Текст книги "Endgame (2009)"
Автор книги: David Michaels
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
With the better part of three seconds to react, Hansen jammed on the brakes, and while the Audi's sophisticated antilock braking and traction– control systems immediately kicked in, he still found himself skidding across the road, past the Range Rover, and sliding up onto the right-side shoulder. And then, with a jerk, the car dropped, as though on the rails of a roller coaster, and began to plunge down the embankment.
Hansen corrected course, rolling the wheel and taking the car back up toward the pavement as Gillespie clutched a handle near the passenger's-side window and said, "The son of a bitch was never a good driver!"
As they neared the top of the embankment, Hansen hit the brakes hard, burning rubber to a stop, front tires now up on the pavement, back still on the dirt.
"Now what?" Hansen asked.
"Oh, no," said Gillespie. "This is bad."
AMEShad to blink hard as his headlight picked out the two cars seemingly parked in the middle of the road. Without thinking, he just reacted, cutting the wheel hard, sending the Audi into a flat spin across the slick pavement and careening down into the ditch along the left side.
The car wasn't stopped for three seconds when suddenly Ames found his door being wrenched open. He looked up at Noboru, who reached across Ames, unfastened Ames's seat belt, then ripped him out of the driver's seat. "You idiot!" cried the Japanese man, and this was the first time Ames had ever heard the usually reserved operator raise his voice. "I drive!"
Noboru dumped Ames onto the ground and jumped into the driver's seat.
"Ames, get back in the car!" screamed Valentina.
HANSENgaped at the oncoming vehicle, transfixed, as though watching it all in an IMAX theater.
Fisher had thrown his Range Rover into drive and was now racing toward them. Reflexively, Hansen leaned toward the passenger's side as Fisher's car struck Hansen's door, the safety glass shattering. The Range Rover then turned, now broadsiding them, tires screeching, engine roaring. They were slammed back down into the ditch. Hansen didn't dare hit the accelerator until he could turn the Audi around. The Range Rover glanced off them, climbed back out of the ditch, and continued up the road.
They were on a thirty-degree slope, and when Hansen finally hit the gas, the back tires spun freely in the mud and began to dig deeper.
"We're stuck down here, Ames! Stay on Fisher."
"This is Nathan! I'm driving now!"
"All right, Nathan, stay with him!" Hansen turned to Kim. "You drive."
Before exiting the car, Hansen hit the trunk button. He climbed up, raced back, and removed the large, carpeted trunk mat from the back and slid it in front of one of the back tires. Then he got the two rear seat mats and did likewise with the other tire. Gillespie eased on the gas, and the little trick worked, getting them up past the mud and onto the harder ground. Hansen hopped into the passenger side, crying, "Go!"
NOBORUfollowed Fisher onto a side road that was mostly dirt and gravel. The road grew so narrow that only one vehicle could barely pass through. Freshly torn branches lay in the path, and Valentina reported that the Range Rover was definitely ahead, with Fisher hacking his way forward. It was raining a bit harder now, and Noboru switched on the wipers to clear the drops and still-falling leaves and twigs.
The road began turning radically, zigging hard to the right at forty-five-degree angles, and Noboru hit the brakes and rolled the wheel again. And again.
"If you don't slow down, you'll hit a tree," hollered Ames.
"Like you're an excellent driver?" spat Valentina. "Shut up!"
"Yes, shut up!" added Noboru, feeling his cheeks warm as, far in front of them, Fisher's taillights flickered into view.
Fisher had shifted to avoid a big rock in the road and had plowed into a berm on their left, leaving a huge trench where his SUV had pushed through. The canopy above had lowered, and his truck had sheared off dozens of more branches, which littered the road. Through the stands of trees, Noboru thought he spotted Fisher's taillights. He hadn't bothered to switch them off and go to night vision, but Noboru assumed that momentarily he would–once he realized he was still being followed.
Noboru was still a bit in awe that the tip he had given Ames had actually paid off. Noboru had obviously underestimated Spock's influence in the mercenary world. Yes, he'd thought Spock would be the one man to know something about Fisher, but it'd also been a long shot. Still, according to Ames, Spock had been unable to confirm that it was Fisher, only an American. But that was enough, and here they were, pursuing the man.
There was something, though, that bothered Noboru. Spock, given his position, was not a very forthcoming individual. How had Ames gotten him to talk?
HANSENshould have let Gillespie drive in the first place. She was an ace behind the wheel, cutting corners tightly and catching up quickly to Noboru.
