Operation Barracuda sc-2 Page 2

  I notice the headlights of the tailing snowmobiles turn off the road behind me. Damn, they figured out where I went. Well, let’s see if they can keep up with me. I inch up my speed to seventy-five. The trees are whipping past at a dizzying rate. I have to forget about the guys behind me in order to concentrate on steering. The last thing I need is to wind my legs around a tree trunk.

  Gunfire. I feel the heat of the bullets slicing the air near my head. I duck lower on the vehicle, which hampers my steering capability. WHAM! The snowmobile grazes a tree and the thing wipes out. I’m aware of being in midair for a second or two and then I land hard on the ground. I thank my lucky stars I wasn’t thrown into a tree or a rock.

  The tracking snowmobiles come closer. I manage to pull myself up and limp to the overturned Taiga. I push it upright, get back on, and start her up again. The right front ski is bent but I think it’ll still go. I accelerate and test the steering mechanism. Not bad. If I cheat to the left a bit, I can get the damned thing to go straight.

  More gunfire. Great.

  I increase the speed and take off into the darkness just as I hear a spectacular crash behind me. One of the enemy snowmobiles has merged with a tree in a most unpleasant manner. That’s good for me but it’s also set the tree aflame. If the fire spreads it could illuminate the forest and they’ll be able to see me better. Gotta lose these guys and fast.

  I press the implant in my throat. “Are you there? Anyone?” I ask.

  “We read you, Sam,” Lambert says in my ear.

  “You tracking me?” I ask.

  “We’ve got you by satellite. I’ll bet you need directions.”

  “Please.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t go back to the main road to Obukhiv. It’s swarming with troops. Your best bet is to head for the Dnipro.”

  “The river?”

  “Come on, it can’t be that cold. Your suit will protect you.”

  “You want me to swim to safety?”

  “Dump the snowmobile. Better yet, crash it. Your pursuers will hopefully think you’re dead.”

  I shake my head. “Lambert, I’m beginning to feel like an underpaid stuntman. Okay, how far am I from the river?”

  I hear Lambert consult with someone off mike, probably Carly or Mike Chan. He comes back and says, “You’re less than a mile away. Take a thirty-degree turn to the left and you’ll be heading straight for it.”

  “Thanks. I’m out.” I make the move, dodge another tree, and try to increase my speed. Now the thing’s going about fifty and it’s the best I can do.

  Suddenly and without warning, a snowmobile bursts out of the brush in front of me. The headlight nearly blinds me and I have to avert my eyes for a second, steer right, and perform a jump over a fallen log. My Taiga lands awkwardly and spins around. The Russian soldier slows his vehicle and fires a pistol at me. The bullet whizzes over my left shoulder as I duck and skid the Taiga in a half circle to kick up a snow spray. This gives me time to draw the Five-seveN, point it in his direction, and shoot.

  Two rounds miss but the third hits the soldier in the chest, knocking him off his vehicle. I holster my gun, turn the Taiga back toward the river, and speed on.

  I hear the roar of the water up ahead. I pick a nice thick tree fifty feet away and push the speed as high as it’ll go. At the same time I position myself by crouching on the seat, ready to leap off at the last second. Closer… closer… and I jump, land in the snow, roll, and wait.

  The Taiga slams into the tree and bursts into a fireball. The thing is obliterated.

  I stand and make my way toward the roar. In three minutes I find myself at the bank of the Dnipro, a wide, snaking river that runs from western Russia through Belarus, and down into Ukraine all the way to the Black Sea. The spot I happened to pick for entry has no easy grade to climb down. I estimate it’s at least a fifty-foot drop.

  So I assume a stance, concentrate, take a deep breath, and jump off the bank. I hit the cold water like a knife, relax, and let my natural buoyancy lift me to the surface. Lambert was right. My suit keeps out the frigid temperature, but the ice water bites at my face. I roll so that I’m on my back — which goes a long way toward keeping my face warm — and drift to a place of safety as the strong current carries my horizontal body downstream.

  All in a day’s work, because I’m Sam Fisher. And I’m a Splinter Cell.

