by Tom Clancy
“It’s not-for-profit, I take it?”
“Certainly. With an all-volunteer staff, I might add. If you’d care to quit Interpol and work for us for free, we would be more than happy to have you!” He laughed boisterously.
I laugh, too, but quickly swing the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Well, since you’re pressed for time, I do have a couple of specific questions.”
“Fire away.”
“What do you know about the Shop and what do you know about the Shadows?”
Basaran nodded, as if he was expecting the question. “Mr. Benton asked me the same thing. Those two groups are becoming the hot topics on everyone’s list. As far as the Shadows are concerned, our friend Tarighian has certainly taken the word mystique to a new level.”
“Tarighian?” I feign ignorance.
“Nasir Tarighian,” Basaran says. “He’s the money behind the Shadows. Didn’t you know?”
“I thought Nasir Tarighian died in the 1980s.”
“That’s what he wants everyone to believe. But he’s alive and well, and financing and directing the Shadows’ operations with a firm hand. I’m afraid that no one knows where he is, though. Or much about his personal life, either. He’s a very mysterious man, just like his organization. It is said that Tarighian lives like a nomad, much like Osama Bin-Laden. He and his band of merry terrorists travel from one place to another so they can’t be caught. I imagine they live in caves in the mountains somewhere.”
“Any guesses as to what country they stay in the most?”
“I think it’s Armenia, Georgia, or Azerbaijan. It’s safer for them there. If they were in Turkey, they’d probably be caught. If they were in Iran, they’d probably be caught. If they were in Iraq, they’d most certainly be caught. But I really don’t know. Perhaps they move from country to country periodically.”
“Do you know an Ahmed Mohammed?” I ask.
“Yes, indeed. He’s the more visible leader of the Shadows. Perhaps leader is not the right word. He receives instructions and money from Tarighian and then sees that things get done. He’s very much a wanted terrorist, and I’m sure he is always on the run. He is a snake, that man.”
“No idea where he is?”
“None. Anywhere and everywhere. Like Tarighian.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Excuse me a moment,” Basaran says. “Come in!”
A thin man with unkempt blond hair enters the room. He is a Caucasian and appears to be in his late forties or early fifties. “May I speak to you for a moment?” he asks Basaran. I can’t place the accent, but it’s European.
Basaran stands and says, “Professor, how many times a day must you interrupt me?” He winks at me and says, “The professor is a stickler for details. Please excuse me a moment. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as they are gone, I quickly stand, reach into my jacket pocket, and remove three miniature sticky bugs. They’re a lot like the sticky cameras I use except that they’re audio-only. I move to Basaran’s desk and quickly stick one bug underneath, attaching it to one of the legs up high where it won’t be noticed. I hurry over to the scale model and place another bug on the underside of the table. Finally I attach the third bug underneath the small table where we’re currently sitting. I resume my place, pick up my teacup, and am mid-sip when Basaran returns.
“I’m sorry, please accept my apologies for the interruption,” he says. “I’m afraid I must cut short our talk. Something has come up that requires my attention. However, if you are free for dinner tonight, I would be more than happy to meet you and we can continue our discussion.”
I stand and say, “Why, I’d be delighted. Just tell me where and what time.”
He gives me the address of a restaurant in the harbor area, and we arrange to meet at eight o’clock that evening. We shake hands and I’m escorted out of the building.
I drive out of the Akdabar complex and park on the hill where I was earlier, turn on my OPSAT, and tune in to the little bugs I left in Basaran’s office. Reception is very good, but I know the farther away I am, the less quality I’ll get. I recognize Basaran’s voice. He’s talking in English with another man. It doesn’t sound like the professor fellow I saw briefly.
BASARAN: “And what is their answer?”
OTHER GUY: “The suppliers refuse to refund our money for the first shipment. The goods were confiscated in Iraq and were under our control at the time. The suppliers say it’s not their responsibility.”
BASARAN: “Damn them to hell. What happened to the shipment was not our fault and they know it. Bastards.”
OTHER GUY: “Not only that, but the payment for the replacement is due in two days.”
BASARAN: “It’s highway robbery, that’s what it is. Damn Zdrok! Fine, do what you have to do. Proceed with the payment. And tell Professor Mertens to expect me in his lab in twenty minutes.”
Mertens? I recall the name scrawled on Rick Benton’s chart. Was that the “professor” I saw in Basaran’s office?
I hear the door open and close. There is silence for a moment, and then I hear Basaran mutter again, “Damn Zdrok.” After that the door opens and shuts once more and the room is quiet.
