Free Operation Barracuda (2005) by Tom - Splinter Cell 02 Clancy Page B

perhaps die for her crime, but her words to the police were that “the bastard deserved it.” Hopefully at the very least she will gain some personal satisfaction from her deed.
    Oskar Herzog, the Shop director who was with Prokofiev at the Obukhiv hangar, has disappeared. He’s probably gone to wherever Andrei Zdrok and Anton Antipov are hiding. I’m sure when Lambert finds out where they are, that will be the destination of my next “business trip.”
    In the meantime it’s good to be back in Towson, Maryland, where I live in a town house much too large for a single man in his forties. I have three floors in which to spread out and I must say it’s pretty nice when one leads a solitary existence. I indulge myself in a few simple pleasures such as a supersized flat-screen television and a decent collection of DVDs. I prefer old westerns and war movies. I keep a library of reference material in the lower floor and that’s also where my home office is. I don’t read a lot of fiction. I mostly study the countries of the world, trying to keep abreast of everything that’s happening politically and economically, especially in the so-called hot spots. Knowing who’s really on your side and who’s not is a primary task when you’re out in the field. So every day I try to learn something new about a place. It keeps me on my toes.
    I’m conveniently three blocks away from I-695 and can do most of my food shopping at a market a block away on York Road. My Krav Maga class meets in the same strip mall. My instructor, Katia Loenstern, left me an intriguing message on my answering machine.
    “There’s going to be a special class on Thursday and I’d really like you to be there,” she had said. “Please.”
    Well, it’s Thursday, so I change into my jumpsuit for the workout. I grab a small gym bag to carry a towel and an extra T-shirt, and I’m ready to go. It’s still winter in Maryland so I wear a slick red ski jacket and set out on the five-minute walk from my subdivision. But before I shut the front door and lock it, I hear the house phone ring. I keep two phone lines—one has an unlisted number that’s for personal use. Friends and family—what little of them I have—use that number. The other phone is a secure line to Third Echelon.
    Since not many people have my home number, I can usually bet that a caller is not a telemarketer but instead someone I don’t mind talking to. I rush back inside and grab the phone in the kitchen, which is on the ground floor next to the front door.
    “Fisher,” I answer.
    “Dad!”
    I feel my smile stretch across my face. It’s worth turning around and coming back into the house to get a phone call from my daughter, Sarah.
    “How are you, honey?”
    “I’m fine. It’s cold here. You got snow?” In my mind’s eye I picture her at five or six years old, which isn’t the case anymore. It’s hard for me to accept the fact that she’s no longer a little girl.
    “No, it’s melted but it’s cold outside. I was just about to walk over to my gym class. How’s school?”
    “Good. You know why I’m calling, don’t you?”
    I think for a second. “Um, because you love your dad and just wanted to hear his voice?”
    She laughs with her unique girl-giggle that tugs at my heart. “No, silly. Well, sure, that’s true, too, but I called to wish you Happy Birthday!”
    Damn. I nearly forgot. My friggin’ birthday is tomorrow. I chuckle and shake my head. It figures that it conveniently slipped my mind.
    “So why don’t you call me tomorrow, too?”
    “Well, I’m in school all day and then I have play rehearsal tomorrow night.”
    “Right.”
    “So, here goes!” She starts to sing the stupid song and I laugh some more. When she’s done, I thank her profusely.
    “You should be getting something in the mail,” she says. “I gotta run. You gonna be home for a while now that you’re back?”
    “I hope so. At least until my next overseas sales conference.”
    She