Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath (10 page)

11

SVR
agent number one, the gray-haired operator Fisher had nicknamed “Uncle Harry,” sat
in his idling Volkswagen rental, crushing the seat with his considerable girth. A
rather mundane surveillance op like this was led by a more seasoned—see “ready to
retire”—agent while his two more youthful colleagues braved the early-morning temperatures
on foot patrol. Grim had initially spotted only two agents at Nadia’s apartment, along
with the two requisite private security guards posted at the front desk and at the
gate near the parking garage. Fisher dubbed these rent-a-cops the “puppy patrol.”
Meanwhile, Briggs, operating from a rooftop opposite the five-story building, had
picked up a third SVR agent street side and looking oh-so-clandestine with a Bluetooth
receiver jutting from one of his ears.

While Harry and his associates were here to apprehend and question Kasperov, his daughter,
or anyone else who returned to the apartment, they had obviously grown bored with
their duties. For his part, Harry spoke only once on his radio while repeatedly adjusting
himself in his seat as though his legs were falling asleep or he had a fiery case
of hemorrhoids. He never saw Fisher, who was under his car inserting the gas tube
into the vehicle’s heating system to inject the halothane gas.

Fisher made the connection, threw the valve, then slipped out from beneath the car,
crawling to the parked sedan behind the Volkswagen.

“He’s adjusting the heat,” reported Briggs. “He knows something’s up. In five, four,
three, two . . . oh, there he goes. He’s out, Sam. Lying back on the seat.”

“Roger that. Need to move fast now.”

“Sam, Cousin Ivan is on the east side of the building, smoking a cigarette near the
parking garage across the street,” reported Grim. “Cousin Drago is still on the roof.”

Rather than sitting in some not-so-discreet van, Grim and Charlie were operating from
a crowded Internet café called Altro just one block down the street. They had a window
table, a couple of laptops, and access to some of the most powerful software and best-tasting
lattes on the planet, according to Charlie.

They were surrounded by undergrads wired into their own computers, yet Charlie and
Grim still had privacy, their screens out of view, their voices out of earshot. They
were fully patched into the surrounding security cameras as well as a video stream
recorded by Briggs. Just before they’d arrived, Charlie had noted how several of the
camera systems had been depressingly easy to bypass. He’d explained that inherent
vulnerabilities existed in many of the top manufacturers’ stand-alone CCTV systems
as well as a substantial number of rebranded versions. Remote access capability via
the web was a convenient feature that allowed guards and other administrators to view
a location from off-site. Likewise it made the systems vulnerable to hackers if they
weren’t set up securely. If the remote access feature was enabled by default upon
purchase—which many of them were—some customers didn’t realize they should take steps
to secure those systems.

However, even the systems that
were
security enabled came with laughably unsecure user names like “user” and “admin,”
along with passwords like “1234.” They also failed to lock out a user after a certain
number of incorrect password guesses. This meant that even if a customer changed the
password, hackers like Charlie could crack them through a brute-force attack. Finally,
because many customers who employed the systems didn’t restrict access to computers
from trusted networks, nor did they log who was accessing them, Charlie said that
even the guards couldn’t tell if a remote attacker was in their system viewing video
footage from outside the network.

Interestingly enough, Nadia’s building was the toughest to crack, and her father had
probably had a hand in that. What Fisher found curious was why she’d opted for a penthouse
in a five-story building instead of a private villa. The place was, after all, known
as the “Monte Carlo of Switzerland,” situated in the south of the country on the shores
of Lake Lugano, with the city’s waterfront forming a crescent around the bay between
the Brè and the San Salvatore mountains. Fisher had read that Lugano was the largest
Italian-speaking city outside of Italy, with an economy bolstered by business, finance,
and tourism. It was one of the most popular tourist cities in Switzerland, as well
as home to several universities and institutes, including Nadia’s. A lakeside villa
would’ve afforded her direct access to the waterfront and the collection of cafés
and bistros that were crowded day and night. Perhaps she’d wanted to be closer to
her colleagues, pretend to live a somewhat normal life. Grim had mentioned that several
of her classmates lived in the building, and the SVR team had, according to the surveillance
camera video, gone to their apartments to question them.

