Endgame sc-6 Read online

  Endgame

  ( Splinter Cell - 6 )

  Tom Clancy

  David Michaels

  The National Security Agency's top-secret initiative to protect the United States from potential threats has been dubbed the Third Echelon. It deploys a lone field operative. He is sharp, nearly invisible, and deadly. And he has the right to spy, steal, destroy, and assassinate to protect American freedoms.

  His name is Sam Fisher. He is a Splinter Cell® Third Echelon.

  Operative Fisher knows that several disastrous missions have depleted the ranks of the Splinter Cells. What he doesn’t know is that a stunning piece of evidence has been uncovered that points to the mole who sold out his government…

  Tom Clancy, David Michaels

  Endgame

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author gratefully acknowledges the support and cooperation of the following individuals:

  Grant Blackwood, for his collaboration, creativity, and great sense of humor.

  Vietnam veteran and retired chief warrant officer James Ide, for his considerable technical experience, research assistance, and unceasing passion.

  Jackie Fiest, for her proofreading, enthusiasm, and technical knowledge of the Splinter Cell universe.

  Tom Colgan, for his continued support and encouragement as editor of these books.

  Sam Strachman, for his trust and belief in the Splinter Cell book franchise and caretaking of its ideas.

  Tom Clancy, for creating a body of work that continues to inspire readers and writers everywhere.

  PROLOGUE

  KORFOVKA, RUSSIAN FEDERATION NEAR THE CHINESE BORDER EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO

  The first blow loosened one of Ben Hansen’s molars and sent his head wrenching to one side.

  Captured… killed…

  He never saw the second blow, only felt Rugar’s pointed knuckles drive into his left eye.

  Captured… killed…

  Hansen’s head whipped back, then lolled forward as warm blood spilled down his chin.

  Now Rugar’s screams grew incomprehensible, like panes of glass shattering across the hangar’s concrete floor.

  Make no mistake. If you’re captured, you will be killed.

  Hansen tugged at the plastic flex-cuffs cutting into his wrists and binding him to the chair. He finally mustered the energy to face Rugar, who loomed there, a neckless, four-hundred-pound, vodka-soaked beast crowned by an old Soviet Army ushanka two sizes too small for his broad head. He was about fifty, twice Hansen’s age, and hardly agile, but at the moment that hardly mattered.

  Rugar opened his mouth, exposing a jagged fence of yellowed teeth. He shouted and more glass shattered, accompanied by the rattling of two enormous steel doors that had been rolled shut against the wind.

  Hansen shivered. It was below freezing now, and their breaths hung heavy in the air. At least the dizziness from the anesthetic was beginning to wear off. He tried to blink, but his left eye did not respond; it was swelling shut.

  And then — a flash from Rugar’s hand.

  Captured… killed…

  The fat man had confiscated Hansen’s knife.

  But that wasn’t just any knife — it was a Fairbairn Sykes World War II-era commando dagger that had once belonged to the elusive Sam Fisher, a Splinter Cell few people knew but whose exploits were legendary among them.

  Rugar leaned over and held the blade before Hansen’s face. He spoke more slowly, and the words, though still Russian, finally made sense: “We know why you’ve come. Now, if you tell me what I need to know, you will live.”

  Hansen took a deep breath. “You won’t break me.”

  For a moment Rugar just stood there, his cheeks swelling like melons as he labored for his next breath. Suddenly he smiled, his rank breath coming hard in Hansen’s face. “It’s going to be a long night for both of us.”

  Rugar’s left ear was pierced, and the gold hoop hanging there caught the overhead lights at such an angle that for a moment all Hansen noticed were those flashes of gold. He realized only after the blood spattered onto his face that Rugar had been shot in the head, the round coming from a suppressed weapon somewhere behind them.

  All four hundred pounds of the fat man collapsed onto Hansen, snapping off the chair’s back legs as the knife went skittering across the floor. Hansen now bore the Russian’s full weight across his chest, and he wasn’t sure which would kill him first: suffocation or the sickly sweet stench emanating from Rugar’s armpits.

