What troubled her most, though, was the stereotypical dismissal given to her by her peers when she'd attended Rollins College to get a degree in political science with an aim toward doing something in the government. Her colleagues couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that a woman with her looks wanted to do something with her brains instead of her boobs. Her own roommate told her, "You're either a beauty or a geek. Don't try to be both. You could get a job as a stripper and make more in a few months than you'll make in a year as a lawyer."

There were darker days when she'd stand in front of the mirror, put a knife to her cheek, and wonder what the scar would look like, how it might change their perception of her. She'd trace a line down from the corner of her eye, across her cheek, then wind it down beneath her chin. Yet the scar would just draw pity, and they still wouldn't see her as smart. The dumb-blond jokes would keep coming. What do you call a dead blonde in a closet? The 1986 hide-and-seek world champion. Hilarious. The injustice of that stereotype annoyed her so much that she'd developed a rant she'd often unleash on her dates.

All of which underscored the fact that when Hansen told her to go into Leonard's office and seduce him, she'd died a little more inside. The degree from Rollins meant nothing. The three years she'd spent at the NSA as an intelligence analyst--demonstrating her understanding of world history, geography, and the social, economic, and political events that affected global change--were a waste of time. That she had been recruited from her desk job by Irving Lambert himself and somehow survived the Third Echelon training program didn't mean a goddamned thing.

She was a pair of boobs and legs.

Why couldn't she get past that? Just use her looks to her advantage, allow men to let down their guards as they dreamed of doing likewise with their flies. Why would they take her seriously only when she had a pistol jammed into their temples? Oh, yes, they were shocked that the dumb blonde, the piece of ass, was a whole lot smarter than they'd thought, so smart, in fact, that they would now lose their lives to her, and she wouldn't give them a second thought because, like all the rest, they couldn't see past the flesh. Damn it,she had to stop letting that bother her. She needed to empower herself. But how was she supposed to do that when it was all about the team now? You couldn't just throw an "I" in front of "team" and get some trendy word that meant she was suddenly more important than the rest and should take credit and be recognized as a highly intelligent woman. . . .

Was she bitter? Oh, God, don't get her started.

Valentina looked down and realized she was clutching her armrest. She took a deep breath, then finished the rest of her champagne in one gulp.

To accommodate onboard meetings, the seats were arranged in pairs and facing one another. She sat beside Hansen, and they faced Ames and Noboru, both of whom were scanning maps on their laptops. Gillespie had opted to take a seat behind them but had turned around and pushed up on her knees like a curious kid in coach staring over the top of her seat at the people behind her.

On the way to the airport, Moreau had gone over the particulars: The Police municipale had received an anonymous tip that a man named Francois Dayreis was responsible for a brutal assault in a warehouse on the outskirts of Reims the night before. Five men had been severely beaten by a lone perpetrator, their IDs stolen. The story had made the local news and the Police nationale was now working with Interpol and the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence, France's FBI, to apprehend the criminal. The six victims were Romain Doucet, Georges Blandin, Avent Quenten, Pierre Allard, Andre Canivet, and Louis Royer. Doucet, it turned out, was a local thug and head of a gang that had intimidated his neighborhood, subsequently keeping him well stocked with alibis. However, he had nearly been implicated in the rape of a fifteen-year-old girl, and that, Moreau had said, took him to an even deeper level of hell. That Dayreis had pounded the crap out of these thugs was vigilante justice, no doubt.

That Francois Dayreis was a known alias of Sam Fisher's had everyone at Third Echelon on the edges of their seats. Consequently, Delta Sly had some things to do and people to see.

Since IDs had been stolen, Moreau had consulted a list of high-end forgers known to Third Echelon, and the name Abelard Boutin was not only at the top of that list but his apartment was located not far from the incident.

"I have a few ideas on how to set up overwatch outside Boutin's place," said Ames, glancing up from his computer.

"Can I stop you right there?" said Gillespie from her perch behind the seat. "If Sam went to see the forger, then he did so deliberately. He doesn't make mistakes like that."

"Oh, and you're the Sam Fisher expert because he spent, what, about two weeks of his life training you?" asked Ames. "The guy's getting old . . . and he's old school. He's stressed out. He'll make mistakes."

"Sam Fisher, stressed out? Are we talking about the same Sam Fisher, the guy who also trained you?"

"The world's changed. Sam knows that. And maybe he can't deal with it anymore."

"Wow, that's all heady and philosophical and--"

"Kim, what're you trying to say?" asked Valentina.

"I'm saying I don't like this. I'm saying that maybe Nathan was on to something when he asked Moreau why we were picked for this job. Maybe they didn't want operators with more experience because we're not supposed to capture Sam."

"Oh, don't give me that BS," said Ames. "We're new. We're unconventional. We're unpredictable. That's why we got picked."

"I have to agree with that," said Hansen. "But it does worry me that Fisher confided in Boutin and the man turned on him so quickly."

"Maybe they trusted each other, but Fisher screwed him over somehow, and he turned," said Valentina.

Hansen sighed. "That's a possibility."

"Sam went to the forger because he knew the guy would talk. He wants us to come to France," said Gillespie.

"Oh, yeah?" asked Ames. "Why? So you can sleep with him again?"

Everyone fell silent. Valentina blinked. A mental switch was thrown. And suddenly she burst from her seat and threw herself on the little bastard, wrapping her fingers around his throat. "Haven't you had enough with that mouth? Haven't you had enough!"

Hands dropped onto her shoulders and wrenched her away from Ames, who panted and cried, "I'm just getting started, baby!" He cocked a thumb over his shoulder at Gillespie. "You don't see her getting all upset. Why? Because it's a fact! Maybe we ought to get that out in the open right here!"

Gillespie lowered her gaze and shook her head. "You bastard."

Ames pushed himself up and turned to Gillespie. "They need to know--because you could compromise this mission."

"I don't want to go there," snapped Hansen. But then he glanced up at Gillespie. "But did yougo there?"

"Tell him, Kim. We don't have a choice," said Ames. "She slept with him. She's got feelings for him."

"I don't have feelings," cried Gillespie.

"Kim, you really slept with him?" asked Valentina.

Gillespie moaned through a sigh. "I'm an idiot, okay? It was months after he trained me. He was in a bad place, and I took advantage of that. He didn't want to . . . but I . . . I just . . . I don't know what happened."

Hansen pursed his lips, thought for a moment, then swore under his breath. "When we get to Paris, Kim, you stay on the plane. You'll fly back. I'll tell Grim. We can't have you here."