by Tom Clancy
“That’s quite kind, thank you.”
“I suppose you have questions for me?”
“I do, but before we get to business, I’d like to ask you something personal.”
“By all means.”
“How did you get to be a CIA mole?”
Hamadan grins, revealing a wide set of sparkling white teeth. “I spent my early twenties in the United States, during the 1970s, before the fall of the Shah. I went to a small college in West Texas, where other Iranian students attended. The school had an exchange program with Iran at the time. I studied political science and English. During that period, men from your government came to talk to us. It was quite blatant—they wanted to recruit young men to help the U.S. spy on Iran. The money was good. I was young and didn’t know better, so I accepted. I’ve been earning extra income from the CIA ever since. I have no complaints.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”
“It grows smaller daily. Now then, to the business at hand.” He sets down his teacup and looks me in the eyes. “Mr. Fisher, I have many connections in the underworld and in law enforcement in this country and surrounding areas. Before your government contacted me and said to expect you here, I had heard your name mentioned in . . . other places.”
“Oh?”
“Mr. Fisher, there is a price on your head. You are a marked man.”
14
“WELL, that’s nothing new,” I say.
Hamadan looks at me as if he’s sizing me up. “I detect that you are either a very brave man, Mr. Fisher, or a very foolish one.”
“Call me Sam, please.”
“Very well, but you must call me Reza.”
“All right, Reza. What exactly do you mean?”
“You appear not to take what I say seriously.”
“Of course I do. I take all death threats seriously.”
“Forgive me, then. Perhaps I mistook your self-confidence for indifference.”
“Reza, I’ve been in this business for a long time. It takes a lot to shake me up. Now, why don’t you tell me what it is you know?”
He nods and smiles. “I like you already, Sam. You have . . . what’s the word? Aplomb.” He takes a sip of tea and continues. “I assume you knew Mr. Benton?”
“Not personally. Rick Benton worked for the same organization as I.”
“I had dealings with Mr. Benton. I was one of his informers. I liked him as well. I find it difficult to believe he was killed. He was also a man with great self-confidence.”
“Go on.”
“You must know that Mr. Benton was trying to track down the Shop. He wanted to know where they were based, who was in charge, how they worked. For the last two years this had become his obsession. I helped him the best I could. I found out things for him, guided him in certain directions. I believe he may have shown his hand too soon, though. The Shop became aware of him. Mr. Benton told me as such right after your man in the Far East was killed. Mr. Lee?”
“Yes. Dan Lee. In Macau.”
“Right. After that happened, Mr. Benton told me that he thought the Shop had a list of names. Names of possible agents with the National Security Agency. He was afraid the Shop had begun a campaign to eliminate everyone on the list.”
I consider this. “I don’t question Rick’s suspicions, but I think you both give the Shop too much credit. If the Shop really does have a list of names, then I can’t imagine how they got it.”
“That is exactly what Mr. Benton said. Very mysterious.”
“I tell you, Reza, I’m not going to worry about it,” I say. I mean it, too. I have more important things to think about. I spend a great deal of energy watching my back when I’m on an assignment. It’s routine. “Now, what can you tell me about Rick’s investigations?”
“Mr. Benton was working on tracing an arms supply line coming into Iraq. He believed the arms come from Azerbaijan, but he wasn’t completely sure. I tend to agree with him. If this is true, then there are two routes the arms could take—one through Iran, and one through Armenia and Turkey. I’ll tell you what I think. I don’t believe they’re coming through Iran, although maybe the Shop wants to give us that impression. There are arms that do come into Iran, but they do not originate in my country. I know for a fact that our government is working very hard to keep illegal arms out of Iran. They do not want to be perceived as a contributor to international terrorism, despite how the world arena has portrayed us. Our government is particularly concerned about radical terrorist groups that may have Iranian connections.”
“Like the Shadows, for instance?”
Hamadan smiles again. “You are very perceptive, Sam.”