  With a groan, he shoved himself against the fat man’s body and began worming his way out, gasping, grimacing, and a heartbeat away from retching.

  He rolled onto his side and squinted across the hangar, toward the pair of helicopters and the shadows along the perimeter wall and mechanics’ stations.

  And then he appeared, Sergei Luchenko, Hansen’s runner. The gaunt-faced man was still wearing his long coat and gripping his pistol with its large suppressor. An unlit cigarette dangled from his thin lips.

  Hansen sighed deeply. “What happened? Why didn’t you answer my calls?” He groaned over the question. “Strike that. I’m just glad you’re here.”

  Sergei walked up to Hansen, withdrew a lighter from his breast pocket, and lit his cigarette.

  “How about some help?” Hansen struggled against the flex-cuffs.

  “I’m sorry, my friend. They sent me to kill you.”

  “Bad joke.”

  “It’s no joke.”

  Hansen stiffened. “Not you, Sergei.”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  Hansen closed his good eye, then spoke through his teeth. “Then why did you save me?”

  “I didn’t. The kill must be mine. And… I didn’t want you to suffer.”

  “This is not who you are.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sergei drew a compact digital video camera from his pocket and hit the RECORD button. He held it close to Hansen. “You see, he is alive. And now…” Sergei raised his pistol.

  Hansen cursed at the man.

  There would be no life story flashing before Hansen’s eyes; no images of his youth growing up in Fort Stockton, Texas; no scenes from his days at MIT, which he had attended on a full scholarship; no moments from that bar with the director, Anna “Grim” Grimsdóttir, who had recruited him out of the CIA to join Third Echelon and become one of the world’s most effective field operatives — a Splinter Cell. No, there would be nothing as dramatic or cinematic as that — just a hot piece of lead piercing his forehead, fracturing his skull, and burying itself deep in his brain before he had a chance to think about it.

  The gun thumped. Hansen flinched.

  And then… Sergei collapsed sideways onto the concrete, a gaping hole in the back of his head.

  Hansen swore again, this time in relief. He squinted into the shadows at the far end of the hangar. “Uh, thank you?”

  No reply.

  He raised his voice. “Who are you?”

  Again, just the wind…

  He lay there a few seconds more, just breathing, waiting for his savior to show himself.

  One last time. “Who are you?”

  Hansen’s voice trailed off into the howling wind and creaking hangar doors. He lay there for another two minutes.

  No one came.

  Tensing, he wriggled on his side, drawing closer to his knife, which was lying just a meter away. He reached the blade, turned it over in his hand, and began to slowly, painfully, saw into the flex-cuffs.

  When he was free, he stood and collected himself, his face still swelling, the hangar dipping as though floating on rough seas. And then, blinking his good eye to clarity, he lifted his gaze to the rafters, the crossbeams, the pipes, and still… nothing. He turned back to the bodies and
shook his head in pity at Sergei. Then he glowered at the fat man, who even in death would get the last laugh, since disposing of his body would be like manhandling a dead Russian circus bear.

  There was still a lot of work to do, but all the while Hansen couldn’t help but feel the heat of someone’s gaze on his shoulders.

  He shouted again, “Who are you?”

  Only his echo answered.

  1

  HOLMES OFFICE COMPLEX HOUSTON, TEXAS PRESENT DAY

  Maya Valentina saw it in the man’s gaze, which flicked down from her low-cut blouse to her well-tanned legs to her feet jammed into a pair of stilettos. She tossed back her hair, which fell in golden waves across her shoulders, then put an index finger to her lips, as though to nervously bite her nail. Oh, yes, he liked the shy schoolgirl routine, and Valentina could pass for a freshman, too, though she was nearly twenty-eight.

  “Hi, there. You must be Ms. Haspel,” he said, drawing in his sagging gut and probably wishing his thinning hair were two shades darker.

  She reached across the desk and accepted his hairy paw. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Leonard, and thanks for the interview.”

