Kasperov’s eyes had grown pink. He stared at Fisher for a moment, his gaze much softer now as he lifted the phone to his ear and spoke in English: “This is Igor Kasperov . . .”
He didn’t say much at first, probably because Caldwell was selling him hard on coming to the United States. In Fisher’s humble opinion they had a viable and convincing offer: They would reunite the man with his daughter, provide him with protection against the wrath of the Russian government, and help him rebuild his business empire. No amount of cash could buy those outcomes now.
“I can’t say why I fled Russia. Not here, not now,” said Kasperov. “But, okay, I go to Juliaca. I board your plane, but I want your guarantees in writing. All right, then. Good-bye, Madame President.”
He handed over the phone, and Fisher reassured him that they’d videoconference with Nadia once they returned to the plane, and they’d provide any other proof he needed.
Kasperov resumed his native tongue. “So you really are an American agent. Do you have a name?”
Fisher grinned wearily. “You heard it. I’m Sam.”
Kasperov glanced away and began to laugh.
“I’m sorry?” Fisher asked, wondering if Kasperov would let him in on the joke.
“I want to know your whole name. Your real name.”
“I could tell you anything I want, and it could still be a lie.”
“But you won’t, because we’re going to trust each other now.” Kasperov reached over and proffered his hand.
Fisher took the man’s hand and shook it firmly. “Very well, then, sir. My name is Sam Fisher.”
25
BEFORE they boarded the chopper, Kasperov wanted to take a moment to speak with the Snow Maiden, and Fisher indulged him, escorting the man back to Briggs’s car, where the Russian agent sat, brooding, her gaze burning through the open window. “Igor, you got fatter,” she said with a crooked grin.
“They told me you were holding my daughter in Sochi.”
“We had fun. We got ice cream.”
“I’d like to kill you right now, but I’m going to do worse . . . much worse. I’m going to hand you over to the Americans.”
She threw back her head and cackled.
“I’m thrilled that amuses you.”
“Igor, that’s no threat. You think they’ll torture me? There’s no extraordinary rendition or black sites. They’ve lost the stomach for it. The Americans are weak now, controlled by a liberal media, a Congress at war with itself, and a president too concerned with appearances. I’ll be going on vacation.”
Fisher shouldered up beside Kasperov to face the Snow Maiden. “You won’t be interrogated by the government. At least not at first. You’ll be interrogated by me. And I have the freedom to get what I need through any means possible. You don’t have to believe me now, but I’ll prove it to you, and the experience will be anything but a vacation.”
“You’re a comedian,” she told Fisher. “Do you have more good jokes to entertain me?”
Fisher gritted his teeth. “When we get back to my plane, you’ll understand.” Fisher turned to Briggs. “Let’s go.”
As they headed toward the chopper with the Snow Maiden clutched by two of Kasperov’s men, Fisher thanked Hector once more, along with the other miners.
“Your sons would be proud of what you did today,” Fisher told the man.
“Thank you.”
They boarded the chopper, with the Snow Maiden in the back row, seated between Anatoly and Briggs.
“Grim, it’s me. We’re taking off with Kasperov. Should be there shortly. Tell the flight crew to get prepped for takeoff.”
“You got it, Sam. Nice work.”
He smiled inwardly. Compliments from Grim were rare gems indeed. “See you in a few.”
The chopper pitched forward and began to rise, the force throwing Fisher back into his seat.
As the pilot wheeled around, taking them across the snow-covered slopes and continuing to lift off, Briggs cursed, then cried, “What the hell?”
Fisher craned his neck—
Just as the Snow Maiden bolted up from her seat a second before Anatoly was finished with her seat belt.
Hunched over in the tight cabin, she made two carefully placed hops, then turned, slamming her back against the side door and getting her hands on the latch.
Fisher’s mouth fell open.
She had timed it perfectly.
While they’d been filing somewhat victoriously into the cabin, their guards down, she’d been working.
She’d studied the door handle, the angles and forces involved, the push-button lock. She’d judged the distance from her seat to the door. She’d guessed about how much maneuverability she’d have and knew she’d need to make her break before Anatoly buckled her in.
As Briggs lunged for her, the side door slid open behind her, the cold air whooshing into the cabin and beginning to howl. She wriggled her brows at Fisher before letting herself fall backward—
Into the air.
Fisher threw off his buckles and came in behind Briggs, the wind nearly blinding now.
“Shut the door!” cried the copilot.
They watched as the Snow Maiden plunged ten, maybe fifteen meters, slamming hard into the snow and plunging at least another meter through the ice crust and into the softer powder beneath.
“Circle back!” shouted Fisher.
As Briggs rolled shut the door and locked it, the pilot banked hard, taking them back toward the Snow Maiden, a mere dot against a sheet of pale white.
They swooped down, and Fisher riveted his gaze on her, searching for any signs of movement.
“That fall must’ve killed her,” said Briggs. “Probably snapped her neck.”
“Yes, she would rather kill herself than be taken prisoner,” said Kasperov. “They’re trained to do that. If there’s no way to escape, then they’ll try everything they can to commit suicide. I guess the days of the poisoned tooth are over, otherwise this could’ve been avoided.”
“I don’t think she was trying to kill herself,” said Fisher. “And I don’t think she’s dead. Just unconscious. We need to go back.”
“Nowhere to land down there,” said the pilot. “That means it’s the helipad or nothing, and you’ll need to hike back up there on foot to get her.”
“And carry her back down,” said Briggs, staring out the window. “She looks dead. She wasn’t the target. But if we need to confirm, then let’s do it.”
“Grim, we’ve got a complication,” Fisher said.
“What, exactly?”
Fisher struggled for the words. “The Snow Maiden accidentally fell out of the chopper.”
Briggs looked at him and winced.
“What?” cried Grim.
“Point is, we’re going to be late.”
“No, no way.”
“Maybe an hour. It’s nothing.”
“Sam, listen to me. We’ve got two jets inbound and they’ll be on the tarmac within an hour. They’re both owned by MCS Charter out of Moscow, a known front company for the GRU. Same company that owns that Gulfstream G650 that I’m thinking must’ve dropped off the Snow Maiden.”
“Shit, maybe she blew an alarm.”
“Or maybe they’re tracking her and she didn’t know it. Either way, we need to get the hell out of here. Now.”
Fisher stared hard at the Snow Maiden’s motionless form as the helo continued to circle overhead. They had nothing, not even the agent’s cell phone to bring back. She had to be operating rogue to head up to La Rinconada with no comm.
Fisher looked at Briggs, then at Kasperov and his girlfriend. He bit back a curse and lifted his voice, “All right, pilot. Just get us back to Juliaca. Top speed.”
* * *
THE Snow Maiden waited until the sound of the helicopter grew faint.
Then she sat up, scowling over the deep aches in her back and shoulders. Was anything broken? She wasn’t sure but she didn’t think so. She blinked hard, and then it finally dawned on her—what she had just done. She began to chuckle so hard that she nearly choked.