Endgame

25

Hansen was at the exact opposite end of the foundry from where Fisher was escaping, and it might as well have been on the opposite end of the universe. Hansen’s competitive nature and jealousy had boiled up to the surface; he wanted to be the operative who captured Fisher. Maybe that sounded immature — something Ames would no doubt admit and not apologize for — but the desire was there and Hansen needed to wrestle with it while maintaining control of his team and always putting the mission first. But it was damned hard.

He and Ames were in a full sprint, racing along the wall toward the next corner as the others issued their breathless reports.

“He jumped through the trees! He just jumped right through,” said Gillespie. “I think he caught himself. Wait! He’s on the ground now! I need to find a way down.”

“We’re coming to you,” said Noboru. “Almost there.”

“Don’t lose him,” said Valentina. “Do you hear me, Kim? Don’t move — just maintain surveillance.”

“But now he’s already gone,” she cried.

“Moreau, you got him?” Hansen asked.

“I had him coming out of the tree,” said the operations manager. “Zooming in again. Aw, I’ve lost him now.”

“The side street! The side street!” cried Gillespie. “I think he’s heading for the stadium.”

“Ames, go!” Hansen hollered, then waved him on.

“Boys and girls, listen to me,” began Moreau. “I think he’s definitely crossed the side street, but I’ve got multiple pedestrians down there. I’ll see what I can do, but you need to close with this target!”

As Moreau continued his satellite-fed commentary, Hansen slowed to a stop. It was time to act like a team leader and not a glory-seeking operator. It was time to hold back and let his people do their jobs while he kept them organized and on task. He lifted his wrist to view his OPSAT and thumbed to the map. On the other side of the street lay a maze of alleys and intersecting roads, and Hansen estimated that a three-minute run would get Fisher to the stadium — if they didn’t cut him off first. “Moreau, I need you to pick him up.”

“I’m on it, cowboy. What the hell do you think I’m doing over here, sipping Coke and eating French fries?”

Back at his hotel room in Reims, Moreau was, in fact, patched into the Trinity System while consuming a Coke and fries. He’d already finished off two cheeseburgers that tasted no more royale than their American counterparts…

More important, he had a perfect fix on Mr. Sam Fisher, not that he’d disclose that to the team. Fisher needed to put a little more distance between himself and Delta Sly before Moreau would tip off those youngsters.

He munched on another fry. Mmm. Salty. Good.

“Moreau, you got anything?”

“Still working on it.”

“Are you eating?”

Moreau smacked his lips. “Wait a minute. Hang on. I think I might have him!”

Gillespie should have raced down from the roof after she’d lost Fisher, but for a long moment she was a statue against the weather, against time, against all the BS that separated her from him. Of course he hadn’t recognized her voice. Of course he’d never turn back. Of course he was gone before she could say something meaningful to him.

There was only the hollow pang in her gut upon which to reflect, only the memories, like a pair of jeans with so many holes in them that you should throw them away, but you just can’t, you couldn’t, you wouldn’t — even if you tucked them in the drawer and never wore them again. Knowing they were still there meant something.

What was left between them? Was there anything at all? Anything?

Seeing him again brought too much back. Far too much.

Would she have taken the shot? He hadn’t allowed her the decision. He’d been too quick, and she should thank him for that. Somehow.

Hansen would grill her, want to know if she’d had the opportunity and failed. She would tell the truth and hope they believed her.

After a deep breath, she fled the roof, picking her way down the stairs, the ladders, the tunnel, until she emerged outside to find that she was the last one left at the foundry. Hansen ordered her to get in the remaining SUV. Noboru had already taken off in the other.

Valentina had crossed rue Barbourg well ahead of everyone else and had the lead. She’d be the one to nab Fisher now, and as she ran, she thought how excellent that would be and how much that would prove to not only Grim, Moreau, and the others, but to herself. She was not a Barbie with an SC-20K. She was an operator, through and through.

