"What now?" asked Sergei.

"You didn't delay Hansen. You second-guessed yourself. I told you what we had planned for you in the NSA, and you threw it all away on drinking and whores and feeling guilty about your buddy, who is notyour friend, trust me. You don't have what it takes, and that's why you're not a Splinter Cell. I told them we were wasting our time on you. They didn't believe me. We gave you a second chance, and you blew it."

"Doesn't matter now. Nothing matters."

"Oh, you're wrong. I have new orders. Hansen's not just expendable. The boss wants him dead. I've brought money and a camera. You bring me the proof, and you get paid $250K." Ames opened the suitcase and showed Sergei the stacks of bills.

Sergei stiffened. "You guys were planning this all along. I wasn't just a mole. I'm an assassin."

Ames slapped shut the suitcase. "You wanted to be a field operative. Welcome to the big leagues. And you don't have a choice."

"As a matter of fact, I do." With that, Sergei had a pistol with a long suppressor jammed against Ames's head.

The little weasel didn't flinch. "What's the point? If you kill me, you're only delaying the inevitable. They'll find you."

Sergei began to lose his breath. "Why do we have to kill Hansen? He's just a rookie operative. A nobody."

"Kovac wants him dead. That's enough for me."

"Why?"

"Maybe to punish Grim. Maybe he thinks Hansen is Grim's pet. He's got it in for her. I don't know. I once heard him say that Grim was grooming Hansen to become the next Sam Fisher. Maybe that's why."

"If your boss wants him dead, you do it."

"I can't get close. If he saw me and I failed, it would ruin everything. They've got a lot invested in me."

"So I do your dirty work? What makes you think I won't talk?"

Ames chuckled under his breath. "Come on, Sergei. You're dealing with the most powerful intelligence operation on the planet. Even a man like you has one thing you love more than anything in this world: one . . . woman. And if that woman's life were threatened, you would do anything to protect her. Did you think we would bring you into our fold without knowing everything? When you're little people like us, you do what the big people say. And if they throw you a bone, you take it and run as fast you can."

Sergei began to choke up. His life had come to this. He was just a hired killer. A thug. And he'd been wrong. He had no choice. It didn't matter that Victoria said she no longer loved him. He would love her forever, and as Ames had said, he would never allow anything to happen to her. He could smell her now, her perfume, and he felt her long, blond hair brushing against his cheek and the smooth curves of her back as her lips opened slightly, warm and wet, to touch his.

If he did what they asked, the woman he loved would be saved. He would collect a quarter of a million dollars. And a man that made him green with envy would be dead.

Sergei lowered the pistol.

Ames nodded. "Here's the camera. The money comes back with me. Bring me the video. You tell them Hansen never came back. They'll find his body, it'll be another mess for Third Echelon, and we'll laugh our way to the bank."

"Hansen called. He's on foot. He was coming here, but he decided to double back to the airport."

Ames's smile evaporated. "What?"

"Hansen's been calling me. He's running over to the airport right now. The group's meeting there. Zhao says he has a surprise for them."

"This is . . . unexpected. We'll leave my car here. Drive!"

Sergei nodded and threw the car in gear. They roared away from the petrol station, and for a moment he glanced over at Ames and, with a shudder, imagined himself putting a bullet in the mole's head.

Maybe he would.

HANSENhad been running for about ten minutes, heading past groups of old houses whose icy roofs glistened in the night. He followed a rickety old fence that cordoned off an open field, and he suspected that the occupants of the two cars, well ahead on the road about a quarter kilometer to his right, couldn't see him. The airport lay farther northeast, not far from the water tower and another collection of buildings, the tallest of which was an old Eastern Orthodox church, the three-bar cross casting a deep silhouette against the gray clouds.

"Ben, Sergei's car has left the gas station and is headed toward the airport," reported Grim.

"And the other car?"

"Still parked there."

"Any idea who it is?"

"Trying to check now, but we didn't get a tag. He's got it under the awning, and we can't get a good shot."

"Why isn't Sergei answering me?"

"Not sure, and, quite frankly, I wouldn't trust him at this point."

"Don't write him off yet. Maybe we were being tailed, and he took out the guy. Maybe he's just got a problem with his OPSAT."

"From our end his OPSAT looks fine. Anyway, just get to the airport. We need to see Zhao's surprise. . . ."

"Roger that. I'm on it."

"And one more thing. Don't forget to breathe."

Hansen grinned to himself and jogged on across the snow. As he turned toward the church, the wind and swirling snow began buffeting him head-on.

He spotted another fence about a hundred meters ahead, charged toward it, crouched over, and ran along to the corner. There he climbed over and found himself in a small cemetery behind the church. Gnarled and seemingly ancient trees ringed the perimeter, theirs limbs bowing and creaking against gusts reaching at least thirty miles an hour. About two dozen grave markers sprouted up from mounds of snow, with pieces of wind-whipped ice tumbling from their granite tops. The scent of burning wood wafted everywhere now, as the flames in fireplaces farther north were stoked against the oncoming cold.

Hansen reached the church's back door and found it spanned by yellow warning tape and signs: The place had been closed because of a roof collapse. He shifted around the side of the building, saw the airport and Quonset huts ahead; then he stopped and glanced up at the steeple. An oval-shaped window was positioned just below an ornate clock with a diameter of at least two meters. Hansen glanced once more down to the airport, then up at the steeple. The angle looked good, so he raced around the back, got to work on the lock, and gained entrance.

The west side of the church appeared untouched, with pews lined up before an ornate altar whose walls had stained-glass windows and holy icons of the saints and large wrought-iron sconces. Giant murals spanned the domed ceiling, and the smell of incense was still pungent.

Off to the right, lying in sharp contrast, was a disaster of fallen cross members and drywall and shingles, along with pieces of the ceiling's amazing artwork scattered in sad piles all over the pews. It seemed the parishioners and others had just started on the cleanup work, and above it all was a gaping maw in the ceiling. Pieces of insulation and loosened shingles still attached to the ragged edges flapped in the wind, and the snow was already piling up inside.

Hansen picked his way around the debris and found a side door that led into a stairwell barely wide enough for one person. He rose straight up the steep staircase, crinkling his nose at the scent of sweet-smelling incense that was even stronger here.

At the top he found a small door, which was open, and he moved into a room with a creaking wooden floor that allowed access up and into the back of the clock, whose steady ticking was at once comforting and annoying. The window he'd seen from outside was there, but heavy wooden shutters sealed it from the inside. He unlatched and tugged open one of the shutters, and the entire piece of wood came off in his hands. He swore, set it down, then removed his backpack and got out his glass-cutting kit with suction-cup handle and blade. He etched a rectangle about twelve inches square in the single pane of glass, then affixed the suction cup, gave a tap, and eureka! The cold rushed inside. He set down the glass, then peered out across the courtyard to the airport and huts, which lay 221.6 meters away, according to the map on his OPSAT's screen.