And then Sergei wondered why he was crouched there, just watching. Why hadn't he already reacted? Would he let the fat man kill Hansen? Why not? Wasn't it easier that way? But then, what about Victoria? He needed to ensure that she would not be harmed, and all he had left was the mission.
"You won't break me." Hansen gasped.
The fat man grinned and leaned over to stare directly into Hansen's eyes. "It's going to be a long night for both of us."
I don't think so, thought Sergei.
AMES was at a precipice between sheer panic and utter violence. The bile was already gathering at the back of his throat, and he clutched his binoculars with a white-knuckled grip.
Then--as if watching Bratus kill everyone wasn't enough, as if the universe had a personal vendetta against him, one Allen Ames, Third Echelon operative and NSA mole--someone from somewhere took a shot at the Russian operative, who'd been standing by his car, on the phone.
Bratus's head snapped back like a PEZ dispenser, and he dropped out of sight behind his car.
Trembling and swearing aloud, Ames scanned the area. He searched the low-lying forest, the ditches, the hangar areas, and all along the service road.
It was as though the bullet had been fired by an apparition that had dematerialized into the night.
Now everyone--save Bratus's fat driver, Hansen, and Sergei--was dead. Ames thought of that Anvil case inside Bratus's car. If he could recover it . . . But there was a shooter out there.
As much as he hated the decision, Ames knew what he had to do. Nothing. Except watch.
SERGEI slid from behind the tool cart, took aim at the fat man, and fired a single suppressed round into the back of the man's head.
As the Russian fell forward, Sergei sighed and shrank behind the cart, just breathing and wondering if he could go through with the rest.
And then, for just a few seconds, his hackles rose and he sensed that someone else was inside the hangar.
He craned his neck, shot glances toward the big doors, the office, and all along the workstations. The shadows seemed to come alive as his paranoia grew, and he imagined a man dressed all in black and wearing trifocal goggles. He leapt down from an impossibly high rafter, stood before Sergei, and tore off his goggles.
It was Hansen, who took a deep breath and said, "Don't kill me."
Sergei ground his teeth, shuddered off the image, then reached into his breast pocket and dug out a cigarette. He placed it between his lips, stood, and moved around the cart.
Hansen had dug himself out from beneath the fat Russian and was lying there, asking questions.
Sergei barely heard the man. He grabbed his lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a long drag.
They talked, and it was a like dream, the words floating on currents of blood that wound their way through a dark forest at the end of which lay Victoria, on a stone altar, her hands folded over her chest, her skin alabaster white to match her diaphanous dress, which fell in great waves across the mossy earth.
Sergei took a deep breath and stared through the image and finally saw Hansen. There was so much he wanted to tell the man, but he feared that if he turned his apology into a speech, by the time he finished, his pistol would be back on his belt and he'd be helping Hansen off the floor.
All Sergei really wanted to do was thank Hansen for what he'd done in the past, for his unconditional friendship, for his belief that Sergei, despite his failures, could still make something of his life. Even Sergei's own father did not believe in him the way Hansen had.
Hansen deserved the truth. At the very least. Sergei apologized and added, "They sent me to kill you."
That was all he wanted to say.
But Hansen demanded the details, so without hesitation he supplied them. And again, he wanted to say so much more, to somehow justify what he was doing, but there were no words that could ever do that. All he could say was, "I didn't want to see you suffer."
When he showed Hansen the camera, his old friend cursed at him, and that was all right. That was natural. And that helped, didn't it? It was better if the man hated him.
Sergei had been thinking about how they'd been trained to deal with torture, and now he would use the same methods to steel himself against the killing of a friend.
He was now a being of cold flesh and function.
Action. Reaction.
There was the camera, the tiny screen with its crystal-clear image of Hansen lying on the floor, glowering at him, but there were no emotions now, just the camera in one hand, the gun in the other, the cigarette dangling from his lips.