The cheering of fans grew louder, and she spotted the banks of lights outlining the main entrance to the stadium and began racing through the parking lot, her gaze reaching out toward anything red, any shade of red, from pink to deep crimson, but most of the Jeunesse Esch fans leaving early were wearing the home team’s black shirt with black and yellow logo.

All right, if Fisher had gone inside the stadium, he would’ve had to buy a ticket. She could not ask every attendant if he or she had seen a man in a red shirt. There were seven ticket booths and certainly other folks dressed in red. She quickly handed over her credit card to the young man behind the nearest booth, and he told her that the game was almost over. She told him she didn’t care and double-timed it inside, resisting the temptation to run so as not to draw too much attention to herself.

“All right, I’m in the stadium,” she reported.

Now, what would Fisher do?

What would she do?

She glanced up and down the large hallway below the bleachers. Souvenir shops and food vendors lined the left side. And there it was: the men’s room.

“What would I do?” she muttered aloud. “I’d change.”

She charged toward the men’s room and brushed by a pair of young men in their twenties, who did a double take as she pushed through the door and hurried inside.

The place reeked. Men were pigs with bad aim. Three such swine stood at the urinals, and one, a portly middle-aged man with white sideburns, turned his head and suddenly frowned at her as his neighbor, an equally old man, turned and said, “Hey, sweetheart, are you looking for me?”

She ignored the perv and went straight for the white steel trash bin near the bank of sinks. She knocked it down to the tile floor. The lid crashed off and out came Fisher’s clothes, along with piles of crumpled-up towels.

She cursed and reported her findings. She snatched up the clothes and ran out of the room, leaving the old gawkers behind.

Valentina then ventured up to the stadium proper and stood there at the foot of the bleachers, her face panning the sea of faces, some five thousand in all. He’d changed and probably bought himself a hat. Hundreds of identical caps seemed to bob as though floating on waves across the stands.

“Maya, report,” ordered Hansen.

“I don’t think he planned any of this.” She gasped. “I just think he’s one lucky guy.”

Her shoulders slumped. They would never find him now.

But part of her said don’t give up, and she kept probing the faces, probing… and then came a thought that she voiced to the others: “He might try to leave on the east side.”

Hansen sent Noboru back to the train station in Esch-sur-Alzette. He ordered Gillespie to take her SUV up rue Jean-Pierre Bausch, north of the stadium, and remain there. He, Ames, and Valentina eventually met up on the east side of the stadium, and Hansen realized that a densely wooded area lay before them.

Fisher could have easily left the stadium via the east exit and vanished into that perfect cover. Beyond the forest to the northeast lay the town of Schifflange with its mushroomlike water tower. Fisher could reach Highway 31 and simply hitchhike or walk farther east to the towns of Rumelange, Kayl, and Tétange. At any rate, he was pushing farther into Luxembourg, a country slightly smaller than Rhode Island and bordering France, Germany, and Belgium. Was he just running through here? Or did he have a clear purpose in mind?

After five minutes of surveying the tree line with their binoculars, Hansen ordered Gillespie to come back down and pick them up. They would head out to Highway 4.

“I’ve got all our resources online,” said Moreau. “He tries to rent car, we got him. He buys a train ticket, we got him.”

“If he’s not using cash,” said Hansen. “Don’t humor me, Moreau. We’ve already lost him. We’re just going through the motions now.”

Abruptly, Noboru’s breathless voice cut over the channel: “It’s Nathan. I’m at the train station. I think I have him.”

Noboru was running along the platform, weaving through the few other people and chasing after the man in the red shirt and white ball cap.

After first spotting the man, Noboru widened his eyes. They made eye contact from afar, the man’s face half in shadow — but his shirt said enough. Noboru had started for him, and he charged off.

“What’s he wearing?” Valentina demanded.

“Back to the red shirt. White cap.”

“No, he’s changed,” she cried. “And if he hasn’t, the team caps are black.”

