Blacklist Aftermath

  With a shudder of hope, he found an opening barely wide enough to squeeze through. He handed his crossbow and quiver to Briggs, pulled himself about two meters through it, then reached back and accepted the weapons. Briggs pulled himself through, and Fisher helped him down. Small miracle. They’d bridged the tunnel collapse.

  Yet they both coughed even more now, and the air seemed much thinner.

  “I’m getting a headache,” said Briggs.

  “Let’s go,” Fisher urged him, feeling his own head rage with drummers and cymbal crashers.

  Briggs took a few steps forward, then thrust out his hand for balance, barely finding the wall before he fell. “Dizzy, too.”

  Intel on the mine said that symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning included headache, dizziness, weakness, nausea, vomiting, chest pain, and confusion—all from an odorless, colorless gas, a silent and elusive killer, the chemical version of one Sam Fisher.

  “We need to get out of here,” he cried. “Come on, run!”

  They started forward, but not five steps later the ground quaked again.

  Gasping, Fisher turned his gaze up to the ceiling, where a crack had opened and began splintering into more cracks, the webs threatening to pry apart the crossbars and buckle the supporting girders to their left and right.

  The first explosion must’ve weakened the tunnel in this section. Fisher was no engineer, no seasoned miner, but he determined that if they didn’t reach the far end of the tunnel in the next few breaths, their deaths, wakes, funerals, and burials would occur with drive-thru expediency. At least Grim would save a few bucks on the flowers.

  Briggs picked up the pace as shards of rock began plummeting behind them. The ceiling began to give way in a timpani roll of thunder that Fisher imagined would consume them whole.

  Helmet lights were flashing at the far end, and Fisher picked up the pace, struggling up beside Briggs, who was beginning to falter.

  “Almost there,” he urged the man, his voice strangely thin and unrecognizable.

  With a terrific boom the rest of the ceiling collapsed, spitting forward a huge dust cloud that knocked both of them down onto their hands and knees.

  The ground shook again, and Fisher tucked his face back into his parka for a few breaths.

  When he glanced over at Briggs, the man was lying flat on his belly and unconscious. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. His cheeks caved in.

  There were few feelings in the world that Fisher despised more than helplessness. Being in control gave him a sense of peace and security, a sense of place and purpose.

  But damn it, they couldn’t fight if they couldn’t breathe. He fell forward, smiting a fist on the ground.

  No, this couldn’t be it. Not here, not now, not like this.

  He thought he would vomit, but the darkness came first.

  * * *

  “WHAT are you afraid of?”

  Fisher wasn’t sure who was asking the question, but the voice sounded strangely like his own.

  “I’m afraid that everything I’ve done with my life will mean nothing. I’m afraid of losing my daughter again. I’m afraid of being a terrible father.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What about death?”

  “No. I’m only afraid for my friends . . . for Sarah.”

  The sun was in his eyes, and he was no longer pinned against a mantle of stars. The world spun chaotically for a moment, and his head throbbed.

  He gasped and bolted upright, his senses failing him at first. Then . . . the nausea returned.

  Opening his eyes to slits, he stared at the woman floating over him, her face out of focus then slowly, inevitably, growing distinct. Wild black hair. Chapped lips.

  The Snow Maiden.

  23

  MAJOR Viktoria Kolosov smirked at the two Americans she��d been tracking since they’d escaped from Sochi.

  She’d been unable to find anything on the taller, older one, but there was some intel on the black man who’d shot her in the arm, a former CIA paramilitary spec ops officer, surname Briggs, thus it was no stretch to assume that the other operator was a spy as well.

  Judging from the looks on their faces, they’d thought she’d given up. What did they know about her resolve? Her tenacity?

  Very little back then. Very much right now.

  She’d used Nadia’s chip to track them from Sochi to Bichvinta to Trabzon, and then back to Incirlik Air Base, where the signal from the chip had been cut off. It was there that she’d called upon an SVR agent operating within the base. He reported the transfer of a young woman from a C-17 to a private charter jet. That would be Nadia, whisked off to the United States, the chip removed from her back. She was a total loss now; however, the agents who’d captured her were, she believed, still on Kasperov’s trail, and she needed to follow them. That Nadia had been taken to the C-17 first instead of the base intrigued the Snow Maiden, and so she followed up on that aircraft.

  Where was it headed next? She needed to review the flight plan, and yes its pilots would file one. No matter how clandestine the plane or its mission, clearances needed to be granted so that the aircraft wasn’t mistaken for a hostile and engaged by antiaircraft guns or attacked by fighter jets. The Americans could lie all they wanted about the plane’s true identity but not its course, especially if it planned to fly through other governments’ airspace.

  The government of Turkey required a flight plan six hours prior to takeoff, although special permissions were granted for some military and diplomatic aircraft, allowing them to file just an hour or two prior, or even just after takeoff.

  Using the C-17’s tail numbers, her contact at Incirlik had learned that a Diplomatic Overflight Permit had been issued to the C-17 by the government of Brazil. He’d also discovered that a similar permit had been issued to the same aircraft by the government of Peru. In fact, Peru required a Non-scheduled Overflight Permit and a Non-scheduled Landing Permit. That landing permit disclosed the plane’s ultimate destination: Juliaca.

