Hansen complied but held his blade to the man's throat. Boutin rubbed his hand, took a deep breath, and said, "He came to me with five driver's licenses, and then hours later the names on those licenses were on the news. Five men assaulted. I knew Dayreis was more trouble than he was worth, and I had to suspend my business because of him."

"Marty, you hearing this?" Hansen whispered into his SVT.

Moreau's voice came through the subdermal. "I'm hearing you calling me Marty."

Hansen repressed a snicker and widened his gaze on Boutin. "Do you know where Dayreis is now?"

"He said he had a friend in Tuscany."

"He's not in Tuscany," said Valentina.

Hansen looked at her. "How do you know?"

"Because he had to go see another forger since our friend here ruined his plans. So, monsieur, if you were Dayreis, who would you go see?"

"I don't know."

Valentina sighed loudly for effect. "Give us the name, and you can get back to your TV show."

Boutin closed his eyes. "I would go see Emmanuel Chenevier. He is very good."

"Spell the last name," Valentina ordered.

Boutin did.

"Run that name," Hansen whispered to Moreau.

"On it," snapped Moreau. "Give the old man some money for his door."

Hansen reached into his pocket and produced two hundred euros (about $270). Boutin took the bills and counted. "That door was an antique. I'll need twice as much."

With a snort, Hansen looked to Valentina, who managed to produce another hundred euros. "That's all we have," she said.

"It will have to do," said Boutin. "And you, lady, you are a smart one to ask me about another forger. I think you will find Mr. Dayreis. And when you do, tell him I said hello and that I hope he dies."

"I'm sure he'll be pleased," said Valentina.

Hansen tipped his head toward the door, and they hustled out of the apartment, notifying the others that they were on their way.

MOREAUand Grim were still connected through the Trinity System and watching as Hansen and his team went though a series of maneuvers to discreetly collapse back in on their vehicles. The team was at its most alert now, and Moreau was impressed by how deftly they came together, if not by the fact that Hansen had chosen to park both rental cars in one spot.

"Look at that," said Grim suddenly. "There's someone on the park bench, right there."

"You're not thinking what I'm thinking . . . " Moreau began.

Grim reached out toward a compasslike control and used it to zoom in on the satellite feed, where they glimpsed a bum with a newspaper folded over his head but lying on his side so that he could peer out from beneath it.

"I don't believe it," said Grim. "Look at Kim. She's walking right by him. Thirty feet! I told Sam to keep them close. But not that close!"

As the cars drove away, the bum rose and began photographing them, and, yes, Moreau and Grim made a positive identification of Mr. Sam Fisher, Splinter Cell--the man who was going to bring down Kovac and stop an even bigger threat in one fell swoop.

Grim felt a pang of guilt that she couldn't tell Hansen and the others everything; however, she was even more thankful now that she hadn't. Kovac's man Stingray was close. Too close.

18

DOUCET WAREHOUSE REIMS, FRANCE

HANSENand Moreau had agreed that questioning Emmanuel Chenevier would need to happen in the morning, lest they catch the man in a very foul mood at 1:00 A.M. The team was now driving straight out to Doucet's warehouse to confirm that Fisher had been there and see if there was anything that might indicate his next move. It was a long shot, to be sure, but failing to at least inspect the warehouse would be foolish . . . and Hansen had already made one such mistake.

Taking a tip from Moreau, Hansen made sure that the team parked its rental cars about a quarter mile apart. He should've had them do likewise back at Boutin's apartment, but he was so pumped full of adrenaline that his better judgment had been clouded. Parking the cars together was a tactical error he would not make again. Paying attention to the minutiae kept you alive. Period.

Doucet and his thugs had been living out of a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot Quonset-style warehouse within a mostly deserted industrial park on Reims's west side. Brown and green quilts of tilled fields unfurled to the south and west, dropping off into darkness, with the only significant light coming from the streetlamps dotting the road.

After a quick radio check, the team fanned out. Noboru and Gillespie would descend from the north and set up overwatch. Valentina would advance from the south and cover the loading dock entrance. Hansen and Ames were threading between the buildings just east of the warehouse and would cross to the dock itself and enter through that rear door.

Within two minutes, the calls came in:

"Nathan here. I'm in position. All clear."

"Kim here. Same deal on my side."

"Ben, I'm just behind the white truck near the dock," said Valentina. "There are a few cars parked across the street, but they look empty. I can see a Range Rover and a couple of others. You're clear to go."

"Roger that. Hold positions. Here we come."

Hansen and Ames darted along the building directly east of the warehouse, the sheet-metal walls already growing damp with dew. On three they sprinted across the parking lot, bounded up the stairs to the loading dock, ducked under the blue police tape, and reached the front door.

Hansen covered Ames, who was about to pick the lock when he simply tried the handle: open.

"Nice police work here," Ames said softly. "They didn't even lock up on their way out."

"Works for me," Hansen replied.

Drawing their pistols, they eased into the warehouse and switched on their penlights, illuminating the open spaces in dim shades of red. Off to their right was a living room of sorts, with torn-up couches and recliners positioned around a big flat-screen TV, fifty inches or larger. Nearby sat a DVD player with literally hundreds of movies stacked beside it. Most of the titles were either kung fu flicks or porn. A trash can near one sofa was overflowing with garbage, and a rat scurried off as Hansen caught it with his light.

Directly ahead stood a flight of metal stairs leading up to a loft along which ran a metal railing. "I'm going up. Find me something down here."

"I'm sure I will," said Ames. "Fisher's getting sloppy. I'm telling you. . . ."

Hansen sighed and quickly mounted the staircase. At the top, he moved along the railing, then crossed into the kitchen. Farther back were a breakfast nook and laundry area partially obscured by a makeshift bedsheet divider.

Oddly, the door to the base cabinet under the kitchen sink hung wide-open. Hansen thought about that as his light played over the floor, looking for any signs of blood. Nothing. He moved out of the kitchen and found a bathroom with a simple toilet and sink. Again, his light swept along the floor, where he spotted a tiny sliver of black plastic. He reached down, picked it up, turned it over.

Plastic from what?

Hansen lifted the toilet seat, saw that someone had urinated but not flushed. Urine stains were on the seat and the floor. He thought about that. Then he turned to a door, swung it open, and found that he was in a closet with wall-mounted ladder leading up to a skylight. The warehouse had obviously been a conversion project; thus the closet had been constructed to preserve that roof access, probably for maintenance purposes or even escape in case of a fire.