Sure enough, I hear running footsteps and shouts. The guards make it outside and begin to search the parking lot thoroughly. I imagine the looks of bewilderment on their faces. Where the hell did he go? He couldn't have disappeared so quickly!
I see feet run past the SUV. More shouts. More confusion. The guards' boss is yelling at them, cursing in Chinese. It's going to be his head for this! Find that gweilonow! More feet patter by as the men search up and down the aisles of cars.
It takes them ten minutes before they give up. They figure the intruder must have gone in another direction. I wait another five minutes to make sure it's completely quiet, and then I lower myself to the cement. I look around for signs of people's feet. Nothing. I roll out from under the Honda, look both ways, and then rise to a crouching position. I slowly lift my head over the hood and survey the parking lot. I'm alone.
I leave the property the way I came, using the shadows to mask my presence. I move like a tomcat, quiet and unobtrusive, sticking to walls and street objects. Stealth is the name of the game and I'm damned good at it.
As missions go, this one went relatively smoothly. No mission is "easy," per se. They all have their challenges. I can't take anything for granted and I must be certain that I do my job invisibly. That's what being a Splinter Cell is all about. Leave no footprints. Get in. Get out. You're done.
A Splinter Cell works alone. A remote team monitors and supports me--professionals that are damned good at their jobs, too--but it's my ass that's out there in the line of fire. Every move must be thought out as if the field were a gigantic chessboard. A single mistake can be fatal.
I like to think I don't make mistakes. I'm Sam Fisher. I am a Splinter Cell.
2
LIEUTENANT Colonel Dirk Verbaken looked at his watch and decided to get going. He had forty minutes before the rendezvous--more than enough time--but he had to allow for unforeseen surprises.
He stood, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of his office. He addressed his personal assistant with a simple "I'll be at lunch." She nodded and noted the time. Verbaken walked down the hall, pausing at the door to the men's room. He nudged the door ajar but didn't go in. Verbaken felt a twinge of trepidation as he looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then he skirted across the hall to the File Room. He knew it would be empty at this time of day.
Rules at the Intelligence and Security Staff Department were very strict, especially when it came to removing files from the building. Anyone wishing to take something from the File Room had to perform a bureaucratic song and dance that involved way too much red tape. A paper trail was kept and the chances of questions coming up were great. It was best for him simply to take what he wanted and smuggle it out. After lunch he could reverse the procedure, replace the file in the cabinet, and no one would be the wiser. After all, he was one of the top-ranking officials in the department, having been with the Belgian Military Intelligence and Security Service for ten years.
Verbaken went to the cabinet marked "B" and used his own key to unlock it. He pulled the drawer out and quickly thumbed through the manila folders until he found the one he wanted. He removed the folder, shut the drawer, and locked the cabinet. He moved to a worktable, and then slipped the folder inside his briefcase. After snapping the case shut, he walked swiftly to the File Room door. Verbaken opened it slightly and peered out. All clear. He moved into the hall and walked toward the elevators, pushing open the men's room door as he passed it. His assistant was most likely paying no attention, but at least he had gone through the motions of using the washroom before going out.
It was a beautiful day in Brussels. Verbaken left his discreetly disguised building, which was located just off the Grand-Place, the magnificent square that was considered the centerpiece of the city. Symbols of Belgium's royal history bordered the Grand-Place on all four sides, and Verbaken, a native Belgian, was usually impressed daily by the marvelous display of ornamental gables, gilded facades, medieval banners, and gold-filigreed rooftop sculptures. Today, however, the dazzling sights of the fifteenth-century Gothic Town Hall, the seventeenth-century neo-Gothic King's House, and the Brewers Guild House meant nothing to him. His mind was elsewhere.
Verbaken walked briskly through the colorful, narrow, cobblestoned streets to the intersection of Rue de Chene and Rue de L'Etuve. He paid no attention to the tourists who were snapping pictures of the famous statue of the urinating little boy known as Manneken-Pis. Verbaken glanced at his watch and noted that he was still on time. There was no need to hurry, so he decided to stop momentarily and stand with the crowd. He was pretty good at spotting a tail, and he carefully scanned the people that had been behind him. He didn't think he had anything to worry about, so he moved on.
Verbaken eventually arrived at the Metropole, the only nineteenth-century hotel in the famed city. Located in the heart of Brussels' historical Place de Brouckere, the Hotel Metropole was more like a palace than a hotel. Verbaken had always wanted to have a second honeymoon there with his wife. She loved the mixture of styles that infused the interior with an air of luxury and richness of materials--paneling, polished teak, Numidian marble, gilded bronze, and forged iron. The place had a decidedly soothing ambience.
Once he was inside the building, Verbaken felt more comfortable with what he was about to do.
ONthe sidewalk in front of the hotel, two men dressed in expensive Armani business suits sat at a small round table with cups of coffee. The Metropole Cafe was a popular spot for lunch on weekdays and today was no different. All the tables were full and businessmen and tourists waited impatiently in line for the next available space. The two men didn't care. They took their time as they sipped their coffees.
One of them, a Russian known only as "Vlad," motioned to the waiter. In French he ordered a dish of ice cream. The waiter looked a bit perturbed, since the two men had been occupying the table for over an hour and hadn't ordered more than coffee--and now ice cream. But the waiter smiled, said, " Merci," and walked away to the kitchen. Vlad looked at his companion and shrugged.
The other man, a Georgian who went by the name of "Yuri," started to say there wasn't enough time for dessert but decided instead to stay silent.
Yuri checked his pocket to make sure the passkey was still there. The Metropole still used old-fashioned skeleton keys for the rooms, and it had been a simple matter to steal a master from one of the maids earlier that morning.
Several minutes went by and still neither man said a word to the other. The waiter brought the ice cream and, as a hint, laid the bill on the table. Vlad almost complained that they weren't ready to leave yet, but Yuri gave him a look. Vlad thanked the waiter and smiled.
As Vlad scooped the dessert into his mouth, Yuri continued to scan the pedestrians on the sidewalk. It was the usual midday crowd--businessmen, tourists, beautiful women, not-so-beautiful women . . . and then he spotted the mark.
Yuri nudged Vlad with his foot. Vlad looked up and saw a man carrying a briefcase make his way through the cafe to the front doors of the hotel.
Dirk Verbaken.
Vlad quickly put money on the table, took one last spoonful of ice cream, and stood with Yuri. They both adjusted their neckties and then discreetly followed the lieutenant colonel inside.