  2

  Andrei Zdrok was not a morning person. If he had his way, Zdrok would sleep until noon and retire after midnight. Unfortunately, he had never been able to do that during his entire life. Coming from a family of bankers that did business in the former Soviet Union, it was always “early to bed, early to rise,” etc., and he hated it. Even though he had tremendous wealth, acquired from the banks that did most of the USSR government’s financial business, Zdrok found it difficult to find happiness in the world. When the Soviet Union fell and he founded the arms-dealing black market enterprise known as the Shop, he thought everything would become rosy. For a while, it seemed that it had. But things changed a year ago, after the disastrous dealings with the terrorist group known as the Shadows. The United States’ law enforcement forces, namely the National Security Agency and the Central Intelligence Agency, broke through the Shadows’ ranks and destroyed them. A domino effect reverberated through the pipeline back to the Shop, crippling the organization so badly that Zdrok had to pick up roots and move out of Europe. While living in Switzerland was nice, he never cared much for the places he had resided prior to the exodus — namely Russia and Azerbaijan.

  He didn’t much like Hong Kong either.

  The Shop had set up headquarters in the Far East because the organization had friends there. A particular Triad had done business with the Shop for many years and helped establish a base of operations for Zdrok. The Shop once enjoyed a profitable territory in the Far East, especially in Macau, Indonesia, and the Philippines, until the National Security Agency — once again — caused some damage to the status quo. But there were still Shop operatives in the Far East, ready and willing to go back to work. The territory could be rebuilt. Hong Kong seemed to be the most desirable choice for a new base, despite the fact that the former British colony was now under Communist Chinese rule. Zdrok’s friends had assured him that business in Hong Kong had continued “as usual,” that is, in a capitalist state of mind, after the 1997 handover. This economic philosophy was supposed to continue as such for fifty years, while Hong Kong remained a “Special Administrative Region,” along with Macau, which also was recently reannexed to China, after decades of Portuguese rule.

  Zdrok walked east on Hollywood Road in the Sheung Wan district, one of the more popular areas of Hong Kong Island. The streets, occupied by antique and curio shops, Buddhist and Taoist temples, eateries, and oddly, coffin makers, always seemed to smell badly to Zdrok. In fact, the whole of Hong Kong smelled. They didn’t call it “Fragrant Harbour” for nothing. At least up on the Peak, where he rented a modest but comfortable bungalow, the air was fresh. His accommodations were a far cry from what he had been used to, especially most recently in Switzerland, but they would do. What he disliked was coming to work, and that brought him down to Sheung Wan.

  He turned north and then east again onto Upper Lascar Row, known locally as “Cat Street.” Zdrok had no idea why it was called that. There weren’t any cats that he could see. Just more antique shops. And one of them was the front for the Shop.

  Zdrok unlocked the door to the “Hong Kong-Russian Curios” storefront, a place that had been there for ages but had recently undergone a name change. Jon Ming, venerable leader of the Lucky Dragons Triad, had smoothed the way for Zdrok’s visa and business license and taken care of other administrative hurdles. So far everything had worked smoothly. Now if he could just get used to the smell.

  He went through the legitimate shop, which was full of all manner of junk that Zdrok couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to buy (but they did — the store actually showed a small profit) and stepped through t
he door behind the counter. It was still too early for the regular shop employees to be there. He paused at a mirror and took a look at his reflection.

  At fifty-eight years old, Andrei Zdrok was still a handsome man. He enjoyed grooming himself and dressing as if he were the richest man in the world. At one time he was one of the ten wealthiest men in Russia. He had no idea if that was still true. Probably not.

  The back of the store was a storeroom full of boxes, supplies, and a trick bookcase that rotated when one pulled out The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, replaced it, and then removed a book entitled Bogus Bard: The Life of Christopher Marlowe. This revealed the inner offices of the Shop, where Andrei Zdrok spent most of his daylight hours.

  He closed the bookcase behind him, descended the spiral staircase to the basement, went into his personal office, shut the door, and booted up his computer. As he waited the sixty seconds, Zdrok longed for some of the Swiss coffee he had become addicted to when he lived in Zurich. There was nothing like that in Hong Kong, of course. The Chinese, and the British before them, didn’t know how to make good coffee. Tea was another matter, but he despised tea.

