Chapter IV
The room was pitch black, curtains drawn against the moon. Her hands were clamped behind her back as she paced, computer screen blank, empty. The time was nearing and she didn't know what to do. It was almost the moment of truth, and she was starting to get opening-night jitters. Bumping into her dresser she hobbled over to her bed and turned on a lamp. Next time she was going to pace, she'd have a light on. For some reason her bed, usually comforting, seemed cold and useless. Her fear, and the adrenaline pumping through her, forced all drowsiness from her body. Would it be Showtime soon? How much longer would the General wait to make his declaration of war on the US?
The warriors, the army, they were all nearing perfection. It was frightening how good they were, all those boys in camouflage or black, able to do tricks that would make North American trained solders gawk. She was impressed, but again, scared. All this preparation would be over soon and they would be locked in lethal combat. Would any countries help them? Or would everyone flock to the United States as they did so often.
Pulling her feet up off the floor, Helper drew her knees to her chest. Resting her chin atop her jeans, her arms locked around her shins, she stared off blankly. She wanted to help in some way, help in the immediate. She knew though, that once this started, she would be near useless. Hopefully the Mistress and General had grown to like her enough that they wouldn't need to kill her. But she knew so much information; in fact, most of the information was her own. Would they get rid of such a source? It could happen. If getting rid of her would be a more prudent action, it would be carried out, whether they liked it or not.
Why was she thinking like this? It was the fear; it had to be. She was trying to buck up to the fact that she could die anytime in the near future. By the hands of her leaders, friendly fire, training accident, but most likely, by an enemy soldier.
Now that possibility was frightening.
Mistress sat across from her husband, looking thoughtful. He was cleaning his gun with leisurely movements, adoring his weaponry as always.
"Is it all sorted out?"
He nodded, sliding the clip back into the gun. He relished the sound it made as it hit home, locked in the steely grasp. His dark brown eyes went to her light brown. A smile curled his mouth as he stood, tucking the gun into his belt. Stepping assuredly to his wife, he knelt before her, taking her hands, and gave her a swift kiss.
"Of course it's sorted out," he said in an accented voice.
"You shouldn't have come."
"I had to." Lifting himself up, he sat with her on the plush couch. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, his body warm, but his eyes ice cold. They were blank as he spoke. "This is very important. I will be returning to my men soon, so do not worry, Sandra." Tipping her face up to look at him, he smiled banefully. "But I had to see with my own eyes. Our hold here is as strong as reported: your army even stronger. I couldn't believe it. I had to come."
Sandra snorted. "Don't tell me you believed all that talk about my people being a pseudo-terrorist group and incapable of any sort of organised attack?"
"Of course not," he scoffed. "But I just had to make sure that there were no embellishments. And I must say, I'm rather impressed. These men will integrate quite well with everyone else. Who knew they had it in them?"
Not replying, but giving a weak smile in reply, Mistress just sat there. She hadn't expected to see him until the war had already started. But here he was, impressed with her work. Well, Helper had definitely had a hand in it. She felt the excitement thudding through her on her pulse, the fact that soon they would be destroying the oppressor of the world. Power was indeed a great aphrodisiac. She felt dizzy with the strength flooding her and as she looked up at her husband, the symbol of power for all their people, she truly knew what love was.
It had been hours of restless waiting and now it was entering the wee hours of the morning. Fisher hadn't been able to sleep, tossing and turning and only managing a nap. He wanted to know what this development was, and he wanted to know now. Patience was a virtue he had learned long ago, but that didn't make him any less eager. Reaching for his book to pass the time, Lambert suddenly chimed in.
"Fisher."
"Good to hear your voice," Sam said, his voice a rough rumble.
"Our friends at the CIA decided to share some things with us."
"Wonderful. But I always thought they were more of the miserly type."
"They had no choice."
Looking around the sparse room, Fisher got up and went to the kitchenette. Fixing himself a sandwich and grabbing a can of Sprite, he cracked it open and took a long gulp as his boss continued to speak.
"They learned that we were working this cell –"
"Lambert," Fisher interrupted, putting his pop down and reaching into the little fridge for some yogurt. He rummaged through a drawer behind him for a spoon; "Can you first answer something."
Irving went quiet knowing it was more of a demand than a question.
"Why are we so worried about these guys? What do you know, or what does the CIA know, that makes them so important?"
"They aren't telling us much."
