Endgame sc-6 Read online

  Ames snorted. “You’re damned right we are. And you all need to listen to me: You don’t capture Sam Fisher. And you don’t talk to him. You take him out. Those were our orders.”

  Gillespie shifted over to Ames and deliberately spilled her coffee across his shirt. He cursed as she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. Did I burn you?”

  While the others tried to stifle their laughter, Hansen cleared his throat. “If we can take Fisher alive, that’s the way we do it. If it comes down to it, though, then we’ll have to kill him.”

  * * *

  Hansen spent most of the night tossing and turning. In fact, he’d barely slept in the past two days, so when the courtesy wake-up call came, Hansen was ready to smash the phone against the wall. He rose, showered, shaved, dressed quickly, then gave up the bathroom to Ames, who was complaining about “pretty boy taking too much time.”

  Noboru remained dead to the world, and Hansen took a moment just to stare at the man who’d been a little too eager to check out their tail. Hansen mulled that over for a moment before heading down to the restaurant for some coffee.

  Moreau had rented them another pair of cars, two Renaults — one burgundy, the other blue — and they loaded the gear and left by 8:00 A.M. for the sixty-mile drive east on A-4 to Emmanuel Chenevier’s apartment in Verdun, near the quai de Londres — and its many shops, restaurants, and discotheques — along the Meuse River. They were wary of tails, especially from those men in the black Range Rover, but Moreau reported that the Rover was tailing one of the decoy vehicles within which Valentina had planted the tracker. Moreau warned them that the ploy wouldn’t last long, and when they discovered what had happened, they would search their own vehicle for a tracker and/or abandon it. By that time Hansen and the others should be long gone.

  They drove though the French countryside, the farmlands reminding Hansen of some of the Sunday drives he’d taken with his parents through Texas, although none of that terrain appeared even remotely as fertile as these grounds. However, the same sense of loneliness and utter quiet was still there.

  Thankfully, Ames kept his mouth shut for most of the ride, and Gillespie sat quietly herself. Noboru and Valentina followed closely behind in their car, with Moreau still back at the hotel, monitoring the team’s progress. He planned to catch up with them later in the day.

  Hansen had already decided that he’d be the one to speak with the forger. He reviewed the intel Moreau had given him.

  Emmanuel Chenevier was a thirty-year veteran of the Directorate-General for External Security, a rather important-sounding synonym for France’s foreign intelligence agency. While the data did not indicate that Fisher and Chenevier had a prior relationship, Hansen had a strong feeling that they had known each other for years. At the very least, Fisher would be aware of the agent and his impressive record that indicated he was fiercely loyal to his country. That Chenevier would help an American on the run might prove surprising to some — unless of course Hansen’s initial premise was correct: The two were old friends. Fisher’s record indicated that there had been a time, back in the early 1990s, when he would’ve had the opportunity to meet and perhaps work with Chenevier; however, that was speculation on Hansen’s part.

  When they were about ten minutes away from Chenevier’s place, Moreau told them he’d tried to call the man’s home phone. No answer. Chenevier did not have a cell-phone number that Moreau could find, so there was a chance he had stepped out. The geeks back home studying the satellite feeds had reported that they had not seen Chenevier leave his building, so perhaps he was home but not answering the phone.

  Valentina, Gillespie, and Noboru kept close to the river, taking pictures of one another like goofy tourists. Ames established an overwatch position near the courtyard beside the entrance to the first-floor apartment.

  Hansen walked by a redwood lounger, on which sat a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. He grinned over the title (written by a Frenchman, of course), then went up and knocked on the old man’s door.

  He waited. He knocked again, waited some more. “I don’t think he’s home.” He groaned into his SVT.

  “And so we set up. And we wait,” said Moreau.

  “Let me go inside and take a look around.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “If we play a gentleman’s game, he’ll be far more likely to talk. If you violate his privacy like a rookie, he’ll shut down. Trust me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know men like Chenevier.”

  “What if you’re wrong? What if he’s left the country?”

  “He hasn’t. We’d know about it.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “He’s probably watching you right now. Give him some time. He’ll come around. He wants to feel you out first, see what he’s dealing with. When he realizes that Fisher’s got a bunch of young bucks after him, he’ll talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’ll amuse him.”

  “So you already think this is a dead end?”

  “No, I don’t. If Fisher was here, and he knows this guy, then what can you do to get him talking?”

  Hansen considered the question. His first thought was to shove a gun in the man’s head or threaten to chop off his fingers, as he’d done with Boutin.

  But if this were a gentleman’s game, as Moreau had suggested, then Hansen needed something far more sophisticated and tactful.

  “If they’re friends,” Hansen thought aloud, “then Chenevier wants what’s best for Fisher.”

  “Now, that sounds like a good place to start.”

  “But, then again, if they’re friends, he won’t give us anything.”

  “You never know.”

  As Hansen stepped away from the man’s door, he checked his watch: 9:17 A.M.

  How long were they supposed to wait?

  20

  CHENEVIER’S APARTMENT VERDUN, FRANCE

  Hansen and the others waited most of the day for the old man to come home. During that time, they shifted positions, rotated in and out of locations, even changed jackets and maintained their surveillance as deftly and discreetly as possible. They might as well get some on-the-job training and practice, Hansen had told them.

