“Not sure if we’ll work together after this, but if we do, the team comes first, before you or anyone else.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
“Apparently, I do.”
“Ben, it’s your team. I didn’t want to let you down. I didn’t want to let any of us down.”
“I get that. You’re not the best agent, but you’re the biggest ass kicker we’ve got — and I can’t afford to lose you. And can I say I’m not thrilled that you confided in Ames.” Hansen glanced across the room at the short man banging on his computer.
Noboru sighed deeply. “Neither am I.”
“Do you think we can trust him?”
“The intel for Vianden was good. If Spock knows where Fisher’s going to be, then, yeah, we can trust him.”
“I was talking about Ames.”
“I hate him.”
“Me, too. But we don’t have to like him to trust him.”
Suddenly Ames slapped shut his laptop and cried, “Ladies and gentlemen, start packing. Fisher will be in Hammerstein tomorrow. He’s got a meeting at 2:00 P.M.”
“A meeting where?” asked Hansen.
Ames winced. “That’s where it gets a little sketchy, but Spock’s got a few ideas… ”
“What do we tell Moreau?” asked Valentina.
Hansen squinted into a thought. “Let me handle that.”
33
The team caught the first flight out of Luxembourg to the Cologne-Bonn Airport, just an hour away from Hammerstein. They arrived at 9:10 A.M., rented a pair of Mercedes sedans (no more budget rentals for them, Hansen swore), and drove out to the small town, taking in gorgeous views of the Rhine along the way.
The night before, Hansen had gone into Moreau’s room and put it to him bluntly: “We know Fisher’s meeting with Hoffman tomorrow. We’re flying up to Hammerstein. If you can just buy us a little time to see if we can intercept, I’ll let you come with us.”
“Oh, you’ll let me come with you, huh, cowboy? That the way it is?”
“You can’t stop us. So you might as well come.”
“And how did you obtain this information?”
“We intercepted a Klingon transmission.”
“Don’t you mean Vulcan?”
“Whatever.”
“I’m warning you, Hansen—”
“What are you going to do? Assemble another team to take out the team that’s supposed to get Fisher? I get confused just thinking about it.”
“You know what?” Moreau let the question hang, then suddenly smiled. “You’re a fool, but you remind me of myself back in the day. Arrogant, cocky, one badass mother—”
“Pack your bags, Boss.”
Moreau finished his curse. “Grim will be pissed.”
“Join the dark side.”
Moreau frowned. “Now you’re mixing up sci- fi universes.”
They spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon driving around Hammerstein and considering probable meeting locations. There were a few outdoor cafes and three small wineries, should Fisher have chosen a public place for his meeting, and it wasn’t as though Moreau would volunteer that information. In fact, he admitted that he and Grim did not know where the meeting would take place. That was between Hoffman and Fisher.
Ames got back on his laptop and said he’d received an update from Spock. The meeting was being held at a small, locally owned winery called J. P. Zwick Weinstube Weingut.
“And how the hell does Spock know that?” asked Moreau.
“Because this guy is as well connected as they get. It seems like 3E doesn’t know jack compared to him,” said Ames. “Maybe we should all go work for him and we’ll have some decent intel for a change, instead of this garbage you’ve been feeding us, right?”
Moreau shook his head, not buying it.
Across the street from the winery was a boat launch’s parking lot, and they arrived there at about one fifteen, approximately forty-five minutes before the meeting was scheduled to take place. Hansen ordered Ames, Valentina, Noboru, and Gillespie to comb the lot and read off the tag numbers of every car there so Moreau could immediately run them. They were looking for Hoffman’s car and any rentals.
In the meantime, Hansen left the Mercedes, stepped over the guardrail, and headed onto the shoulder of the road. He waited for a break in traffic, then began to cross the street, aiming straight for the winery.
Gillespie called over the subdermal to say she’d just intercepted a police call. There was a report of a maniac in a BMW smashing into cars in the marina parking lot south of the winery, and the guy was now heading south down Highway 42.
“You think it’s him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Stand by.”
Hansen frowned, continued on, and appearing from between two bushes ahead was… Fisher himself!
The man started immediately toward a big BMW sedan parked nearby, drawing within ten feet.
“Don’t, Sam.” Chills shot up Hansen’s spine. Had it all come down to something as anticlimactic as this — nabbing him in a parking lot?
Hansen raised his voice a bit more. “We’ve got you.”
Fisher averted his gaze and kept moving. But Hansen was certain the man had heard him.
Even so, Hansen called even louder: “Fisher!”
Fisher was now five feet from his car, arm outstretched, thumb working a key fob. The Beamer chirped.
That noise sent Hansen’s hand into the folds of his black leather jacket. He drew his SC pistol from the shoulder holster and ran toward the edge of the winery parking lot.
He raised the pistol.
Fisher opened the Beamer’s door.
Hansen had the shot.
Fisher looked up, flashed the briefest of nods, then climbed inside.
“Damn!” muttered Hansen.
Fisher started the car. The engine roared. He pulled out of his parking spot.
For a few seconds, Hansen wasn’t sure what to do. He turned and sprinted back across the road, only then realizing that he should have switched to lethal fire and shot out Fisher’s tires.
Another foolish move.
Admittedly, this was the first time he’d actually seen the legendary Sam Fisher in the flesh, and maybe he’d been starstruck, he didn’t know, but he cursed himself as he activated the team channel and called out to the others over the SVT: “It’s Fisher! In the BMW! He’s taking off! Everyone back to the cars!”
Fisher’s car wheeled around and raced off, heading south down Highway 42, along the river.
Moreau, who was sitting in the backseat of Hansen’s sedan, arms folded over his chest, said, “He’s getting away.”
“How ’bout a little help?” Hansen asked.
Moreau pillowed his head in his hands. “You’re on your own, cowboy. Grim doesn’t even know I’m here.”
Hansen swore and streaked out of the parking lot. Fisher had a good lead on them already, a mile heading for