Spooning some of the yogurt into his mouth, Sam walked around, growling, "Why was I sent out here?"
"They're more important than we thought."
"Damn it Irving, stop beating around the bush. Just tell me."
"You don't need to know."
For God's sake, Fisher thought, finishing off the yogurt cup with gusto and throwing it with the spoon into the sink. He went for his sandwich. "Then tell me what you can."
"The CIA have had an operative deep inside the terrorists we have you after."
"Is this a Soth situation?" Fisher asked, remembering the events of the previous year.
"Shouldn't be. It seems that they're getting a shitload of information from them right now. It's all scary stuff, and it's implicating a lot more then some pseudo-terrorist group. They fooled us."
Sam went back into the main room area and pulled the curtain aside, peeking out. He looked down into the damp street, a light rain having ended only moments ago. The streetlights were on, casting gold circles on the sidewalks and road. "Fooled us how?" he asked through a mouthful of turkey on rye, skip the mustard.
"God damn it man, are you eating?!"
He swallowed. "No."
"They made us think of them as being weak. A nothing group. However, they're part of a much larger group."
"We figured that one – they're some sort of faction, aren't they."
"They all are."
Furrowing his brow, Fisher took another bite of his sandwich. "All?"
"Russia, the Middle East, Canada, everyone," elaborating only slightly to drive his point home. "Those terrorist groups are all working with the same group. Really, they're all the same organisation now."
"Good God. What's the connection?"
"Our friends haven't told us that much yet. This is a lot deeper than we first though Fisher. I was able to get a vague description of where the training camp is, before they cut me off. Coen will be dropping by to take you. You're gonna be on your own, Fisher. If the terrorists detect you before I get co-operation and permission from the CIA, the mission's over. As of now, you do not exist. Get suited up. Information's on your OPSAT."
Chucking the rest of his sandwich into the garbage, Fisher sighed unhappily and went to his bed. Some cache of information that had been. Grabbing his suitcase, he opened it and lifted out the flat of clothing on either side. Underneath, stored away, were his suit and his weapons. Quickly he got dressed, sat on the edge of his bed and checked his OPSAT.
There was a note from Grim, answering a question that had started to develop:
"The camp's in the deep woods of Québec, further north. It seems that the meeting place and living area for the heads of the Canadian chapter are in Montreal: not everyone at each base seems to know where the training camps are. They usually only know about the hideouts. Lambert isn't worrying about that now, he wants you to get to the training camp and get as much information. The mole said everything is at the camp, including that all-important computer, so that's where we're heading.
"The CIA said that the computer can really be used by anyone. The information on it is used and read by different people. There was no more explanation on that titbit because we were cut off from anymore information soon after.
"This smells a little fishy to me, but I'm not going to argue it. Be careful out there, I've heard that these guys can be brutal. Grim."
The forest had to be exceptionally old. Here the trees grew thick and tall, making passage through them by vehicle (at least where they were) impossible. There were dirt and gravel roads carved through the trees, but that was a bit too obvious for Fisher. They had to make their own path, which didn't lead that far. Only a short way into the wood and Coen had to stop and let Sam out.
"I'll be around. Be careful Fisher."
He nodded, used to her words of warning by now, and started into the darker woods. The moonlight had a harder time penetrating through the thick canopy of leaves and needles here than out where Coen had been. Silence assaulted his ears as he waded through brush and plant life. The smell of nature wafted around him, fresh and heady at the same time. Strangely it was an almost empowering scent, sweet and uplifting. He continued, the smell stronger where he broke through fresh soil or crushed a budding plant. Staying quiet was hard work, but that's what he was paid for. Crouching down by a group of trees, he consulted his OPSAT once again. He was to finish his previous mission: get the computer. If the CIA wasn't going to tell them everything, they would get the information some way else, and that some way else was called Sam Fisher. He also noted that there was to be no lethal force and he couldn't trigger one alarm. He was curious about that. Why couldn't anyone die? They were known terrorists.
"Lambert, where's my fifth freedom?"
"There's a CIA agent in there and Canada is a friendly country. Stay low, stay quiet, and above all, holster your weapon."
Fisher got the hint. Nodding slowly to himself, he could understand where his bosses and the big shots in the NSA and government were coming from. Walking on, he put on his night vision to scour the area. Then he put on his thermal just to see if there were any signs of habitation. From where he was, he couldn't see anything, so back on with the night vision. He kept going forward, working his way quietly through the trees, trying to find this base, having no idea if he was going the right way. Hoping to God he hadn't been sent out in the wrong area, he was mildly surprised when he stepped on what looked like a trail. It curled around from the left and went to the right, twisting up through the trees. He started creeping on it, going to the right, following it. Everything had to lead somewhere.
