She climbed another ten feet, becoming enclosed in a narrow shaft, and then another twenty feet took her toward a door with a rusted knob. She assumed she'd reached the first floor. The knob looked dusty. She kept on, finding another door on the second floor--again no signs of exit--and then yet another door on the third floor: it, too, untouched. But the ladder betrayed his passage, and there was no clever way to conceal that.
"Kim, where are you?" asked Hansen.
"I'm in some kind of shaft. Check me on the map. I think he came up here."
"Hey, it's Maya here. Kim, I think I know where you are. Nathan and I just checked that out, but we didn't climb up."
"Well, I think he came this way."
The ladder terminated at a small hatch. She opened it, set the prop-arm into place, then climbed out, finding herself on an expanse of patchy gravel and peeling tar paper that extended across the wing's E-shaped roof. In some areas the roof had collapsed: Exposed ceiling planks and the remains of the skylights created dangerous voids promising injury or death below. Several brick chimneys stood in various stages of decay, a few resembling teeth in silhouette.
Out to the west, three towerlike structures made her feel as though she were atop a medieval castle, and off to the north and west the courtyard was enclosed by the two wings of the E-shaped building. She was up pretty high; correction, make that damnedhigh, probably close to a hundred feet, and while she had no serious fear of heights, standing atop a dilapidated structure, with just the pale beam of her flashlight to help her find a safe path, wasn't exactly comforting.
She thought she heard a shuffling sound to the north, then directed her light to the exposed beams and thought, perhaps, she saw footprints. She followed them slowly, gingerly, toward the north wing.
With her gaze focused on the roof, she failed to see the tree as she came around the side one of the chimneys. Before her was a colossal oak whose heavy boughs and thick branches overhung the roof like the claw of some beast ready to devour the stonework and steel.
She took a few more steps, lifted her flashlight. . . .
And there he was, standing at the ledge, facing away, about to climb into the tree.
Surprised by his sudden appearance, she could barely speak, and when she did, her voice sounded unrecognizable, even to her. "Don't move a muscle."
She wanted to say, " Sam, please, don't do this. Come with me now. It's all over. This is for the best. . . ."
But only that order came out, cued by instinct, reaction, her time spent in the military listening to hundreds of people issue thousands and thousands of orders. Commands. Do this. Don't do that.
Don't move a muscle.
And the expectation was compliance.
But if your name was Sam Fisher and you were on the run, orders meant little, even if they were issued by a former lover, by someone who still cared very, very much. . . .
And so Fisher did not turn back. He did not obey her.
He simply jumped.
25
HANSENwas at the exact opposite end of the foundry from where Fisher was escaping, and it might as well have been on the opposite end of the universe. Hansen's competitive nature and jealousy had boiled up to the surface; hewanted to be the operative who captured Fisher. Maybe that sounded immature--something Ames would no doubt admit and not apologize for--but the desire was there and Hansen needed to wrestle with it while maintaining control of his team and always putting the mission first. But it was damned hard.
He and Ames were in a full sprint, racing along the wall toward the next corner as the others issued their breathless reports.
"He jumped through the trees! He just jumped right through," said Gillespie. "I think he caught himself. Wait! He's on the ground now! I need to find a way down."
"We're coming to you," said Noboru. "Almost there."
"Don't lose him," said Valentina. "Do you hear me, Kim? Don't move--just maintain surveillance."
"But now he's already gone," she cried.
"Moreau, you got him?" Hansen asked.
"I had him coming out of the tree," said the operations manager. "Zooming in again. Aw, I've lost him now."
"The side street! The side street!" cried Gillespie. "I think he's heading for the stadium."
"Ames, go!" Hansen hollered, then waved him on.
"Boys and girls, listen to me," began Moreau. "I think he's definitely crossed the side street, but I've got multiple pedestrians down there. I'll see what I can do, but you need to close with this target!"
As Moreau continued his satellite-fed commentary, Hansen slowed to a stop. It was time to act like a team leader and not a glory-seeking operator. It was time to hold back and let his people do their jobs while he kept them organized and on task. He lifted his wrist to view his OPSAT and thumbed to the map. On the other side of the street lay a maze of alleys and intersecting roads, and Hansen estimated that a three-minute run would get Fisher to the stadium--if they didn't cut him off first. "Moreau, I needyou to pick him up."
"I'm on it, cowboy. What the hell do you think I'm doing over here, sipping Coke and eating French fries?"
BACKat his hotel room in Reims, Moreau was, in fact, patched into the Trinity System while consuming a Coke and fries. He'd already finished off two cheeseburgers that tasted no more royalethan their American counterparts. . . .
More important, he had a perfect fix on Mr. Sam Fisher, not that he'd disclose that to the team. Fisher needed to put a little more distance between himself and Delta Sly before Moreau would tip off those youngsters.
He munched on another fry. Mmm.Salty. Good.
"Moreau, you got anything?"
"Still working on it."
"Are you eating?"
Moreau smacked his lips. "Wait a minute. Hang on. I think I might have him!"
GILLESPIEshould have raced down from the roof after she'd lost Fisher, but for a long moment she was a statue against the weather, against time, against all the BS that separated her from him. Of course he hadn't recognized her voice. Of course he'd never turn back. Of course he was gone before she could say something meaningfulto him.
There was only the hollow pang in her gut upon which to reflect, only the memories, like a pair of jeans with so many holes in them that you should throw them away, but you just can't, you couldn't, you wouldn't--even if you tucked them in the drawer and never wore them again. Knowing they were still there meant something.
What was left between them? Was there anything at all? Anything?
Seeing him again brought too much back. Far too much.
Would she have taken the shot? He hadn't allowed her the decision. He'd been too quick, and she should thank him for that. Somehow.
Hansen would grill her, want to know if she'd had the opportunity and failed. She would tell the truth and hope they believed her.
After a deep breath, she fled the roof, picking her way down the stairs, the ladders, the tunnel, until she emerged outside to find that she was the last one left at the foundry. Hansen ordered her to get in the remaining SUV. Noboru had already taken off in the other.