them I have — use that number. The other phone is a secure line to Third Echelon.
Since not many people have my home number, I can usually bet that a caller is not a telemarketer but instead someone I don’t mind talking to. I rush back inside and grab the phone in the kitchen, which is on the ground floor next to the front door.
“Fisher,” I answer.
“Dad!”
I feel my smile stretch across my face. It’s worth turning around and coming back into the house to get a phone call from my daughter, Sarah.
“How are you, honey?”
“I’m fine. It’s cold here. You got snow?” In my mind’s eye I picture her at five or six years old, which isn’t the case anymore. It’s hard for me to accept the fact that she’s no longer a little girl.
“No, it’s melted but it’s cold outside. I was just about to walk over to my gym class. How’s school?”
“Good. You
I think for a second. “Um, because you love your dad and just wanted to hear his voice?”
She laughs with her unique girl-giggle that tugs at my heart. “No, silly. Well, sure, that’s true, too, but I called to wish you Happy Birthday!”
Damn. I nearly forgot. My friggin’ birthday is tomorrow. I chuckle and shake my head. It figures that it conveniently slipped my mind.
“So why don’t you call me tomorrow, too?”
“Well, I’m in school all day and then I have play rehearsal tomorrow night.”
“Right.”
“So, here goes!” She starts to sing the stupid song and I laugh some more. When she’s done, I thank her profusely.
“You should be getting something in the mail,” she says. “I gotta run. You gonna be home for a while now that you’re back?”
“I hope so. At least until my next overseas sales conference.”
She snorts. “Yeah, right. We wouldn’t want you to miss it.”
Sarah knows what I do. I was able to keep it from her for a long time until the incident last year, when the Shop got hold of her. With the loss of innocence comes the responsibility of living life as the child of a Splinter Cell.
We chat for another minute, send each other our love, and hang up. As an afterthought, I kiss my index finger and touch her photo that’s held on my refrigerator door by a magnet. Then I head out the door once again.
As Splinter Cells go, I’m fortunate that I’m not assigned to a static location. Most of the other Splinter Cells are stationed in parts of the world where I certainly wouldn’t want to stay all the time. I guess I have a special position within Third Echelon. Being the first Splinter Cell and an agent who can adapt easily to just about any place they send me, I’m more useful as a “contractor.” In the old days, spies were often diplomats or embassy intelligence officers stationed in the country where they did the spying. With Third Echelon, though, the Splinter Cells are guys who have no affiliation with the U.S. government — at least they don’t in a public sense. I’ve used numerous cover identities when I’m on a job and I have to sometimes learn trades and skills to make the cover more legitimate. At any rate, it’s nice to be able to come home between assignments in order to see Sarah.
Third Echelon sure beats the CIA, which is where I worked before Colonel Lambert recruited me. In the CIA I had to spy in the traditional way — usually posing as a diplomat or someone in an official capacity. Later on I moved to a stateside job in weapons development. I thought I came up with some pretty good theoretical work on information warfare but the bureaucratic machine always managed to hamper my creativity. I’ve always been and will continue to be a man of action until my health or age prevents me from doing the job. Right now I’m pushing fifty. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have with Third Echelon before they forcibly retire me, but you can bet I’ll stay until they do. I don’t really know what I’ll do with myself without the work. I truly believe it keeps me young. It’s something about the danger, the thrill of the hunt, the most dangerous game. When your life is on the line, not to mention the lives of your countrymen, it tends to keep the adrenaline flowing. And I’m addicted to that rush.
I reach the strip mall and go inside the small dance studio that Katia rents for her class. She’s already there, limbering up, and I’m not surprised to see that we’re the only two people in the place. I’m usually the first to arrive.
“Sam!” she says as she bends her torso over her left leg and pulls on her foot. As usual, she’s dressed in a leotard and tights. It’s impossible not to notice her spectacular long legs. “I’m glad you’re back. How was the trip?”
“Busy,” I say as I place my gym bag on the floor next to the big mirror on the wall. “Where is everyone?”
She smiles flirtatiously. “I guess they’re late. Go ahead and warm up and then you and I’ll get started.”
I start in on my stretches as I watch her. Katia, as I’ve mentioned before, is an Israeli-American and she’s extremely attractive. She’s thirty-six and keeps very fit and buff. She’s got great brown eyes, a long nose, and a wonderful pouty mouth. Her long, curly dark hair flows wildly around her head unless she ties it into a ponytail. Even then the hair is so curly it just sticks out in a bunch rather than hanging like a true ponytail. I think it’s cute.
While I’m warming up, Katia stands and goes over to her things to retrieve a water bottle. She takes a swig and allows the spillage to run down her chin, neck, and front of her leotard. Katia’s got nice, natural breasts, and the moisture serves to accentuate them. Damn, she’s never done that before and I’d swear she’s doing it for my benefit. What the hell is going on here?
“So,” she says, “a little bird tells me your birthday is tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah? What little bird is that?”
“Your registration form you filled out for the class.”
“Really? Does it fly?” I’m on the floor now, stretching my legs. She approaches and stands over me.
“How about I bring you breakfast tomorrow?” she suggests.
“What? Katia…”
“No, really, Sam.” She squats to my level. “You never go out and I’ve had enough of our friendly get-togethers to ‘just have coffee.’ I want to bring you a birthday present and I’m volunteering to bring you breakfast. I know where you live; it’s on your registration form. How’s eight-thirty sound? Or would you rather sleep in for a while? I can make it nine-thirty or ten if you prefer.”
I stop stretching and look at her. The woman is serious. “Katia, we’ve talked about this before. I’m really not in the singles market. I really appreciate the offer but I’d rather not—”
“Bullshit, Fisher. Enough excuses. Now get up. It’s time to work.” She stands and moves away.
I’m beginning to understand why no other students have shown up for class. I’ve been set up. “The others sure are late,” I say.
“Forget the others, Fisher,” she says. “I wanted you all to myself today. I need you to spot me on some new moves. You game?”
I stand and shrug. “Sure, Katia.”
Before I have a chance to defend myself, she charges and delivers a powerful spinning heel kick, knocking me to the mat. I fall flat on my ass.
“What’s the number one rule in Krav Maga, Fisher?” she asks.
I sit up wearily. “Avoid getting hit.”
She shakes her head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk…” Katia gestures with her hand for me to stand. I do so but now I’m on my guard. When she comes at me again I block the kick, grab her calf, and twist. She’s prepared for the maneuver, though. She rotates her body in the same direction as the twist and touches her hands to the floor to support herself. At the same time she sledgehammer kicks me in the abdomen with her free leg. This forces me to let go of her calf. I step back and look at my instructor with renewed respect.
Katia’s on her feet. “Throw me, Fisher,” she says. “If you can.”
“Katia, you know I can.”
“Then shut up and do it.” Before I can move, she says, “If I pin you, I’m serving breakfast at your place tomorrow. Deal?”
“Whoa, Katia. Wait a second.”