“They are quickly becoming a priority for us,” I explain.
“Yes, well, as they should. There have been some suspicions in the media and in our government that the Shadows are based in Iran. I hope it’s not true. I don’t believe it.”
“Reza, whatever enlightenment you can provide would be appreciated.”
“I don’t know much, either. Only that the group is taking credit for a lot of attacks lately. Are we even sure that the Shadows really exist? Could they be al Qaeda or another one of the established groups merely trying to confuse us?”
“No, I don’t think so. Their methods are slightly different. Results are the same, though. I actually think I met some Shadows in Arbil the other day.”
“Really?”
“Yes. That reminds me. What do you know about the Tabriz Container Company?”
Hamadan wrinkles his brow. “Why?”
“There was a shipment of arms confiscated in Arbil. The stuff was in crates made by the Tabriz Container Company.”
Hamadan shrugs. “It’s a large company here that makes boxes, crates, containers. . . . Their warehouse is located outside the city.”
“I’m going to check them out.”
“It can’t hurt, but I can’t imagine that this company is involved in anything illegal. They sell their products to all kinds of clients. The Shop might be buying the containers through a middleman or a front.”
“Could be. Here’s another question for you. Have you ever heard of anyone named Tarighian?”
“Tarighian?” Hamadan looks surprised. “Nasir Tarighian?”
“I don’t know his first name.”
“If you’re talking about Nasir Tarighian, you’re talking about an Iranian war hero. He was a hero during the Iran-Iraq War.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He was very wealthy, owned several businesses, and was very active politically. He got into a little trouble in the early 1980s by speaking out against the Islamic Revolution. When the war started he underwent a tragedy—his home was destroyed and he lost some relatives, killed by Iraqi bombs. After that incident he swore revenge against Iraq. He formed an anti-Iraqi militia—a terrorist group, really. They made frequent raids across the border. They were merciless—they killed innocent civilians and destroyed a lot of property. Tarighian became something of a cult hero here in Iran, but the government didn’t approve of his actions. They were going to step in and stop him, but before they could, the Iraqi army ambushed Tarighian and his little band of soldiers. Tarighian was killed and the militia was wiped out.”
“Tarighian’s dead?”
“That’s the general consensus. He hasn’t been heard from since. No bodies were recovered from the battle, I might add.”
“Hmm. I heard a member of the Shadows mention that name in Arbil.”
“I shall make inquiries,” Hamadan says. “However, the one name I have heard associated with the Shadows’ leadership is a man named Ahmed Mohammed. Have you heard of him?”
“Yes, I heard his name in Arbil as well and I remember his name coming up in reports,” I answer. “I’m sure he’s on the FBI wanted terrorist list.”
“Mohammed is an Iranian, a known terrorist who is wanted by our government for a number of crimes. My sources tell me that he is a major player
in the Shadows. He may not be the supreme boss, but he most likely plans operations and has them carried out.”
“Well then, I’ll be sure to watch out for him.”
Hamadan stands and goes to his desk. He opens a drawer and removes an accordion folder. He brings it back to me. “This is Mr. Benton’s. He sometimes stayed in a room we have above our shop. In fact, he was here just before he went to Belgium. He left that material here and I found it in the room. Perhaps the material will be useful. You are also welcome to stay here in the room if you wish, Sam.”
“Thanks.” I open the file and find several papers and some photos. I remove the first photo and have a look. There are two men in the picture. One of them looks vaguely familiar to me. He’s obviously Middle Eastern, is in his fifties, and appears to have a skin condition. The other guy I don’t know.
“Ah, yes, that’s something else,” Hamadan says. “Mr. Benton had made contact with that man.” He points to the guy who looks familiar. “His name is Namik Basaran. He’s a Turk. Mr. Benton believed that Mr. Basaran has inside information about the Shadows.”
“Namik Basaran. I think I’ve heard of him.”