  They’d gone off in pairs for lunch, while the others kept watch. When Hansen and Valentina had been sharing a sandwich and some tea, Moreau had called to say the two men in the Range Rover had fin ally grown wise to the team’s misdirection and had abandoned the Rover. Trouble was, Moreau lost them since they returned to another parking garage, and with many cars coming in and out, he couldn’t be sure which vehicle they might have used or if they’d even left in the first place. He and the geeks back home would attempt to pick them up again.

  Hansen was sitting on a bench across the street from Chenevier’s apartment when he spotted the man’s approach. It was about three fifteen. Imposing at more than six feet tall, and with a thick shock of white hair, Chenevier was the epitome of a distinguished gentleman and as leonine as they came. Of course, he was impeccably groomed and dressed in an expensive suit and overcoat. He carried an ornate cane that he used more for show or for security than to help him walk. His gait seemed true, if not a little slow.

  “Monsieur Chenevier?” Hansen called.

  Chenevier turned back and paused near the redwood lounger as Hansen hurried toward him. “May I have a word?”

  “You’re an American. And my English is pretty good. So let’s dispense with that.”

  “How do you know I’m an American?”

  The old man grinned, and a twinkle came into his blue eyes. “You’ve been waiting around all day for me. I went to see my grandchildren. They’re getting so big.”

  “I just have a few questions.”

  “Of course, you do. Come inside, and I’ll make us some tea.”

  “Just a few questions. It won’t take long.”

  Chenevier lifted his cane, pointed at the door, and eyed H
ansen. You don’t turn down an offer for tea.

  With a nod, Hansen followed the old man into the apartment and was led into a small living room. The sofa, bookcase, end tables, and even the TV stand were beautiful antiques, nothing short of elegant. The artwork on the walls appeared to be original and notably expensive, not that Hansen knew much about art, but he could tell the difference between a print and real canvas. This was class, hardly small-town Texas.

  “Please.” Chenevier gestured to the sofa.

  Hansen took a seat, and the pillows felt hard, as though they’d barely been used.

  While the old man prepared the teapot in the adjoining kitchen, he called out, “I suppose you’re wondering why no one saw me leave.”

  “That had crossed my mind.”

  “Any man who lives in a place with only one door is a fool.”

  “There’s a basement? Tunnels?”

  “Of course. I suspect that on any given day there are a half dozen governments keeping an eye on me. A man needs his privacy once in a while.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t be coy. You know who I am. And you’ve come here looking for him.”

  “Will you help us?”

  Chenevier returned to the living room and sat in a chair opposite Hansen. “Why do you need my help? Haven’t they turned you into expert bloodhounds?”

  Hansen smiled wanly. “He came to you after Boutin. We thought you might know where he’s headed.”

  “And if I knew, why would I tell you?”

  “Because we’re all on the same side. He’s in trouble. And we’re here to help.”

  Chenevier chuckled under his breath. “Our friend is always in trouble… or he’s taking a day off.”

  “Can you give us anything? Any indication of where he might be?”

  “There is a mutual understanding between men like us. I would hope that someday you would make such a friend and reach such an understanding.”

  Hansen took a deep breath and stood. “Thank you for you time, monsieur.”

  “But I’ve just put on the water for the tea.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Chenevier stepped up to Hansen. “He’s just a man who’s tired and wants to go home. And so he shook a tree, and you fell out. So young. Just be careful. He casts no shadow, and you won’t see him until it is too late.”

  * * *

  Hansen was about to tell the team they had wasted an entire day, and then go on to lash out at Moreau, when the operations manager called to say they were getting on a private charter bound for a small town called Errouville, about seventy-five miles northeast of Verdun. Moreau wanted them on that plane immediately, since there wasn’t time to lose. “Fisher was at a Sixt car-rental office in Villerupt. He used Louis Royer’s driver’s license to rent a car. You need to fly to Errouville, and then get up to Villerupt ASAP.”

  Louis Royer was one of Doucet’s thugs, and Hansen was dubious as to why Fisher would take the chance of using that license when he must’ve known it’d tip off Third Echelon. No, Fisher wouldn’t make that mistake. This was part of the game, and the more Hansen played, the more frustrated he became.

  It was already late afternoon as they took the highway designated D903 down to the small executive airport southeast of Verdun and boarded a single-prop Cessna 207. The pilot was a terse Frenchman with a sun-weathered face and permanent scowl. He barely said ten words to them as they boarded.

  “French hospitality,” said Ames. “Can’t wait to bring the entire family back here so we can all be treated like dogs.”

  “Shut up, Ames.” Gillespie groaned.

  As they took off, Valentina, who was seated beside him, leaned over and said, “Nice vacation.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I actually found some shoes while we were waiting for Chenevier.”

  “Are you kidding me? Shopping while on the job?”

  “If you call this work. I feel like an actor.”