Fisher slipped away from the sedan behind the Volkswagen and worked his way along
the line of cars. The sun was rising, the street and pedestrian traffic beginning
to increase as the locals headed off to work. He darted across the street to the back
of a public parking garage facing Nadia’s complex. He vaulted over a four-foot-tall
concrete wall, then hit the stairwell, heading up to the second level. He jogged across
the garage, then reached another barrier wall. Keeping low, he eased up to the wall
and glanced down. Cousin Ivan was directly below him, standing on the sidewalk and
lighting up another cigarette.

Fisher set up his rappelling line, attaching its carabiner clip to the fitting of
an electrical conduit spanning the ceiling. Given the fact that most pedestrians and
drivers wouldn’t necessarily be looking up at the side of the garage, and the fact
that Ivan was pretty far from the nearest door, Fisher had devised a plan to make
the agent disappear with minimal risk. A large oak tree on the corner provided additional
cover.

“Briggs, you with me?” he asked.

“I’m here. You’re clear.”

“Okay, here we go.”

Fisher eased himself headfirst over the wall, hooking one leg around his rappelling
line that was paying out from the custom-designed mechanical descender box attached
to his chest via a nylon harness. He slid down the side of the parking garage like
an arachnid, using his weak hand to brake. The Australians called rappelling headfirst
“Geneva” style, but Fisher had first experienced the technique while cross-training
with the Israeli Hostage-Rescue Rappelling and Climbing Sections, also known as the
“Terror Monkeys.” They were acknowledged experts in climbing and conducting assaults
from above, and they’d urged him to try the inverted drop in order to peek in windows
and limit exposure. His trial efforts had resulted in a few mild concussions, but
as he perfected his skills, he became so adept at the technique that he could do it
unconsciously, focusing entirely on his target.

Just as Fisher neared Cousin Ivan, the agent glanced up. Fisher’s descent was smooth
and controlled, but it was well-nigh impossible to remain perfectly silent.

That didn’t matter, though. In that second when Ivan saw him, Fisher gripped the man
in a windpipe-crushing choke hold. At the same time, he thumbed a remote jutting from
his sleeve, and the line began spooling back up, lifting him and Ivan into the air.
Fisher carried Ivan all the way to the second floor, over the barrier wall, then waited
until the man went limp. He deposited Ivan’s body onto the floor and detached himself
from the line. The entire process took the better part of six seconds. Fisher dragged
the body over to some plastic barriers cordoning off an area in the process of being
repaved. He shoved the body between two of the barriers, where he’d lie temporarily
out of sight until the construction workers found him later in the morning.

“Sam, the loop’s up,” Charlie said. “You’re clear for the roof.”

“Thanks, Charlie. On my way.” The private security guard in the building’s garage,
along with the man posted at the desk in the foyer, were watching a video loop and
would never see Fisher’s approach to the building.

Fisher hit the stairwell and double-timed his way to the roof, eight stories above.
He eased open the door to find a middle-aged businessman walking across the lot to
his car, briefcase in hand.

“Hang on a second, Briggs, I’ve got a guy up here.”

“Standing by.”

The businessman got in his vehicle and drove off. The second he vanished down the
ramp, Fisher sprinted to the opposite wall and gazed out across the street to the
apartment’s rooftop, where Cousin Drago stood near a vine-covered wall within the
private garden. The agent stared down at the street through a pair of binoculars.
Beyond him were the flickering lights of the city and a rather breathtaking view of
the lake beyond, walled in by those deep-brown mountains.

Fisher slid down his trifocals and studied the terrace. He had a direct line on the
rooftop door and the nearby palm tree, as he’d planned. “Okay, Briggs, got the target
marked for my line. You’re clear for the shot.”

“Gotcha, Sam. Stand by . . .”

Fisher zoomed in on Drago, anticipating a round blasting through his skull and dropping
him.

Tensing, Fisher detected the slightest crack from Briggs’s suppressed sniper rifle
from across the street.

But something had gone wrong. Drago jerked, lowered his binoculars, and was immediately
on his cell phone.

“Missed the shot!” cried Briggs.

