Blacklist Aftermath (Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell, Book 7)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A continuing video-game tie-in novel series "created by" Tom Clancy, but written by various authors under the pseudonym David Michaels until this most recent one written by Peter Telep.
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Sam Fisher must save one man's life to save his own country.
Eccentric billionaire Igor Kasperov owns one of the most influential and successful anti-virus software companies in the world. But when the Kremlin orders him to unleash a catastrophic computer virus against the United States, he is forced to flee for his life.
Sam Fisher and Fourth Echelon are charged with finding Kasperov and presenting the American president's offer for political asylum. Because there are others looking for Kasperov. And the only thing they will offer him is a swift death...
biting temps they’d faced at the plane crash site. For her part, Grim was carefully dressed for the weather in her black Aeroflot flight attendant’s uniform and matching coat. She shouldered an expensive leather carry-on bag. She’d chosen not to wear the “cute little beret,” as Charlie had put it, looking daggers at him after the remark. Fisher and Briggs were unarmed and dressed business casual. They’d all had to pass through customs in Turkey, a long and unfortunate process, but their
have escorts?” Kasperov asked from behind them. “Department of Homeland Security teams or something?” “No, they don’t travel with escorts,” said Fisher. “Draws too much attention.” “Mr. Kasperov, you said the oligarchs might attack these shipments,” Grim began. “Do you have anything more specific?” Kasperov flinched and could not meet Grim’s gaze. “If they want to take out the entire shipment, they’ll wait until all the trucks reach the port,” said Charlie. “They could blow the cargo ship or
them inside, and they gasped over the mementoes of his past and world travels: an African lion mount from one of his safaris; thousands of rare artifacts and gem stones meticulously arranged in glass cases; walls of software boxes written in German and Chinese; Persian rugs splayed across the floor; a basketball jersey from the New Jersey Nets in a glass case, the NBA team owned by a Russian billionaire friend; photos of himself with celebrities and world dignitaries, including American President
sprawling leather sofa that, when the reporters sank deeply into the cushions, made them look like dwarves. Kasperov gesticulated more wildly now as he spoke: “Welcome to my life. A poor boy from St. Petersburg. I got lucky. But you know story, right?” One of the reporters glanced at his notes. “At sixteen you were accepted into a five-year program at the KGB-backed Institute of Cryptography, Telecommunications, and Computer Science. After graduation, you were commissioned as an intelligence
deck. Coughing and spitting out sand, Briggs nodded, and they got back up and forged on, the train moving relentlessly through the storm now, the containers—despite being weighed down with oil—beginning to shimmy as though threatening to fall apart. They neared the next car, and Fisher’s impatience got the best of him. He gave a hand signal to Briggs then took off running. He made a flying leap over the gap between cars, then hit the deck and flung out his hands to seize the railing. Briggs