Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath (12 page)

To confront the man.

14

STRAIGHT
ahead lay an open meat locker door, and beyond came more of those long shadows, one
shaped like a figure crucified against the corrugated aluminum wall. Cobwebs spanned
the ceiling above the flickering silhouettes, and the walls rattled a moment as a
strong gust came through.

Fisher took advantage of that noise to step forward as a stale, dry odor wafted into
his face. He turned into the locker.

And froze.

His gaze panned up to the naked man suspended from four meat hooks.

Wow. He mouthed a curse.

The sharp ends of those hooks had been driven through the soft flesh on the man’s
shoulders and slammed right through his palms, Old Testament style. Small incisions
like slash marks from a whip covered his legs and rump, and blood pooled down across
his ankles and dripped off his toes. He was a big man, six feet at least, probably
two hundred pounds with biceps chiseled in the gym. From this angle, Fisher couldn’t
see his face and was glad for that. The panting and gasping that escaped his lips
was hard to bear.

Since Vasily Yenin had been a double agent, the NSA and CIA had good records on him.
Grim had shown Fisher the man’s dossier and accompanying photographs. Once Fisher
caught the man’s profile, he nodded in confirmation, then tensed at the sound of creaking
floorboards.

Kestrel came out from behind a row of metal shelving that ran along the far wall.
He trained a Makarov on Fisher’s chest.

“Fisher?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just picking up some roast beef.”

Kestrel almost smiled. “Me, too.”

Fisher took a step toward him. “We called. You didn’t answer.”

“You put tracker on me.”

“We had a deal.”

“You have no trust. Without trust, we have no deal.”

“Sam, Briggs here. I got you covered. I’ll take him out right through the wall if
I have to . . .”

Fisher drew in a long breath, then gestured to Yenin. “Old friend of yours?”

“You know who he is.”

“Get him down. I need him alive.”

“Oh, you do? Maybe old friend of yours? Friend who kept me in coma? Maybe I have to
kill you, too.” Kestrel leaned toward Fisher, his heavily tattooed right arm flexing
as he clutched his pistol with both hands in an aggressive thumbs-forward grip. He
took another step, exposing an area behind him where the floorboards had been pried
up with a screwdriver. On the table to his right sat a Nike gym bag covered in dirt.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Pajamas.”

“How much you got in there? Stashed it here for a rainy day?”

“Shut up, Fisher. What do you want?”

“Get him down. I want information on Igor Kasperov—and this guy can get us into the
Voron database.”

Kestrel shook his head. “He’s no good now. He’s like me. Ex-Voron. Passwords locked
out. He can’t get you shit.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fool. Think about it. He went missing. As soon as that happens, they lock you out.
They think maybe you have been taken prisoner. Simple.”

“So you’re leaving him here to bleed to death?”

“No, I leave him for the wolves. After Chernobyl, the wolves and wild dogs fed on
roe deer, and when the deer were gone, the wolves fed on dogs. Now dogs and deer are
gone. So wolves are very hungry. They can eat twenty-two pounds of meat in one feeding.”

“Wolves don’t eat humans.”

“Tell that to the wolves.”

Fisher kept his pistol pointed at Kestrel’s heart but flicked his glance up to Yenin.
He spoke quickly in Russian, “I can offer you help in exchange for information. I’m
looking for Igor Kasperov and his daughter, Nadia. I know the SVR and Voron are looking
for them, too. Do you know anything about their investigation? Maybe something they
found? Anything? If you tell me, we’ll let you go.”

Yenin opened his mouth, but before he spoke, Kestrel raised his voice. “Don’t tell
him anything.”

“He’ll talk to me, Kestrel, otherwise I’ll shoot you both in the legs and leave you
here. Like you said, the wolves are hungry.”

“You’ll shoot me?” Kestrel asked. “You don’t see me or my gun right here?”

Fisher sighed. “Briggs? Hit the bag.”

The words had barely escaped Fisher’s lips when the Nike bag was blasted off the table
by a perfectly placed 7.62mm round. The bag fell to the ground with a nice hole in
its side.