"You see, he is alive," Sergei began for his audience of NSA thugs. "And now--"
A sharp pain woke deep inside his head, and for a heartbeat he thought he was falling forward, the world tipping on its side and framed in darkness.
He didn't feel the concrete, but he sensed he was on it and realized with a curious resignation that he'd been shot, that he wouldn't have to worry about forgiveness or about them killing Victoria or about a career or about anything else except what lay out there, waiting for him. . . .
11
HANSEN had braced himself for death. He'd always imagined that if he were captured, he would use his last breath to curse his enemy and never, ever be broken. It was one of those grand dramatic moments in his mind's eye, brought fully to life by his inflated ego and his arrogance.
And, yes, at that second when he knew Sergei would not change his mind, that his buddy from the CIA would not only kill him but record the act for his bosses, Hansen had fulfilled that promise and taken the starring role in the climax of his life. He had cursed at Sergei, yes, but his thoughts had not focused with rage on what was happening. He could only ask two questions: Was it going to hurt? And was there something more beyond this life?
The questions hung before him even as he faced the ugly truth that his own runner had been blackmailed into turning against him, and that his death wasn't going to be glorious or noble or memorable . . . just pathetic.
Then came another improbable turn of events as Sergei himself was taken out by a shooter so stealthy that Hansen had wondered if the shot had come from some higher power. His father would attribute the miracle to the "visitors" who'd always been here among us. No, a little green man or a "gray" had not saved Hansen. The bullet and the blood had been real, and while the shooter was seemingly incorporeal and godlike, those facts remained.
Hansen did a quick search of the hangar but came up empty. His savior must've had a very good reason for concealing his identity, and that was already driving him mad with curiosity. As he frantically gathered up his gear, his neck felt warm, and he swung around and screamed again, "Who are you?"
His voice echoed off the metal walls.
It occurred to him only then--and he would later attribute the oversight to the pummeling he'd received from Rugar--that he hadn't checked outside to be fully aware of his current situation. He rushed to the front door, eased it open, and peered out.
He saw the cars, and then . . . there was Bratus's body lying supine and draped in snow.
Hansen ducked back inside and glanced at Sergei, whose head was turned to one side, his eyes as vacant as a mannequin's. Swallowing back the bile creeping up his throat, Hansen rifled through his old friend's pockets and found Sergei's satellite phone, but, of course, it was password protected. He pocketed it anyway. He removed Sergei's OPSAT, pressed the dead man's thumb to the screen, and saw that it was still being jammed like his own. He then went to Rugar and took the fat man's wallet and smart phone. Curiously, when he opened the Russian's phone and tried to pull up numbers, the address book and call logs had been erased.
Outside, a car engine sputtered, and Hansen darted to the door, cracked it open, and watched as Bratus's sedan took off, the tires spinning out and kicking up rooster tails of snow.
Hansen thought of his SC pistol, but he knew by the time he loaded another V-TRAC round, the driver would already be gone. He whirled back toward the bodies, to
Sergei. Time to go.
AMES was still crouched along the tree line, shuddering with indecision as he stared through his binoculars. From his angle, he'd been unable to see who'd climbed behind the wheel of Bratus's car. With a start, he burst from his position and ran through the snow, back toward Sergei's car. He jumped in, turned the key, and nothing. Not a sound.
He popped the hood, climbed out, and saw that the battery cables, the spark plug wires, and a half dozen other hoses had been cut. He'd been careful to lock all the car doors. The saboteur was a chillingly efficient professional. Ames wasn't going anywhere . . . but the man in Bratus's car sure as hell was on his way.
Ames rushed back through the woods. Other than the fuel truck, there was one car left at the airport: Murdoch's. Never mind that it was loaded with murdered Chinese pilots and crewmen, a dead Russian chauffeur, and that its driver's-side window had been shot out; it was still the best ride in town.
