"Excellent work so far, Ben. We see you've tagged Murdoch's car, and we're also monitoring the signal. The road out to Korfovka is, in a word, rural, so keep your distance, lights off."

"No problem, ma'am."

"Grim will do. Or Grim Reaper--as I've heard some of you call me behind my back."

"No, ma'am. I mean Grim. I mean--"

"Ben, listen carefully. I've had my eyes on the satellite feeds. Two cars arrived in Korfovka earlier today. We ID'd Bratus and Zhao, and they've just driven from a small restaurant to a pub on the east end of town. Take a look."

The OPSAT screen switched from the V-TRAC indicator's multicolored map of the territory to a satellite image, zooming in on a row of single-story buildings, outside of which were parked two late-model sedans. The level of detail was, as always, remarkable.

"Bratus and Zhao are inside, waiting for Murdoch," Grim added.

"I need more pictures of the place--the roof, the rear entrance."

"Working on it."

"Anything else I should know?"

"There's a storm front moving in. Should be blizzard conditions in three, four hours, which leads me to believe that this meeting will be short, so you'll need to get in there as quickly as possible."

"Roger that."

"All right, more pictures of the pub coming through now. Saving to your OPSAT. I'll be here if you need me."

"Thanks, Grim."

Hansen tapped Sergei's shoulder and handed him the trifocal goggles that had become synonymous with Splinter Cell operations.

Sergei shook his head. "Don't torture me, Ben. I'm not good enough to wear them. They made that very clear."

"Put 'em on. Lights out." Hansen's tone left zero room for argument.

After groaning in disgust, Sergei accepted the goggles, slipped them over his head, then switched off the car's headlights. Hansen returned to studying the new images glowing on his OPSAT screen.

7

EN ROUTE TO KORFOVKA, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

HANSENand Sergei took highway M-60 out of Vladivostok, passing into the city of Ussuriysk, situated on the Rasdolnaya River, about ninety-eight kilometers north of the hotel. Then they turned onto A-184 out of Ussuriysk and made a left turn onto A-186, heading west toward Korfovka. There wasn't much to see beyond the windows, especially with the lights out--just stretches of a barren valley blanketed in ice and snow. Only a few other cars passed them on the road, and the driver of a small truck flashed his lights to warn them theirs were off. "It's okay, buddy," Sergei had muttered. "I can see you just fine."

They were on A-186 for just a few minutes when Grim called to say there were two cars traveling about a half kilometer behind them.

Hansen told Sergei, "Grim thinks we might have a tail."

"What do you think?"

"Two cars. Hard to say."

"Better safe than sorry, right? I'll take care of them after I drop you off."

"But do me a favor. Don't wind up in Khabarovsk."

"Have you seen the ladies up there?"

Hansen snickered. "What's your plan? To come home with a Russian wife?"

"Worse things could happen."

"As a matter of fact they could."

AMEShad finished answering the hotel security man's questions and had explained that he'd been sitting there, observing the lobby, because he thought his wife was having an affair and he wanted to catch her in the act. Svetlanoff and his muscle-head partner chuckled and made a comment about Ames's diminutive size in multiple areas and suggested that his wife wouldn't be cheating on him if he were man enough to satisfy her. Ames knew they were just trying to provoke him so they could detain him even longer, maybe even slap him around a little, so he quickly agreed with them, apologized, and was summarily released.

Instead of punishing himself for the rookie mistake of drawing the security man's attention, he got back to work. There'd be plenty of time later to bang his head against a wall. He hired a taxi to follow him to Korfovka, though the driver had a difficult time understanding why he should do so when Ames had his own car. "Are we picking up a large number of people? Are we hauling cargo? Because I do not haul cargo, only suitcases and bags." Ames paid him double, in advance, and the questions ceased.

Now, as they headed up the bumpy road, he imagined Grim sitting there in the situation room, wired on caffeine and watching the stream from her satellites. He even felt her electronic gaze on his shoulders. He glanced up and thought, Don't worry, my dear Reaper. It's only me, come to fog up your lenses. You really should switch to contacts. . . .

He grinned. What a witty bastard he was. Ah . . .He took a breath, reached into his pocket, and found his Zippo. He began rolling it between his fingers, growing more relaxed as he imagined a warm yellow light engulfing him.

Lying on the passenger's seat was a digital video camera and a suitcase containing $250,000 in small, unmarked bills--part of plan B, in case Hansen made it to Korfovka.

" WE ' REalmost there," said Sergei. "There's a little petrol station up ahead. About two blocks from the pub. I can drop you off out back. I'll let the other cars go by and follow them for a while. I'll be in touch."

Hansen took in a long breath. "Sounds good."

"You all right?"

"Yeah."

"You sound nervous. I would be, too. First real mission as a Splinter Cell."

Hansen took another long breath and nodded.

"All right, Murdoch has just pulled up to the pub," Grim said. "You'd better move!"

Hansen gave the order to Sergei, who tugged off his goggles and returned them to Hansen. They pulled behind the petrol station, a very modest-sized building with a long red awning and two ancient-looking pumps. The place was closed. Hansen gave himself the once-over, slid on his goggles, then said, "Here goes nothing."

Sergei smiled weakly. "Good luck."

In one quick motion, Hansen was out of the car and running down the long alley between the first row of buildings. If Korfovka had a downtown district, this was it: perhaps fifteen structures in all, with a small water tower to the northeast. A private airport lay out in that direction as well, with several Quonset hangars and a helipad lying adjacent to the single airstrip.

With the night vision switched on, Hansen kept to the deep shadows, working his way north toward the pub. To his west lay small clusters of old houses, with every third or so looking boarded up and abandoned. Most of the roofs sagged under the weight of heavy snow. Only then did he realize how cold it was getting, but the suit began to compensate. An electric current ran through his senses as he remembered who he was, what he was doing, and what this moment meant to him. All he had to do was get the information and get out. No footprints.

He reached the corner of the next building, and, on his haunches, peered around the side to the main street. In the distance came the sound of car engines, and he hoped Sergei was still hiding behind the petrol station and watching those cars go by. Hansen darted off, running now with some impunity, the alley still clear. One more side street to cross before he reached the pub. He had to guard his steps, though, as his boot hit a patch of ice and he nearly went down. To fall and break his leg en route to the location would not only ruin the mission, it would make him the laughing-stock of Third Echelon. The others would spend long nights inventing nicknames for him. There would be no living it down.