China's Ministry of State Security, or Guoanbu, was the government's largest and most active foreign intelligence agency. Headquartered in Beijing, the agency's operations encompassed a broad geographical scope and included the stealing of secrets and technology from other nations as well as thwarting operations against the government. It was a well-known fact that Guoanbu agents had penetrated and been living and working in the United States for decades. Hansen had read and studied reports by a few of the agency's defectors, and those documents were as enlightening as they were disturbing.

The Guoanbu also engaged in domestic operations, including the monitoring of political dissidents and the repression of internal dissent. These actions caused Chinese citizens to refer to the agency as a secret police. Other internal efforts included acts against nonofficial churches and the censoring of the Internet to prevent China's population from knowing what was going on outside the country. No surprise there.

Grim went on: "Now, we've picked up some intel that indicates Zhao and Bratus have had several meetings in the past month at a small town about ninety minutes north of Vladivostok, right near the Chinese border."

"Maybe Bratus is selling drugs to the Chinese military, and Zhao's their point man. Wouldn't be the first time agents turned to drug running, especially those guys. It's not like they're making a fortune as spies."

"That's an interesting premise, but this is where it gets even more interesting . . . and more troubling."

"What do you mean?"

She hesitated, then finally said, "We think Kovac is somehow involved."

Hansen blinked. Hard. Then he shook his head, as if to clear the noise. "Can you say that again?"

"We think the deputy director of the NSA is negotiating something with Zhao and Bratus, but there's nothing conclusive at this point, and we need to know what's going on."

Nicholas Andrew Kovac was the NSA's chief operating officer, who guided strategies and policy and served as chief advisor to the director. He had a resume so long and detailed, so perfect, that Hansen assumed the man was a cyborg and did not sleep. Kovac had graduated from the U.S. Air Force Academy, received multiple graduate degrees in computer science and engineering, served as an officer and pilot, and had been a visiting professor at West Point. He had joined the NSA and, through assignments with the Directorate of Operations, had worked his way up the ranks to become the deputy director for analysis and production. After a three-year stint as a special U.S. liaison officer in London, he'd been promoted to deputy director. Reading his resume left you bored or green with envy, perhaps a little of both.

Hansen would not have known so much about him except that Grim had sometimes implied that Kovac did not exactly trust Third Echelon. Hansen thought something in the man's character or past experiences might've had something to do with that, so he'd done a little research, as was his wont, but had come up empty.

Still, the obvious fact remained that while Third Echelon and its Splinter Cells had pulled off some remarkable operations, they had also had some monumental failures, including the deaths of not one, but three veteran field operatives in the last two years on an operation that Grim would not disclose, even to Hansen. That tragedy had prompted the organization to more aggressively recruit replacements.

Then there was, of course, Sam Fisher . . . and what his actions had done to tarnish Third Echelon's reputation. . . .

Hansen thought for a moment, then said, "How do you know it's Kovac?"

"Because we have an agent working closely with him."

"You mean Third Echelon is spying on its own bosses?"

Grim wriggled her brows. "Why not?"

Hansen snorted. "Well, I'm sure they're returning the favor."

"I'm sure they are."

"Has it occurred to you that I could be a mole, working for them?"

"No."

Hansen furrowed his brows. "Why not?"

"Because they hate you. Because I had to fight to bring you here. And because you keep staring at my chest."

That last part caught him completely off guard. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Then . . . "Uh, I'm sorry. Uh, why didn't you tell me--"

"Forget that." She worked the touch screen. "This is Michael Murdoch." A well-groomed businessman in his fifties, with closely cropped gray hair, glowed on the screen. In another picture Murdoch was having lunch at an expensive restaurant with a man about the same age. A third pic showed Murdoch playing golf with Kovac himself, and in a small video frame Murdoch was being interviewed on one of the cable business channels. He had a commanding baritone voice and perfect teeth.

"Murdoch has a half dozen different companies, some importing and exporting out of Vladivostok, but he also has two technology companies in Houston, both with military contracts."

"So what's the deal? You think Kovac is helping Murdoch sell secrets to the Chinese and the Russians?"

"I'm not sure. He could be using Murdoch to sell them chicken feed. At any rate, Zhao, Bratus, and Murdoch are scheduled to meet soon. I need you there. I need to know what they're talking about."

"How much time do we have?"

"You'll be on a plane tonight, because we want a very deliberate and slow insertion. No HAHOs from a 130, if that's what you're thinking."

"Would've been fun. Do I get a runner?"

Grim took a deep breath, as though bracing herself before she spoke. "Sergei Luchenko will meet you in Vladivostok."

Hansen winced. "Sergei? Really? I haven't seen him in a few months. You think he's gotten over it?"

"I think he has. He wanted to be in the field. He got his wish. He's just not a Splinter Cell, and that proves that my intuition isn't always correct."

Luchenko had, for all intents and purposes, flunked Third Echelon's training program and been forced to either become a runner or wind up behind a desk. Hansen felt badly for the man, since they'd both been recruited out of the CIA and known each other for a few years. Still, it would be nice to see a familiar face in a sea of red-nosed strangers.

"Ma'am, I won't let you down."

"I know you won't." She lifted her chin to a table across the room. "There's a folder with your credentials and cover."

Hansen started for them.

"And one more thing."

He hoisted his brows.

"When you get your gear, you'll find a knife. Take good care of it. It was given to me by an old friend, and now I'm passing it on to you. Despite everything, I think it'll bring you luck."

"It was Fisher's. Wasn't it?"

She nodded.

"Kind of an odd gift."

"From an odd man. Now, one last thing. Make no mistake. If you're captured, you will be killed."

"Tortured first. But, yes, I understand. Thank you." Hansen scooped up the folder, headed for the door, but before he left, he turned back to Grim. "Ma'am, I'm sorry about the--" He gestured to his eyes, trying to apologize for ogling her.

"Just get out of here . . . kid."

Ouch! That hurt.

Once in the hallway, Hansen dug out his passport, which had been heavily stamped and dog-eared by one of Third Echelon's document engineers, a man known only as Perez. He was a Mexican national sent to prison for making fake credentials to help illegal immigrants cross the border. He'd been serving the last few years of his sentence when he'd been offered an early release if he came to work for Third Echelon. Perez was an artist--the best forger the agency had ever employed.