset. Fisher’s old boss had come to trust Kobin so much that he’d asked the man to provide a body to substitute for Fisher’s daughter, Sarah, when they’d faked her death. Kobin had, in effect, pretended to kill Sarah, allowing Grim to have leverage over Fisher. Lambert had thanked the man by setting him up with a smuggling operation in Malta. Kobin’s network expanded, but then he began to lose control as a life of wealth and excess took its toll; consequently, when Fisher hunted him down to learn more about Sarah, he’d barricaded himself inside his mansion in a coke-fueled frenzy.
Much had happened since then. Kobin had been unwittingly caught up in the Blacklist attacks via an arms deal gone very bad, and he wound up turning himself in to the CIA for protection. When his safe house got hit, Fisher had gone in to rescue the man—more for the intel he carried than any particular love for the scumbag. Kobin did, however, return the favor when Paladin’s flight controls were hacked, helping to get the plane restarted. His piloting skills and knowledge of the underworld were admittedly useful.
From that point on, Kobin took up residence inside Paladin’s cell, sleeping in the shimmering glow of the nearby server lights. Given the number of enemies he’d made over the years and the fact that he’d sold arms to the Blacklist Engineers, he’d probably spend the rest of his life in prison. Thus, he’d begged Fisher and Grim to let him stay on board so he could offer up what intel he could. He was actually working on Charlie, trying to convince him that he should be a new member of their team, even trying to teach the kid about weapons and the jet’s flight control systems.
“Hey, asshole,” Fisher said as he approached the holding cell.
Kobin was lying on his bunk, hands folded behind his head, staring off into space. Charlie had loaned him some clean clothes, so the ostentatious outfit was gone, replaced by a slightly grunge look that Kobin had whined about but accepted until they could find him more silly silk duds.
He finally glanced up from his trance. “You know, Fisher, back in the glory days they used to call me King of Assholes!”
“I’m sure they did.” Fisher unlocked the cell and stepped inside.
Kobin shook his head. “I told you, you don’t have to lock the door. I wanna be here.”
“Grim thinks it’s a good idea. Sometimes I sleepwalk and kill scumbags.”
“Like a PTSD thing?” asked Kobin.
“Yeah.”
“So it’s for my own protection.”
Fisher grinned crookedly. “Yeah.”
“So I take it you’ve come to the master seeking knowledge?” Kobin sat up, gazing emphatically at Fisher. “It’s gonna cost you.”
“The fact that you’re not dead means we can run a tab for as long as we want.”
“Dude, I’m just kidding. Why do you have to be so intense?”
“Because we’ve still got a hundred pounds of stolen uranium out there, along with a Russian software geek who’s just gone missing.”
“You talking about Kasperov?”
“You know him?”
“I went to one of his parties—and that bastard knows how to throw a party!”
“Any idea where he might’ve gone?”
Kobin snorted. “The fuck do I know? Why the hell did he run in the first place?”
“We’re not sure yet. We need to get into the SVR’s comm network—and even deeper, right into Voron.”
“Well, good luck with that shit.”
“You know, I’m so glad we’re keeping you here, free room and board, so you can tell us, good luck with that shit . . .”
“What do you want from me? If I knew something, I’d tell you.”
Fisher’s smartphone beeped, and he answered.
“Sam, I just activated the beacon to find Kestrel, but it’s dead,” Grim said. “No signal. He must’ve found it.”
“Shit, all right, thanks.”
“Did I hear her say Kestrel?”
“That’s right.”
“Why is that fucker not dead? I thought your people hauled away the body.”
“They weren’t my people . . .”
“So where is he now?” asked Kobin.
Fisher bit back a curse. “Last I heard he was in Moscow, settling some scores.”
“You let me make a few calls, and I’ll find him. If he’s on the hunt, then he’s asking a lot of questions, and that’s how we get him. I know the network in Moscow better than anybody.”
“Tell you what. If you find him, you’ll move up the espionage ladder from worthless piece of shit to unreliable scumbag who can sometimes help.”
“I’ll take it. And with a nickel pay raise, too. You motherfuckers are too generous. I’m crying with tears of joy over here.”
Fisher held open the door. “Shut up and get to the control room. Start making your calls.”
As Kobin walked past the cell door, he paused to sniff Fisher’s neck. “You just take a shower? You smell nice—like a three-dollar whore.”
11
SVR agent number one, the gray-haired operator Fisher had nicknamed “Uncle Harry,” sat in his idling Volkswagen rental, crushing the seat with his considerable girth. A rather mundane surveillance op like this was led by a more seasoned—see “ready to retire”—agent while his two more youthful colleagues braved the early-morning temperatures on foot patrol. Grim had initially spotted only two agents at Nadia’s apartment, along with the two requisite private security guards posted at the front desk and at the gate near the parking garage. Fisher dubbed these rent-a-cops the “puppy patrol.” Meanwhile, Briggs, operating from a rooftop opposite the five-story building, had picked up a third SVR agent street side and looking oh-so-clandestine with a Bluetooth receiver jutting from one of his ears.
