Endgame

33

The team caught the first flight out of Luxembourg to the Cologne-Bonn Airport, just an hour away from Hammerstein. They arrived at 9:10 A.M., rented a pair of Mercedes sedans (no more budget rentals for them, Hansen swore), and drove out to the small town, taking in gorgeous views of the Rhine along the way.

The night before, Hansen had gone into Moreau’s room and put it to him bluntly: “We know Fisher’s meeting with Hoffman tomorrow. We’re flying up to Hammerstein. If you can just buy us a little time to see if we can intercept, I’ll let you come with us.”

“Oh, you’ll let me come with you, huh, cowboy? That the way it is?”

“You can’t stop us. So you might as well come.”

“And how did you obtain this information?”

“We intercepted a Klingon transmission.”

“Don’t you mean Vulcan?”

“Whatever.”

“I’m warning you, Hansen—”

“What are you going to do? Assemble another team to take out the team that’s supposed to get Fisher? I get confused just thinking about it.”

“You know what?” Moreau let the question hang, then suddenly smiled. “You’re a fool, but you remind me of myself back in the day. Arrogant, cocky, one badass mother—”

“Pack your bags, Boss.”

Moreau finished his curse. “Grim will be pissed.”

“Join the dark side.”

Moreau frowned. “Now you’re mixing up sci- fi universes.”

They spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon driving around Hammerstein and considering probable meeting locations. There were a few outdoor cafés and three small wineries, should Fisher have chosen a public place for his meeting, and it wasn’t as though Moreau would volunteer that information. In fact, he admitted that he and Grim did not know where the meeting would take place. That was between Hoffman and Fisher.

Ames got back on his laptop and said he’d received an update from Spock. The meeting was being held at a small, locally owned winery called J. P. Zwick Weinstube Weingut.

“And how the hell does Spock know that?” asked Moreau.

“Because this guy is as well connected as they get. It seems like 3E doesn’t know jack compared to him,” said Ames. “Maybe we should all go work for him and we’ll have some decent intel for a change, instead of this garbage you’ve been feeding us, right?”

Moreau shook his head, not buying it.

Across the street from the winery was a boat launch’s parking lot, and they arrived there at about one fifteen, approximately forty-five minutes before the meeting was scheduled to take place. Hansen ordered Ames, Valentina, Noboru, and Gillespie to comb the lot and read off the tag numbers of every car there so Moreau could immediately run them. They were looking for Hoffman’s car and any rentals.

In the meantime, Hansen left the Mercedes, stepped over the guardrail, and headed onto the shoulder of the road. He waited for a break in traffic, then began to cross the street, aiming straight for the winery.

Gillespie called over the subdermal to say she’d just intercepted a police call. There was a report of a maniac in a BMW smashing into cars in the marina parking lot south of the winery, and the guy was now heading south down Highway 42.

“You think it’s him?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Stand by.”

Hansen frowned, continued on, and appearing from between two bushes ahead was… Fisher himself!

The man started immediately toward a big BMW sedan parked nearby, drawing within ten feet.

“Don’t, Sam.” Chills shot up Hansen’s spine. Had it all come down to something as anticlimactic as this — nabbing him in a parking lot?

Hansen raised his voice a bit more. “We’ve got you.”

Fisher averted his gaze and kept moving. But Hansen was certain the man had heard him.

Even so, Hansen called even louder: “Fisher!”

Fisher was now five feet from his car, arm outstretched, thumb working a key fob. The Beamer chirped.

That noise sent Hansen’s hand into the folds of his black leather jacket. He drew his SC pistol from the shoulder holster and ran toward the edge of the winery parking lot.

He raised the pistol.

Fisher opened the Beamer’s door.

Hansen had the shot.

Fisher looked up, flashed the briefest of nods, then climbed inside.

“Damn!” muttered Hansen. What just happened? He had a Cottonball loaded.

Fisher started the car. The engine roared. He pulled out of his parking spot.

For a few seconds, Hansen wasn’t sure what to do. He turned and sprinted back across the road, only then realizing that he should have switched to lethal fire and shot out Fisher’s tires.

Another foolish move.

Admittedly, this was the first time he’d actually seen the legendary Sam Fisher in the flesh, and maybe he’d been starstruck, he didn’t know, but he cursed himself as he activated the team channel and called out to the others over the SVT: “It’s Fisher! In the BMW! He’s taking off! Everyone back to the cars!”

Fisher’s car wheeled around and raced off, heading south down Highway 42, along the river.

Moreau, who was sitting in the backseat of Hansen’s sedan, arms folded over his chest, said, “He’s getting away.”

“How ’bout a little help?” Hansen asked.

Moreau pillowed his head in his hands. “You’re on your own, cowboy. Grim doesn’t even know I’m here.”

Hansen swore and streaked out of the parking lot. Fisher had a good lead on them already, a mile heading for two, Hansen estimated, leaving stunned drivers in his wake. A few drivers had become so nervous about the wild man in the BMW that they had pulled over to the side of the road, probably to catch their breath. Hansen began weaving through traffic himself, with Valentina, Ames, and Noboru now behind them. Noboru was at the wheel and driving even more aggressively.

They drove past the marina, about a quarter mile south of the winery, and saw people standing there, waving their arms and pointing to the damage their cars had sustained. And then Hansen saw a debris trail extending from the parking lot and back onto the road. Fisher. But what the hell?

Unless he’d done that to get the police involved. But the call had come in before he’d caused the damage. Strange. Or not so. Fisher had planned it all. But now what was he doing? Just fleeing? Or leading them somewhere?

