Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath (28 page)

Fisher rolled his eyes. “You really are a crazy bitch, aren’t you?”

She wriggled her brows. “Come here.”

He leaned toward her. She did smell magnificent. She was beautiful in a terribly sinister
way. His lips did lock onto hers—

But then she grabbed his bottom lip with her teeth and bit down hard, just as Briggs
caught them together.

Fisher cursed and pulled up, his lip beginning to bleed as he gaped at his teammate.

“Everything okay, boss?”

Fisher hesitated. His gaze averted to the Snow Maiden, who lay there, smiling daggers.

37

FISHER,
Briggs, and the Snow Maiden were evacuated from the crash site by a squad of Shammari’s
troops. They remained inside a Humvee parked about a quarter kilometer south of the
train, waiting out the sandstorm. A medic came by and treated Briggs for some lacerations
on his arm and neck. The prince himself drove up and climbed into the passenger’s
seat of the Humvee, then sat with them a moment.

“My security here at the processing station is very effective,” he said. “But we still
have a lot of work to do at the port.”

Fisher wasn’t one to gloat or pretend he had all the answers. He just shrugged. “Too
many leaks, too many bribes. And sometimes you can’t watch everything.”

“But we do our best,” he said.

“Yeah. So it looks like nothing will be flying for a while.” Fisher rapped a knuckle
on the window. “Any chance of us getting a ride to Dubai?”

“My men will take you. But she stays with us.”

“You’d better call your uncle on that. We have orders to take her back.”

Grim had already worked with President Caldwell to ensure that the Snow Maiden did
not leave their custody and would be extradited to the United States. The plan was
to turn her over to CIA officers operating from the Naval Support Activity Bahrain,
Fifth Fleet, in Juffair, Bahrain. The Saudis, of course, weren’t happy about that,
but Caldwell had already negotiated those terms.

Shammari made the call, and his expression changed less than fifteen seconds into
the discussion. “All right, then, I’ll say my good-byes. Safe journey back. And thank
you.”

The prince shielded his face from the wind and returned to his own Humvee. Five minutes
later, a new driver and another troop entered their Humvee with orders to take them
to Dubai. They rumbled off.

Fisher glanced over at the Snow Maiden, whose eyes were closed, head bowed. This was
not resignation, Fisher feared. More like plotting. He never let his guard down. Not
around her.

For just a moment, Fisher caught site of Hammad’s helicopter as the driver headed
northwest across the rutted desert to pick up Highway 615. Fisher had promised the
poor pilot that he wouldn’t die, but now those little girls had lost their father.
These moments, when ordinary citizens rose to the occasion and wound up sacrificing
themselves for the greater good, were the ones that weighed most heavily on him. Fisher
suspected he’d be taking many more helicopter rides in his nightmares, with the reluctant
Hammad at the stick. Being sorry was never enough.

* * *

MORE
than nine hours later, after a refueling stop and a chance to grab something to eat,
they arrived at the airport and were dropped off beside Paladin One’s loading ramp.

“Hey, Fisher!” cried Kobin as he strode toward them. “I finally got some intel on
that Russian agent you’ve been looking for. My guy says . . .” He broke off as Fisher
and Briggs approached with the Snow Maiden cuffed between them. “Aw, fuck, I’m a day
late and a dollar short.”

“Get your crap out of the cell,” Fisher said. “She needs to borrow it for a little
while.”

Kobin’s brows rose as the Snow Maiden faced him. “We can share the cell. I promise
to be good.”

Briggs burst out laughing. “Dude, she’ll tear you apart like a pit bull.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, sweetheart, would you?”

The Snow Maiden glanced at Kobin as though he were her next meal. “Let’s find out.”

* * *

THEY
were still prepping for takeoff, and Fisher was cleaning the sand out of his ears,
when President Caldwell contacted them with an intel update. Fisher rushed from the
infirmary and stood in the control room with the rest of the team.

