"Hey!" Hansen cried, blinking through the incoming fire.

"Tyler! James! I told you to stay in the backyard," came a voice from the front door.

Hansen met the gaze of a young black woman, about thirty-five, wearing expensive business attire and alternating her gaze between him and the smart phone in her hand.

He was about to open his mouth when she added, "Come on. They're waiting for you in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

"Okay . . . " Hansen started for ward and asked, "Am I supposed to introduce myself?"

She made a face. "No one else did." She led him through the modestly decorated living room and toward a door adjacent to the kitchen. Hansen descended the narrow wooden staircase, reached the bottom, and turned to face the rest of his team, who were sitting in metal folding chairs arranged in a semicircle.

Standing before the group was a bald black man with a gray goatee. His muscular chest tented up a black silk shirt unb.u.t.toned to reveal the requisite bling around his neck. His expensive pants looked cut by a tailor, and his matching shoes were shined to a rich gloss. He also sported a large gold cla.s.s ring on his left pinky. He could easily be mistaken for a retired NBA star, and when he looked at Hansen, it was with an eerie fire in his eyes, the way you'd look at someone you planned to kill.

He spoke loudly, aggressively, establishing within the first sentence who was in charge: "Well, it's nice of you to join us, cowboy. There's a cooler over there with sodas. Grab yourself one and take a seat."

Hansen glanced incredulously at the others, who simply shrugged and returned his frown. They each had a soda and a seat, but Hansen wasn't quite ready for either. "Uh, excuse me, but who are you?"

"My name is Louis Moreau. Most people around 3E call me Marty. You'll call me Mr. Moreau. I'm your new technical operations manager, basically taking Grim's old job and kicking it up a notch."

"Where's Grim?"

"Couldn't make it."

"You got ID?"

Moreau began to chuckle. "Get your soda and sit down."

"I'm not thirsty."

Moreau crossed the room. Hansen hadn't quite realized that the man was a full head taller than him, and he seemed to grow wider as he drew near. "The only tough guy in the room is me. Mad Dog Moreau. Get over it. Get a chair."

Hansen rolled his eyes and complied. He flicked his glance to the pipes spanning the ceiling, the cinder-block walls, the laundry piled on the washer and dryer. "Nice bas.e.m.e.nt. You got, like, a secret panel where you keep all the high-tech c.r.a.p?"

"It's just a bas.e.m.e.nt. And you can thank my sister for opening up her house to us. Now, I know you have a lot of questions. But most of them I won't answer, so just forget about those."

Valentina threw back her blond hair and snickered.

Ames raised his hand. "Uh, sir, I don't have a question, just a comment. You're an a.s.shole."

Moreau widened his eyes in disbelief, narrowed them into a glower, then broke into a broad grin. "I like you, Brooklyn. I like that large att.i.tude. Helps compensate, you know?"

"So that's how we get on your good side?" asked Gillespie, sipping her c.o.ke. "We insult you?"

"You get on my good side, Ms. Longstocking, by doing your job."

"What did you call me?"

"Oh, I forgot--you guys aren't even thirty. When you're bored or drunk sometime, look up Pippi Longstocking. You'll have fun. Now I want to talk about Houston."

Everyone groaned.

"Sir?" began n.o.boru.

"You don't don't have a question, do you, Bruce?" have a question, do you, Bruce?"

"Uh, no, sir. Uh, my name is Nathan."

"No, you're Bruce Lee. Deal with it. Now, what do you want to say?"

"Um, nothing, sir."

Moreau moved over to n.o.boru and leaned down. "Speak."

"Sir, I just wanted to say that--"

"What, that you're honored to be here? That the United States of America has become your new home? That what happened in Houston wasn't your fault?"

n.o.boru thought for a moment. "That's right, sir."

"Good. Very good, Bruce. Now we can move on."

Valentina rose from her chair. "This is ridiculous. Are you going to conduct a meeting or entertain yourself by giving us nicknames? And G.o.d help you, if you give me one . . ."

Ames leaned forward and grinned at Hansen.

"Take a seat, Ms. Valentina, before I a.s.sign you a nickname you'll regret." Moreau faced the group. "So . . . excellent job in Houston."

Ames nearly spit out his soda. "Excuse me, sir, but this morning I went online to see how I'm supposed to file for unemployment--and you're telling me good job?"

"Leonard's dead. His data was destroyed in the house fire. We've confirmed that. In trying to kill him, the Chinese destroyed their prize."

"Who tipped them off?" asked Valentina.

"We're working on that."

Valentina shook her head in disgust. "I don't like leaks that I can't control."

"Me neither," said Ames. "I scanned the perimeter for heat signatures at least ten times. And suddenly I've got a shooter. What's up with that?"

Moreau took a deep breath. "If every operation went according to plan, none of us would be here. Third Echelon wouldn't exist. So 'what's up with that' is the unexpected. And we like that. It keeps us in business."

"We were hoping to retrieve the data and arrest Leonard for selling secrets to the Chinese," said Hansen. "We failed on both accounts. You call that a good job? h.e.l.l, I'd like to see what you call a screwup."