  “Well, as I said, we only have one position to fill, so the competition is fierce. Please have a seat.”

  She settled down and leaned toward his desk, keeping her blue eyes locked on his. “Can I ask a question before we start?”

  “By all means.”

  “Does the company have a sexual-harassment policy?”

  His lip twitched. “Of course.”

  “Well, I’ve had some problems in the past.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, the one guy was married and claimed I was a stalker, which was totally not the case. The other guy kept saying I was making lewd remarks. He even said I flashed my panties, and there’s no way I did that.”

  He hesitated. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I like to get dressed up for work. It doesn’t mean I want to have sex with everyone I see.”

  He cleared his throat. “Of course not. But you should know that we have a dress code. Business casual.”

  Valentina nodded and gazed salaciously at him. “Is what I’m wearing okay?”

  He swallowed before answering.

  * * *

  Hansen was sitting in an SUV parked outside the four-story office building. The complex was comprised of ten equally nondescript buildings: the headquarters for a lengthy list of companies that were, according to an intel report, “assembling stacked layers of silver and nonconducting magnesium fluoride and cutting out nanoscale-sized fishnet patterns to form metamaterials.”

  Grim had explained that metamaterials held the key to developing cloaking devices to render objects invisible to humans. Leonard’s company in particular was developing paint for military vehicles and fabric for military uniforms. This was all quite serious business, which was why Hansen could only shake his head as he listened to Maya and Leonard. What the hell was she doing? All she had to do was get hired.

  Admittedly, she’d hated the tired old plan of playing dress up to ensure Leonard took the bait, so overplaying the role was her way of protesting. She wouldn’t just be the attractive new hire; she was now the quirky sex addict who’d called way too much attention to herself. Hansen was a breath away from reporting her misconduct to Grim, but then he thought better of it and just sat there as Maya told Leonard she was always available for overtime and “after-hours” work. Hansen grimaced.

  * * *

  At 10:05 A.M. Nathan Noboru parked his utility van at the curb outside William Leonard’s seven-thousand-square-foot home. Sprawling front lawns, well-manicured grounds, and tree-lined brick-paved driveways unfurled to a grand entrance shadowed by twenty-foot columns painted in a glossy antique white. This part of southwest Houston was called Sugar Land, and it was sweet indeed: Multimillion-dollar homes were nestled among well-tended golf course greens and tranquil lakes. The senior citizen manning the neighborhood guardhouse had taken a perfunctory glance at Noboru’s forged work orders and immediately waved him through.

  With a sigh, Noboru grabbed his utility belt and started up the driveway. But then he slowed, furtively glanced around, and scratched his crew cut. He gazed out past the lawn toward the neighboring home, another mansion where an old man in a pink shirt and oversized sunglasses stood near his Mercedes, preparing to load a golf bag into his trunk.

  Off to Noboru’s left lay another spectacular three-story château with a tremendous brick facade and five-car garage. Noboru studied the windows, trying to spot the lens of a telescopic camera or other such observation device. Nothing. He continued on, but something wasn’t right.

  Or was that just his paranoia? Again. They weren’t after him anymore. He had a new life now. He needed to believe that.

  Noboru shifted up to the front door, made a call, heard the phone ring inside the house, and then he tapped a series of numbers into his phone and heard the rapid ringtone of the alarm being disarmed. He took out his double-sided lock-pick set and got to work. Three, two, one: The door opened—

  And if the explosions hadn’t started at the back of the mansion, he would’ve already been dead.

  Twin thunderclaps resounded, and the ground literally shook beneath his feet as the door slammed back toward him, knocking him to the ground.

  He rolled over, shot to his feet, and sprinted down the driveway. He might as well have been back in Kao-hsiung, chased through the crowded streets by Horatio and Gothwhiler, the night air humid, the sweat pouring down his face. Several more explosions ripped through the house, and he stole a look over his shoulder as huge windows burst outward, sending showers of glass to the driveway while flames shot through the holes and wagged like dragons’ tongues.