“Where’s he going, Marty?”

Moreau answered with a lopsided grin, then added, “Who’s Marty?”

Hansen spoke through his teeth: “No more games. I want an answer now!”

Moreau threw up his hands. “Benjamin, I have no idea where he’s going, except away.”

Beginning to pant, Hansen drove on, cutting off slower traffic and spotting a sign for the town of Neuwied.

“Uh, Ben, I don’t want to say ‘we’ve got company’ because that’s ridiculously cliché,” said Valentina. “So how about this: The goddamned police are behind us!”

Hansen flicked a look into the rearview mirror and spotted the flashing blue lights. “Yep, we’ve got company. And you know who called them? Fisher.”

“Why the hell would he do that?”

“Interference. Makes for a good show, too.”

“Aw, here we go again!” she groaned.

Gillespie was up front with Hansen, now peering through the windshield with her long-range binoculars. “He’s on the L258 now. Of course, a satellite feed would help… ”

That last part, uttered as snippily as she could, was meant for Moreau, who lifted his voice and said, “You’re doing fine, boys and girls, you’re doing fine!”

Hansen took the next turn a little too sharply and clipped the front end of a Toyota pickup truck. The driver leaned on the horn.

Fisher continued on, following L258 into a highway interchange where he took the Highway 256 exit, south and east toward Neuwied. Hansen tried to stay with the flow of traffic so as not to draw any more attention. He got well ahead of the pickup truck, whose driver pulled over to assess his damage. The police from Hammerstein had drifted farther back, out of sight for now, but he assumed they’d radioed ahead to their brothers in the next town for help. No sense waving a flag to them, so long as the team still had Fisher’s BMW in sight.

“He just floored it,” said Gillespie. “You’d better speed up or we’ll lose him. And, whoa! He’s fast and furious now, flashing his lights… You’d better go!”

“I’m on it!”

Hansen kicked the gas pedal and the powerful Mercedes leapt forward, rolling up to 120 kph. They streaked past a sign that read RAIFFEISENBRÜCKE 3 KM.

That would be the Raiffeisen Bridge, spanning the Rhine.

Holding his breath, he rolled the wheel hard left, weaving around another slow-moving commuter car and passing the next sign: RAIFFEISENBRÜCKE 2 KM.

The bridge rose into view, a two-lane affair with a central A-shaped pylon shimmering like a white monolith with talons of support cables radiating from its sides. That pylon rose at least 150 feet, and Hansen took a few seconds to appreciate it before the lights in his rearview mirror stole his attention. Damned police were back again, coming up the Sandkauler on-ramp to drop in behind them.

“He’ll cross the bridge,” said Gillespie.

“Gotcha,” Hansen replied. “I’m with him.”

Even as he finished the sentence, they were immediately stuck behind a slow- moving lorry overloaded with crates. Damn it! Hansen slammed his fist on the steering wheel, then punched the horn. Traffic in the oncoming lane was too heavy to allow him to pass. The truck driver sped up, but only a little.

As they neared the bridge, an island that Gillespie said was Herbstliche Insel, or Autumn Island, appeared to their left and lay in the middle of the channel like a slightly opened mouth, tapering at the ends. Lush green trees stood in sharp contrast to the darker, muddier waters encompassing the narrow strip of land.

“What the hell?” Gillespie said through a gasp.

“What?” cried Hansen.

“He stopped! He stopped right in the middle of the goddamned bridge. He’s straddling the center line.”

Hansen could see Fisher’s car now, seconds away from being T-boned by the oncoming traffic.

Across the center guardrail, traffic had slowed to a crawl as drivers hung their heads out their windows to gape at the car blocking traffic.

“What’s he doing?” asked Moreau, leaning forward and clutching the back of Hansen’s seat.

“Jesus…” Hansen could barely speak.

The oncoming traffic neared Fisher’s car.

“Come on, Sam, get out of there,” muttered Moreau.

“You want him to escape?” cried Hansen.

“You’re damned right!”

Hansen snorted. “Unbelievable.”

Abruptly, Fisher’s car backed up toward the center guardrail, tires smoking as his rear bumper thudded hard against the heavy steel.

“What’s he doing now?” Hansen asked.

“Oh, no,” said Gillespie. “No. He can’t… ”

It seemed as though every driver on the bridge, no matter the lane, was now tapping his or her car horn, and even through closed windows the racket was nothing short of remarkable, an atonal chorus carried on the wind.

Hansen braked hard as those ahead of him did likewise, and just a hundred yards beyond was Fisher, throwing it into drive now and leaving twin smoke trails behind him as the powerful BMW barreled directly toward the opposite guardrail…

And into the murky depths of the Rhine River below.

“You got to be kidding me!” cried Moreau.

Gillespie leaned toward the windshield. “Oh, my God!”

Hansen held his breath.

The rail was scarcely taller than a meter, as was the abutting suicide-prevention hurricane fencing, and neither was a match for the BMW’s broad front bumper and its five-hundred-plus-horsepower engine.

The car horns faded, and for just a few seconds, all Hansen could hear was the drumming of his heart.

Then, abruptly, the screeching of metal on metal made him shudder.

With widening eyes, Hansen watched as Third Echelon’s most lethal and effective Splinter Cell crashed his car through the rail — and in a moment as surreal as any, a moment in which time slowed and he seemed to watch it all from God’s point of view — the car arced in the air, then pitched forward and began its fifty-foot descent toward the unforgiving water below.