“Thank you, Briggs.”

Kestrel, who’d ducked and whirled around with his pistol, searched all over the ceiling
and found the entry hole in the wall.

“He never misses,” Fisher added. Indeed, Briggs had vowed to step up his game, and
step it up he had.

Fisher crossed toward Kestrel. “You run, I shoot you. You run, he shoots you. Simple.”

Kestrel lifted his pistol. “How ’bout I put a bullet in your head?”

Fisher shrugged. “Then we’re just two miserable men, dying in a radioactive shithole
like this.”

“Maybe that is for best.”

“I have no more time for you, Kestrel.” Fisher gestured to Yenin. “Maybe he wants
to tell me something. Let him talk, then you get to walk, no questions asked.”

“Bullshit, Fisher. I said no trust. No deal.”

Fisher glanced up at Yenin. “Do you know anything about Kasperov? Do you know anything
about the nuclear material stolen from Mayak?”

Yenin groaned and gasped, his eyes narrowed in agony, tears staining his stubbly cheeks.
His breathing grew more labored, reaching a crescendo, then, finally, a word exploded
from his lips: “Snegurochka.”

“Shut up!” cried Kestrel.

“Briggs, on the count of three, you’re going to shoot Kestrel in the head.”

“Roger that. I’m on target.”

“Okay, Briggs, one, two—”

“Wait!” cried Kestrel, eyes widening back on the wall where that first round had penetrated.
“All right. Let the fool talk.”

“Hold fire, Briggs.”

“Roger that.”

“Snegurochka,” Yenin repeated.

“What the hell is he saying?” Fisher asked.

Kestrel made a face. “That word means Snow Maiden.”

“Does that mean something to you?”

Kestrel’s eyes grew wider. “Oh, yes, it does. Snow Maiden is the code name for Major
Viktoria Kolosov of the GRU.”

“Grim, you get that?”

“Got it. Running it now.”

“Yenin, what about this woman? You tell me, and I’ll get you down. It’ll be over.”

Yenin’s face was beginning to twist in improbable angles as the pain really set in.
His eyes barely focused on Fisher now, but then, after a few gasps, he said in broken
English, “Big shoot-out in old metro tunnel. Nadia’s bodyguards and two GRU agents
killed. Girl captured. Snow Maiden ordered to hold her.”

“Hold her where?” Fisher asked.

“Take me down, and I tell you,” said Yenin.

Fisher glanced ironically at Kestrel. “I guess he learned his negotiation techniques
from you.” Fisher holstered his weapon, much to Kestrel’s shock. “Okay, he doesn’t
want to talk, so he’s all yours. Leave him here for the wolves, I don’t care. We’ll
find the girl.”

Fisher started for the door.

“Wait!” Yenin croaked. “They’re holding girl in Sochi. She’s in Sochi. They’ve got
safe house there. Now take me down! Please!”

“Sam, Charlie here. Got the four-one-one on Sochi. Black Sea resort city. Lots of
tourists . . .”

Fisher widened his gaze on Yenin. “Where in Sochi?” Fisher lifted his voice to a roar.
“WHERE?”

Yenin closed his eyes, as though he had to think about it. “Hotel Olesska on Lenina
Street. We use as safe house sometimes.”

“I got it, Sam,” said Charlie. “I’ll start hacking into every cam within a ten-K radius.”

“If you’re lying . . .” Fisher warned the agent.

“I’m not,” Yenin said.

“Do you know anything about Mayak?”

“No, nothing. Only rumors. No way could terrorists steal material. Must be inside
job.”

“No shit,” Fisher said. He turned to Kestrel. “You’d better start answering my calls.
Have a good night. Briggs? We don’t need any more loose ends here.”

“Roger that.”

“Sam, what’re you doing?” Grim asked.

“Mopping up.”

As Fisher stepped out of the meat locker, a gunshot thumped into the room, and he
didn’t bother looking back. He knew Yenin had been taken out with a perfect headshot.

“Fisher!” Kestrel screamed.

“Don’t come after me,” Fisher cried. “I told you. He never misses.”