"Where the hell did you learn to drive like this?"
"I don't know. I've always liked fast cars. My first was a '98 'Vette. We added a supercharger and custom cam and really ramped up the rear-wheel horsepower and torque. The dyno numbers were great."
"Okay, that's Chinese. Just watch the road and keep turning like that."
She cut the wheel hard. "Hang on!"
ASNoboru came out of the second of two hairpin turns, he spotted the Range Rover straight ahead, and he took in the scene at once.
Fisher was rolling around a boulder at least as tall as his hood, and as Noboru accelerated even more, the berm to their left suddenly exploded in a shower of mud and shrapnel that blasted against the car.
Reflexively, Noboru cut the wheel. Fisher had cleverly tossed a grenade into the berm to force them into the rock. Noboru appreciated the beauty of that plan, even though he was on the receiving end of it. Thankfully, the tires held on the gravel, and they slipped past the boulder with just a slight, glancing blow and the crunch of fiberglass.
They raced forward, and within a minute, the road suddenly widened into some kind of a logging camp with piles of mulch along one side, piles of cut logs, and clearings made into the deeper stretches off to the north.
The road split into three, with the main one heading directly west and the two others north and east.
Noboru slammed on the brakes.
"Why are you stopping?" hollered Ames.
Noboru ignored him and turned to Valentina. "Which way?"
There were tire tracks all over the clearing, and it was nearly impossible to pick out Fisher's.
Valentina was already scanning with her goggles and told him to take the north road. He jammed down his foot, and they lurched forward as Hansen came thundering up behind them.
"You sure he's heading north?" Hansen asked in the subdermal.
"I'm sure," said Valentina. "Got his exhaust trail."
"Roger that."
Noboru drove farther on, the road growing muddier, as Ames informed them that they had crossed into Germany. They came up and over a rise, and there, ahead, lay a wooden bridge with a gaping hole in its center, a hole large enough to permit a vehicle, a Range Rover, perhaps.
"Aw, hell," said Valentina. "I think he broke through the bridge."
"Ya think?" cried Ames.
And then the incessant blaring of a car horn rose from somewhere down below the shattered planks.
Then the horn went silent.
HANSENeased out onto the bridge and directed his flashlight through the gap, drizzle filtering through the thick yellow beam that found the Range Rover sitting upside down in a ravine about twenty feet below. The door was open. Fisher was gone. Hansen quickly shifted the light around, picking out the banks of the creek below, the water only a foot or so deep, the rocks piled up along the shoreline. To Hansen's left, beyond the bridge, the ravine trailed off into the night. He turned, aimed the light off to his right.
A concrete wall rose alongside the streambed, with more ornate concrete facades on either side of it. In the center lay a rusting steel door. Hansen squinted. On the door was an old white sign with red letters: VERBOTEN. SIEGFRIEDSTELLUNG WESTWALL.
Fisher didn't have time to get out of the ravine,Hansen thought. He must have gone in there.
"We need to get down there!" Hansen ordered.
"Over here!" called Noboru. "I think we can get down here!"
They rushed over to where Noboru picked out a rocky edge of the ravine that would allow them to descend–slowly and carefully–but at least they could get down without breaking out ropes or rappelling gear from the trunk.
Noboru took the lead, and they descended one by one, burning up valuable time.
"Hey, I called up this place on the OPSAT," said Ames. "They called it the Siegfried line. It's a whole bunch of bunkers built by the Germans after World War I. There are thousands of them and tunnels and machine-gun emplacements all up and down it. Goes for, like, four hundred miles."
"Great," Hansen said with a groan. "Another perfect place for him to lose us."
"Not if I have anything to say about it," corrected Valentina, who reached the ground and took off running along the bank toward the door.
Noboru jogged behind her, as did Hansen, who turned back to Ames and Gillespie and said, "Circle around the other side and see if there's another entrance up top."
They nodded and rushed off.
As they neared the door, Hansen motioned to Noboru. "Sorry, buddy. I'm going to post you right here."
Noboru made a face, but he drew his SC pistol and nodded.
Hansen and Valentina reached the door, and Hansen gave it a solid shove with his shoulder. The door seemed to give a little, then bounced back, as though held by something elastic.
"Light," he ordered Valentina.
She moved in with a penlight, and in the gap between the jamb and the door they saw weblike rows of paracord. Fisher had tied shut the door from the inside.
Hansen drew his combat dagger–the one that had belonged to Fisher. He got to work on the cord.
