“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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Tom Clancy, Blacklist Aftermath
(Series: # )
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