  The GRU was not without its own assets, and the Snow Maiden was able to catch a flight aboard a GRU owned and operated Gulfstream G650 out of nearby Adana Airport. While en route, she received help treating her gunshot wound from the attendant (clean entry and exit, no major complications). She arrived in Juliaca nearly two hours before the C-17 without refueling and flying literally on fumes. Following the agents up to La Rinconada had not been difficult. She’d hitched a ride aboard a mining truck that had left only a few minutes after the two men had departed in their pickup truck. She’d bought a Bible at the airport and clutched it as though she were a Christian missionary, a missionary with 9mm and .40-caliber pistols tucked under her arms and more than one thousand dollars in American greenbacks jammed in her pockets.

  Her reports back to Izotov were fragmented. New lead, leaving Sochi. Following up. What about the girl, he’d asked. No reply . . .

  If she reported Nadia’s loss, they’d come for her. Izotov’s assistants were already trying to reach her regarding the deaths of the FSB agents.

  It was better now to overlook the losses and keep focused on Kasperov. If she brought him back, losing the girl would mean nothing.

  She was close now. Closer than ever.

  * * *

  “SAM, we’ve got a corporate chopper taking off, heading up to the mine,” said Charlie. “Just the pilot and copilot on board.”

  While the kid’s voice buzzed through his subdermal, the words seemed unintelligible at first as Fisher focused once more on the Snow Maiden, who was now holding a suppressed pistol to his head. He glanced over at Briggs, who was lying on his side. His eyelids fluttered open.

  Fisher sat up and blinked hard. They were outside another mining entrance. It appeared that she’d dragged them out with the help of
several ruddy-faced young men who where standing behind her, counting U.S. banknotes—tens and twenties. There were no security men, no bosses, just this small group and the Snow Maiden, and they, too, were all hidden from view by a line of parked bulldozers to their immediate left. His pistol, crossbow, trifocals, and OPSAT were gone. He wasn’t sure about his karambit, but he wasn’t reaching back for it. Not yet.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, her English heavily accented but discernable.

  Fisher averted his gaze and muttered, “Grim, if you can hear me, we might be needing a little help.”

  Suddenly, the Snow Maiden hunkered down and ripped the SVT patch from his throat. “What’s your name?”

  “My name’s Sam,” he said in Russian.

  She switched to Russian. “Who was the man you were chasing?”

  “My daddy.”

  “Answer me!”

  Fisher widened his eyes. “You want to find Kasperov, right?”

  “You know where he is?”

  “That guy we were chasing . . . did he get away?”

  She nodded.

  “Then there’s no time. We need to go!”

  She snorted. “We need to go? I don’t think so.” She pressed the suppressor against his forehead. “Where is Kasperov?”

  Fisher narrowed his gaze. “I know who you are, Snegurochka. I’ve heard all about you.”

  “Then you know this conversation will not end well.”

  “Not for you.”

  She leaned in closer and brought a hand up to his chin. “You look tired. You look . . . broken. You’ve been doing this too long.”

  “Or not long enough.”

  “Where is Kasperov? You tell me now, otherwise I’ll cut you slow, the way I cut Nadia’s friend.” In her other hand she now gripped his karambit. Well that answered the question regarding his knife.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “You mean besides my new friends here?” She gestured back to the miners.

  “Yeah.”

  “If you know all about me, then you know I brought an army.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “I have comrades posted throughout the entire city, with another twenty people back in Juliaca. Not only will we capture Kasperov, but I’ll be bringing you two back with me. Three prizes in one day. And, of course, I’ll be interrogating you myself.” She ran the tip of the karambit across Fisher’s cheek, not deep enough to cut him but with a promise that she would.

  “That sounds like a date. Can we go now?”

  “You really are in a hurry.”

  “We need to go.”

  “How many bodyguards does he have?”

  Fisher cursed. “Look, we’ve got no time. He’s on the run right now.”

  Briggs sat up now, glanced back to the miners, and spoke rapidly in Spanish: “She’s a Russian spy. We’ll double what she gave you. Think about it.”

  “Show me the money,” said one of the miners.

  Briggs grimaced and said, “I got five hundred bucks in my pocket. He’s got even more.”

  “They’re lying,” cried the Snow Maiden.

  “I promise we have the money,” said Briggs.

  “Hey,” Fisher cried, regaining the Snow Maiden’s attention. He steeled his voice. “Coming after us was your first mistake.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Letting us live was your second.”

  She chuckled under her breath.

  “Trying to hold two weapons on me at once? Well, that was your third.”

  As he was speaking, Fisher was already visualizing his maneuver the way great athletes visualized their victories before even competing.

  His arms came up in the sweeping, poetic movements of an Olympic swimmer, seizing the Snow Maiden’s pistol with one hand and forcing it away from his head while he grabbed the wrist of her knife hand and drove it back. That must’ve been the arm where she’d been shot, as her struggle was much weaker on that side.

