Kasperov drew back his head. “Snegurochka? I know her.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“We worked on a case together.”
“Then you know what a hard time we’ve had. Please, let me have my phone. Let’s call your daughter. It’ll just take a minute.”
Kasperov glanced to his girlfriend, who whispered something to him. He faced Fisher and said, “All right.” He motioned to Anatoly outside, who opened the door. “Take off his cuffs. Give me his phone.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Take off his cuffs!”
Anatoly reluctantly complied, freeing Fisher and returning the smartphone. Fisher rubbed his wrists, thanked Kasperov, then quickly called Charlie back at the plane. “I’m sitting here with Mr. Kasperov.”
“Whoa, really?”
“Calm down. I need you to patch me through to the safe house. He needs to speak with Nadia right now. Tell Grim to get the POTUS on the line and have her standing by.”
“Gotcha. Just give me a second.”
A commotion outside sent the other bodyguards jogging by, and Fisher craned his head to spot another car, a dilapidated sedan missing its front bumper and bouncing on worn-out shocks toward the helipad.
“That’s my partner,” Fisher told Kasperov. “And he’s got the Snow Maiden with him. Can you tell your men to back off?”
Kasperov fished out his own smartphone and made a call, barking orders to Anatoly.
“Sam, I’ve got her on the line.”
“Nadia, it’s Sam again. I’m here with your father. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, please, let me talk to him.”
Before handing the phone over to Kasperov, Fisher glanced empathically at the man. “Like I said, all we want to do is help. You have to believe that.” He handed over the phone.
Kasperov scrutinized Fisher before tentatively accepting the phone.
“Nadia? Is that you?”
While Fisher could not hear what Nadia was saying, Kasperov broke down almost immediately, backhanding away the tears and telling her how sorry he was and how much he loved her. He asked if she was safe, and Fisher suspected that she told him more than enough to help their case.
He returned the phone to Fisher, who spoke once more with Charlie: “Is the president standing by?”
“I have her now.”
“Good. Madame President, Mr. Kasperov is here.” Fisher widened his gaze. “You just spoke to your daughter. Now I’m giving you the President of the United States. If, after this, you still think I’m a Russian agent, then you’re not the genius they say you are.”
Kasperov’s eyes had grown pink. He stared at Fisher for a moment, his gaze much softer now as he lifted the phone to his ear and spoke in English: “This is Igor Kasperov…”
He didn’t say much at first, probably because Caldwell was selling him hard on coming to the United States. In Fisher’s humble opinion they had a viable and convincing offer: They would reunite the man with his daughter, provide him with protection against the wrath of the Russian government, and help him rebuild his business empire. No amount of cash could buy those outcomes now.
“I can’t say why I fled Russia. Not here, not now,” said Kasperov. “But, okay, I go to Juliaca. I board your plane, but I want your guarantees in writing. All right, then. Good-bye, Madame President.”
He handed over the phone, and Fisher reassured him that they’d videoconference with Nadia once they returned to the plane, and they’d provide any other proof he needed.
Kasperov resumed his native tongue. “So you really are an American agent. Do you have a name?”
Fisher grinned wearily. “You heard it. I’m Sam.”
Kasperov glanced away and began to laugh.
“I’m sorry?” Fisher asked, wondering if Kasperov would let him in on the joke.
“I want to know your whole name. Your real name.”
“I could tell you anything I want, and it could still be a lie.”
“But you won’t, because we’re going to trust each other now.” Kasperov reached over and proffered his hand.
Fisher took the man’s hand and shook it firmly. “Very well, then, sir. My name is Sam Fisher.”
25
Before they boarded the chopper, Kasperov wanted to take a moment to speak with the Snow Maiden, and Fisher indulged him, escorting the man back to Briggs’s car, where the Russian agent sat, brooding, her gaze burning through the open window. “Igor, you got fatter,” she said with a crooked grin.
“They told me you were holding my daughter in Sochi.”
“We had fun. We got ice cream.”
“I’d like to kill you right now, but I’m going to do worse… much worse. I’m going to hand you over to the Americans.”
She threw back her head and cackled.
“I’m thrilled that amuses you.”
“Igor, that’s no threat. You think they’ll torture me? There’s no extraordinary rendition or black sites. They’ve lost the stomach for it. The Americans are weak now, controlled by a liberal media, a Congress at war with itself, and a president too concerned with appearances. I’ll be going on vacation.”
Fisher shouldered up beside Kasperov to face the Snow Maiden. “You won’t be interrogated by the government. At least not at first. You’ll be interrogated by me. And I have the freedom to get what I need through any means possible. You don’t have to believe me now, but I’ll prove it to you, and the experience will be anything but a vacation.”
“You’re a comedian,” she told Fisher. “Do you have more good jokes to entertain me?”
Fisher gritted his teeth. “When we get back to my plane, you’ll understand.” Fisher turned to Briggs. “Let’s go.”
As they headed toward the chopper with the Snow Maiden clutched by two of Kasperov’s men, Fisher thanked Hector once more, along with the other miners.
“Your sons would be proud of what you did today,” Fisher told the man.
“Thank you.”
They boarded the chopper, with the Snow Maiden in the back row, seated between Anatoly and Briggs.
“Grim, it’s me. We’re taking off with Kasperov. Should be there shortly. Tell the flight crew to get prepped for takeoff.”
“You got it, Sam. Nice work.”
He smiled inwardly. Compliments from Grim were rare gems indeed. “See you in a few.”
The chopper pitched forward and began to rise, the force throwing Fisher back into his seat.
As the pilot wheeled around, taking them across the snow-covered slopes and continuing to lift off, Briggs cursed, then cried, “What the hell?”
Fisher craned his neck—
Just as the Snow Maiden bolted up from her seat a second before Anatoly was finished with her seat belt.
Hunched over in the tight cabin, she made two carefully placed hops, then turned, slamming her back against the side door and getting her hands on the latch.
Fisher’s mouth fell open.
She had timed it perfectly.
While they’d been filing somewhat victoriously into the cabin, their guards down, she’d been working.
She’d studied the door handle, the angles and forces involved, the push-button lock. She’d judged the distance from her seat to the door. She’d guessed about how much maneuverability she’d have and knew she’d need to make her break before Anatoly buckled her in.
As Briggs lunged for her, the side door slid open behind her, the cold air whooshing into the cabin and beginning to howl. She wriggled her brows at Fisher before letting herself fall backward—
Into the air.
Fisher threw off his buckles and came in behind Briggs, the wind nearly blinding now.
“Shut the door!” cried the copilot.
They watched as the Snow Maiden plunged ten, maybe fifteen meters, slamming hard into the snow and plunging at least another meter through the ice crust and into the softer powder beneath.