DON’T MISS THE UPCOMING NETFLIX ANIMATED SERIES SPLINTER CELL: DEATHWATCH Follow seasoned Splinter Cell operative Sam Fisher as he embarks on a relentless mission to uncover the truth behind a government betrayal The National Security Agency's top-secret initiative to protect the United States from potential threats has been dubbed the Third Echelon. It deploys a lone field operative. He is sharp, nearly invisible, and deadly. And he has the right to spy, steal, destroy, and assassinate to protect American freedoms. His name is Sam Fisher. He is a Splinter Cell®Third Echelon. Operative Fisher knows that several disastrous missions have depleted the ranks of the Splinter Cells. What he doesn’t know is that a stunning piece of evidence has been uncovered that points to the mole who sold out his government… Tom Clancy was the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than eighteen books. He died in October 2013. David Michaels is the author of two novels in Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon series and several in Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell series. 1 HOLMES OFFICE COMPLEX HOUSTON, TEXAS PRESENT DAY MAYA Valentina saw it in the man's gaze, which flicked down from her low-cut blouse to her well-tanned legs to her feet jammed into a pair of stilettos. She tossed back her hair, which fell in golden waves across her shoulders, then put an index finger to her lips, as though to nervously bite her nail. Oh, yes, he liked the shy schoolgirl routine, and Valentina could pass for a freshman, too, though she was nearly twenty-eight. "Hi, there. You must be Ms. Haspel," he said, drawing in his sagging gut and probably wishing his thinning hair were two shades darker. She reached across the desk and accepted his hairy paw. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Leonard, and thanks for the interview." "Well, as I said, we only have one position to fill, so the competition is fierce. Please have a seat." She settled down and leaned toward his desk, keeping her blue eyes locked on his. "Can I ask a question before we start?" "By all means." "Does the company have a sexual-harassment policy?" His lip twitched. "Of course." "Well, I've had some problems in the past." "I'm sorry to hear that." "Yeah, the one guy was married and claimed I was a stalker, which was totally not the case. The other guy kept saying I was making lewd remarks. He even said I flashed my panties, and there's no way I did that." He hesitated. "Are you serious?" "Yes. I like to get dressed up for work. It doesn't mean I want to have sex with everyone I see." He cleared his throat. "Of course not. But you should know that we have a dress code. Business casual." Valentina nodded and gazed salaciously at him. "Is what I'm wearing okay?" He swallowed before answering. * * * HANSEN was sitting in an SUV parked outside the four-story office building. The complex was comprised of ten equally nondescript buildings: the headquarters for a lengthy list of companies that were, according to an intel report, "assembling stacked layers of silver and nonconducting magnesium fluoride and cutting out nanoscale-sized fishnet patterns to form metamaterials." Grim had explained that metamaterials held the key to developing cloaking devices to render objects invisible to humans. Leonard's company in particular was developing paint for military vehicles and fabric for military uniforms. This was all quite serious business, which was why Hansen could only shake his head as he listened to Maya and Leonard. What the hell was she doing? All she had to do was get hired. Admittedly, she'd hated the tired old plan of playing dress up to ensure Leonard took the bait, so overplaying the role was her way of protesting. She wouldn't just be the attractive new hire; she was now the quirky sex addict who'd called way too much attention to herself. Hansen was a breath away from reporting her misconduct to Grim, but then he thought better of it and just sat there as Maya told Leonard she was always available for overtime and "after-hours" work. Hansen grimaced. * * * AT 10:05 A.M. Nathan Noboru parked his utility van at the curb outside William Leonard's seven-thousand-square-foot home. Sprawling front lawns, well-manicured grounds, and tree-lined brick-paved driveways unfurled to a grand entrance shadowed by twenty-foot columns painted in a glossy antique white. This part of southwest Houston was called Sugar Land, and it was sweet indeed: Multimillion-dollar homes were nestled among well-tended golf course greens and tranquil lakes. The senior citizen manning the neighborhood guardhouse had taken a perfunctory glance at Noboru's forged work orders and immediately waved him through. With a sigh, Noboru grabbed his utility belt and started up the driveway. But then he slowed, furtively glanced around, and scratched his crew cut. He gazed out past the lawn toward the neighboring home, another mansion where an old man in a pink shirt and oversized sunglasses stood near