  Once the computer was up and running, Zdrok opened his e-mail and found an encrypted message from Jon Ming. Zdrok spent a moment decoding the e-mail and found that it was an order — a big one. Eight hundred thousand U.S. dollars’ worth. Unfortunately, Zdrok had to hand over the arms to the Lucky Dragons at no charge. It was part of the deal he had made with Ming over two years earlier. They would provide the Shop with valuable information concerning the branch of the National Security Agency known as Third Echelon, as well as material for Operation Barracuda. In return, the Shop would supply the Lucky Dragons with all the weapons and arms they asked for. In Zdrok’s opinion, he had gotten the better end of the deal. The Operation Barracuda intelligence alone was worth millions.

  Zdrok had been waiting for this final order from the Lucky Dragons. It meant that the Shop’s business with them was complete. The final “installment” of Operation Barracuda materials had been delivered. Of course, it would be prudent to keep relations between the Shop and the Triad pleasant. After all, Jon Ming had shown considerable “face” in helping Zdrok relocate. Zdrok owed Ming a great deal. He just didn’t want to pay it.

  Zdrok picked up the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. A man on the other end answered, “Da.”

  “It’s me,” Zdrok said.

  “Hello, Andrei.”

  “Good morning, Anton. How are things up in the New Territories?”

  Anton Antipov, one of the Shop’s directors and essentially Zdrok’s right-hand man, replied, “Most likely the same as it is down on the island. Warm. Muggy. They say it might rain.” Antipov was in charge of the Shop’s remote warehouse, located near the residential and industrial New Town of Tai Po.

  “At least we’re missing the Russian winter, eh?”

  “If you say so.” Antipov didn’t care much for the Far East either. He wasn’t fond of Chinese food, and in a place such as Hong Kong that was a great disadvantage.

  “I’ve received the final order from the Lucky Dragons,” Zdrok said. He listed the desired items and quantities. “It must be shipped as soon as possible, of course.”

  “Of course,” Antipov said.

  “Do I detect sarcasm in your voice, Anton?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Come on, talk to me.”

  “You know I was never happy about allowing this Triad to put our affairs in order. It’s humiliating.”

  Zdrok sighed. “We’ve been over this a dozen times, Anton. What else could we do? If we had stayed in Eastern Europe or Russia we would have been found and arrested. At least here we can hide and still do business.”

  “How long can we hide, Andrei? How long before the United States finds us?”

  “Anton. You worry too much.”

  “And you’re unceasingly unhappy.”

  “Ah, well. These are our natures, yes? Let us concentrate on the matters we can control. Our customer in China will give us five million dollars U.S. as soon as we deliver the final installment of Operation Barracuda material to him.”

  “You have it?”

  “We have it. It will go to the general tomorrow.”

  “Very good. We can close up that particular avenue.”

  “Yes,” Zdrok said. “I have already asked Ming to do so. He will take care of it.”

  “And what happens if Ming finds out where all this Barracuda stuff is going?”

  Zdrok felt himself shudder. “That would be very unfortunate. Under no circumstances are the Lucky Dragons to know our plans.”

  “I know that. You’ve said it a hundred times.”

  “Then that makes it a hundred and one.”

  “But if General Tun flaunts—”

  “Quiet. By then it will be too late.”

  Antipov sighed. “Is that all, Andrei? I have an order to put together. In fact, most of it will have to be shipped from Russia. Tell Ming he’ll have it in a week.”

  “That’s actually good for us. Oskar can ride over with the shipment. Arrange it, please.”

  “Right.”

  Zdrok could sense that Antipov had more to say. “Is there something else, Anton?”

  “Andrei, what does the Benefactor think of Operation Barracuda? He is aware of General Tun, is he not?”

  “Of course he is. Don’t be a fool. The Benefactor is on our side and always will be. It was he who initially put us in contact with the Lucky Dragons and it was he who introduced us to the general. Fifteen percent is what most authors and actors pay their agents. I think he’s well worth the commission, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so, Andrei. You were always much wiser in these matters than me.”

  “Cheer up, Anton. Go have some Russian vodka for breakfast. But only after you send word to Oskar and get Ming’s shipment ready.”

  “Have a good day, Andrei.”

  Zdrok hung up the phone and continued to check his e-mail. There was one from General Prokofiev. The Russian general had remained in his home country because of his position with the army. Of all the Shop directors, Prokofiev was the most protected. His cover was unshakable.