  He reached the van and whirled around. Clouds of black smoke backlit by more roaring flames now devoured the entire mansion, while fiery debris floated down like confetti and got trapped in the thick canopy of leaves and limbs.

  The old man who’d been loading his golf clubs was now backing out of his driveway. He stopped, climbed out of his car, and hurried over while dialing a number on his phone.

  Noboru’s mouth fell open. This was supposed to be a pathetically simple entry to place electronic eyes and ears. In fact, he’d balked over how rudimentary the whole operation was (he was entering through the front door!) and had loathed the fact that Director Grimsdóttir was wasting his talents on such a menial task. He had only been employed by Third Echelon for less than a year, but didn’t his four years with Japan’s Special Operations Group, its own Delta Force, count for anything?

  Apparently not… but what was going on now?

  Were Horatio and Gothwhiler tailing him? Did they known he’d be here? Were they trying to finish the job? If the others learned about them, about Noboru’s real past, he would never be trusted. Grimsdóttir had promised him a new identity, a new life, and utter secrecy.

  A voice crackled in the nickel-sized subdermal embedded in the skin behind his ear; it was the Grim Reaper herself. “Nathan, I’m looking at the satellite feed—”

  “I know! I know!” Noboru ran back to the van and yanked open the door. “Ma’am, you’d better call Hansen!”

  * * *

  Valentina was about to stand and thank Leonard for the interview when the man’s BlackBerry rang.

  “Please, let me take this, but wait,” he said. “I want to introduce you to the rest of my staff.”

  “All right.”

  He shifted away from the desk and headed toward the window.

  Suddenly, Hansen’s voice came through her subdermal. “Maya, get out of there. Now!”

  Even as she gasped, Leonard cried, “What? Oh, my God!” into his phone.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Leonard, I need to go.”

  With that she started for the door, which suddenly took a bullet, the wood splintering as she ducked and craned her neck to see two more rounds punch through the office window, the first striking Le
onard in the chest, the second in the shoulder. Blood sprayed across the back wall as Valentina dropped to her hands and knees, drew her SC pistol from her purse, and crawled toward the door.

  She chanced a look back at Leonard, lying there, bleeding, reaching out to her, his mouth working, a word barely forming: “Please…”

  * * *

  Allen Ames was on the building’s roof when the shooting began. He’d been up there only as an observer, gathering intel on the comings and goings of visitors to the building and hoping to get some up-close-and-personal pics of at least two of Mr. Leonard’s “special” friends from Beijing.

  Ames felt at home on rooftops. He’d grown up in Brooklyn and had spent years atop apartment buildings, hanging out with his friends, getting drunk, and dreaming of a better life that would help him forget about the fire… about the screams from Mom and Dad, about Katy’s face at the window, looking at him, coughing… until she fell backward into the flames.

  Now, twenty years after that fateful night, Ames was staring down through the telescopic sight of his sniper rifle. The shooter had set up on the roof of a building across the street from Leonard’s and had only revealed himself to take the shots. He’d been in Ames’s sight for all of two heartbeats before he’d vanished behind the air-conditioning units. Ames had been on the roof since sunrise, and he’d neither seen nor heard the shooter’s approach, so the man might have been there even longer and had obviously cloaked his heat signature.

  Ames cursed, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and muttered, “I’m going after the shooter.”

  The SVT, or subvocal transceiver, a butterfly-shaped adhesive patch on Ames’s throat, just north of his Adam’s apple, picked up his voice so it could be broadcast over the channel for all, including Grim, to hear.

  Ames took off, running for the stairwell door, wrenched it open, and began storming down the steps. At just five feet eight and 140 pounds, he was the fastest runner on the team; still, that didn’t stop the others from quipping about his size. Oh, they never ridiculed him to his face, but he overheard their remarks. He didn’t care. He knew he was ten feet tall when standing on his skills and charisma. Moreover, with a little gel worked into his unruly blond hair, he easily added three inches.