Operation Barracuda (2005)

Jeinsen gawked at the furnishings as he trailed behind the big man. "Very nice place," he said. "Does Mr. Wong own it?" The doorman ignored him.

They went through a door marked, in English and Chinese, EMPLOYEES ONLY. It opened to a dimly lit corridor lined with four doors.

"Last door on left, please," the man said, pointing.

"Oh. Okay, thank you." Jeinsen smiled sheepishly and went through. The door shut behind him.

Jeinsen apprehensively walked down the hall and knocked on the appropriate door.

"Come in." Jeinsen wasn't sure if the voice belonged to Mr. Wong. Perhaps it did. He opened the door and went inside. The room was obviously some kind of office, but it had been covered in the kind of plastic sheeting that painters use to protect furniture and carpets.

Without warning, someone standing behind the door shoved Jeinsen. The elderly scientist and U.S. government traitor fell forward to his hands and knees. His penultimate sensation was feeling the cold end of a gun barrel on the back of his head.

The last thing his brain recorded was the sound of the gunshot.

5

" NOBODYreads anymore, that's the goddamned problem!"

Harry Dagger drops a stack of books on the floor and surveys the overflowing shelves in his tiny English-language bookshop. He looks at me helplessly.

"Don't ask me what to do," I say.

"I stock more books than I can sell. I swear I'm going to go out of business if I don't move some of these things. Sam, you wouldn't want to buy a couple of cartons' worth and I'll gladly ship them to the States for you?"

"No, thanks, Harry. I'm afraid I have all I need," I say as I sip the glass of Russian vodka he's given me. I know you're supposed to down the thing in one chug but that's not my style. Since Harry's an American I don't feel the pressure to drink like the Russians.

Harry's Bookshop, which is tucked away a few blocks northeast of Gorky Park in Moscow, is really a safe house for American intelligence agents. Harry Dagger has been operating in Moscow for nearly forty years. He was CIA during the sixties, seventies, and most of the eighties, and retired just before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Harry set up his bookshop in 1991 and never expressed a desire to leave Russia. Possessing many friends in the government, Harry has managed to keep his nose clean and run a respectable business. The authorities may or may not know he also hosts out-of-town spies and provides them with Moscow intelligence but so far he's never had any trouble.

Now pushing seventy, Harry Dagger is exactly the kind of man you might find ru

He also resembles Albert Einstein, which makes him quite a character.

"But that's neither here nor there," he says, sitting in the chair across the worktable from me. He takes his vodka, neat of course, and downs it in one go. He eyes me nursing my glass and says, "Oh, come on, Fisher, that's no way to drink Russian vodka!"

"Leave me alone, Harry. I really don't likeRussian vodka straight like this."

"Would you prefer a cognac instead?"

"How about some orange juice? Do you have that?"

" Orange juice?Where do you think you are? Miami?" He stands and goes into the back room, where he keeps a refrigerator, a small stove, and a food pantry. Harry lives above the shop and has a full kitchen in his flat but often "entertains" in the store. He returns with a glass of OJ and sets it in front of me.

"Here you go, tough guy," he says. "Better go slow with that stuff. It creeps up on you."

I laugh and thank him. He sits with another glass of vodka for himself and says, "Anyway, as I was saying. This Yvan Putnik is bad news. You really saw him with General Prokofiev?"

"Washington identified him in the photos I sent."

Dagger pulls on strands of his uncombed long white hair. "Very interesting. We've always suspected Prokofiev of playing footsie with the Russian mobs but I guess this clinches it. When I learned for certain he's with the Shop, I still had no concrete proof. Still don't. But all my sources tell me he's one of the four directors. I relayed all this to Lambert last year, you know."

"I know."

"If Putnik is working for the Shop now, it could put your and every other Splinter Cell's lives in danger."

"That's nothing new. Last year the Shop had all the information they needed to take us out one by one. They nearly succeeded, too. Carly's still trying to figure out how the Shop got our names."

"Well, just because the Shop has moved out of Russia and her satellites doesn't mean they're going to stop trying to track you down. I'd say with a guy like Putnik working for them, their odds for success are greatly increased. He's very good at what he does. I'd say he's responsible for some of the most difficult political assassinations that have ever been attempted in this country. He's an expert sharp-shooter and probably very handy with a knife, too. He's known to use a Russian SV-98 sniper rifle with 7.62mm NATO ammunition. If you find yourself facing him, run away."

"I'd never do that, Harry. You know that."

"I know. I'm just saying . . ." Dagger downs his vodka while I take a sip of juice.

"So you have no clue where Andrei Zdrok is now?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "The Far East. That I'm sure of. It could be Thailand, it could be Singapore, it could be Taiwan, maybe Hong Kong or Macau, maybe Jakarta."

"It's interesting that Prokofiev is still here."

"He has to keep up appearances. Prokofiev's a top general." With that, Dagger opens a folder and removes a map. "Okay, since you want to go through with your cockamamie idea, here's where he lives." Dagger points to a spot on the eastern side of Moscow. "Izmaylovo. Actually between Izmaylovsky Park and Kuskovo Park. Quite a lovely mansion in a well-to-do neighborhood. Lives there with his wife, Helena. Children grown and moved out."

"And you've had your people watching the house?"

"Ever since I got your message. He hasn't returned from his 'business trip.' I'd say it's wide open for you to do what you do."

"What about the wife?"

"My watchers claim she goes to bed early and appears to be a heavy sleeper. Maybe she takes sedatives. She and her husband have separate bedrooms. She's a real battle-ax. Kind of looks like Boris Yeltsin in drag. It's no wonder Prokofiev has a mistress in Ukraine. If I were married to Helena Prokofiev, I'd never go home either. She's probably more dangerous than he is."

"Is the house guarded?"

"Only when the general's at home. All other times the place is looked after by their very well trained German shepherd."

"Oh, boy."

"Right. As I understand it, the dog is fearless and will attack anyone it doesn't know unless the general or his wife orders him down. Now. I've prepared something that will help you out in that department." Dagger stands, goes to the back room again, and returns with a small box. Inside are three oddly shaped bullets that look to be the size of ammunition that my Five-seveN takes.

"These are tranquilizers," he says. "Load your handgun with them before you go inside. They won't harm the dog--much--but one will knock him out quickly. Just make sure you shoot him before he sees or hears you!"