Helper was crouched down at the table inside the small shack. There was a radio on the table, the table taking up half the place, and a chair. It was somewhat like a guard tower, usually without the guard and not so much a tower. But the idea was there. She set up her computer and began typing, cursing the bright screen. There was no one alive who couldn't tell the glow of a computer or TV from a dark room. It had that obvious unreal cast to it. Luckily everyone in camp was bustling around, training, getting ready for upcoming war so they didn't pay mind to the strange light emanating from the guard-hut. The General had actually been there and had stirred the men into a fighting frenzy. Their passion for their cause, for their work, had never been at that level. It was as if he poured blood into a tank of piranhas, left them for a few hours, then tossed in a corpse. They were going wild and were nearly foaming at the mouth, crying for the blood of the oppressors from the West. He was one great orator and had instilled so much in the men that they wouldn't even question what they were doing, or what they were asked to do. For them death was no longer a concept. It was welcomed for the glory of "La Sangre de la Libertad".
Now Mistress was giving orders and overseeing things, not even noticing that Helper was missing. Well, not exactly missing, just off doing something she shouldn't have been. If she was caught, it was an automatic bullet in the back of the head, no questions. She really didn't have much of a choice though. Plus, no one would find it strange if she were typing on a computer. The crouching down thing might be strange, but she was sure she could come up with an excuse. However, if she couldn't come up with something, and they figured her out, she'd get to see what her brains looked like.
Looking around, trying to peer out the windows above her, her fingers never stopped moving. It was black out, but there were a few lights on poles, brightening the area up slightly, at least where she was positioned. She knew that the cabins were brightly lit. Sighing, she kept working, pushing herself past her exhaustion and dread. A sudden cracking made her jump. It seemed slightly darker out. Even though the time on her laptop said the sun would be up soon, the trees prevented any pre-morning glow from making it to camp. It'd be hours before the sun would make a difference to night within the forest. And it got darker yet again, with that strange cracking sound.
Then the light just outside her window went out, again with that cracking. She froze, recognising the sound now. Someone was shooting out the lights. Who the hell would be doing that? Lowering the top of her portable computer so whoever was outside wouldn't see her, she slowly moved into the corner of the tiny cabin. She shivered, breathing shaky as she forced herself to stay calm. There was no reason for anyone to come in here. If she was safe from the warriors stumbling in on her, then she was safe from this new attacker.
Sam glanced around the camp, darkened greatly with the help of his gun. He watched as men circled the broken lights, wondering what the hell had happened. A beautiful ageing woman in black stormed out to them, crossing her arms. She seemed to be demanding of them what had happened; Fisher was too far away to hear clearly. Moving in closer, guessing that they weren't going to move out any further and find him, he tried to listen to what they were saying. All he caught was the last bit, said by the woman:
"It was probably just an electrical surge or something. Get more lights in there."
The men nodded at her and hustled off to do her bidding. Sam stepped back and watched as they disappeared into buildings or the trees. How he was going to find this computer and not get caught was beyond him.
Walking deliberately through the camp, he hid in shadow as he tucked his optical cable under each of the doors. He couldn't see anything in them. Nothing that looked like a computer to his eye. There wasn't much time before the place would be bustling with men running back and forth, which would make hiding more difficult; it was hard to be undetected when you were being jostled this way and that.
Turning around he checked the area behind him, to make sure no one was there. Then he surveyed the area and went back to the tree line between two cabins. He kneeled there, deciding what to do. If he entered each cabin and searched, that would probably yield better results, as it was more thorough. It also meant that he could get caught and killed much easier. All it would take was one man opening a cabin door and flicking on the lights. If he was quick enough though, he could have a cabin searched and be out of there without anyone being the wiser. Perhaps it wouldn't be thorough, but how exact did one have to be to find a stupid computer? They were usually right there, in front of your face, not tucked away.
Sneaking to the front of a cabin, he picked the lock of the door. It would have been nicer if the cabins had back doors as well, but that would have been asking too much. The door swung open rather quietly and he flicked down the night vision. Working fast, he looked over the whole cabin and couldn't find a computer. This process was repeated with the other cabins.
