Hansen pointed at Valentina, told her to make the call and start out Ivanov at three hundred thousand rubles, about ten thousand dollars.

Valentina began working her phone, and Ivanov finally shouted, "Yes, okay, fine. He was here."

Ivanov said that Fisher had come about an hour ago. He was hurt--something wrong with his ribs--and he needed someplace to sleep. He said he gave Fisher the keys to his apartment.

Without tipping his hand and telling Ivanov that they had already been to the man's apartment, Hansen continued his line of questioning about Fisher: Was he armed? Did he have car? Was he alone? And so on. Hansen put on a good front but was getting the uneasy feeling that Fisher might be watching them at that very moment.

Hansen finally said, "You can forget about this visit."

Ivanov was no fool and agreed.

"If you cross us, I'll make the call. You'll have every Russian mobster in Odessa looking for you. Understand?"

He did.

Hansen regarded the others and tipped his head toward the door. All they could do now was set up surveillance of Ivanov, who might eventually lead them to Fisher--if one, the other, or both got sloppy.

Hansen then warned the man to stay off the phone, and Ivanov agreed but suddenly added, "Hey, you're Hansen, aren't you?"

Hansen stopped, gasped, and looked back at the man.

In fact, the others heard Ivanov as well, and they stood there, aghast.

"What?" Hansen finally asked. "What did you say?"

"He told me to give you a message."

Hansen asked who did, and Ivanov only said the message had to be delivered in private.

"That's crap!" cried Ames, raising his voice. "What the hell is this? Hansen--"

"Quiet!" cried Hansen, cutting Ames off. He faced Ivanov. "Tell me."

The old man shook his head, double chin wagging. "He told me, only you. Listen, I've known Sam a long time, and, to be honest, he scares me a lot more than you do."

Ames chuckled at that. "Well, dummy, in about fifteen minutes good old Sam is going to be dead or tied up in our trunk. If you've got an ounce of brains, you'll--"

"Everyone outside," cried Hansen.

"No way. I'm not going to let this . . ."

Ames trailed off as Hansen shot him a look that said he'd kill him if he didn't move out.

Ames lifted an ugly smile and filed out with the others, although he banged shut the door behind him.

"What's the message?" Hansen asked Ivanov.

The man opened his mouth.

And in the next breath there was an anesthetic dart jutting from the side of his neck. Ivanov's eyes creased in pain, his hand began to reach up to the dart, and then he fell backward onto the concrete.

Hansen glanced up in the direction of the shot, toward the overhead shelving, while slowly raising his hands. He lifted his voice, and although he had yet to see the man, he said somewhat resignedly, "Hey, Fisher."

Fisher moved out from behind one of the crates, having created an expert blind for himself from which to observe the action below. His eyes were a little bloodshot, his expression long and weary. There was more stubble on his cheeks than Hansen remembered from the last time they'd encountered each other.

"Hi, Ben."

"I guess this is what you'd call a rookie mistake."

"Mistakes are mistakes. They happen. How you handle them is what counts."

"I'll keep that in mind." Hansen then asked what they were doing, what was going on.

Fisher ignored the questions and ordered him to take his pistol and set it down on the floor. Hansen did, then decided to kick it toward Fisher, hoping the noise might attract one of the others outside. His subdermal was off and he couldn't activate it without reaching his OPSAT first. Fisher told him not to kick the weapon, just to leave it there. Then he added, "Interlace your fingers and place them on your head. Take ten steps forward."

Maybe it was Hansen's ego, but he just didn't want to feel so helpless and trapped. He remained where he stood.

"I won't ask again. I'll just dart you, and this will turn ugly before it's started."

With a deep sigh, Hansen did as he was told. Fisher instructed him to face the office, then drop to his knees with his ankles crossed.

Fisher next climbed down the rack ladder and maneuvered up behind Hansen, holding back about ten feet, Hansen estimated. Hansen stole a look back and said, "You've been a pain in my ass, you know."

"Sorry about that. It was necessary."

"Is that what you want to talk about? That there are extenuating circumstances? That you didn't really kill Lambert?"

"No, I killed Lambert. He asked me to."

"Bull. You've been jerking us around for weeks--you, Grimsdottir, and Moreau--but as far as I'm concerned, you're a run-of-the-mill murderer."

"You sound angry, Ben."

"Damn right, I'm angry. You've run us ragged. Five of us, and we never even came close."

"You came close. More times than you know. You almost had me in Hammerstein."

"No, I didn't. You pushed me into a split-second, no-win scenario, and you knew I'd hesitate." Hansen laughed under his breath. "You know what gets me? I don't even know how you . . ."

All right, the plan had worked. He'd lured Fisher into the conversation to distract him, and he sensed the man had moved a couple of steps closer.

Fisher might have the experience, but Hansen had the agility and reflexes of a man half as old, and, in one smooth motion lifted a leg, brought down the boot, spun on his heel, and lurched forward, cutting the distance between them in half.

Although Fisher's pistol was raised, Hansen's lead arm was coming toward him in a backhanded arc.

Even Fisher's expression said he knew what would happen. His shot would go wide.

Now his glance flicked down to the dagger Hansen had simultaneously drawn from the sheath concealed by his coat. Hansen held the blade in a reverse grip, keeping it tucked against his inner forearm, and within the better part of a second, he would have that blade pressed firmly against Mr. Sam Fisher's throat.

36

LUKOIL WAREHOUSE ANNEX ODESSA, UKRAINE

"I'Mgoing back inside," said Ames.

"No, you're not," Valentina said, crossing in front of him. She was a couple of breaths away from punching him squarely in the jaw. In her mind's eye, she watched him drop to the oily pavement, hand going to the blood trickling down from his mouth.

Ames cursed loudly and added, "Games, games, and more games! I'm over this! Aren't you all?"

"Look, whatever the message is, I'm sure Ben will share it with us," said Gillespie.

"But why was the message only for him?" asked Noboru.

"Yeah, you see what I'm talking about?" Ames cried. "Now Hansen is one of them, and the four of us are being used. You can't trust anyone here. I'm telling you. You can't trust anyone."

"Give him another minute and we'll find out," said Valentina. "But I'm sure Ben is not, quote, 'one of them. . . .' "

HANSENexpected Fisher to duck, but instead he took a sliding step forward, lifting his right hand to block Hansen's knife arm. Then, with his free hand balled into a fis t, Fisher struck a solid jab into the nerves and soft tissue of Hansen's armpit. It was a strange and unpredictable counterattack, which sent pain shooting up and down Hansen's arm. He sensed his momentum faltering as Fisher clamped down on the wrist of his knife hand, then spun around his back, forcing him to shift likewise and lose his balance.