Endgame

7

Hansen and Sergei took highway M-60 out of Vladivostok, passing into the city of Ussuriysk, situated on the Rasdolnaya River, about ninety-eight kilometers north of the hotel. Then they turned onto A-184 out of Ussuriysk and made a left turn onto A-186, heading west toward Korfovka. There wasn’t much to see beyond the windows, especially with the lights out — just stretches of a barren valley blanketed in ice and snow. Only a few other cars passed them on the road, and the driver of a small truck flashed his lights to warn them theirs were off. “It’s okay, buddy,” Sergei had muttered. “I can see you just fine.”

They were on A-186 for just a few minutes when Grim called to say there were two cars traveling about a half kilometer behind them.

Hansen told Sergei, “Grim thinks we might have a tail.”

“What do you think?”

“Two cars. Hard to say.”

“Better safe than sorry, right? I’ll take care of them after I drop you off.”

“But do me a favor. Don’t wind up in Khabarovsk.”

“Have you seen the ladies up there?”

Hansen snickered. “What’s your plan? To come home with a Russian wife?”

“Worse things could happen.”

“As a matter of fact they could.”

Ames had finished answering the hotel security man’s questions and had explained that he’d been sitting there, observing the lobby, because he thought his wife was having an affair and he wanted to catch her in the act. Svetlanoff and his muscle-head partner chuckled and made a comment about Ames’s diminutive size in multiple areas and suggested that his wife wouldn’t be cheating on him if he were man enough to satisfy her. Ames knew they were just trying to provoke him so they could detain him even longer, maybe even slap him around a little, so he quickly agreed with them, apologized, and was summarily released.

Instead of punishing himself for the rookie mistake of drawing the security man’s attention, he got back to work. There’d be plenty of time later to bang his head against a wall. He hired a taxi to follow him to Korfovka, though the driver had a difficult time understanding why he should do so when Ames had his own car. “Are we picking up a large number of people? Are we hauling cargo? Because I do not haul cargo, only suitcases and bags.” Ames paid him double, in advance, and the questions ceased.

Now, as they headed up the bumpy road, he imagined Grim sitting there in the situation room, wired on caffeine and watching the stream from her satellites. He even felt her electronic gaze on his shoulders. He glanced up and thought, Don’t worry, my dear Reaper. It’s only me, come to fog up your lenses. You really should switch to contacts…

He grinned. What a witty bastard he was. Ah… He took a breath, reached into his pocket, and found his Zippo. He began rolling it between his fingers, growing more relaxed as he imagined a warm yellow light engulfing him.

Lying on the passenger’s seat was a digital video camera and a suitcase containing $250,000 in small, unmarked bills — part of plan B, in case Hansen made it to Korfovka.

“We’re almost there,” said Sergei. “There’s a little petrol station up ahead. About two blocks from the pub. I can drop you off out back. I’ll let the other cars go by and follow them for a while. I’ll be in touch.”

Hansen took in a long breath. “Sounds good.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You sound nervous. I would be, too. First real mission as a Splinter Cell.”

Hansen took another long breath and nodded.

“All right, Murdoch has just pulled up to the pub,” Grim said. “You’d better move!”

Hansen gave the order to Sergei, who tugged off his goggles and returned them to Hansen. They pulled behind the petrol station, a very modest-sized building with a long red awning and two ancient-looking pumps. The place was closed. Hansen gave himself the once-over, slid on his goggles, then said, “Here goes nothing.”

Sergei smiled weakly. “Good luck.”

In one quick motion, Hansen was out of the car and running down the long alley between the first row of buildings. If Korfovka had a downtown district, this was it: perhaps fifteen structures in all, with a small water tower to the northeast. A private airport lay out in that direction as well, with several Quonset hangars and a helipad lying adjacent to the single airstrip.

With the night vision switched on, Hansen kept to the deep shadows, working his way north toward the pub. To his west lay small clusters of old houses, with every third or so looking boarded up and abandoned. Most of the roofs sagged under the weight of heavy snow. Only then did he realize how cold it was getting, but the suit began to compensate. An electric current ran through his senses as he remembered who he was, what he was doing, and what this moment meant to him. All he had to do was get the information and get out. No footprints.

He reached the corner of the next building, and, on his haunches, peered around the side to the main street. In the distance came the sound of car engines, and he hoped Sergei was still hiding behind the petrol station and watching those cars go by. Hansen darted off, running now with some impunity, the alley still clear. One more side street to cross before he reached the pub. He had to guard his steps, though, as his boot hit a patch of ice and he nearly went down. To fall and break his leg en route to the location would not only ruin the mission, it would make him the laughing-stock of Third Echelon. The others would spend long nights inventing nicknames for him. There would be no living it down.

Another car engine resounded, this one from in front of the pub. Hansen hazarded a peek around the next corner and spotted a dilapidated old pickup truck parked across the street. Two old Russians got out, both wearing parkas and caps, their faces doughy, cheeks red. The older one waved to his partner, and they lit cigarettes and walked across the street toward the pub.

Hansen hadn’t just run out of time; the clock was now running positive, and the meeting had quite obviously started. He cursed and took off, gritting his teeth as he reached the pub’s back door. For the sake of argument he tried the lock. He lost the argument.