31
THE SIEGFRIED LINE WESTERN GERMANY
HANSENsawed through the first line of paracord and began working on the second.
"It's taking forever," said Valentina.
"Best I can do." The second one gave suddenly, and he began work on the third.
Something pinged hard just inside the door, near the concrete jamb, and Hansen realized with a start that he was taking fire. He pulled back the knife, shuddering as he did so.
"Shots," he said through a gasp.
Her eyes widened. "What did you expect? He's slowing us down even more. Come on."
Hansen took a deep breath–just as another round struck the wall inside.
"That came from a distance," he said, knowing that he would've heard a slight hand clap from inside but hadn't heard anything. "Warning shots."
"Just cut," Valentina urged him.
Hansen thrust his hand back into the gap and began sawing once more. "Kim, you find anything up there?"
"Not yet," she answered in his subdermal. "No other entrances or exits that we can see so far. . . . There could be some farther down the line. Or maybe we went the wrong way. Still, he's got to come out somewhere."
"Roger that."
Hansen cut hard into the last piece of paracord, which suddenly gave, and together he and Valentina shoved open the door.
They flipped down their goggles and switched to night vision. Water seeped down from a large crack in the ceiling, like a varicose vein bubbling with fluid, and, in fact, more water trickled inside from cracks all over the walls and floor, as though the place had become a sponge over time and was slowly being squeezed.
To their left and right lay a central passageway about thirty feet wide and seemingly miles long. Concrete stairwells intersected the passage, assumedly leading up to the old pillboxes and machine-gun emplacements, a few leading downward to who knew where, perhaps living quarters or storage facilities. Between the dust and rank odor of mildew, it was difficult not to cough.
"This place is a trap," whispered Valentina. "If he doesn't get us, a slip or fall will."
"Go infrared," he told her. "I'm willing to bet he's navigating this way. Check it out. You can see the cool air rising up from the weaker parts of the floor . . . those blue plumes. The greenish ones are warmer air."
"I see it. You're pretty smart, cowboy."
"Thanks, cowgirl."
"Don't call me that."
"Ditto."
"Follow me," he said, staying close to the wall and leading her down the main passage.
He picked up Fisher's footprints with the infrared in no time, and they led toward a concrete stanchion with a ladder built inside and leading up into a concrete shaft.
Something metallic pinged and clattered across the floor, followed by a second metal object. Hansen gave a hand signal to Valentina to get down. He zoomed in with the goggles to spot a rusting old bolt on the floor, accompanied by a second one. The bolts' heads were rusty, but their shafts were darker, cleaner, as though they'd been wrenched out of something, the wall probably. They belonged to the ladder and were loosened because Fisher was up there.
As that realization struck, so did something else, thumping into the floor. Hansen threw Valentina another hand signal: Don't move.
He zoomed in . . . and there it was, a Sticky Cam at the bottom of the shaft, panning toward them.
Hansen nodded to Valentina, and they advanced toward the shaft.
Another noise, this time from above, like a wheel turning hard against a rusty axle.
Now Hansen advanced himself, moving ahead of Valentina and ready to reach the shaft and mount the ladder rising up into the darkness.
But then, as he was about to steal a look up, something clanged hard on the floor, struck the upper edge of the shaft, and began rolling toward him.
The device was easily identifiable by its hexagonal end caps and perforated tube with brown and pastel green bands.
Of course the word "grenade" never made it out of Hansen's mouth. He turned away, about to dive out of its path, when the flashbang brought instant hell.
A piercing shrill, at 170 decibels, threatened to shatter his eardrums while eight million candela of stark white light entered the Tridents and forced him to slam shut his eyes as he landed hard on his stomach. At the same time, the concussion struck like a Rolls-Royce jet engine suddenly switched on. He was literally knocked over onto his back.
And then . . . nothing, save for the bang echoing in his ears and the light still flashing behind his closed his eyes.
"Ben, what the–" Her voice came tinny and distant, barely perceptible behind all the ringing.
"Are you all right?" he asked, unable to hear his own voice.
"What happened?"
"Flashbang. Don't try to move or do anything. Just wait a minute."
Hansen opened his eyes, flipped up his goggles. Nope. He couldn't see a damned thing, and his ears were now ringing even more loudly so that, despite the subdermal, he could barely hear Valentina say, "Okay."
GILLESPIEhad led Ames along the top of a cliff where it seemed the bunker line continued onward. They had searched for openings or hatches leading inside but had found only patches of concrete covered over by thick clumps of weeds.