Sitting back on his heels after a few frantic minutes, hiding in the tree line, Sam wiped his brow. He couldn't figure this out. Had the CIA lied about the computer? Was this a red herring? Did they know where it really was, and were they going to get it for themselves now? He had no idea where to look; he just couldn't find a damn computer in any of the cabins.
Men had returned with new lights and he knew he was screwed. He had failed on locating the computer, hadn't seen hide nor tail of the agent who was supposedly there: who knew, the CIA had probably lied about that as well. The agent and the computer were most likely long gone: Third Echelon only getting old, previously used information.
Sighing gently, he straightened his headgear, watching as the lights were replaced. The area was flooded with yellowed light once more. He didn't want to report back to Lambert that he couldn't find the computer, but he didn't know what else to do. Shoot out the lights again? That would have everyone on a full-out search for something that was very wrong. There was no way all the lights could blow out again. Every guard would be suspecting a visitor. It could even alarm them.
So redestroying the lights was out of the question for now. There had to be another way.
"Lambert?" he muttered, glancing furtively around him.
"Fisher?"
"Is the agent still here?"
"As far as we know."
"I'm having some difficulty in locating him."
"Keep looking Fisher. Get that damn computer."
Taking a deep breath, Sam made his way to the entrance of the base, via the trees behind the cabins. He kept the bulky wooden forms in his line of sight so he knew where he was heading, and so he wouldn't get lost in the forest.
The lights having come back on, Helper sighed with relief and opened her laptop once again. She resumed scanning all the data and plans she had typed up or hacked. It was all very good information to her reasoning, and began sending it off. Because everyone had been worried about the lights, and would now be slightly paranoid with them, she knew that no one would be worrying about her. That had been a mixed blessing, but she wondered where the assailant went. For she knew the sound of lights being shot, and those lights had not been put out by a surge of electricity. Or whatever other excuse may have come up to try and explain the phenomenon. Naturally no one wanted to believe that someone else could be there, wreaking havoc, so it had to have some sort of normal explanation.
Hearing footsteps behind her, Helper quickly got up in the chair and made it look like she was working diligently. The door opened and a hand rested on her shoulder.
"What are you doing?"
Helper froze as Mistress's hard voice filled the hut. Forcing herself to relax, she put on a smirk and said lightly, "Working, Mistress. What else?"
"Working? Still?"
She nodded, not bothering to look up at Mistress. The long fingers curled around her shoulder and squeezed gently.
"Take your time." She swept her long black hair back with her free hand, a force of habit even with no men around, which then rested on her cocked hip. "The men were wondering if you wanted to go shoot with them."
Helper smiled slightly and blew a lock of dirty blonde hair out of her eyes. Her own hair, matted and greasy, was pulled back in a ponytail, but a few strands had escaped. That was a relief. Why would Mistress suspect her of anything, anyway?
"When we're back in Montreal, we should really get your hair dyed. It looks horrible." Mistress picked at Helper's hair, letting it fall from her fingers repeatedly.
"I'm a thinker first, a fighter second and a woman third, Mistress," she said automatically, making her leader grin into the darkness.
"Of course. I'll leave you to it then – shall I tell the boys you've declined their offer?"
"Tell them I'll make it up to them later. I'll bring them a sack full of heads. That ought to appease their bloodlust."
"Hm. One lust appeased at least." Chuckling, Sandra left the little shack, glad that her computer geek had found a safe place to hide out while the men went wild. Helper smiled slightly and hummed to herself as she brought up the real stuff she was working on. The door shut slowly in Mistress's wake, but never shut completely. Not noticing this anomaly, Helper was just glad that the lights were back on, that she hadn't been caught and that everything seemed to be going as closely to plan as possible.
Fisher had stayed back when the refined woman in black had gone to the little hut he had somehow missed. She opened the door and barely even moved inside. Within the hut he could see a bench or table lining the far wall. It had a window looking out to the trees, again on the far side, which was all he could really see. The woman was standing in the way, filling most of the vantage point. There wasn't much he could do about it though; he just had to wait it out. He could see that she was talking, but couldn't hear the words, and couldn't see to whom it was directed. For all he knew it could have been into a microphone or a telephone or even to herself. After what seemed to be a short exchange, she looked like she was laughing as she left. The door started to close and Fisher made up his mind.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI'm still searching for a beta, so if anyone would like to offer their services, it would be greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoyed.