Текст книги "Endgame (2009)"

HANSENand Sergei had drilled small holes in the wall and set up a pair of flexicams with views of Murdoch's room from the empty one next door, where they sat in darkness. The angles from the flexicams were low, the light dim, but between those snakelike spy cameras and a pair of tiny microphones they had introduced through the electrical outlets, they had established a rudimentary but effective surveillance of the man's room. They had gained access to the other suite via a sophisticated key card with microprocessor, which not only bypassed the electronic encoding system but also remained hidden from the hotel's staff. Pretty standard equipment as Third Echelon toys went.

For most of the day, Murdoch remained there, sleeping off his jet lag. Hansen and Sergei spent long hours just listening to the man snore and taking turns napping themselves. At one point, around two in the afternoon, Sergei began whispering to himself, and Hansen interrupted him. "Who are you talking to?"

"Anna 'the bitch' Grimsdottir."

"Sergei–"

"I'm telling her what I should've told her."

"If you hate it that much–"

"I'll be all right. I just thought it would be easier. But seeing you here, knowing you got it . . . and I . . ."

Hansen reached out and put a consoling hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm your friend."

AROUNDfive, Murdoch rose and took a shower. On the other side of the wall, Hansen and Sergei continued watching their four-inch monitors. Meanwhile, Sergei had been running a program to keep tabs on the hotel's registration system. The program would alert him should the suite they were occupying be booked.

Mr. Michael Murdoch was in good shape for a man who'd spent half a lifetime dining in only the finest restaurants. He obviously made time for the gym, the tennis court, or long weekends of golf, and Hansen immediately hated him, not only for being rich, but for having the abs of a college athlete. Murdoch dressed, picked up his cell phone, and dialed a number. He spoke quickly in Russian: "I'm here. Going to have dinner. I'll be on time this evening. See you then."

Now it was Hansen's turn to verify some data. He'd already pressed his thumb to his OPSAT's touch screen, activated the device, and established an encrypted link with Third Echelon. After a pause, the screen displayed data on Murdoch's outgoing call number and location: KORFOVKA–LATITUDE 43.8833 / LONGITUDE 131.3000 / ALTITUDE (FEET) 728. The phone, however, was registered to Beijing High Mountain Exports. No discernable owner, just the company name, a company Hansen suspected would turn out to be a shell. So Murdoch had just spoken in Russian to a man using a Chinese company's phone.

"Bratus and Zhao are already up there," Hansen told Sergei.

"But we don't know exactly where, because they don't meet in the same place twice. Same town, yes, but different locations every time. That, we've already confirmed," Sergei explained.

"Well, it's not a very big town. What's Murdoch using to get up there?"

"If he hasn't changed his routine, it'll be a rental car with a driver."

"We'll tag it," said Hansen.

"That's your job."

"So we're done here. Why don't you get cleaned up yourself? I'll keep an eye on our buddy from Texas."

"Whatever you say, Boss."

Hansen rose quietly to his feet.

ALLENAmes sat in the Gavan Hotel's main lobby. He had not shaved in a week and was wearing thick nonprescription glasses and a latex stomach apparatus that added fifty pounds to his girth. He had also donned a woolen cap and heavy coat, and to any observer was simply another fat tourist or business traveler engrossed in his smart phone. Were you standing over his shoulder, though, you'd frown at the images displayed on his phone's screen, images from the hotel restaurant, hallways, and main lobby, courtesy of Ames's expertly planted microcameras.

He saw that Murdoch had just entered the restaurant, and then he perked up even more when he spotted Hansen doing likewise. But where was Luchenko? Still upstairs? He thumbed back to the image from the hallway outside Murdoch's room and spotted Luchenko walking forward.

Ames had a question to answer . . . and that question was when. When should he make his move? He could not allow Hansen to follow Murdoch out to Korfovka. The meeting must take place without Third Echelon's prying eyes and ears. Moreover, any hint of mistrust on the Americans' part would ruin the entire deal. Those orders had come down to Ames directly from his true superior, NSA Deputy Director Nicholas Andrew Kovac. Ames was a Splinter Cell, all right, but in the end he did not answer to Grim, and his true mission was to provide constant surveillance of Third Echelon's operations for the deputy director himself. That Kovac did not trust one of his own subagencies was unremarkable; that he had gone to the extent of planting a mole within Third Echelon itself was a bold move, one that Ames fully appreciated, especially since he had the honor of being that man.

Grim thought Ames was on a weeklong vacation, and Kovac had even borrowed a low-level analyst to pose as Ames and take that very vacation down on the island of St. Barts in the French West Indies. So while some computer schmuck got to frolic on the topless beaches, Ames got the glory job of going to the miserably cold and depressing Russian Federation.

But this was how you made a name for yourself. When Ames was a cop, he'd nearly been recruited for internal affairs. He'd seen so much corruption that he was losing track of right and wrong, but he couldn't bring himself to become "one of the rats," even though he'd wanted to take down the men who tarnished the badge. Now he was getting his chance to help keep Third Echelon on the straight and narrow, especially after what had happened with Fisher. Who could blame the deputy director? Grim's more aggressive management style, coupled with a group of eager new recruits, was, in the deputy director's words, "a serious threat to the stability and credibility of this institution."

Now, the trick was to ruin Hansen's operation without ever revealing that Ames had been there. That was the key. Hansen could never know that Ames was behind his failure. The cocky young punk thought he was on his first mission alone, thought he was going to really prove himself to the Grim Reaper. Not on Ames's watch. No, sir.

But when to strike? Ames had an anesthetic dart pistol in his hip pocket, ready for use. He didn't want to kill Hansen, only incapacitate him, but Kovac had made it clear: Ben Hansen was expendable, as was Sergei Luchenko. The meeting's security took precedence over all other concerns.

Ames waited another thirty minutes in the lobby. Hansen sat alone in the restaurant, eating a meal. Murdoch, too, sat alone, finishing up dinner. Murdoch paid his bill and stood. Hansen summoned his own waiter. Ames took a deep breath.

"Excuse me, sir?" said a voice at his shoulder.

With a start, Ames shoved his smart phone into his pocket and whirled back to face a skinny man, about forty, with a birdlike face and narrow eyes. "Yes?" Ames answered in Russian.

"I don't mean to be rude, but I've been watching you now for a while. Are you a guest here at the hotel?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. Who are you?"

"I am Boris Svetlanoff, hotel security." The man offered his hand, and Ames tentatively took it. "Would you mind coming with me?"

Ames hustled to his feet and spotted Murdoch coming into the lobby. Ames's attention was now riveted on the man.

"Sir, I said: Would you mind coming with me?"

"What?"

The security man shifted in front of Ames, blocking his view of Murdoch–just as Hansen came shifting up behind the businessman.

"Sir, I must insist," grunted Svetlanoff.

Ames snorted. "I'm not going with you."

"We just want to ask a few questions. Can you show me your key card?"

Ames tried to step aside and head after Hansen and Murdoch, but once more the security man cut him off. "Sir, you will not leave without talking to us first."

"Oh, really?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but you willcome with me." The man slid open his coat to reveal a pistol tucked into a shoulder harness. "I don't want to embarrass you."

At that moment Luchenko appeared in the lobby, and for a few seconds Ames locked gazes with him.

Do as you've been told, Sergei, and you will be rewarded. . . .

Then, when Ames turned back, a second man was standing beside Svetlanoff. This guy was six feet five, three hundred pounds, and he could have auditioned for a part in one of the old Rockymovies. He smiled at Ames, then turned to his partner. "What do we have here, Boris? Another pedophile? A voyeur? What do we have?"

Ames began swearing to himself. He was going to lose them . . . for now.

WHILEMurdoch waited outside the hotel lobby for his car and driver to arrive, Hansen strolled down the sidewalk; then he leapt over a low-lying concrete wall, of sorts, that ran parallel to Krygina Street. The wall was just a meter tall, and covered in ice, but it would do. There had once been a wrought-iron fence attached to the top, but the fence had long since been torn down, and its rusting metal supports rose like humps along the spine of stone. Hansen lay behind the wall, drawing his SC pistol and loading up a very particular shell.

His OPSAT read 6:28 P.M. local time. His pulse drummed. He shivered. And then a voice buzzed in his subdermal: "He's getting in now. Black Mercedes. Very nice. Coming your way." Sergei had come through.

