"Good work, Sam," Irving Lambert’s voice crackled back from Third Echelon HQ. "Suhadi Sadono is playing a dangerous game. If those smallpox containers aren't neutralized, 'Pandora Tomorrow' becomes a reality. Find Douglas Shetland. He's our only lead to the encryption keys."

Sam waited, his heart rate steady at sixty beats per minute. He wasn't just a soldier; he was a scalpel. As Sadono turned to leave, Sam dropped silently behind the last guard, a gloved hand clamping over the man’s mouth while the other pulled him into the darkness.

Sam moved with feline grace, bypasssing a guard who was lighting a cigarette. He didn't kill; he didn't need to. A quick pipe-grab and a silent descent behind a stack of crates put him exactly where he needed to be. He reached the server room, the hum of cooling fans vibrating through his tactical suit.

"The Americans think they can stop the sunrise," Sadono muttered in Indonesian, his eyes cold. "But the virus is already in the veins of the world. Every twenty-four hours, the phone rings. If I don't answer, the 'Pandora' boxes open."

The heavy monsoon rain drummed against the corrugated metal roof of the Dili embassy, a rhythmic mask for Sam Fisher’s movements. He was a shadow within shadows, the three green dots of his multi-vision goggles the only evidence of his existence in the pitch-black corridor.

"Lambert, I'm inside," Sam whispered, his voice barely audible over the comms. "The Darah Dan Doa haven't noticed a thing yet."