“I’ve just gotten off the phone with President Treskayev, and he wanted to express
his thanks,” Caldwell began.

“We’ll send him the bill,” said Fisher.

Caldwell nearly grinned. “He claims they’ve arrested nearly a hundred individuals
who they say aided or abetted the oligarchs. Those who they believe masterminded the
plot are still out of the country. He confirmed that Kargin did commit suicide, as
Kasperov reported. In an interesting sidebar, Kargin also left some bank files open
on his computer that suggest he and the others may have been helping to finance the
Blacklist Engineers. I can’t get anything more definitive because they refuse to turn
over the files.”

“So where are these
businessmen
now?” asked Grim.

“Still in hiding, presumably in those foreign capitals with banking systems that help
harbor their assets. Right now, Treskayev has his hands full cleaning out the corruption
in his inner circle. He’s already fired a few career Kremlin underlings who were on
the oligarchs’ payroll and have been complicit in attempting to discredit him. Unfortunately,
the oligarchs themselves have enough money to rent years of delaying tactics from
their newly adopted countries. They’re safe until their money runs out or the national
governments declare them persona non grata.”

Fisher snickered. “We’ve still got more work to do.”

“Madame President, what about the bomb?” Grim asked.

“We flew in the NSA Bahrain, Fifth Fleet, EOD team to dismantle the bomb and take
possession of the uranium, which we only need long enough to sample a fingerprint
of the material. Treskayev’s sending the old heavy cruiser
Admiral Ushakov
to pick up the material in Bahrain. Meanwhile, back here, the FBI has already taken
into custody several individuals involved in the thorium attack. These are Iranian
nationals who claim they worked with a Russian sleeper cell in the United States who
infiltrated security at the storage site to smuggle the C-4 into the thorium shipments.”

“There’s still one more loose end,” said Fisher. “And that’s the virus. Kasperov still
has it, and if we piss him off, he could play that card against us.”

“I know,” said Caldwell. “And I’ve already spoken to him privately about this. The
Office of the National Counterintelligence Executive wants the software turned over
to them. They plan to study it.”

“Has he agreed?” asked Fisher.

“Not yet. I suspect the negotiations will be long on this one. Anyway, I want to thank
you all. We’re in your debt—and don’t think for a minute that we ever forget that.
The work you do is vital to national security, and I’m honored that you’ve all accepted
this important and extremely difficult job. I mean that. And I’ll be in touch.”

The screen went blank, and Fisher faced the team. “I’d like to say something, too.”

Grim looked at him expectantly.

Briggs was waiting.

Charlie’s mouth began to open.

Fisher began to squirm. “Ah, forget it.” He hurried back toward their living quarters.

* * *

THIRTY
minutes later they were at cruising altitude and finally heading back to Virginia.

Kasperov and Fisher were standing near the infirmary door, gazing out across the control
room, where Grim and Briggs stood at the SMI. Nearby, Charlie sat at his station,
showing Ollie and two other analysts diagrams of his early work on the SMI.

“Your team and its mission remind me of a trip I once took,” Kasperov began. “I visited
your CIA headquarters, and I remember the wall of stars, all those heroes with no
public recognition.”

“We don’t do it for that. Or the money.”

“Then why?”

“Because we can. Because somebody has to . . . and it’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s that simple?”

Fisher grinned. “If it were any more complicated, they’d have to find a smarter man
than me.”

“You underestimate yourself, Mr. Fisher.”

“No, I’ve just . . . changed.”

“I guess it’s a brave new world for both of us.”

Fisher beamed. “There was a rumor that one of your bodyguards smuggled some vodka
on board my plane.”

“Rumor? Nonsense. Let’s have a drink!”

Before leaving the control room, Fisher glanced back at his team, at the new Fourth
Echelon.

Yes, he was Sam Fisher. Splinter Cell.

But now he was something even more.

•  •  •

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