Hansen waited, and then there it was, the black Mercedes in question, rolling down the street. In the steadily growing darkness, Hansen rolled up onto the wall, bracing himself with his elbows. He held his breath, thought of the wind speed, adjusted his aim . . . and fired at the car.

His round struck the lower right bumper, and he doubted the occupants had noticed anything more than what seemed like a tire dropping into a little pothole–and the streets were full of them.

The round contained one of the world's smallest and most effective GPS tracking devices. The average citizen who wanted to spy on his cheating wife could buy a shoe-box-sized unit and secretly install it in the trunk of his wife's car. That was fine if you had prior access to the vehicle and could find some extra room in one of the wells.

However, Hansen's tracker was infinitely more advanced and resembled a tarry gray lump that might be easily dismissed as bird droppings stuck to the car. The device's flexible GPS chip was just 7 x 6 x 1.28 millimeters and disguised by the goo. A similar model had been incorporated into the Sticky Cam system used by prior operatives, but this newer unit had better stealth capabilities and extended range because it was designed solely as a beacon. He immediately rolled over and checked his OPSAT for a good signal.

Nothing. He cursed, took a deep breath, and then . . .

V-TRAC > GPS ENABLED > ONLINE > SIGNAL: 98.563

As the signal-strength numbers continued to fluctuate but remained well within the green, he pushed up, hurried back onto the sidewalk, and jogged up to the hotel, where Sergei waited.

They headed to the parking garage and reached their car, where Hansen pulled his gear box from the trunk and threw it on the backseat. He took a seat beside the box. Sergei got in on the driver's side and pulled out, giving Murdoch's Mercedes an appreciable lead and putting several cars between them.

Hansen immediately began slipping into his black bodysuit. The now-standard DARPA Mark V tactical operations suit was, in his humble opinion, overkill for this short-duration op, so he'd packed one of the older models equipped with interwoven Kevlar, a thermoregulation system to maintain its temperature, photosensitive threads to detect a sniper's laser, and water bladders to keep him hydrated. The suit's weight, simplicity, and reliability made it a perfect choice. Hansen also tugged on a pair of Blackhawk light assault boots and buckled on his weapons belt. He'd wait to shoulder the backpack, a narrow satchel only 2.5 inches thick. Before leaving the car, he would put on a heavy woolen coat and cap, so that on first glance he could pass for one Korfovka's fifteen hundred residents, his gear fully hidden from view. He placed the butterfly-shaped SVT on his throat, then activated his OPSAT, notifying Grim that he was online. A few seconds later, her voice sounded through his subdermal:

"Excellent work so far, Ben. We see you've tagged Murdoch's car, and we're also monitoring the signal. The road out to Korfovka is, in a word, rural, so keep your distance, lights off."

"No problem, ma'am."

"Grim will do. Or Grim Reaper–as I've heard some of you call me behind my back."

"No, ma'am. I mean Grim. I mean–"

"Ben, listen carefully. I've had my eyes on the satellite feeds. Two cars arrived in Korfovka earlier today. We ID'd Bratus and Zhao, and they've just driven from a small restaurant to a pub on the east end of town. Take a look."

The OPSAT screen switched from the V-TRAC indicator's multicolored map of the territory to a satellite image, zooming in on a row of single-story buildings, outside of which were parked two late-model sedans. The level of detail was, as always, remarkable.

"Bratus and Zhao are inside, waiting for Murdoch," Grim added.

"I need more pictures of the place–the roof, the rear entrance."

"Working on it."

"Anything else I should know?"

"There's a storm front moving in. Should be blizzard conditions in three, four hours, which leads me to believe that this meeting will be short, so you'll need to get in there as quickly as possible."

"Roger that."

"All right, more pictures of the pub coming through now. Saving to your OPSAT. I'll be here if you need me."

"Thanks, Grim."

Hansen tapped Sergei's shoulder and handed him the trifocal goggles that had become synonymous with Splinter Cell operations.

Sergei shook his head. "Don't torture me, Ben. I'm not good enough to wear them. They made that very clear."

"Put 'em on. Lights out." Hansen's tone left zero room for argument.

After groaning in disgust, Sergei accepted the goggles, slipped them over his head, then switched off the car's headlights. Hansen returned to studying the new images glowing on his OPSAT screen.

7

EN ROUTE TO KORFOVKA, RUSSIAN FEDERATION