She had paused near what might be a crumpling machine-gunner's nest–it was hard to tell with all the erosion and overgrowth. In the distance she thought she saw something, a figure in silhouette. No, not one. Two.
And then they'd heard the muffled thump of something from deep inside the bunker. A gunshot? Grenade?
"Ben, where are you guys?"
No answer.
"Ben, you there?"
"Hey, check this out," called Ames. "I got a hatch right here. . . ."
NOBORUtensed as he listened to Gillespie trying to call Hansen. He'd heard the dull boom from behind those thick stone walls, too. He decided that if Hansen didn't answer within the next twenty seconds, he'd go into the bunker after them. It wasn't just Hansen he was worried about, of course.
He ticked off another ten seconds, then started toward the bunker door, when a voice came from above. "Nathan!"
Squinting up into the darkness, Noboru could not see the man at first–but he'd recognized that baritone voice.
Horatio.
Even as his heart sank and he lifted his pistol, Gothwhiler's unmistakable British accent came from behind him. "Good boy, Nathan. Don't move."
Noboru froze.
How had they managed to draw so close to him? Well, he'd been a fool, daydreaming about a life with Maya Valentina, about romantic, candlelit dinners and long days at the beach. She'd dulled his senses, softened him, left him vulnerable to much more than her perfume and charm.
And now his old "friends" had exploited his lack of focus and current position. They didn't want to face the rest of the team. They'd been waiting for the perfect opportunity to capture him alone.
And now they had him.
Or not.
After living with them on his back for so long, Noboru had come to the realization that, if push came to shove, he wouldn't be taken alive–and in a way death would be welcome and represent the end of the paranoia, the fear . . . finally . . . forever.
He judged Gothwhiler's distance behind him at three meters. Horatio was now coming down the rocks: distance nine meters and closing.
Gothwhiler no doubt had a gun pointed at Noboru's head, while Horatio kept his pistol up but was more concerned with judging his footing as he descended to the shoulder of the road, near the bridge.
Footfalls grew louder from behind. Closer. Noboru thought of making his move, but Horatio already had his pistol trained on him.
Abruptly, his Trident goggles were ripped off, and then the hard steel muzzle of a pistol made contact with that knobby bone covered by stubble on the back of his head.
"Just toss your weapon into the mud right there," said Gothwhiler, his voice squeaking like a mouse's. "Right there." He relieved Noboru of his rifle, sliding the V-TRAC sling easily off his shoulder.
"I did a job for you," Noboru said, his voice coming in a hiss. "I deserved to be paid. You ripped me off. I took back what was mine. There is nothing left between us. I told you that. I told you. . . ."
Horatio started forward. His pistol was a semiautomatic, to be sure, and he raised it to Noboru's belly.
"Nathan, it ends tonight. You've made a fool out of us. And now we'll send a message that no one can do that. Not ever. Now . . . hands behind your head! Kneel!"
Noboru tensed. "I've been your life's work, huh? What're you going to do without me? Who're you going to chase?"
"You haven't called your parents recently, have you?" said Gothwhiler.
Noboru began to lose his breath. "We had an agreement from the very beginning about them."
"You gave them the money. They spent it. They paid the price."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not." Horatio raised his gun and pointed it at Noboru's forehead.
Noboru took a deep breath. He was going to spring up and attack Horatio, taking his chances–knowing full well he would probably be shot–but perhaps the round would not kill instantly the way a head shot would. He would not be executed. He would fight. And death would, as he'd promised himself, bring relief.
"Pathetic boy," Gothwhiler sang. "My grandfather was shooting you people out of trees during World War II."
Noboru was about to reach out when a short clap from nearby echoed down into the ravine.
An odd look came over Horatio's face. Then he just dropped to the ground.
Noboru craned his head in time to see Gothwhiler take a round two inches behind his temple. The gaunt man's head wrenched back as he toppled to the ground and lay there, immobile, blood pouring from his wound.
The two perfectly executed shots, from a remarkable sniper, left Noboru breathless. Absolutely breathless.
Yet even through the shock, he still recognized the sound of an SC– 20 rifle and its 5.56mm ammo. There was no mistaking it. Someone on the team had just saved his life.
Or someone who just happened to have an SC-20 rifle.
Noboru stared off to his right, narrowing his eyes toward the shadows running along the cliff. He focused on a fallen log overlooking the lip of the ravine. That had to be the sniper's nest. Slowly, he lowered his hands from behind his head and pulled himself up into a crouch, still wary as he shifted right toward where he had tossed his pistol.