Ignoring the tremor in his hands, he gave himself five seconds with his picking tool, counting each one until on exactly five he had the door open and, keeping low, gingerly stepped inside.

The air smelled of something delicious, fresh-baked bread perhaps, but that heavenly scent was tinged by cigarette smoke and beer. Hansen came into a small storage room, its shelves stocked high with boxes of spirits. Light from a small fixture shone overhead. A pair of folding shutter doors about half the length of a normal-sized door separated the storage room from the front. Abruptly, those doors pushed open and a heavyset woman in her sixties pushed into the room. She had a badly stained apron folded over her considerable girth, and a thick scarf held back her shock of silver hair.

Hansen hunkered down, drawing his SC pistol with an anesthetic dart already loaded.

As she lumbered toward the back, toward him, he slowly stood. She took one look at him — a dark alien with three eyes — and opened her mouth.

Even as he imagined her scream, Hansen fired the dart into her neck and dashed forward to catch her. Indeed, she’d had time to scream, but he realized that she hadn’t because she’d fainted even before the anesthetic took hold.

Welcome to Real- Life Spy Work 101, he told himself, where you’re not hanging inverted from the rafters, completely obscured and cleverly firing Sticky Cams to eavesdrop on the bad guys while you remain fully undetected.

No, this was a lot less glamorous, clutching a fat Russian woman and lowering her to the ground as he considered how long it would take before someone else came into the back room, looking for her — and how long after that Murdoch and the rest would become aware that something was wrong.

He was not ten seconds into the mission and it had already gone to hell…

But it wasn’t over yet. Hansen stood, withdrew the laser microphone from his breast pocket, and, keeping tight behind the doors, stole a quick glance over the tops of them. The decor seemed borrowed from an old Bavarian inn, with paneling and beams spanning the rafters. Candles at the half dozen tables, and more positioned along the broad wooden counter, created a warm and hypnotic atmosphere, perfect for drinking on a cold night. An old chandelier hung from the ceiling, but three of its four bulbs had burned out.

Off to Hansen’s left was the bartender: a slightly hunched-back man with a wiry white beard, serving a drink to one of the two men who had just entered. They were the only ones at the bar. Behind them, seated at a table near the wall, were Murdoch, Zhao, and Bratus, all nursing drinks.

Hansen tucked himself back a little farther behind the doors and aimed the laser microphone (officially the LM7: laser microphone, seventh generation) at one of the glasses near Bratus. Any object that could resonate or vibrate, like a glass or a picture on the wall, would do so because of pressure waves created by noises. The invisible NIR, or near-infrared, laser was able to detect the tiny difference in the distance traveled by the light to pick up resonance and reproduce the sound causing it. Sure, any Joe could go to YouTube and learn to build a rudimentary laser microphone, but to build one the size of a ballpoint pen with NIR technology and a range in excess of a thousand meters was better left to Third Echelon and its subcontractors. The LM7 operated according to Snell’s law, which required sharp alignment and correct aiming of both the transmitted and received laser beams, so Hansen needed to aim the beam and remain perfectly still while the conversation was picked up and automatically transferred to his OPSAT, where it would be heard through his subdermal, recorded, and later sent to Grim.

All of which was to verify that he did, indeed, have his ear on the conversation, as all three men spoke in Russian:

“I don’t understand what the problem is,” said Murdoch.

“The problem is money,” answered Zhao. “Kovac promised me twice what he’s now offering.”

“But you can’t stop now,” Bratus said. “Because if you do, I don’t know what to tell my people. We will all die.”

“Look, I’ll go back to Kovac. I’ll tell him what you said. I’ll tell him that if he wants the rest of the names on that list, he’s got to pay the full amount.”

“Just like I did,” said Bratus. “See the difference between the Russians and the Americans, my friend? The Russians know how to keep a promise.”

“That’s not fair,” snapped Murdoch. “The initial data was corrupt. We don’t pay for something we don’t get.”

Hansen was trembling. He was getting it all. They had implicated Kovac. They’d even mentioned him by name! This was the real deal, his first mission, and he was kicking ass and taking names… or, rather, getting names, the name. Grim would not only thank him, she would rip off her glasses and—

He shuddered, forced calm back into his thoughts as Zhao went on: “I have a little surprise for you, but we’ll have to go to the airport.” Zhao checked his watch. “He should be arriving soon.”

All three men stood. Hansen rolled back behind the doors, glanced down at the old lady, then heard the bartender cry, “Nadia! What’s taking you so long?”

Hansen held his breath. If he could just stall the old man until Murdoch and his buddies left…

Footfalls drew closer.

Bratus called out, “Thank you, and have a good night!” The bartender responded in kind.

The front door opened.

And the back doors swung inward. The old bartender entered the storage room, glancing around.

Hansen took him from behind, drawing one of the old man’s arms behind his back and wrapping a gloved hand over the man’s mouth. Hansen muttered, “Don’t struggle, and you’ll be okay. Nadia is sleeping. Just wait for another minute. Don’t move.”

Outside, the car engines fired up. Hansen listened a moment longer, then suddenly released the man and charged out the back door and into the alley.

“Sergei? They’re going to the airport. Come on! I’ll meet you behind the petrol station.”

Hansen raced as fast as he could along the walls, waiting for his runner to reply. “Sergei?”