"Quiet." Then to Ivanov: "Tell me."
Ivanov shook his head. "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 scare me."
Ames chuckled. "Well, dummy, in about fifteen minutes good old Sam is going to be dead or tied up in our trunk. If you got an ounce of brains, you'll--"
Hansen interrupted. "Everyone outside." Ames started to protest, but Hansen shot him a glance. Fisher couldn't see his face, but clearly it worked. Ames snapped his mouth shut and filed out with the others. The door banged shut.
"What's the message?" Hansen asked.
From the rack, Fisher fired once, sticking a dart in the side of Ivanov's neck. Even as he fell, Fisher adjusted his aim to Hansen. To his credit, Hansen exercised the better part of valor, discreetly raising his hands above his head.
Without looking around Hansen said evenly, "Hey, Fisher."
"HI,Ben," Fisher replied.
"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. What are we doing? What's this about?"
"Carefully, pull out your SC and lay it on the floor."
Hansen did so and was about to slide it away with his foot when Fisher stopped him. "Too noisy, Ben. Nice try, though. Interlace your fingers and place them on your head. Take ten steps forward."
Hansen didn't move.
"I won't ask again. I'll just dart you and this will turn ugly before it's started." Hansen paced forward the ordered number of steps. "Now turn and face the office." Hansen complied. "On your knees, ankles crossed."
Once Hansen was in position, Fisher climbed down the rack ladder and came up behind Hansen, stopping ten feet away. Hansen turned his head and said over his shoulder, "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." He chuckled. "You know what gets me? I don't even know how you . . ." Hansen turned his head back forward and his voice trailed off.
Even as Fisher was doing it, taking that natural step forward to catch the tail end of Hansen's words, alarms went off in his head. Mistake.Hansen had started the conversation, built some animosity, then injected some amiability and piqued Fisher's curiosity with the trailing sentence.
A well-laid trap,Fisher thought, as Hansen levered himself upright and spun on his heel, instantly cutting the distance between them by seven feet. Fisher brought the SC pistol up, but the motion of Hansen's lead arm, coming toward him in a flat, backhanded arc, told Fisher it was too late. The shot would go wide. The knife Hansen surely had concealed in his fist, its blade tucked against his inner forearm, was a half second from his throat. Fisher resisted the impulse to backpedal or duck. It would be what Hansen expected, and Fisher couldn't afford to find himself in a protracted, noisy wrestling match with the young Splinter Cell. It was a fight he couldn't win, especially when the rest of the team rushed back in to investigate the commotion.
Instead, Fisher took a quick sliding step forward, his right hand coming up to block Hansen's knife arm, while his left hand, formed into a fist with his thumb extended, shot forward and plunged into the nerve bundle in Hansen's armpit. Hansen's eyes went wide with pain. His momentum faltered. Fisher clamped down on Hansen's knife wrist, then spun on his heel, around Hansen's back, using the momentum to pull Hansen around and off balance. He slid his left hand down, joined it with his right on Hansen's wrist, then pulled it toward him, torquing the wrist joint at the same time. Fisher could feel the bones and ligaments beneath Hansen's skin twisting, stretching. . . . Hansen gasped in pain. The knife clattered to the floor. Fisher kept moving, however, using his own momentum to keep Hansen stumbling forward until he spun once more, this time changing direction, swinging Hansen's arm back over his head, while side kicking his feet out from under him. He landed with a thud, back flat on the concrete. Fisher dropped his weight, jamming his knee into Hansen's solar plexus. All the air exploded from Hansen's mouth. His face went red as he tried to suck air.
Fisher reached behind him and grabbed Hansen's knife. Even before seeing it, he knew the feel of its haft, its balance. . . . It was Fisher's own Fairbairn Sykes World War II-era commando dagger. A gift from an old family friend, the FS had for years been Fisher's lucky charm. After Lambert, he'd been forced to leave it behind.
Now Fisher laid the FS's blade across Hansen's throat. "This is my knife, Ben. Why do you have my knife?"
Hansen was still gasping for air. Fisher waited until finally Hansen wheezed out, "Grimsdottir."
"Grim gave you this?"
"Thought it . . . thought it would bring . . . luck." Fisher smiled at this. "How's it working for you so far?"
Hansen took a deep breath. "Keep it."
"I'm going to get off you. Lie there. Don't move.
Once you've got your breath back, I want you to do me a favor. After that, we call 'time in.' Deal?"
Hansen nodded.
"Your word on it," Fisher pushed.
Hansen nodded again. It took another thirty seconds before he fully recovered. "Jesus, what the hell did you do to me?"
"I'll take that as a rhetorical question. Are you ready to hear the favor?"
"Yeah."
"Call Grimsdottir. Ask her about Karlheinz van der Putten."
"The guy that gave us the Vianden tip? Ames's contact?"
"That's him. Make the call."
Hansen fished his cell phone from his pocket and hit speed dial. A few moments later he said, "It's Hansen. Yeah, I'm with him. . . . I'm supposed to ask you about van der Putten." Hansen was silent for a full minute as Grim spoke. Finally he said, "This is on the level? No more games? Okay, got it. I'll hear him out." Hansen disconnected and looked at Fisher. "She's says you're going to answer all my questions."
"As best I can."
"She also said to tell you, 'Sorry about the Fairbairn Sykes.' "
Fisher laughed. "Sure she is. First things first. Call your team. Tell them everything's okay and that you'll get back to them shortly."
Hansen made the call on his SVT, then disconnected.
"The Vianden ambush tip came from Ames, who claims he got it from van der Putten. You know that's bogus, correct?"
"I'm taking it on faith for the time being."
"Fair enough. I found van der Putten dead, his ears cut off. That was Ames covering his tracks."
"If not van der Putten, where'd he get the tip?"
"Kovac, we believe."
"Kovac? That's nuts. Ames is working for Kovac? No way. I mean, the guy's a weasel, but--"
"Best-case scenario is that Kovac simply hates Grim and he wants her out. What better way to undermine her than to catch me without her? Here's how it'd be played for the powers that be: Kovac, suspicious of Grimsdottir, puts his own man on the team dispatched to hunt down Sam Fisher. Grimsdottir's inept handling of the situation allows Fisher to escape multiple times, until finally Kovac's agent saves the day. Same scenario at Hammerstein. Kovac called in a favor at the BND."