  Briggs needed no cue, no orders. He was already rushing behind the Snow Maiden to put her in one of their now well-practiced blood chokes.

  Her reflexes took over, her hand involuntarily flexing, and she fired a round into the air while Briggs applied more pressure.

  To Fisher’s surprise, one of the miners, the tallest, rushed over and dug fingers into the Snow Maiden’s grip, prying free the karambit, which tumbled to the slush-covered ground. Seeing this, Fisher placed both of his hands on her pistol and began wrestling it free. He managed to squeeze his fingers up, above hers, and pressed the magazine release button. The magazine tumbled from the handle. She still clutched the gun, but now she only had one round in the chamber.

  With a guttural hiss, the Snow Maiden reached up and tried to claw Briggs’s face, even as Fisher tore the pistol from her grip, the force nearly knocking him onto his rump.

  The Snow Maiden slipped her legs behind Briggs’s ankles and suddenly tripped him back, onto the ground, the impact breaking his hold on her.

  Even as Fisher brought the pistol around, the Snow Maiden was rolling backward, launching herself into a reverse somersault and landing on her boots.

  She gasped, her face and neck flushed, a weird grin splitting her lips. “Pull the trigger,” she urged him. “And don’t worry, the round won’t explode in the chamber.”

  Fisher glanced at the pistol and the red LED light just beneath the hammer. Damn, it was electronically keyed only to her.

  “Maybe the knife?” she suggested, glancing toward the blade half covered in mud.

  Fisher looked to the miners. “Double what she paid you,” he said in Spanish.

  The tall one nodded.

  And at once, Fisher, Briggs, and all four miners surrounded and pounced on the Snow Maiden.

  It took two miners to hold down each of her wrists, with Briggs fighting to maintain his grip on her ankles while Fisher produced several sets of zipper cuffs from his parka’s inner pocket and quickly bound her wrists and ankles. She fought against them as if they were priests trying to perform an exorcism, screaming and cursing in Russian.

  “Charlie says the chopper’s five minutes out,” said Briggs. “Gotta be for Kasperov.”

  “I need a car,” Fisher told the tallest miner in Spanish.

  “I have one,” the man said in English.

  “And our gear? Pistols, a crossbow? Some night-vision goggles and big watches?”

  “She put them in a bag over there.”

  “I need them back.”

  “Okay. You’re Americans, yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “CIA?”

  Fisher shook his head. “Your English is good. Can we get moving?”

  “Sorry. Come with me.”

  Fisher turned back and hollered, “Briggs, search her! See if she’s got our phones.”

  “Already did, here!” He tossed Fisher his smartphone. “Weird thing is, she only had our phones. Nothing else. No way to contact her people.”

  Fisher shrugged. “Okay, get her down to the helipad. I’ll meet you there.”

  He took off running after the miner.

  24

  AFTER collecting their gear, Fisher followed the man down along a steep dirt path to a narrow service road lacing its way up the mountain. A broken string of cars was parked along the embankment, some owned by the workers, others by the supervisors and machine operators, the miner explained. He was lucky enough to afford a small four-cylinder sedan because before coming up to La Rinconada he’d been an attorney in Arequipa, but his practice had suffered greatly after a corruption scandal involving one of his partners. Fisher couldn’t believe that a man with his education would resort to the crapshoot of the mines, but he assured Fisher that many
of the workers had once been professionals in the cities before they’d fallen on hard times. The temptation of quick money was too great to resist.

  He said his name was Hector and admitted that he’d heard a rumor about the rich Russian who’d returned to the city. They said he was beginning work on his humanitarian project. They hadn’t seen him yet, but they had followed his bodyguards, wondering if any of them would be robbed. Hector did not know where Kasperov was, but he did know the swiftest route to the helipad located just outside the city, lying on a small plateau.

  Fisher paid him a hundred dollars for his help—a meager amount that would go a long way in Peru—and the man surprised him by saying that he would’ve helped without the money but that yes, he would accept it. His two sons had moved to the Salinas Valley in California, and he had a place in his heart for all Americans, whom he had said had shown his sons the love and support they needed. In barely five minutes Fisher knew this miner’s life story, and he couldn’t help but be moved.

  Now, as they neared the helipad, a speck appeared in the sky, and as they slowed, Fisher thrust his head out the window and shielded his face from the glare.

  The chopper was a twin-engine AgustaWestland AW139 with four windows on each side of the fuselage and seating for a dozen or more, Fisher estimated. This helo wasn’t the over-the-top rich man’s transport and was painted in a rather subdued white and gray, but neither was it a flying rust bucket.

  A dust cloud appeared in the car’s side-view mirror, where Fisher watched the approach of two mining company SUVs, which turned to reveal company logos on the doors. It seemed Kasperov was receiving a well-protected send-off from the mining bosses who’d scored some easy money from the oligarch.

  Fisher told Hector to pull off the road about thirty meters from the helipad. He thought a moment, then cursed and removed his pistols, leaving them and the crossbow on the floor before he got out.

  “No matter what happens, you just sit here, okay?” he asked Hector.