Conviction

Half stumbling, half sprinting, and casting dramatic looks over his shoulder, Fisher headed north toward the Audun-le-Tiche station. Farther up the tracks he could see rhythmic plumes of smoke over the treetops as the train returned from its run to Esch-sur-Alzette. Behind him came the distant warble of police sirens. He reached the station, pushed his way through the crowds at the west entrance, and out onto the platform. “Excusez-moi… pardonnez-moi… ” Followed by the words “mother,” “sick,” and “hurry.” The platform was festooned with balloons and colored flags. Portable stalls shaded by awnings of red, blue, and white stripes — the flag colors of both Luxembourg and France — sat along the perimeter of the station, selling souvenirs, drinks, and snacks. Yellow candle lanterns swayed from wires suspended between the streetlamps and the station’s eaves. Giggling children darted about with fizzling sparklers. Somewhere nearby a band played French folk music.

With a chugging sigh of steam, the train stopped at the platform. The incoming passengers were disembarked by black-capped, bow-tied conductors, who then unclipped the velvet ropes and began ushering the departing passengers aboard. Once aboard, Fisher turned right, found an aisle seat in the last carriage before the caboose, and sat down. He unzipped his duffel, pulled out his rucksack, and shoved the bag under the seat.

The seconds turned into minutes as stragglers came aboard and found seats. With a cry of “All aboard!” in French, the locomotive whistled and the car lurched forward. In the corner of his eye Fisher saw sudden movement on the platform and turned in time to see Vin and the blond woman appear in the station doorway, their heads swiveling. Fisher leaned back in his seat, and the platform slid from view.

He checked his watch. Damn, they were quick.

5

Like the Audun-le-Tiche station, the rail line was decorated: Old fashioned replica conductor’s lanterns, blinkered in blue and red, were mounted on posts every hundred yards or so. Moving at a mere eight miles per hour, the train covered one post every thirty seconds, so Fisher had no trouble keeping track of his position. At the twelfth post, just over the Luxembourg border, the train approached a curve. Fisher stood up, walked to the back of the car, and without looking back, opened the vestibule door and stepped out onto the coupling platform. It was fully dark now. Beneath his feet the levers and wheels rattled. To his right, on the other side of the embankment, lay a line of trees; to his left, across a ditch, the two lane road linking Russange and Esch-sur Alzette. Cars tooled along in both directions, honking and waving at fellow revelers.

He waited until the train was halfway between two lighted posts, then tossed his rucksack and jumped after it. Just before hitting the ground, he dropped his shoulder, rolled into the impact, and let himself go flat. He watched the train disappear around the bend, then groped around, found his rucksack, and crawled up the embankment and into the trees. He stopped to get his bearings.

These machinations — the fracas in the McDonald’s parking lot, his theatrical dash to the train station, the bicycle he paid to have deposited along the D16/18, the change of clothes — were admittedly overengineered, but his trail into Luxembourg needed to be not only cold, but convoluted. The more he could split the team, both physically and mentally, the better. Not only would it keep them at bay, but it would, hopefully, reveal weaknesses he might use later.

He used the stone obelisk across the road and the lantern posts to fix his position. Unless the boy hadn’t followed through, the bike would be lying in the tall grass of the embankment, fifty yards up the road. Fisher stood up and began picking his way through the trees. Across from him, the cars continued in steady north and south streams. Horns honked. Laughter and friendly shouting echoed in the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of chrome in the moonlight: the bike. He stopped, crouched down. He looked up and down the road. All was clear. Hunched over, he ran down the slope and up the other side. He was ten feet from the bike when, fifty feet to the left, he noticed a pair of SUVs — one silver, one black. He dropped flat. Ten seconds passed. Nothing happened. He began wriggling backward down the slope.

The black SUV’s rear driver’s-side door opened, and out stepped Kimberly. A moment later Ames and Blondie came around from the other side. Each wore a long trench coat. Together they began walking toward the bike. Fisher kept going, reverse crawling to the bottom of the ditch, where he crabbed around and started up the opposite slope toward the trees.

The trio started running. Fisher did the same. Within seconds he was in the trees and heading east. He recalled his mental map: a hundred feet to the reservoir, two hundred feet to the opposite shore, then a dirt road bordered by forest.

Using what little light filtered through the canopy above, he ducked beneath branches and dodged trunks until he broke into the clear and found himself skidding down another embankment. He dropped into a baseball slide and dug his heels into the moist earth, coming to a halt with his legs dangling in space. Ten feet below was the surface of the reservoir. Damn. Here was a reminder: The map is not the territory. Having not anticipated needing to run this way, he’d relied solely on Google Earth, which, of course, didn’t show this miniature cliff along the shoreline.

From the trees behind him came the crunch of footfalls.

He spun himself on his butt, pushed off, and dove into the water. Instantly he felt a wave of relief, an old habit from his SEAL days: Water was cover, escape, safety. He scissored hard for thirty feet, broke the surface for a lungful of air, then dove again, this time kicking straight for the bottom, eight feet below. When his outstretched hand touched mud, he began kicking. After thirty seconds his lungs began to burn; he heard the pounding of blood in his head. He kicked off the bottom and broke into the air.

He heard a muffled pop. He knew the sound all too well. Even as the voice in his head said, Cottonball, he felt the projectile strike the back of his head. The tang of the aerosol tranquilizer filled his nostrils. He snorted and ducked under again, shaking his head to get the aerosol out of his hair. He was only marginally successful. Within seconds his field of vision began to sparkle; he felt slightly drunk. Clearly, Third Echelon’s weapons geeks had improved the LTL (less-than-lethal) projectile. This Cottonball’s tranquilizer was much stronger and much faster acting. He’d gotten only a quarter dose, he estimated. If he’d been hit on land, he’d be asleep right now.

Focus, Sam, focus… Keep going. Distance was survival.

He rolled onto his back and porpoised upward so only his mouth broke the surface. He sucked in a breath. Another muffled pop, this one sharper, but also familiar: a 5.56mm bullpup round from a SC-20K rifle. The round slapped the water two feet from his head. A mistake or—

Pop!

The second round zipped past his ear. No mistake.

He dove again, rolled over, scissored hard for the bottom. He covered ten feet… twenty… thirty… He stretched out his right hand. Come on, come on! His fingers touched something vertical — mud, weeds. He grabbed a handful of roots and pulled himself forward until he was pressed against the mud. He surfaced amid the weeds drooping over the embankment. He caught his breath. He now knew something else about his pursuers: They either didn’t have goggles or were choosing to not use them lest they stand out. Third Echelon standard-issue NV headsets gave Splinter Cells not just night-vision capabilities but also EM (electromagnetic) and IR (infrared, or thermal). Using the latter, they would have seen him here — a man-shaped blob in various temperature-shades of blue, yellow, and red.

Fisher parted the weeds and peered across the reservoir. Kimberly and Ames were nowhere to be seen. He kept scanning, checking the length of the embankment before moving up to the trees. There. Three figures lying prone, barely visible in the underbrush of the tree line. Their scopes would be panning his side of the reservoir, looking for movement, ready to zoom in… The question was: What were their fire selectors set to? And exactly what were the rules of engagement they had been given? If it had been Kimberly shooting at him, then, clearly, in her eyes their previous friendship had lost its charm. If it was Ames… well, no surprise there. As for Blondie, she was, at this point, a question mark.

There was no way he would make it up the ten-foot embankment. The climb was doable, but the movement of the weeds would give him away. He looked left. A hundred feet away the reservoir’s north end was bordered by an abandoned municipal swimming pool surrounded by a cracked, weed-covered cement deck whose outer wall