As he neared the petrol station, he slowed to get the tag number from a car parked under the awning; then he drove on.
Ames figured he’d pick his way into the fuel truck and drive it back to the petrol station, where he’d switch to his rental car. As he got to work on the truck’s door, he began to craft the elaborate lie he would feed to Kovac like a T-bone with all the trimmings. But once news of the massacre reached Kovac’s desk, Ames had better be well into a mission for Third Echelon or far away from the man. He could already hear himself saying, “But it’s not my fault. Either Third Echelon was on to us or someone else was. Maybe Zhao. Maybe Bratus. Maybe even that arrogant bastard Murdoch.”
Wincing over these thoughts, Ames finally got the door open, but it took him nearly ten more minutes before he got the truck started. Oh, he was a hell of a lot better with a sniper’s rifle, that was for sure, and the delay was pretty damned embarrassing, but only he would know about it. He threw the old heap in gear and lumbered through nearly a foot of snow that had fallen since they’d arrived.
With one broken wiper blade, he headed out to the petrol station, where he found that the locks on his rental car had also been picked, the wires cut. He raged aloud and got back in the truck.
He drove for about fifteen minutes before he realized that the fuel truck he was driving was about to run out of fuel. The truck sputtered to a halt halfway back to Vladivostok. Ames sat there and finally, reluctantly, got on his satellite phone and called the NSA for help.
12
Hansen was met at the rental car agency by a scholarly looking, leather-faced man who introduced himself as Fedosky. He took possession of the car and Sergei’s body; then another man half Fedosky’s age pulled up in a black Mercedes.
“Get in.”
“Where am I going?” Hansen asked in Russian.
The young punker with a pierced nose raked his fingers through his spiked hair and answered, “The airport. Now shut up. No more questions.”
Hansen climbed into the front seat, and the punk floored it. The international airport was about an hour’s drive from the city, and the punk navigated through the snowstorm, scowling in silence. While Hansen sat there, knowing he’d probably have to wait till morning to fly out, the mission returned in vivid detail. He even flinched as Rugar’s fist came down. The Blu-ray player in his head was caught in a loop, and shutting his eyes only made things worse.
Grim would want to know what happened after Hansen was taken inside the hangar. She would want to know how he’d escaped. He would either reveal the presence of the phantom shooter or not. If Grim already knew about the shooter and he failed to say anything, she’d know he was holding out.
But if she was ignorant in that regard, he could construct the story of his escape. Omitting details to further his career was not a morally sound choice, but maybe there was a way to avoid lying. He realized he would have to feel out Grim, learn exactly how much she knew, before he shared the details of his interrogation by Rugar. Perhaps he could get Grim to admit that another field operative had been assigned to the mission, that she hadn’t really taken a chance on him, and then he could be honest with her.
Or… he could be entirely wrong about all of it. The shooter could be someone completely unexpected, a wildcard from another agency, who’d done Hansen a favor while still accomplishing his own mission to secure whatever was inside that Anvil case. If that was what had really happened, then Hansen was staring at the same fork in the road: Tell Grim he’d been saved… or tell her he’d saved himself.
Three days later Hansen was sitting inside the situation room with Grim. He’d told her he was ready to talk the moment he’d stepped off the plane in Baltimore, but she’d insisted that he receive a complete physical exam and get a day’s worth of bed rest. The X-rays revealed no permanent damage, and his eye, though still purple, was far less swollen.
“Before we begin, I assure you, Ben, that we’re very happy with the work you did. No plan survives the first enemy contact, right? You were able to improvise. Now we know Kovac is watching us. We know he got to Sergei. And we know he had some kind of relationship with Bratus and Zhao and that there’s a list of names.”
“Who drove off in Bratus’s car? You said you were tracking it.”
“We were, but we lost it. And we don’t know.”
He stared at her. “You lost it?”
She returned his gaze. “That’s right. The weather finally cut us off.”
“Any leads? Speculation?”
“A few, but I can’t comment at this time.”
Hansen thought for a moment. “Can I ask you a question?”
She frowned. “Sure.”
“Was I really working alone? I mean, just Sergei and me out there? No one else?”
Without hesitation she said, “I sent you out there myself. One agent, one runner. Why do you ask?”
He averted his gaze. She had not flinched, and her voice had not wavered. They could hook her up to a polygraph and the needle wouldn’t budge. She was either the most proficient liar he’d ever met or she really didn’t know.
He blurted out, “I was in the hangar. Rugar was going to torture me. I wouldn’t have broken. I know that. But Sergei was there, and he shot Rugar. And then… he was going to shoot me.”
She set down her cup of coffee. “But you took him out.”
“I was lying on the floor with my hands cuffed behind my back.”
“What’ re you saying?”
He closed his eyes and he was back there, squinting toward the shadows, the cold rafters, the long seams in the metal ceiling. “Someone shot Sergei and left me there. I think that same person took off in Bratus’s car.”
The tension in Hansen’s chest began to loosen, and he finally opened his eyes and looked at her.
She’d removed her glasses, and her gaze had gone distant. “Oh, my God…” she muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“And I’m going to sit here and let you tell me nothing?”
She sighed. “I can’t say much more.”
“You know who it was.”
“I can’t confirm that.”
Hansen leaned toward her. “But you have an idea. Did you send someone to babysit me? Yes or no?”
“I told you no. And you’d best watch that tone.”
He huffed. “Sorry. And if I can still ask… Did we get anything from the phones or that tag number?”
“They’ve wiped clean any traces. You shouldn’t expect anything less.”
“I guess not.”
She took a long breath, then said, “I’m putting together a squad.”
“Squad?” He’d uttered the word as though he’d never heard it before.
“Five field operatives, all new recruits, and you’ve earned your place as the team lead.”
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
“I’m not trying, Ben. This is my meeting.”
He nodded. “Okay, but one more thing. About Sergei. His body got back here okay? He’ll get a proper funeral? Family notified?”
“It’s all been taken care of. Kovac used him, Ben. He knew Sergei was vulnerable, and he used him. I feel terrible about that, and even more concerned about our current operations.”
“So… you’ve decided to build a team? Wouldn’t a group pose a greater security risk?”