  “Something has to give. Something…”

  They both leaned back and settled in for the short hop. The engine volume rose, so there’d be little talking inside the cabin. Hansen glanced up at Ames, two chairs ahead of him. The team’s favorite operative was rolling a Zippo lighter through his fingers, a nervous habit Hansen had seem him indulge on more than one occasion. He was such a control freak that being forced to sit in a plane and not pilot it was already driving him crazy. The more Hansen thought about it, the more he realized that Ames’s presence was actually a good thing. Finding new ways to despise him was a pleasant diversion from the half-truths of the mission.

  * * *

  The airport just outside Errouville was little more than a dirt tract four miles southwest of Villerupt. As they landed, they left a long plume of dust in their wake. Their friendly pilot, who’d been silent, cursed as the plane bounced over ruts like a monster truck in the Arizona desert.

  Gillespie announced that she was going to throw up. She didn’t, but Valentina told her to aim at you know who. Ames smirked.

  The billowing dust from their landing partially clouded the three outbuildings, but Hansen thought he saw the two SUVs that Moreau had mentioned. He’d rented them yet another pair of transports: Renault Koleoses — one black, the other silver. The SUVs were strikingly similar to the Nissan Murano, and Valentina called dibs on the silver one as they taxied up to the end of the strip, turned, and neared the buildings.

  In the distance, Hansen spotted a lone car traveling down the narrow road, but it was too far off to see clearly. The pilot helped them unload their gear; then Hansen went inside the door marked BUREAU and caught the attention of a heavyset woman with red hair.

  “Vous désirez?” she asked.

  Hansen told her in French that he needed the keys to the rental cars that had been left there by the agency. She handed over the keys and said, “You just missed your friend.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There was a man here who said he was expecting five friends.”

  Hansen frowned deeply. “Was he a tall black man?”

  Moreau had said he was still back in Reims, but Hansen was no longer ready to assume anything.

  The woman shook her head. “He was a white man. He was clean shaven, crew cut, tall. Dressed like tourist: red polo shirt and green trousers.”

  And Hansen was already reaching for the photo of Sam Fisher he kept in his breast pocket. “Him?”

  “That’s him. Are you the police?”

  “No…”

  “But your friend is in trouble.”

  Hansen raised his chin. “Thanks for your help.” He ran outside, shouting, “You’re not going to believe this! Fisher was just here!”

  * * *

  Moreau was talking to Grim via the Trinity System. They floated over the airport in Errouville, watching as Hansen and his team rushed off toward Villerupt.

  “The tail I placed on Stingray just reported in,” said Moreau. “Guess where Stingray’s headed?”

  “Villerupt,” said Grim. “And since I haven’t issued my next report to Kovac yet, we have confirmation.”

  “Let me say it out loud so we’re both clear on this: Stingray is a cutout for someone on our team. Someone on Delta Sly is a mole working for Kovac.” Moreau took a deep breath. “That’s the only way Kovac would’ve known I’m in France and the only way Stingray would know where the team is headed. Someone on the team is feeding the information back to him.”

  “So all our efforts to bypass him — meeting here, everything — have been for nothing.”

  “Don’t pop the Prozac yet,” sang Moreau. “This just makes the game more fun. First question: Do we notify the team?”

  “No, we don’t. That’ll heighten the paranoia, interfere with the mission, and tip off Kovac that we’re on to him. We’ve already got Noboru’s mercs to deal with. We need to handle the mole problem from our end.”

  “All right. How about this: If we can identify the mole, then we feed that information to Fis
her. He’ll need to remove the problem and the team can be left out of it.”

  “Excellent. I could pass this on to Fisher’s cutout, though I’m not sure when they’ll be able to link up again. I’ll have to risk contacting him to see.”

  “Any thoughts on who the mole might be?”

  “I’d love to rule out Hansen, but there’s no ruling out anyone at this point. He could’ve been working for Kovac before I recruited him. And I confided in him, even picked him for the mission to Russia. That could’ve been a grave error.”

  “What about Ames? I hate that little bastard.”

  “Who doesn’t? That’s why I like him. He’s a thorn in everyone’s side — including our enemies. And you’ve read his fitness report. He’s scored higher than anyone else on the team, across the board. Fisher told me he doesn’t have the temperament for this line of work, and I agree, but temperament isn’t everything. I think he’s too loud, too noisy, too obvious to be our mole.”

  “Or he’s overplaying it so he becomes too obvious.”

  “Maybe.”

  Moreau squinted into a thought. “What about one of the women?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll do some more probing. Noboru could be our man. Maybe Kovac promised him something we couldn’t.”

  “Maybe I’m the mole,” said Moreau.

  “Don’t even go there, Marty.”

  “You know if I am the mole, the entire NSA had better watch out, because I’m so wired into the intelligence community that it wouldn’t take long to bring the walls tumbling down.”

  “But instead we got Kovac, who wants to line his pockets and arm our enemies.”

  “I’m sure he thinks he’s saving America. As long as our enemies are armed and dangerous, we’re all gainfully employed. No war on terror, no threats, and the NSA downsizes us onto the streets. They’ll say, Let the CIA do the field work. We’re here to cut government spending and lower taxes! So Kovac’s boosting the American economy by making sure the bad guys remain very, very bad.”