15

THE
girl was asleep again. Her left eye had swollen shut, and the Snow Maiden was contemplating
whether to get her some ice or just let her suffer. The little princess had never
known such pain. Stress for her was deciding between five-star restaurants and which
charity balls to attend with her father. Physical pain involved nicking her legs while
shaving. She’d never been interrogated and beaten down to the floor like a dog. She’d
never been waterboarded or electrocuted, had her nails and teeth forcibly extracted,
her toes removed one at a time. There was a whole new world of torture waiting for
her, and she didn’t even know it. All she’d known for the past few hours were the
contours of the Snow Maiden’s knuckles. And all she could do was weep and deny that
she knew anything about her father’s whereabouts.

It was all perfunctory at best, with both of them dancing around each other until
they really got down to business. Of course, it was important for the Snow Maiden
to keep the girl alive, and she would; however, that didn’t mean she couldn’t work
out a few issues and relieve some of her own stress.

The Snow Maiden glided across the plush red carpet to the window and pushed open the
curtains. She stared out at the shimmering lights from the Black Sea coastline. The
hotel was only a ten-minute walk from the water, and in addition to the incredible
views, it offered a Finnish sauna and traditional Russian
banya
where she planned to relax later this evening.

Her trance was broken as the two men outside the hotel and the two next door began
to check in, the Bluetooth receiver in her ear buzzing with their voices. She sighed
and answered them.

Her superiors had foisted upon her four agents who deeply resented that she was in
charge. The GRU had wanted her to turn over the girl to FSB agents because the investigation
fell within their purview. This was an internal matter that did not belong in the
hands of a foreign intelligence agent. But the Snow Maiden had implored her bosses,
told them that she wanted to finish this job. Given her “excellent work” in the metro,
they’d stood up for her and had convinced the FSB that they didn’t need to waste a
seasoned agent to oversee a babysitting job. Those administrators had finally given
in and had allowed her to take Nadia to Sochi—but not without the FSB baggage coming
along. No, the Snow Maiden wouldn’t murder these men, although the thought had crossed
her mind—four times to be precise. She’d already won the adulation she needed from
her superiors, most notably Izotov himself, who’d bragged to his counterpart at the
FSB that “no one but the Snow Maiden could have survived that gun battle, and she
did!” That was glowing praise and would certainly contribute to her promotion; however,
if she could get Nadia to talk, then that would be something.
Really
something. In her mind, this was not a babysitting job. This was an opportunity to
single-handedly locate Igor Kasperov and bring him in.

She traced a finger along the glass. It was hard not to appreciate the irony unfurling
before her eyes. Here she was, involved in the darker side of human nature, while
outside the city of Sochi lay in all its grand and burgeoning splendor. Electricity
was in the air as this place, known by many as the “Russian Riviera,” prepared to
host the 2014 Winter Olympic Games. Heavy construction was going on everywhere, even
in the lot adjoining Hotel Olesska, where yet another hotel was being erected, one
that would be crowded with media personnel once the games began. A ceaseless train
of earth-moving dump trucks lumbered daily across Lenina Street, much to the chagrin
of some guests—but not them. Their soundproofed room lay on the opposite side of the
hotel, in its most private section, where intelligence agents often held political
prisoners and others, keeping them far away from Moscow and from soiling the president’s
hands.

The FSB and GRU had developed a healthy relationship with the hotel’s staff, and the
facility itself, being only four stories and surrounded by large pine trees, made
it easy to establish a defensive perimeter. Additionally, the hotel was only a five-minute
drive from the train station and just ten minutes from Adler Airport. When agents
like the Snow Maiden weren’t attaching battery cables to the genitalia of prisoners,
they could visit the nearby water park, sports and entertainment complexes, the Sochi
Dolphinarium dolphin park, and the Discovery World Aquarium—not to mention the soaring
skyline of the new Olympic park.

The Snow Maiden grinned darkly as she turned away from the window at the sound of
Nadia stirring. “Are you hungry?”

Nadia lay across the bed, looking more like a corpse than a pampered rich man’s daughter.
They’d given her a change of clothes: a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that made her
appear a few years younger. She lifted her head, and finally, after a deep-throated
cough, was able to sit up.