While Harry and his associates were here to apprehend and question Kasperov, his daughter, or anyone else who returned to the apartment, they had obviously grown bored with their duties. For his part, Harry spoke only once on his radio while repeatedly adjusting himself in his seat as though his legs were falling asleep or he had a fiery case of hemorrhoids. He never saw Fisher, who was under his car inserting the gas tube into the vehicle’s heating system to inject the halothane gas.
Fisher made the connection, threw the valve, then slipped out from beneath the car, crawling to the parked sedan behind the Volkswagen.
“He’s adjusting the heat,” reported Briggs. “He knows something’s up. In five, four, three, two . . . oh, there he goes. He’s out, Sam. Lying back on the seat.”
“Roger that. Need to move fast now.”
“Sam, Cousin Ivan is on the east side of the building, smoking a cigarette near the parking garage across the street,” reported Grim. “Cousin Drago is still on the roof.”
Rather than sitting in some not-so-discreet van,
Grim and Charlie were operating from a crowded Internet café called Altro just one block down the street. They had a window table, a couple of laptops, and access to some of the most powerful software and best-tasting lattes on the planet, according to Charlie.
They were surrounded by undergrads wired into their own computers, yet Charlie and Grim still had privacy, their screens out of view, their voices out of earshot. They were fully patched into the surrounding security cameras as well as a video stream recorded by Briggs. Just before they’d arrived, Charlie had noted how several of the camera systems had been depressingly easy to bypass. He’d explained that inherent vulnerabilities existed in many of the top manufacturers’ stand-alone CCTV systems as well as a substantial number of rebranded versions. Remote access capability via the web was a convenient feature that allowed guards and other administrators to view a location from off-site. Likewise it made the systems vulnerable to hackers if they weren’t set up securely. If the remote access feature was enabled by default upon purchase—which many of them were—some customers didn’t realize they should take steps to secure those systems.
However, even the systems that were security enabled came with laughably unsecure user names like “user” and “admin,” along with passwords like “1234.” They also failed to lock out a user after a certain number of incorrect password guesses. This meant that even if a customer changed the password, hackers like Charlie could crack them through a brute-force attack. Finally, because many customers who employed the systems didn’t restrict access to computers from trusted networks, nor did they log who was accessing them, Charlie said that even the guards couldn’t tell if a remote attacker was in their system viewing video footage from outside the network.
Interestingly enough, Nadia’s building was the toughest to crack, and her father had probably had a hand in that. What Fisher found curious was why she’d opted for a penthouse in a five-story building instead of a private villa. The place was, after all, known as the “Monte Carlo of Switzerland,” situated in the south of the country on the shores of Lake Lugano, with the city’s waterfront forming a crescent around the bay between the Brè and the San Salvatore mountains. Fisher had read that Lugano was the largest Italian-speaking city outside of Italy, with an economy bolstered by business, finance, and tourism. It was one of the most popular tourist cities in Switzerland, as well as home to several universities and institutes, including Nadia’s. A lakeside villa would’ve afforded her direct access to the waterfront and the collection of cafés and bistros that were crowded day and night. Perhaps she’d wanted to be closer to her colleagues, pretend to live a somewhat normal life. Grim had mentioned that several of her classmates lived in the building, and the SVR team had, according to the surveillance camera video, gone to their apartments to question them.
Fisher slipped away from the sedan behind the Volkswagen and worked his way along the line of cars. The sun was rising, the street and pedestrian traffic beginning to increase as the locals headed off to work. He darted across the street to the back of a public parking garage facing Nadia’s complex. He vaulted over a four-foot-tall concrete wall, then hit the stairwell, heading up to the second level. He jogged across the garage, then reached another barrier wall. Keeping low, he eased up to the wall and glanced down. Cousin Ivan was directly below him, standing on the sidewalk and lighting up another cigarette.
Fisher set up his rappelling line, attaching its carabiner clip to the fitting of an electrical conduit spanning the ceiling. Given the fact that most pedestrians and drivers wouldn’t necessarily be looking up at the side of the garage, and the fact that Ivan was pretty far from the nearest door, Fisher had devised a plan to make the agent disappear with minimal risk. A large oak tree on the corner provided additional cover.
“Briggs, you with me?” he asked.
“I’m here. You’re clear.”
“Okay, here we go.”
