Now the team was celebrating its victory in a French castle that had been rented, no doubt, through extreme pressure on the French as the Russians continued dangling the keys to all their oil.
Admittedly, Brent was glad the Russians had won, otherwise he wouldn’t be standing in a French castle. It seemed that Andrei Eskov was the Snow Maiden’s cousin, and there had been a shooting near Montereau-Fault- Yonne, a stop along the tour. One man had turned up dead and been identified as a member of the Green Brigade Transnational. Death always lay in the Snow Maiden’s wake, and so Brent and his team had prepared their trap.
The others were in position outside the castle and in the surrounding hills, while he and George Voeckler were inside, with Voeckler posing as a guest and Brent as part of the French security team. Dennison had worked out this arrangement, and the security team, while sarcastic and aloof, were playing along as they repeatedly slipped outside for their cigarette breaks.
Brent’s wireless earpiece buzzed. Lakota and the others reported the arrival of the next group and were scrutinizing every woman. Viktoria Antsyforov would be disguised with a wig, heavy makeup, who knew… The more Brent had read about the Snow Maiden, the more uneasy he’d become. Capturing her would be like trying to wrestle a Siberian tiger into a pair of handcuffs.
The Snow Maiden’s profile had been supplied by a man named Pavel Doletskaya, a former colonel with the GRU who had worked with
Brent’s attention was drawn to the main entrance, illuminated by a pair of colossal bronze wall sconces atop which rose tall, slender flames. The cycling team had arrived, and as planned, they had come in full biking uniforms: colorful blue-and-red jerseys covered with their sponsors’ logos, matching bib shorts, and even color-coordinated socks and sneakers. Their mechanics, coaches, drivers, and other support personnel wore team shirts and slacks, while the rest of the guests were suited up for this black-tie affair.
The waiters and waitresses began circulating with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres — stuffed mushrooms, fig and olive tapenade, and chutney baked Brie, according to one waiter. Voeckler, who’d been standing close to the main entrance, his gaze constantly scanning the growing crowd around the clusters of elegantly appointed tables, ambled over to Brent. “You see that woman there?”
Brent tensed and squinted across the room. The sun was beginning to set and the shadows had grown long, but he did see her, a real looker whose lithe form barely tented up her burgundy-colored dress. Her dark hair shimmered in the firelight.
“Is that her?” Brent asked with a gasp.
Voeckler sighed. “Soon as I nod at the orchestra leader, he’ll get them to play for me, and I’ll waltz with her.”
“She looks way too thin. That’s not her.”
“No, Brent, of course that’s not her. She’s just the woman I’ll dance with.”
“So this is how you guys play, huh? Come to rich people’s parties and dance with all the hot women? While me and my people eat dust and tiptoe around IEDs? Yep, there’s a world of difference between the NSA and the United States Army.”
“I thought you’d pull up my dossier.”
“I did. I know you were a Force Recon Marine, a hardcore operator. I respect that. You got the track record. It’s your brother I can’t figure out.”
“You and everyone else.”
“So he only got in because he’s your twin. Grim figured you’d have a perfect alibi with him.”
“He’s come a long way. He was a slacker his whole life. This is pretty amazing for him.”
“Well, I hope babysitting your brother doesn’t get in our way.”
“I’m not babysitting him, Captain. I’m babysitting all of you.”
“Whoa, I think you just hurt my feelings.”
“All right, enough with the BS.” Voeckler’s tone hardened. “Now listen. If the Snow Maiden is here, we’ll draw her out, just like a black widow from her web. The orchestra is going to play Tchaikovsky’s Opus Number Twelve. It’s her favorite.”
“How do you know?”
Voeckler snorted. “Opus Twelve is called ‘The Snow Maiden.’”
“Maybe she hasn’t heard it.”
“Oh, yes, she has. The NSA and Third Echelon like to do their own intel gathering, thank you. The report the JSF gave us is only fragmentary.”
“Then I’d appreciate you sharing the rest with us.”
“We will, soon as I get authorization.”
Brent sighed in disgust over the politics. “Well, all right, Mr. Voeckler. It’s your party for the time being.”
“Just get my back, Captain. I might be a little distracted.” Voeckler drifted off across the hardwood dance floor, toward his unsuspecting dance partner.
Meanwhile, Brent kept his gaze focused on Andrei Eskov, who’d taken a seat at the rectangular main table. All of the riders would be sitting in a row, facing the audience, not unlike the seating arrangement for a panel discussion. Perhaps each cyclist would be asked to speak, Brent wasn’t sure, but at any rate he had a perfect and unobstructed view of the target’s cousin, even though the room had grown crowded with dozens of guests now.
“Captain, it’s Lakota. Is it okay if we order a pizza?”
Brent grinned inwardly—“ordering a pizza” was her way of saying no contacts or anything else worth reporting. “Still clear out there?”
“Good to go,” she responded curtly.
A familiar face appeared at the doorway. Riggs. Now it was her turn to join the festivities. God, she looked stunning in her blue dress, matching purse, and heels. The spiky hair had been toned down and softened, and her makeup appeared delicate and expertly applied. She had a folder tucked under her arm as she sashayed across the room and homed in on Eskov. Okay, Brent was a man and couldn’t help but gape at her cleavage, though as her commanding officer he did feel guilty about that. She reached Eskov, said hello, and asked for his autograph.
The young Russian was all too eager to comply, wearing a silly grin fueled by raging hormones. As Riggs continued to chat with him, the orchestra, numbering some thirty musicians, began Opus Number Twelve.
Voeckler took his lady onto the floor and began to waltz. They looked dramatic and stunning, and Brent frowned. Voeckler was taller and better looking and had a better job. He could pick up women with ease, and his organization seemed to have better intelligence than Brent’s.
“Brent, Schleck here,” began the team’s sniper, positioned in the hills overlooking the castle. Schleck was a bird with long torso and pointy jaw, the “string bean” Brent had called him on his cheat sheet. But the bird ate like a pig and gained nothing. “Car just pulled up. Got three guys in tuxedoes getting out. Looks like the Mafia or the Secret Service. You hear anything about added security, Captain?”
“Negative. Stand by.”
Brent slipped off toward the back of the room, where he discreetly donned his Cross-Com: an earpiece with integrated camera, microphone, and attached monocle that curved around his eye. He tapped a button on the earpiece and whispered, “Cross-Com activated.”
Brent’s monocle glowed with screens displaying his uplink and downlink channels and icons representing his support elements, among other bits of data. These images were produced by a low-intensity laser projecting them through his pupil and onto his retina. The laser scanned horizontally and vertically using a coherent beam of light, and all data was refreshed every second to continually update him.
The system was connected via satellite to the entire Joint Strike Force’s local — and wide-area networks LAN/WAN) so that even President Becerra in the White House could see what he was doing and speak to him directly on the battlefield (not good, according to Brent). That level of Network Centric Warfare — all part of Ghost Recon’s Integrated Warfighter System (IWS Version 9) — was just a leash of technology. But that’s the way the