"The data didn't fall into the hands of the Chinese. That's all that matters right now. And Leonard's ties to Russia have also been severed. It began with Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao, Mr. Hansen, and it may have ended with Leonard. Be proud of the work you've done so far."

"If you say so."

"I know so." Moreau took a deep breath. "Boys and girls, I've been with the NSA longer than you've been alive, so you'll have to accept my apologies in advance."

"Why is that, sir?" asked Hansen.

"Because I have no patience and even less tolerance for inefficiency. G.o.d, young man, is in the details. And that's where I come in. I will speak. You will listen. You will learn. You will act on my information. You will not fail. Now, excuse me for a moment." Moreau crossed to another chair, picked up his laptop, and took a seat, balancing the computer on his knees.

Meanwhile, Valentina leaned over to Hansen and lowered her voice. "Grim had to do major damage control in Houston, and we're getting pats on the back?"

"Maybe they're sweetening us up to feed us to the wolves," said Gillespie.

Ames leveled an index finger at her. "Now, that's the first intelligent thing I've heard you say, Ms. Longstocking."

"All right, people," said Moreau. "We're not just here to discuss Houston."

Hansen raised his hand. "Mr. Moreau, I know you're not answering questions, but before we go any further, could you tell us why we're in your sister's bas.e.m.e.nt instead of the situation room?"

"We have reason to believe the situation room has been compromised."

"What?" cried Hansen.

"You heard me."

"So you think your sister's bas.e.m.e.nt is safer? Why don't we go to Taco Bell?"

"We're clear here, cowboy. Now, purge all that white noise from your head and listen up."

Moreau turned his computer around so they could see the screen, and there, with a deep scowl lining his face, was a s.h.a.ggy-haired, unshaven, all-too-familiar man.

"I was supposed to debrief you folks and get you set up for another operation in Pakistan, but it seems Mr. Sam Fisher has changed those plans. He's just surfaced in Reims. If I'd received this information sooner, we'd be at the airport already."

"Fisher's in Reims. So what? Alert Interpol," said Valentina.

"That's already happened, but we like to take care of our own problems, thank you," snapped Moreau.

"So Fisher's where?" asked Ames.

"He's in Reims. It's in France, idiot," said Gillespie.

"What the h.e.l.l's he doing there?" Ames continued, ignoring Gillespie's barb.

Moreau shrugged. "You're flying out today. And let me remind you: Fisher is not not a Splinter Cell. He's a traitor and a murderer. He killed Irving Lambert, a good friend of mine and your former boss." a Splinter Cell. He's a traitor and a murderer. He killed Irving Lambert, a good friend of mine and your former boss."

"No," cried Gillespie. "I know Sam. There's more to it than that."

"I agree," said Ames. "I've never doubted for one minute that Sam was anything but loyal to us. If he killed Lambert, then maybe Lambert was the traitor!"

Moreau raised his own voice. "Sam Fisher tried to bring down Third Echelon. As a consequence, you people are going over there, and he's coming back in cuffs or a body bag."

"Sir, to be clear, we have orders to shoot to kill if necessary?" Hansen asked.

"What did I just say, cowboy? Cuffs or body bag."

n.o.boru raised his hand. "Uh, excuse me, sir? Why are you sending us?"

Hansen snorted and answered before Moreau could. "Because we're the best."

"Some of us," corrected Ames.

"I was not privy to the selection process," said Moreau. "And to be fair, no, I wouldn't have selected you rookies to go after somebody like Sam Fisher. I told Grim it's like sending hamsters after a rattlesnake."

"Oh, my G.o.d, did you just say that?" asked Gillespie as the others swore and hissed.

"You don't like that comparison, Pippi? Prove me wrong. Now, we'll finish this up on the way to the airport." Moreau consulted his watch. "The van should be here any minute."

"Didn't we just get off a plane?" asked Valentina, sighing in disgust.

"Look on the bright side, sweetheart. You're going to France," said Ames. "You can go shopping and get your nails done."

"And when my nails are done, I can use them to reach into your chest and rip out your still-beating heart."

"I was going to say you could scratch my back while we--"

"In your pathetic dreams."

Ames wore a mock-wounded expression. "Why are you so mean to me?"

Valentina raised a perfectly tweezed brow. "Because when I was a kid, you were that boy who pulled my ponytail all through school."

"I think you like me. I think you're struggling with that. You're afraid to admit it. Don't be afraid, Maya. Don't be afraid."

"Ben, can you shut him up?"

Hansen waved them off and started up the stairs. In his mind's eye he saw himself putting a gun to Sam Fisher's head.

"Why did you kill Lambert?"

"It's complicated."

"I see. They want me to bring you in."

"I can't let that happen."

"Then I'm sorry." Hansen pulled the trigger. Hansen pulled the trigger.

Fisher crashed to the ground, lying faceup, and began bleeding all over the pavement.

With the hot sun on the back of his neck, Hansen shifted over Fisher's body, his shadow pa.s.sing over Fisher's face, the eyes glowing, a third equally bright eye appearing on Fisher's forehead as his mouth moved and he gasped out, "Ben, I need to tell you something. . . ." "Ben, I need to tell you something. . . ."