all have painted logos — not magnetic.” Fisher paused for a moment, scratched his head. “That’s about it, I think.”
Collectively, the faces around the table were staring openmouthed at him. Finally, Jackie broke the silence: “Well, I guess we’re gonna call that a passing grade for you.”
“Come on, man, you noticed how many numbers I punched into my phone?” Frederick said.
Fisher shrugged.
“Seriously?”
Fisher nodded. “Seriously.”
As much as Fisher preferred being on his own, now that the program was coming to a close, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to miss this camaraderie.
The experimental three-month program that had brought Fisher here — a joint venture between the CIA’s Directorate of Operations and Third Echelon — had been code-named CROSSCUT and was designed to teach Third Echelon’s lone Splinter Cell operatives the ways of “open water” espionage tradecraft — in essence, to teach Fisher and others like him how to do what they do in broad daylight, without the benefit of shadows, stealthy tactical suits, and noise-suppressed weapons.
Fisher’s boss, Colonel Irving Lambert, had chosen Fisher as a guinea pig. If Fisher survived the program — which it seems he had — and then was able to put what he learned to work in the field — which was yet to be seen — Irving would send other Splinter Cells through the program.
Truth be told, Fisher didn’t need a real-world field test to tell him what he’d learned in CROSSCUT would be invaluable. He would always prefer to work alone, and he’d always prefer shadows to sunlight, but this business rarely conformed itself to one’s preferences. The world of covert operations was a roller-coaster ride of balance: chaos versus order; well-laid plans versus inevitable disasters, both large and small. Of course, whether or not Third Echelon continued to participate in CROSSCUT would be Lambert’s decision, but Fisher knew what his recommendation was going to be.
Jackie’s cell phone trilled. She flipped it open and walked a few steps away from the table. She listened for a few moments, then disconnected and said to Fisher, “Call home.”
Fisher turned around in his chair, retrieved his cell phone from his coat pocket, powered it on, then dialed. After two rings, a female voice answered, “Extension forty-two twelve.”
“It’s me,” Fisher replied. Though the woman who answered knew his voice, she followed protocol and paused a moment to let the voice-print analyzer confirm his identity. “Hold a moment, Sam,” said Anna Grimsdottir. “I’ve got the colonel for you.”
Lambert came on the line a few seconds later. “Sam, I’ve got a Gulfstream headed to the Coast Guard Air Station. Get on it and come home.”
“Miss me that much, Colonel?”
“No, I just got a message from the State Department. A man admitted to Johns Hopkins asked to see someone from the CIA. It’s Peter, Sam. He’s in a bad way. You need to get here.”
Fisher felt his heart flutter in his chest.
“I’m on my way.”
4
Fisher pulled to a stop at the guard shack, rolled down his window, and handed his driver’s license to the guard, who checked his name against a clipboard. It was a crisp autumn day with a slight breeze; the scent of burning leaves wafted into the car.
The guard scrutinized Fisher’s face, then nodded and handed back the license. “Straight ahead to Administration. Long white building with a brick entry. You’ll be met.”
Fisher nodded and pulled through the gate. The administrative building was a short fifty-yard drive away. Fisher pulled into the awning-covered turnaround and climbed out. An army private appeared at his door. “I’ll park it for you, sir. Your party’s waiting inside.”
“Thanks.”
Fisher found Lambert waiting in the lobby. The decor was done in vintage army: pale pus-yellow linoleum tile and walls painted mint green on the upper half and paneled in dark wood on the lower. The tangy odor of Pine-Sol hung in the air. A lone nurse sat behind the reception counter; she looked up as Fisher entered and gave him a curt nod.
Fisher shook Lambert’s extended hand. “What’s going on, Colonel?”
Just minutes before Fisher’s Gulfstream had touched down at Andrews Air Force Base, Grimsdottir had called Fisher with a change of plans. Peter was being moved to the army’s Chemical Casualty Care Division at Aberdeen. The CCCD is a division of the army’s Medical Research Institute of Chemical Defense. Fisher had had his own dealings with the CCCD over the years, most recently a few months ago as a patient after the
Why Peter had been moved Grimsdottir didn’t know or couldn’t say, but either way, Fisher knew it wasn’t good news. Peter’s admitting hospital, Johns Hopkins, was top-notch; the possibility that Peter’s condition was beyond its abilities worried Fisher.
“The doctors are with him right now,” said Lambert. “The chief attending ER doc at Johns Hopkins took one look at him, then got on the phone with the CCCD. They’re not talking so far, but if he’s here…”
“I know.” Fisher paced away, stopped, and pressed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He turned back to Lambert. “So we wait.”
“Yeah.”
The lobby was empty, so they took a pair of orange Naugahyde chairs near the counter. On the arm of Fisher’s chair, scrawled in faded ballpoint pen, were the words,
Fisher chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“Remember Frank Styles, back at Fort Bragg?” Fisher asked.
He and Lambert had history dating back to their Army Special Forces days and then later as they were selected to participate in an experimental program that took special operators from the army, navy, air force, and marines, and transferred them to another branch of the special forces community. In Fisher’s and Lambert’s case, they had gone from the Army’s Delta Force to the navy’s SEAL (Sea, Air, Land) teams.
Lambert, who had early on shown a head for organization and logistics, had later been tapped to head Third Echelon’s Field Operations slot, including all its Splinter Cell operatives. At Lambert’s urging, Fisher had resigned his commission in the army and joined Third Echelon.
Lambert said, “Stylin’ Frankie. Yeah, I remember.”
“He always used to joke when he got out he was going to start a Nauga ranch and sell their hides to the army for all these damned chairs.”
Lambert smiled. “And dentists’ offices.”
“Yeah.” Fisher leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and stretched his neck. After a moment he asked Lambert, “Did you see him?”
“Peter? Only briefly as they were packing him into the ambulance.” Lambert paused, cleared his throat.
“What?” Fisher asked.
“They had him in a tent, Sam.”
This made sense. The CCCD dealt with biological, chemical, and radioactive infectious processes. Until they had a diagnosis or could proclaim him noninfectious, the army would handle Peter with Level 4 containment procedures, complete with biohazard suits and positive ventilation plastic barriers. Unless he was unconscious or sedated, Peter had to be terrified watching those space-suited doctors and nurses milling around him.
“Where’d they find him?”
Lambert cleared his throat, hesitated.
