"You want him to escape?" cried Hansen.

"You're damned right!"

Hansen snorted. "Unbelievable."

Abruptly, Fisher's car backed up toward the center guardrail, tires smoking as his rear bumper thudded hard against the heavy steel.

"What's he doing now?" Hansen asked.

"Oh, no," said Gillespie. "No. He can't. . . ."

It seemed as though every driver on the bridge, no matter the lane, was now tapping his or her car horn, and even through closed windows the racket was nothing short of remarkable, an atonal chorus carried on the wind.

Hansen braked hard as those ahead of him did likewise, and just a hundred yards beyond was Fisher, throwing it into drive now and leaving twin smoke trails behind him as the powerful BMW barreled directly toward the opposite guardrail. . . .

And into the murky depths of the Rhine River below.

"You got to be kidding me!" cried Moreau.

Gillespie leaned toward the windshield. "Oh, my God!"

Hansen held his breath.

The rail was scarcely taller than a meter, as was the abutting suicide-prevention hurricane fencing, and neither was a match for the BMW's broad front bumper and its five-hundred-plus-horsepower engine.

The car horns faded, and for just a few seconds, all Hansen could hear was the drumming of his heart.

Then, abruptly, the screeching of metal on metal made him shudder.

With widening eyes, Hansen watched as Third Echelon's most lethal and effective Splinter Cell crashed his car through the rail--and in a moment as surreal as any, a moment in which time slowed and he seemed to watch it all from God's point of view--the car arced in the air, then pitched forward and began its fifty-foot descent toward the unforgiving water below.

34

RAIFFEISEN BRIDGE, GERMANY

HANSENcouldn't help himself and was out of the Mercedes, running between the lines of parked cars toward the section of bridge where Fisher had blasted through. He reached the edge, clutched a jagged piece of metal, and with a throng of other bystanders, stared down as the shattered rear bumper of Fisher's BMW vanished beneath the foam like a torpedoed ocean liner.

And then, as the gasps and murmurs continued around Hansen, the water grew still, and the waves began to settle. Hansen held his breath and waited for a head to pop up from the brown water.

Moreau was already calling him back on the subdermal and telling Noboru to turn around and get his car the hell out of there because the police were rushing toward the bridge.

Noboru hadn't yet entered the bridge ramp and was able to comply, but as Hansen reluctantly started back, a horde of cops came rushing forward. Several passed him, but one stopped and questioned him quickly in German, stating that they knew two Mercedes sedans were following the BMW.

Hansen told the man they'd seen the maniac in the BMW and had been chasing him, trying to keep him in sight until the police arrived. The guy had cut off Hansen and had caused front-end damage to Hansen's rental car. Hansen admitted to a little road rage, and the cop told him to return to his car and wait, that he'd be back to ask more questions. Hansen did so, but the cop never returned.

Gillespie buried her head in her hands, and neither Hansen nor Moreau said a word as they followed the long line of traffic over the bridge and around the crash scene.

After a few minutes, Hansen called Noboru and told him to meet up near the airport. They'd get a hotel and wait to find out more about Fisher, staying well clear of the bridge. Hansen couldn't wipe the frown off his face. What the hell had Fisher done?

Finally, Gillespie looked up and said, "He's still alive. I know it."

"He could have lost us on the other side of the bridge," said Hansen. "I don't know, Kim. I got a look at him before he got in that car, and--"

"And what? He looked suicidal?"

"I don't know. He looked troubled. But it doesn't make any sense."

"He got away," she insisted. "I'm telling you. He got away."

Hansen sighed, feeling helpless to console her. "I'm sorry. Maybe you're right. Or maybe he overestimated his chances. I think we need to be realistic. He's a ballsy guy, but driving off a bridge? Man, that's insane."

Moreau took in a long breath. "If I had to bet on it, I'd say he drowned."

THEYbooked a few rooms at the Holiday Inn just north of the airport and waited while Moreau and Gillespie monitored police communications and checked back with the NSA via the Trinity System.

The local news stations were all over the story, and Hansen sat on the sofa, watching and shaking his head. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, Fisher had had enough and had decided to go out with a bang, or a splash, as it were. Given their line of work, the stress, and what Fisher's life had become, it wasn't unreasonable to assume that he'd grown depressed, perhaps tired of running, of mercenary work, of everything. Hansen suddenly blurted out, "Maybe Fisher killed himself."

"I'm sure he did," Ames responded, quick to jump on the Fisher-bashing bandwagon. "That old man was a coward who murdered his boss. Then he becomes a two-bit merc, gets bummed out, and offs himself when he knows we're going to bust his ass. What a freaking loser. I wish he were here right now so I could tell him to his face."

It was a good thing Gillespie had left the room to get a drink and hadn't heard that, Hansen thought, otherwise Ames would by lying on the floor with a woman's nails sunk about an inch into his neck.

However, she wasn't the only one who'd take issue with Ames's assessment. Moreau rose slowly from his desk and loomed over Ames, who was seated in one of the reclining chairs, sipping a bottle of beer. "You have no idea who you're talking about. And if you ever become one-tenth of the man Sam Fisher was, then you might make a name for yourself in this community. Do you get that, Mr. Ames?"

Ames rose and had to look up into Moreau's eyes. "You don't intimidate me, old man. And I thought you liked me."

"I did. But then I spent more than five minutes around you."

"Hey, man, give me an hour, and you'll be suicidal yourself." Ames chuckled under his breath and returned to his seat.

"What do you think, Moreau?" Hansen asked. "You think he did it? You think Fisher killed himself?"

"Not intentionally. But if he survived that little Olympic swan dive into the Rhine, I'll buy the man a steak dinner."

"You all keep talking like he's a hero," said Ames. "He's a thug and a murderer for God's sake. How can you even get past that? All the missions he ran just wipe the slate clean? I don't think so. Lambert's dead."

"Ames, you're done," said Hansen, firing a hard look at the man. "You're done."

"Yep, we're all done here."

RESCUEteams were out searching the Rhine for most of the evening. The next morning Fisher's BMW was found nearly a mile away from the bridge, having been dragged along the bottom by the Rhine's current. There was no sign of the body, which had been separated from the car and assumedly drifted off on its own. Teams were searching the shoreline down river.

New orders came in. Hansen and the others would be flying back home aboard a commercial airliner. Moreau had already booked the tickets. Hansen thought returning was odd and highly premature, since they still hadn't found Fisher's body. Moreau said the order had come in from Grim and that they were leaving, period, unless the team planned to go rogue again.