A flat-screen television sat atop a dresser behind them. “Would you like to watch
TV?” the Snow Maiden asked.

“No.”

“Would you like to tell me where your father is?”

Nadia widened her good eye on the Snow Maiden. “When this is over, I’m going to come
back for you. My father has very powerful friends. He’ll make it happen. And when
he does, I’m going to do ten times what you’ve done to me.”

“Ten times? That’s impressive. They taught you some math in that fancy college. So,
do you think we’re already done? Look at your beautiful fingernails . . . are those
gels? And your nice teeth. You had them whitened? So beautiful . . .”

Nadia closed her eyes and sighed in frustration. “I told you. I was on my way to the
airport. All I know is I was supposed to get on the plane. I have no idea where the
plane was going.”

“It was heading straight into the mountains, where it crashed.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I can get my computer and show you.”

“I don’t care.”

The Snow Maiden dragged a chair over to the bed. She flipped it around and draped
her arms over the back. “What’s it like to be you?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Tell me about your life.”

“No.”

The Snow Maiden glanced around the room. “There’s nothing else to do.”

Nadia set her teeth and began to nod. “I see what you’re doing. Get me to talk. Get
the whole Stockholm syndrome thing going. Get me comfortable, then I let something
slip, huh? You think I’m stupid like the other scumbags you take here?”

“No, you’re very intelligent. I read one of the research papers you did for a class.
I wish I knew as much about computers as you do.”

“Yeah, then you wouldn’t be stuck in some shitty government job . . .”

“So you’re going to follow in your father’s footsteps because he made sure you’d have
that opportunity.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you miss him?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were growing up. I assume he was never around, always busy working on the
computer viruses. Did he ever forget to pick you up? Did he ever forget a special
occasion like your birthday?”

“Why do you care? You trying to work out your own issues by making me feel bad?”

“I’m just asking questions.”

“He was a great father. But then my mother died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You’re trying to be my friend because you think I’ll say something.
You’re so obvious. And pathetic. And what’s with the crazy black hair and the boots?”

The Snow Maiden shrugged. “I like them.”

Nadia took a deep breath and turned away. “There’s something wrong with you. Something
very wrong.”

“What makes you say that?”

“How can you do this kind of work?”

“I enjoy it. I bet you would, too.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re just some government employee who had a terrible life.
You’re like some woman who wants to be a man with a big gun. That’s all you are. You’re
nothing.”

“You don’t sound afraid anymore.”

Nadia balled her hands into fists. “I’m not.”

“The cuffs hurt. I’ll leave them off if you’re a good girl, but if you—”

Nadia launched herself off the bed and came at the Snow Maiden with her right fist
held high above her head.

The Snow Maiden pushed back off the chair, even as Nadia’s fist came down. The girl
missed, and the Snow Maiden followed with a right hook to the girl’s jaw and a left
jab to her chest, knocking her squarely onto the bed.

In the next heartbeat, she straddled the girl, pinned her wrists to the bed and leaned
in close to her ear and whispered, “Is this what you want? More pain?”

“Let me go.”

“Where’s your father?”

“He’s right behind you.”

The Snow Maiden grinned, then suddenly released the girl and tapped on Nadia’s temple.
“I think your father is right here, and he’s driving you crazy.”

“Why do you want him so badly?”

That woke the Snow Maiden’s grin. “I wish I knew.”

“Well, it’s pretty clear he fucked over the government. He wouldn’t tell me exactly
how. He just said go to the airport. I begged him, pleaded with him. I never heard
his voice sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Scared.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment, but then the Snow Maiden blurted out, “I don’t
want to kill you.”

Nadia flashed an ugly grin. “I’m okay with that.”

“I’ll confess: I hate you and people like you. And obviously, I can’t kill you unless
I’m sure you have nothing to give me.”

“We’re going around in circles here,” Nadia said. “You don’t believe me, so you’ll
keep asking the same questions over and over. And then I’ll get so tired of hearing
them that I’ll begin telling you what you want to hear. But that’s not the truth.
I don’t know where he is.”