Still wearing his balaclava, he was about to sprint toward the airport when he spotted a side door on the hangar swinging open. He dropped down, lifted his binoculars, and zoomed in to full power. It was Hansen, who ran to Murdoch's car, stuck his head inside through the shattered window, then returned to the hangar.
HANSEN had thrown Sergei's body over his shoulder and was ready to get going in Murdoch's car. That the keys were still in the ignition was the night's second miracle--if anyone was keeping score. Still, he'd glanced longingly at the chopper, which could whisk him out of there in mere seconds.
While Hansen had his fixed-wing pilot's license, he'd not yet added the helicopter category and class to his certificate--which at the moment was just Murphy's Law kneeing him in the groin.
He set down Sergei near the car and, wearing his gloves, began dragging the bodies of the Chinese guys out onto the tarmac. Next was Murdoch's driver, who'd bled all over the front seat.
Hansen gritted his teeth as he slid the man out; then he opened the back door, lifted Sergei, and set him down on the seat. He'd wrapped Sergei's head in an oily rag so he wouldn't have to see the gaping wound.
He was about to hop into the front seat when something thudded on one of the hangar's tall main doors. He saw it there, in the snow . . . his spy plane. It had been forced down, either by the wind or by Grim, who might've somehow regained control of it. At any rate, the little COM-BAT was there and Hansen ran over and fetched it, then returned to the car. The only other loose end was the dart that Rugar must have pulled from his neck, and Hansen had not seen it inside the hangar.
Leaving piles of bodies in his wake--the antithesis of what a Splinter Cell ought to be doing--he took off.
In the final analysis, the mission was a colossal failure. Sure, he had confirmed that Kovac was linked to Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao, but now with all of them dead and a massacre at the airport, the people tied to them would sever those gossamers and shrink back into hiding. Whatever they'd been doing, whatever their deal was, might never be known . . . unless whoever had stolen Bratus's car was working for the NSA or another intelligence organization that would tip off Grim. But why would that operative's identity and operation be kept secret from Hansen? Had he been tailed and watched? Was all of this part of some elaborate test?
All he could do was shake his head and try to control his breathing. He caught a glance of himself in the rearview mirror and wished he hadn't. His eye had become a plum, and he kept tonguing his loosened molar. Oh, sure, he'd be keeping a low profile now--the guy who looked as if he'd just come from a barroom brawl. He needed to get in touch with Grim. He needed an escape plan. With his OPSAT still jammed, he couldn't even transmit the code word "Skyfall" to tell her he was in escape-and-evasion mode. So here he was, driving through a blinding snowstorm with the body of his friend in the backseat. This was what he had wanted, what he had studied so hard for; here it all was, the glory and the excitement and the unending challenge of becoming one of the world's most elite field operatives.
His good eye welled with tears. And just as he was about to rage aloud, his OPSAT beeped.
< < SIGNAL REESTABLISHED > >
A slight crackle came through his subdermal, and then . . . "Ben, it's me. Are you there?"
"Here, Grim."
"You must be out of range of the jammer now."
"I guess so."
"Are you all right?"
"Sergei's dead. . . . Everyone's dead. Something happened. Bratus shot everyone. Then someone got to him."
"We know. Just glad you're all right. You did well, Ben. You got us what we need."
"If you say so. I need to get the hell out of here."
"Just hang in there. We'll help get you and Sergei's body out of the country. All we need right now is for you to stay on the road and get back to Vladivostok. I'll set up a rendezvous point for you."
"Roger that. Someone took off in Bratus's car."
"We know. We're tracking him now."
"There's an Anvil case in that car. I don't know what's inside. Zhao and Murdoch are in there, too."
"All right. You just concentrate on the road. That weather looks horrible."
"You saw the car leave?"
"We did."
"Even with this weather?"
"Ben, our birds in the sky are a lot more powerful than you know. Trust me."
But he didn't. She knew a hell of a lot more than she was telling him, but he was too intimidated to call her on it. He wanted to tell her about the phantom shooter, but he doubted she'd be surprised. Maybe she'd assigned someone to babysit him, someone who had driven off in that car, which was why all she cared about was getting him home with Sergei's body, tying up one final loose end. Maybe she'd known Sergei was a traitor all along.