“You might have seen him on television. He’s an entrepreneur who owns a huge conglomerate in Van, Turkey. It’s called Akdabar Enterprises. Do you know it?”
“No.”
“They deal mostly with construction, oil production, and steel. Besides that, Basaran runs a charity organization called Tirma, the mission of which is to provide relief for terrorist victims around the world. He founded Tirma with his own money. Namik Basaran is a publicity hound, so he always goes on the news to speak out against terrorism whenever there is an attack. He has been known to help the Turkish police in their search for terrorists, and he seems to have connections in all the surrounding countries.”
This charity organization rings a bell. Perhaps I have heard of this guy. “Have you met him?” I ask.
“Never, but we have done business together. I sold him some carpets to decorate his offices. I hope to meet him someday. He’s a very generous man, but I must say I believe he’s more interested in getting his face on TV than in anything else. But at least he puts his money where his mouth is.”
“Who’s the other man in the photograph?” He appears to be Eastern European, not Arabic or Persian. Another guy in his late fifties or maybe early sixties.
“I don’t know. Neither did Mr. Benton.”
“Where did Rick get the photo?”
“I don’t know.”
I return the photo to the folder and nod. “Well. It looks like I have some homework. If you don’t mind, I’m going to take you up on your offer for that room, get some rest, and then check out the container warehouse tonight.”
“Very good. I will show you to the room.”
I follow Hamadan out of the office and up a flight of stairs. It’s a small but very homey bedroom with a futon and dozens of pillows. There’s an attached bathroom as well. As far as I’m concerned, it’s pure luxury. I thank Hamadan and tell him I’ll see him at dinner. Then I settle down to relax. Before I go to sleep I check the OPSAT for messages. There’s one from Lambert that says, simply, “Talk to me.”
I press the implanted transmitter in my throat. “Colonel? Are you there?”
After a moment I hear Lambert’s voice in my ear. “Sam? Where are you?”
“In Tabriz. At Reza Hamadan’s place.”
“Good, you made it. Listen, I have some nasty news. Another one of our Splinter Cells was murdered yesterday. Marcus Blaine.”
Blaine. Again, I didn’t know him personally, but I know who he was. He was Third Echelon’s man stationed in Israel.
“How did it happen?” I ask.
“We don’t know yet. Details are very sketchy, but the preliminary report indicates that it may be the same killer or killers who got to Rick Benton and Dan Lee.”
That’s when I begin to take what Hamadan said about the Shop having a list of names a bit more seriously.
15
ANDREI Zdrok sat in his office in the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank, gazing out the window at the streets of Zurich’s financial district. This had been his home for several years and he loved it. Zurich was a very expensive place to reside, but he had the means to take advantage of everything the city had to offer. His chateau on the shore of Lake Zurich was his pride and joy, and the only time he ever left the home was to come into the bank. When he wasn’t working, he indulged himself in expensive hobbies. Zdrok owned six automobiles that were considered collector’s items, including a 1933 Rolls-Royce that Paul von Hindenberg once owned. His most prized possession, however, was the Swan 46 yacht that he had recently purchased. He liked to sail it leisurely along the length of the lake and sometimes slept on it. Zdrok considered it a small slice of heaven on earth.
The Shop had done well. The enterprise had begun modestly, operating at the beginning out of Georgia. He and Antipov had made the first arms sale, and then they recruited Prokofiev and Herzog to join the team. The Shop grew in size and influence, supplying arms of all kinds to whoever was able to pay for them. Zdrok had no political aspirations or loyalties. The almighty dollar was his only motivation.
The business really blossomed during the Bosnian conflict. Zdrok moved the base of operations to Baku, Azerbaijan, for security reasons and opened the first Swiss-Russian bank in Zurich. A second branch was built in Baku two years later. By using the front of the two banks, Zdrok was able to assemble a discreet machine that handled marketing, acquisition, delivery, and profit laundering. Finding the right employees to do the grunt work had been time-consuming—he had to be sure that his men would remain loyal. He paid them well, which went a long way toward insuring their devotion. At any rate, the common soldiers of the organization didn’t know a lot about the operation. Thankfully, to date no one with any real knowledge of the Shop had ever been caught by the law.