“Do you know where Joline is?”

Nadia’s head drew back, and her mouth began to fall open in shock.

“I know where she is.”

Suddenly, the door opened behind them and two of the Snow Maiden’s men ushered in
Joline Bossert, a twenty-one-year-old CSCS student with blond hair, narrow cheeks,
and limbs seemingly too large for her fragile Swiss torso. She had earrings running
up the sides of both ears, along with a pierced brow partially hidden behind her trendy
blue glasses. She’d been stripped down to her beige bra and white panties.

She was Nadia’s best friend from college. They were, according to Joline, inseparable.

The second Joline caught sight of Nadia. She spoke rapidly in Italian, since she was
a native of Lugano: “Oh my God, Nadia, what’s happening? Are you okay? What’re they
doing to us? Why are we here? They . . . they . . . just grabbed me right out of the
apartment!”

The Snow Maiden put her finger to Nadia’s lips and sang, “I think you know where your
father is . . .” She rose off the bed.

Behind her, Nadia bolted up and screamed, “You leave her alone!”

The Snow Maiden whirled and raised her voice: “First, before we begin this little
reunion, I’d like to discuss a few details. This room has been modified just for us.
It doesn’t matter how loud you are. You could scream at the very top of your lungs
and no one, not room service, not the old lady down the hall who is chain-smoking,
not anyone will hear you . . . or her . . .” The Snow Maiden tipped her head toward
Joline. “Now, she’s going to die in front of you if you don’t tell me where your father
is. If you really don’t know, well, I’m sorry, she’s going to die anyway, then.”

In the Snow Maiden’s right pocket sat an assisted-opening folder, which she removed
and thumbed open. The blade swung into place with enough spring action to catch Nadia’s
attention.

“I’ve cut a lot of people with this blade,” the Snow Maiden said. “So it might be
a little dull.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know!”

The Snow Maiden shrugged and touched the Bluetooth headset at her ear. “Call the front
desk,” she ordered one of her men. “Tell them we’ll be needing the third room in an
hour or so. Tell them we’re very sorry about the mess.”

Nadia began screaming as the door opened and another man rushed to the bed and cuffed
Nadia’s wrists and ankles. Then he propped her up on the bed so she had a spectacular
view of the show.

“You can close your eyes,” the Snow Maiden told Nadia. “But sometimes that’s worse,
because as you listen to her scream, your imagination can conjure up something even
more horrible than what I’m doing to her. Then again, you haven’t seen the things
I’ve seen, and I have a very vivid imagination. Now tell me . . . where’s Daddy?”

“Nadia, please tell her!” cried Joline. “I don’t want to die! Please . . .”

The Snow Maiden traced Joline’s lips with the blade. “Are you listening to her, Nadia?
I’m sure we don’t need to discuss the rules of this game.”

Nadia was already sobbing and barely able to speak. “I . . . I told you. I don’t know
where he is. He didn’t tell me where he was going.”

“And you have no ideas? No guesses?”

“He could be anywhere. Maybe one of the summer homes! Maybe he’s gone to Florida with
his girlfriend. I don’t know!”

“I understand.”

The Snow Maiden ran the knife along Joline’s cheek, drawing a fine line of blood.
Joline began wrenching violently against the agents holding her while Nadia wailed
for the Snow Maiden to stop.

At the same time, one of the Snow Maiden’s men was forced to pin Nadia back to the
bed and hold her while the Snow Maiden chose her second incision on Nadia’s opposite
cheek.

It was hard to describe what she felt while working on the girl. There was something
special as the incisions deepened and the blood began to pool. This was a young woman
who had never been broken. She, like Nadia, had always been flawless, always sitting
on shelves like pieces of pottery to be admired by passersby for their overt beauty—that
was to say, beauty on the surface only.

But to the Snow Maiden, young ladies like this were more beautiful when they were
damaged, more beautiful as they tried to piece themselves back together. The Japanese
had a word for it:
kintsukuroi
—the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and accepting that the piece
is
more
beautiful for having been broken.