Well, Anna Grimsdottir wasn't so sexy anymore. She was cool and cunning and made him feel insignificant, a pawn in her much larger game. But what had he expected? And now he knew firsthand why most operatives guard their emotions. To do otherwise would get you killed. There was only the immediacy of the mission, the task at hand, and your loyalty to your country. To think you were any more important than that was kidding yourself. He glanced back at Sergei and sighed in grief.
With the wipers thumping fast across the windshield, Hansen now leaned toward the wheel and squinted through the chutes of falling snow. He'd slipped on his trifocals, but even with night vision his visibility was down to just a few meters, and the snow kept on coming.
As he neared the petrol station, he slowed to get the tag number from a car parked under the awning; then he drove on.
AMES figured he'd pick his way into the fuel truck and drive it back to the petrol station, where he'd switch to his rental car. As he got to work on the truck's door, he began to craft the elaborate lie he would feed to Kovac like a T-bone with all the trimmings. But once news of the massacre reached Kovac's desk, Ames had better be well into a mission for Third Echelon or far away from the man. He could already hear himself saying, "But it's not my fault. Either Third Echelon was on to us or someone else was. Maybe Zhao. Maybe Bratus. Maybe even that arrogant bastard Murdoch."
Wincing over these thoughts, Ames finally got the door open, but it took him nearly ten more minutes before he got the truck started. Oh, he was a hell of a lot better with a sniper's rifle, that was for sure, and the delay was pretty damned embarrassing, but only he would know about it. He threw the old heap in gear and lumbered through nearly a foot of snow that had fallen since they'd arrived.
With one broken wiper blade, he headed out to the petrol station, where he found that the locks on his rental car had also been picked, the wires cut. He raged aloud and got back in the truck.
He drove for about fifteen minutes before he realized that the fuel truck he was driving was about to run out of fuel. The truck sputtered to a halt halfway back to Vladivostok. Ames sat there and finally, reluctantly, got on his satellite phone and called the NSA for help.
12
VLADIVOSTOK, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
HANSEN was met at the rental car
agency by a scholarly looking, leather-faced man who introduced himself as Fedosky. He took possession of the car and Sergei's body; then another man half Fedosky's age pulled up in a black Mercedes.
"Get in."
"Where am I going?" Hansen asked in Russian.
The young punker with a pierced nose raked his fingers through his spiked hair and answered, "The airport. Now shut up. No more questions."
Hansen climbed into the front seat, and the punk floored it. The international airport was about an hour's drive from the city, and the punk navigated through the snowstorm, scowling in silence. While Hansen sat there, knowing he'd probably have to wait till morning to fly out, the mission returned in vivid detail. He even flinched as Rugar's fist came down. The Blu-ray player in his head was caught in a loop, and shutting his eyes only made things worse.
Grim would want to know what happened after Hansen was taken inside the hangar. She would want to know how he'd escaped. He would either reveal the presence of the phantom shooter or not. If Grim already knew about the shooter and he failed to say anything, she'd know he was holding out.
But if she was ignorant in that regard, he could construct the story of his escape. Omitting details to further his career was not a morally sound choice, but maybe there was a way to avoid lying. He realized he would have to feel out Grim, learn exactly how much she knew, before he shared the details of his interrogation by Rugar. Perhaps he could get Grim to admit that another field operative had been assigned to the mission, that she hadn't really taken a chance on him, and then he could be honest with her.
Or . . . he could be entirely wrong about all of it. The shooter could be someone completely unexpected, a wildcard from another agency, who'd done Hansen a favor while still accomplishing his own mission to secure whatever was inside that Anvil case. If that was what had really happened, then Hansen was staring at the same fork in the road: Tell Grim he'd been saved . . . or tell her he'd saved himself.