Andrei Zdrok felt justified in enjoying his life in Zurich.
The biggest problem they now faced was rebuilding the Far East pipelines. The business had been hurt badly but not irreparably. The Shop had intelligence of its own, and Zdrok was certain that the Americans’ National Security Agency was responsible for the damage. Operation Sweep, the initiative he created to hunt down and eliminate Western spies, was already in place and active when the events in Macau occurred. Now the operation had become a priority.
Zdrok thought about the Far East situation and how it could be repaired in a timely and efficient manner. It was possible to bring in another partner, the leader of a Chinese Triad called the Lucky Dragons with whom the Shop had done a lot of business. His name was Jon Ming and he was quite possibly the most powerful gangster in China. He resided in Hong Kong, his Triad’s home for decades. Even when the handover occurred and other Triad clans moved out of the former British colony, Ming and the Lucky Dragons stayed. He had a special relationship with the Chinese government. He had the ability to pull strings and keep lawmakers in his pocket. Yes, Ming might be the answer to the Shop’s problems, but Zdrok wasn’t sure how the other partners would feel about bringing the man aboard.
There was also an American he knew in the Far East who might be able to help. Zdrok’s partners would most certainly be opposed to working with him, but Zdrok thought it might be advantageous. After all, the man was known to and trusted by the U.S. intelligence agencies. Zdrok decided to put that thought on hold and wrestle with it later. There was time.
The phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Zdrok.” He listened to the short message from the caller and replied, “Thank you.” He hung up the phone, swiveled his chair to face the computer, and logged on.
His technical director had assured him that sensitive Shop files used a complex encryption that could never be hacked into. Even if auditors came to the bank and insisted on confiscating the hard drive, they would never be able to access the information. Therefore, Zdrok kept all of the Shop’s records, plans, and operations
on his office computer.
He brought up the file marked Sweep, short for Operation Sweep, the campaign to eliminate those who wished to harm the Shop. They were the enemy, these intelligence agents from foreign powers who insisted on disrupting Zdrok’s business of making money. Didn’t he have a right to pursue the vocation of his choice? Who were they to tell him that he couldn’t sell his goods? Makers and sellers of guns do not kill people. What his clients did with the products was not his concern.
A list of names, some in black font and some in red, appeared on the screen. Zdrok highlighted the first name that was still black—Marcus Blaine—and changed the color to red. Like the two other red names, Dan Lee and Rick Benton, Blaine was now considered “Deleted.”
Two more entries remained in black. Zdrok clicked on the first one, the man whose name they believed to be Sam Fisher. Zdrok quickly reread the details that had been gathered on Fisher—that he was supposedly a CIA agent in the 1980s and was married to an NSA agent named Regan, that he worked out of the Washington/Baltimore area, and that he was the oldest Third Echelon Splinter Cell. Most significantly, he may or may not have a daughter in her late teens or early twenties. No one knew what Fisher looked like, but the information they possessed was good enough to track down a possible suspect. The Shop’s man in Israel had done well.
Zdrok picked up the phone and dialed a number. When the call was answered, Zdrok said, “All right, I’m convinced. It’s time to act with regard to Fisher. Find out where he is. Don’t use force yet—that will be a last resort. Psychological pressure will probably work. After all, she’s young.”
16
AFTER a good night’s sleep on a real futon mattress, I wake refreshed and spend more time going through the material in Rick Benton’s file. There really isn’t a lot there. He must have kept most of his records on a personal computer, which I understand was never recovered, or in his home, which was thoroughly scoured by NSA personnel. Nevertheless, there are a few items worth deciphering.