A round punched into the mud not six inches from his hand.
He lifted both palms and slowly stood.
It was Fisher. Had to be.
All Noboru could do was shrug. The man could easily kill him now.
Noboru just stood there, waiting for some sign or indication that it was okay for him to move. None came. Then he spotted movement near the bridge, just twenty feet from it, and turned his head for a better look.
A voice rang out. "No. Face the cars."
Definitely Fisher.
Noboru complied. "Was that you?"
"Was that me, what?"
Noboru jerked his head toward Horatio and Gothwhiler. "Them."
"I needed their car. Something told me they weren't cooperative types."
Noboru swallowed. Fisher had no idea what he had just done, no idea of the immeasurable burden that had just been lifted from Noboru's shoulders, and all he could manage at the moment was a simple "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," Fisher said curtly.
Noboru opened his mouth, about to ask a half dozen questions about Fisher's mission, about what the hell was really going on, when he felt the Cottonball make contact with his right shoulder, and the world went dark.
32
VALENTINAhad been farther away from the flash-bang grenade when it went off, so she'd been able to recover more quickly than Hansen and now helped him back outside, through the main bunker door. He still couldn't see much, and she had a few sparklers winking in her peripheral vision.
Having heard a pair of gunshots from outside, Ames and Gillespie had taken up sniper positions and had reported frantically that they thought Noboru had been killed. He was on the ground and not answering their calls.
As her heart raced and eyes began to ache, Valentina guided Hansen out the door and told him to sit down there, under cover. Noboru was up near the cars, and she'd be right back. He barely heard her, saying his ears were ringing loudly, and she understood, the explosion still echoing in her head.
With her mind screaming that this kind and gentle man might be dead, she climbed up to the road and knelt before him. Her trembling hand touched his neck, and she searched for a pulse. Nothing . . . Wait, there it is.She sighed and gasped, and for a moment a wave of dizziness passed through her, or, rather, a wave of relief so strong that she thought she might pass out. She checked him for a gunshot wound. Nothing visible.
The other two men, a heavyset bald guy with horrible burn scars and a scrawny man with hair dyed jet-black, lay on the ground in pools of blood. She reported her findings to the rest of the team, and Hansen told Ames and Gillespie to rally at his position and help him get up there.
Noboru began to stir, and Valentina ran fingers down his cheek. That felt a little too good. She shivered. "Nathan, it's Maya. Can you hear me?"
His eyes flickered open, and then he seemed to focus on her. Finally, he smiled weakly, and she allowed herself to breathe easier.
"Are you shot? I don't see any wounds," she said. "What happened?"
He took a moment to consider, then motioned for her to help him sit up. She did, and he rubbed the back of his head and said, "Just a Cottonball."
"Was it Fisher?"
He nodded.
"Who're these guys?"
Before he could answer, Ames, Gillespie, and Hansen came up and over the hill, onto the shoulder.
"Aw, hell, look at that," Ames cried, pointing at their cars. Only then did Valentina notice that the rear tires on both of their Audis were flat.
"Each car's got a spare," said Gillespie. So we'll still have a functional ride, once we swap out the tires."
"Time enough for Fisher to get a big lead on us."
"Hey, who're these guys?" asked Ames, staring at the two bodies.
"Maybe they were the guys tailing us back in France," said Valentina.
Hansen squinted at the men. "I'm seeing a little better now. Nathan, what the hell happened?"
NOBORUhad to decide how he'd answer, and for a few breaths he sat there, letting Hansen's question hang as all eyes turned on him. Perhaps it was the rush of relief that overwhelmed him, he wasn't sure, but he decided right then and there to tell them everything. The truth. Now that they were dead, the pressure was gone, and he should also relieve himself of the burden of carrying around the secrets of his past.
So he let it all out: the job with Gothos, the mission, his claiming what they owed him, the night they chased him. . . .
And when he was finished, he added, "I spoke to Fisher. He saved my life. We can't kill him. We have to take him alive."
Ames crossed in front of Noboru and got in his face. "We'll take him any way we can–and if you can't handle that, then maybe we need to talk to Grim and get you sent back home, Brucie. Got it?"
Noboru grabbed Ames by the neck and held him. He pulled the short man down, toward him, actually forcing Ames to kneel. "I want you to stop talking. Forever . . ."
"Nathan, let him go," ordered Hansen.
Noboru shoved Ames back so hard that the short man fell onto his rump. He cursed at Noboru and rubbed his sore neck.