Fisher eased himself headfirst over the wall, hooking one leg around his rappelling line that was paying out from the custom-designed mechanical descender box attached to his chest via a nylon harness. He slid down the side of the parking garage like an arachnid, using his weak hand to brake. The Australians called rappelling headfirst “Geneva” style, but Fisher had first experienced the technique while cross-training with the Israeli Hostage-Rescue Rappelling and Climbing Sections, also known as the “Terror Monkeys.” They were acknowledged experts in climbing and conducting assaults from above, and they’d urged him to try the inverted drop in order to peek in windows and limit exposure. His trial efforts had resulted in a few mild concussions, but as he perfected his skills, he became so adept at the technique that he could do it unconsciously, focusing entirely on his target.
Just as Fisher neared Cousin Ivan, the agent glanced up. Fisher’s descent was smooth and controlled, but it was well-nigh impossible to remain perfectly silent.
That didn’t matter, though. In that second when Ivan saw him, Fisher gripped the man in a windpipe-crushing choke hold. At the same time, he thumbed a remote jutting from his sleeve, and the line began spooling back up, lifting him and Ivan into the air. Fisher carried Ivan all the way to the second floor, over the barrier wall, then waited until the man went limp. He deposited Ivan’s body onto the floor and detached himself from the line. The entire process took the better part of six seconds. Fisher dragged the body over to some plastic barriers cordoning off an area in the process of being repaved. He shoved the body between two of the barriers, where he’d lie temporarily out of sight until the construction workers found him later in the morning.
“Sam, the loop’s up,” Charlie said. “You’re clear for the roof.”
“Thanks, Charlie. On my way.” The private security guard in the building’s garage, along with the man posted at the desk in the foyer, were watching a video loop and would never see Fisher’s approach to the building.
Fisher hit the stairwell and double-timed his way to the roof, eight stories above. He eased open the door to find a middle-aged businessman walking across the lot to his car, briefcase in hand.
“Hang on a second, Briggs, I’ve got a guy up here.”
“Standing by.”
The businessman got in his vehicle and drove off. The second he vanished down the ramp, Fisher sprinted to the opposite wall and gazed out across the street to the apartment’s rooftop, where Cousin Drago stood near a vine-covered wall within the private garden. The agent stared down at the street through a pair of binoculars. Beyond him were the flickering lights of the city and a rather breathtaking view of the lake beyond, walled in by those deep-brown mountains.
Fisher slid down his trifocals and studied the terrace. He had a direct line on the rooftop door and the nearby palm tree, as he’d planned. “Okay, Briggs, got the target marked for my line. You’re clear for the shot.”
“Gotcha, Sam. Stand by . . .”
Fisher zoomed in on Drago, anticipating a round blasting through his skull and dropping him.
Tensing, Fisher detected the slightest crack from Briggs’s suppressed sniper rifle from across the street.
But something had gone wrong. Drago jerked, lowered his binoculars, and was immediately on his cell phone.
“Missed the shot!” cried Briggs.
“Fire again!” Fisher ordered.
Losing his breath, Fisher watched as Drago darted for the back door.
He reached out for the doorknob, then slumped before ever applying pressure.
“Jesus, Briggs, you’re giving me a heart attack,” Fisher said.
“Wind shifted on me.”
“It’s cool, Sam,” said Charlie. “Drago didn’t call out. He only tried to dial Uncle Harry.”
“Roger that. Heading over now.”
Fisher fired a line and grappling hook across the street. The hook struck one of three palm trees growing from enormous pots. The hook jammed be
tween the heavy branches, and Fisher attached it to the undercarriage of the nearest car behind him. Next he slapped the ball-bearing guide belt over the line and zipped across, thumping softly onto the terrace. He turned back, thumbed another remote, and the carabiner attached to the line back at the garage automatically released the rope so he could retrieve it, leaving no evidence of how he’d entered the building. With that done and Drago’s body dragged out of sight behind some shrubs, Fisher was prepared to pick the rooftop door’s lock, but Drago was a fine lad and had left the door open. Fisher simply walked inside and reported that to Grim.
“At the next landing come out and make a left,” she instructed him. “Her penthouse suite’s door is at the end of the hall, straight ahead.”
“I see it,” said Fisher. He jogged quickly to the end of the hall, noting the security camera’s light from the ceiling.
“Okay, we see you at the door,” said Charlie.
“And the alarm?” Fisher asked.
“What about it?” asked Charlie. “I’ve gotten us into Gitmo. You don’t think I can get us in here?”
“Right.”
“So the alarm’s yesterday’s news. Completely bypassed and powered off so the monitoring company gets no call.”
Fisher reached into his breast pocket and produced his lock-picking tools; they included a hook pick, a half diamond with steep angles, a snake rake, a half diamond with shallow angles, an S-rake pick, a double round pick, and a long double ended pick.
“Sam, you’re so old-school,” remarked Charlie.
“You got a better way?”
“Melt the lock off with a laser, and who gives a shit if we were there.”
“That laser gives off smoke and a nasty smell. Good way to get your ass caught. You stick to firewalls and leave the locks to me.” He went to work, first opening the dead bolt, then moving on to the handle’s lock.