  Zdrok opened the e-mail and read:

  AZ—

  Obukhov facility closed. General managers retired. All went smoothly except presence of Western competition. Still attempting confirmation of competition’s going-out-of-business sale.

  — SP

  Zdrok rubbed his eyes. Good news and bad news. The good news was that the last remnants of the Shop’s stealth plane activities had been destroyed. So far, the Russian government and military forces had not traced the theft of the aircraft to Prokofiev. The bad news was that an American intelligence operative witnessed the destruction of the Obukhov hangar. Prokofiev’s last sentence indicated that he thought the man was dead but a body had not yet been recovered.

  Damn, Zdrok thought. It sounded as if the operative may have been one of the men on the classified list of agents’ names and descriptions that Zdrok had obtained last year. Was this man one of Third Echelon’s Splinter Cells? Could he have been the nemesis that brought the Shop all of its troubles?

  Could he have been the man known as Sam Fisher?

  Zdrok slammed his fist on the desk and swore that the Shop would have its revenge on the man. Zdrok picked up the phone and made another call.

  It would be easy to find out whether or not the Splinter Cell was still alive.

  3

  I’ve tracked General Prokofiev’s Mercedes to an apartment building in Kyiv’s Old Town, near the St. Sophia Cathedral. It’s not far from a main thoroughfare, vulitsya Volodymyrska, and many of the historic landmarks in this cold, old city. It would probably be a bit more pleasant if it wasn’t winter. Everything is gray and white and rather depressing. I’ve heard that spring and summer in Kyiv is really nice but I’ve never seen it then. It seems that the few times I’ve been here it’s always win
ter.

  Although I don’t have much taste in the aesthetics of art and architecture, I do admit to being a history buff, and Kyiv has an abundance of antiquity. You could say it’s the mother city for all Eastern Slavic peoples. After all, the Russian Orthodox Church was founded here. Outside the Upper Town — what the locals call the Old Town — is a very modern and cosmopolitan metropolis. Its urban sprawl is unequaled in Ukraine and this fact is quite amazing when you think about it. Kyiv has survived Mongol invasions, devastating fires, the rule of Communism, and the terrible destruction of World War II, and yet it manages to progress onward into the twenty-first century.

  After my swim in the Dnipro, I managed to crawl out downstream and hike back to where I’d left the Ford. It took me five hours to walk to Obukhiv and I felt like the abominable snowman when I arrived. I drove to Kyiv, all the while checking the progress of Prokofiev’s Mercedes on my OPSAT. The homing device was working beautifully. Prokofiev and his entourage checked in to the Hotel Dnipro, a high-end joint frequented by diplomats. I elected to stay three blocks away at the no-frills Hotel Saint Petersburg because I prefer budget places. I set my OPSAT’s alarm to go off if the Mercedes left the Hotel Dnipro and then caught some badly needed sleep. The OPSAT beeped me awake earlier this afternoon. I figure I got five hours, which is pretty damned good. I left the room wearing civvies, jumped in the Explorer, and followed the blinking dot on the OPSAT’s map to my current location.

  The apartment building is old, as is everything else around here. There’s not much parking but I get lucky after a few minutes and find a spot across the street. I stop, settle in for a spell of surveillance, and use the opportunity to contact Washington.

  “Hello? Anyone at home?” I ask, pressing the implant in my throat.

  “Hi, Sam.” It’s Carly St. John, my favorite person at Third Echelon. She’s as smart as a whip and attractive as hell. I’ve often considered what it might be like to become romantically involved with her. I kid myself that she might be interested. The problem is that I’m not keen on becoming romantically involved with anyone. At least that’s what I keep telling my reflection in the mirror. I made a resolution after Regan died to put women out of my mind. And I’ve been pretty good at staying celibate… until recently. Ever since I returned from the Mediterranean last year, I’ve been feeling, I don’t know, an itch. I found myself eyeing some of the women in my Krav Maga class in Towson, Maryland, where I live. And then there’s Katia, the class instructor. She’s absolutely gorgeous. Katia Loenstern’s an Israeli woman who has made more than one pass at me and I’ve been a jerk and resisted each of them. Lately I’ve been thinking I need to change that attitude, but then the ugly realization of what I do for a living messes up everything. A Splinter Cell in a committed relationship becomes a vulnerable Splinter Cell. It also puts the partner in jeopardy. It’s just too damned risky.