"All right. Everybody up. We've got some tires to change out," said Hansen, still blinking hard. "I'll give Moreau a call and see if we can get help with these bodies. And, Nathan. I respect the fact that you only took back what was yours, but at what price? You endangered the team to keep your secret."
Noboru took in a long breath and nodded. "I'm sorry."
BEST WESTERN HOTEL INTERNATIONAL LUXEMBOURG
MOREAUordered them back to the Best Western in Luxembourg, and Hansen reluctantly complied. There was no reason to go on a blind chase across Germany when the operations manager already knew Fisher's destination. Moreau was sending a couple of men to pick up the other Audi. Once the team returned to the hotel, the bodies of Gothwhiler and Horatio would be disposed of: bundled in the remaining Audi's trunk.
Hansen respected Noboru for coming clean regarding those men and his relationship to them. That had taken a lot of courage for the young operator to admit, and Hansen suspected that the others felt likewise. Noboru had been put in a terrible position, but he had also placed the team in danger, and for that Hansen was still upset. Nevertheless, the lines between good guy and bad guy grew less distinct the longer you remained a spy, and Sam Fisher would certainly attest to that.
Late the next morning Moreau asked Hansen to come up to his room and patch into the Trinity System for a conversation directly with Grim.
Masking his awe over the virtual-reality space, Hansen stared across the sky above the hotel until he saw a point of light that suddenly blossomed into the image of his boss.
"Hello, Ben."
"Can I say that this has been a cluster–"
"Let me stop you right there," she said, raising her palm. "I understand your frustration. But all I need from you right now is compliance. What's at stake here is . . . everything."
"I am prepared to be enlightened . . . about everything."
"How did you know Fisher would be in Vianden?"
He grinned. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to–"
"I'm too tired for that crap, Ben."
"All right, we played a hunch." He told her about Noboru's contact, Karlheinz van der Putten, a.k.a. Spock, and how Ames had made a few calls and had helped narrow down Fisher's location. The rest was police-scanner monitoring and a healthy dose of luck.
"Can you just sit tight for me now? I'll need to get you back on the road, but for now, just do as I ask."
"Grim, I can't promise that anymore. You're making it difficult. I really don't know who to trust. And we didn't come over here on vacation."
"If you can't trust me, then walk away now."
"You know I won't do that, but you need to throw me a bone. I need something more here."
"Ben, I can't. And if you insist upon moving without authorization, I'll pull you out of there. All of you."
"Really?"
"Believe it."
"That's your choice. Here's what I'm thinking: We're going to get Fisher. My plan is to take him alive. And if you won't, then he's going to tell us everything. And, you know what? I think he will, because I have a feeling you're using him the same way you're using us. I think this is all about you saving your ass, and we do the dirty work. I've already put a lot into this job. I'm not going to screw it up over one administrator."
"Ben, you'll drive yourself mad if you keep trying to read into all of this. Just do as I ask."
Hansen shrugged. "Yeah. Whatever."
THATevening Ames stole an opportunity to contact Stingray. Ames had a request for Kovac: He wanted Karlheinz van der Putten terminated, just in case Hansen decided to follow up with the man, who would say, "No, I never spoke to anyone about a special-forces operator in Vianden."
No loose ends.
Ames told Stingray that he wanted van der Putten's murder to look like a revenge killing. He wanted Spock's ears chopped off. Stingray said he would take care of it. And then Stingray passed on another bit of news. It seemed Kovac had his own set of feelers reaching out for signs of Sam Fisher, and he'd just received an excellent lead.
Fisher would be in Hammerstein, Germany, and would be having a meeting with Hans Hoffman, a major player in the Bundesnachrichtendienst (BND), Germany's Federal Intelligence Service. Fisher was supposed to meet Hoffman at 2:00 P.M. but the exact location of the meeting was still unknown. Kovac still wanted Fisher dead, and Ames still had his orders.
Ames returned to the hotel room and decided that he would take advantage of an already interesting situation.
Once the team had gathered in Hansen's room, Ames gauged his words very carefully. "I just got off the phone with Spock. He's got an update on Fisher's whereabouts." Ames filled them in on what he knew, but he left out the time and location of the meeting.
"Kim, pull up everything you can on Hans Hoffman," said Hansen.
"I can't, unless you want Grim to know about it."
"Use the hotel's Internet access, and I'll get you into the Gothos database," said Noboru. "I'll bet they've got plenty of info on this guy."