“Or maybe he wants us to think he’s changed but hasn’t.”

“No, he has,” she insisted. “You got the wrong guy.”

“Then why’s this guy running?”

Noboru launched himself into the air and came down from the platform with a heavy thump on the soft earth, as the guy started across the train tracks toward a long row of maintenance buildings on the other side.

That he might be the one to capture Sam Fisher didn’t register much with Noboru. He felt badly about what had happened to the man, but he wouldn’t think twice about killing him. In truth, Noboru knew exactly what it felt like to be on the run, and in one respect killing Fisher would be ending the man’s suffering. It was a difficult thing to live your life always looking over your shoulder; it wore down your spirit even as the nightmares drained you of sleep.

Horatio and Gothwhiler were there. Always there.

Noboru caught up with the man, dropped to the ground, and threw his leg out, in an expert maneuver, to trip his prey.

The guy dropped hard as Noboru rolled upright, stood, and aimed his SC pistol. He finally saw the man’s face.

“It’s all right, you got me now. They’re in the top right pocket. I don’t care. Tell Pierre it’s all over. I’m not doing this for him anymore. I quit.”

Noboru fought for breath and released a string of curses in Japanese; then he said, in English, “Maya, you were right. Wrong guy.”

“Who are you?” asked the man, who was in his twenties, clean shaven but built exactly like Sam Fisher. “What’s that tape you got on your neck?”

“What’s in your pocket?” asked Noboru.

The guy frowned. “The drugs.”

Noboru continued to catch his breath and shook his head. “Don’t wear red ever again.”

“Why not?”

Noboru leaned down and, still panting, put his gun in the man’s face. “Because I’ll come back and kill you.”

Moreau agreed with Valentina that the team should focus its search efforts east of the stadium, and Hansen could only assume that the man knew more than he was sharing, as usual. They drove the ten minutes out to the small village of Kayl, where they waited for Noboru to join them. Then Hansen sent him and Valentina down to Rumelange, while Gillespie and Ames would check out Tétange. They, too, were small, rural villages nestled into the countryside. Hansen would remain in Kayl and maintain a constant surveillance of the main road from an embankment cordoned off by clusters of tall pines.

If Moreau didn’t pick up Fisher soon, it’d be all over for now. And as Hansen settled down with his binoculars, he couldn’t get the image of a Coke and French fries off his mind. He remembered the McDonald’s, remembered Moreau’s comment, and now the advertising demons were playing product placement with his mind. In point of fact, he’d barely eaten all day, barely slept in the past few days, and if he somehow managed to remain in position and not fall asleep, well, that would be an accomplishment. Some of the others had packed granola and other kinds of energy bars in their packs; he’d opted for a pack of gum, and, boy, wasn’t that a mistake.

The air grew still, and the night seemed to wrap more tightly around him, like a warm blanket against the cold. The night-vision binoculars picked up headlights in the distance. He watched as the car approached and realized it was actually a pair of scooters. They raced on by, their small engines issuing a rather irritating buzz.

“Kim, how ’bout a sitrep?”

“Ames here. She’s busy right now.”

“Doing what?” Hansen said.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Shut up, fool,” said Gillespie. “We’re almost in town. No sign of anyone. Place looks dead.”

“Same here,” said Valentina.

“All right, team, we have a couple of minutes to kill while you’re en route,” Hansen began. “What’s Fisher doing in Luxembourg?”

“Getting drunk,” said Ames.

“If you don’t shut up,” warned Valentina.

“No, I’m serious,” Ames snapped. “Luxembourg is in Guinness World Records for most alcohol consumption.”

“A fact you know how?” asked Gillespie.

“Everyone knows that,” he argued. “And besides, I just pulled it up on my phone.”

“Using Google while on the job?” asked Gillespie.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Moreau? You still with us, Moreau?”

Hansen frowned. It wasn’t like the man to sign off unannounced.