“Fire again!” Fisher ordered.

Losing his breath, Fisher watched as Drago darted for the back door.

He reached out for the doorknob, then slumped before ever applying pressure.

“Jesus, Briggs, you’re giving me a heart attack,” Fisher said.

“Wind shifted on me.”

“It’s cool, Sam,” said Charlie. “Drago didn’t call out. He only tried to dial Uncle
Harry.”

“Roger that. Heading over now.”

Fisher fired a line and grappling hook across the street. The hook struck one of three
palm trees growing from enormous pots. The hook jammed between the heavy branches,
and Fisher attached it to the undercarriage of the nearest car behind him. Next he
slapped the ball-bearing guide belt over the line and zipped across, thumping softly
onto the terrace. He turned back, thumbed another remote, and the carabiner attached
to the line back at the garage automatically released the rope so he could retrieve
it, leaving no evidence of how he’d entered the building. With that done and Drago’s
body dragged out of sight behind some shrubs, Fisher was prepared to pick the rooftop
door’s lock, but Drago was a fine lad and had left the door open. Fisher simply walked
inside and reported that to Grim.

“At the next landing come out and make a left,” she instructed him. “Her penthouse
suite’s door is at the end of the hall, straight ahead.”

“I see it,” said Fisher. He jogged quickly to the end of the hall, noting the security
camera’s light from the ceiling.

“Okay, we see you at the door,” said Charlie.

“And the alarm?” Fisher asked.

“What about it?” asked Charlie. “I’ve gotten us into Gitmo. You don’t think I can
get us in here?”

“Right.”

“So the alarm’s yesterday’s news. Completely bypassed and powered off so the monitoring
company gets no call.”

Fisher reached into his breast pocket and produced his lock-picking tools; they included
a hook pick, a half diamond with steep angles, a snake rake, a half diamond with shallow
angles, an S-rake pick, a double round pick, and a long double ended pick.

“Sam, you’re so old-school,” remarked Charlie.

“You got a better way?”

“Melt the lock off with a laser, and who gives a shit if we were there.”

“That laser gives off smoke and a nasty smell. Good way to get your ass caught. You
stick to firewalls and leave the locks to me.” He went to work, first opening the
dead bolt, then moving on to the handle’s lock.

“Aren’t you done yet?” Charlie asked.

Fisher snorted. “Three seconds . . .”

“Sam, you’d better make this quick. Looks like a police car has just pulled up behind
Uncle Harry. Maybe they think he’s a drunk fallen asleep in his car. Either way, you
gotta move quickly.”

The lock clicked. “I’m in.”

Fisher pushed in the door and quietly shut it after himself. He switched on his penlight
and moved through a hallway lined with tropical plants and into a broad living room
with white leather furniture and an adjoining dining room with a black marble table.
The décor was, indeed, rich and imported, and the paintings on the wall—all landscapes
of Switzerland—were signed oil on canvas originals. Very mature furnishings for a
twenty-year-old girl, and again, Fisher wondered how much her father had a say in
this.

He crossed over to the spacious kitchen with ornate backsplashes of expensive glass
and porcelain tiles. Every drawer had been pulled open and searched, every cabinet
rifled through. He opened the refrigerator. Well stocked.

“How’s it looking out there, Briggs?”

“The cops are knocking on Harry’s door, but he’s not responding. Rest of the zone
looks clear.”

“Roger.”

Fisher left the kitchen and shifted across the living room. He reached a pair of sliding
glass doors leading to a broad balcony with seating for four around an ornate wicker
table set. The city and lake views were incredible. Hell, Fisher wouldn’t mind retiring
here himself. He shifted away, down another hall, then neared the bedroom, which looked
a bit more like a traditional college girl’s dorm with dozens of stuffed animals thrown
off the bed and lying across the rug. The king-size bed itself had been wrenched apart,
the sheets removed, the mattress slid aside to allow inspection beneath it. The nightstand’s
drawers were empty, their contents—books, pieces of jewelry, hair ties, and a few
grooming products—splayed across the floor. He found the long dresser with attached
vanity mirror equally torn apart, some of the drawers removed and sitting on the bed.