Tarighian. Mertens. Zdrok. It’s all trying to come together.
19
LIEUTENANT Colonel Petlow knew that the confiscated arms would be excellent bait for the Shadows.
After he had received Sam Fisher’s report from Arbil, the U.S. Army took the initiative to secure the arms shipment that was held in the police headquarters and move it to an unspecified location. The Shadows had shown they were keen to get it back, so a plan was instigated to draw the terrorists out. The Iraqi police were also under pressure to find those responsible for murdering the members of their force, as well as make up for the botched arrest raid that occurred outside the Arbil police headquarters. The debacle was more an embarrassment for the Iraqi police than the U.S. Army. In fact, the Pentagon blamed the Iraqi government’s lack of adequate police training for the deaths of the four American soldiers, who were officially along on the arrest raid only as observers. So in a unique instance of military and civilian police cooperation, the two organizations worked together to formulate a plan to draw in the escaped terrorists.
One of the more positive developments to come out of Iraq gaining its own government in the summer of 2004 was that informers were more willing to cooperate with Iraqi police, intelligence officers, and the military. These people, most often civilians but sometimes men who had served in various Iraqi militias, were interested in not only receiving monetary compensation for their efforts but also in developing a favorable relationship with those in power. Sometimes a reliable informer would be granted special status with employment or tangible means such as property. In a country like Iraq, which was still finding its way back to the level of economic existence it held before the war, many people jumped at the chance to get ahead.
Thus, informers were paid to spread the word around Arbil that the arms confiscated from the Shadows were being kept in a cave that was in control of a Kurdish army platoon. Furthermore, the Kurds were reportedly green and undisciplined.
In reality the arms were nowhere near the cave. The U.S. Army positioned two platoons at the site with orders that if the Shadows didn’t try to retake the arms within two weeks, then the soldiers would be reassigned. Petlow figured it was worth the time and expense to deploy the troops in this way.
It was a dependable informant named Ali Bazan who came through with the goods. He had at one time been a top lieutenant to the militant Shiite cleric who waged a guerilla war against the U.S. in the spring of 2004. Now working for the young Iraqi government and police force, Bazan made contact with the alleged terrorists who were itching to find and take back the arms taken from them. Bazan duped them into believing he was on their side and was helping them achieve their goal. They foolishly shared with him their plans to attack the Kurdish platoon at the cave on a given morning.
<
br /> Sure enough, in the early hours of the same day that Sam Fisher drove to Turkey from Iran, a group of twenty militants laid siege to the cave. They were armed with AK-47s and handguns of various makes and models. The U.S. platoons were armed with standard issue M16A2s, M4A1s, M203 grenade launchers, M67 fragmentation grenades, and M84 stun grenades. There was no contest.
The terrorists struck first with six men storming the cave opening, guns blazing. As they engaged the men inside, the Shadows quickly realized they weren’t fighting Kurds. The American firepower overwhelmed the attackers and the six men were killed. This brought forward the remainder of the terrorists, who found themselves surprised by the sudden appearance of the U.S. army at their right and left flanks. The Americans had hidden in dugouts covered by trapdoors camouflaged with dirt, rocks, and vegetation.
The gun battle lasted twenty-two minutes. Thirteen of the terrorists were dead and the rest were captured. The U.S. lost two men. The seven prisoners were brought to a temporary base outside of Arbil and lined up outside of Petlow’s quarters.
Sam Fisher had made copies of the relevant file photos he found in Arbil and forwarded them to Petlow. The lieutenant colonel, along with a representative from the Iraqi police force, had a chance to take a look at the dead militants first but didn’t recognize any of them as being the men that Fisher had seen that night. Petlow then confronted the seven prisoners, one by one. They were a mangy bunch, men who had lived in the brush and avoided the law for months at a time.
None of them looked familiar. As he briefly interrogated each man with the Iraqi policeman serving as interpreter, Petlow had a sinking feeling they had failed to catch the men they were looking for. But as he spoke to the fourth man in line, something sparked his memory.
“Open your mouth,” Petlow ordered the prisoner. When the man did so, Petlow saw he was missing some teeth. He was the man Fisher called “No-Tooth.” The man responsible for the deaths of the four U.S. soldiers.
Petlow gave the order for the Iraqi policeman to interpret. “They’re all under arrest, of course, but this one is to be charged with the murder of the Arbil police officers and our soldiers. We’ll start serious interrogation this afternoon. In the meantime, tell this guy that he’s in some serious shit.”
SARAH had slept for nearly sixteen hours. When she awoke she was understandably confused and disoriented. She had no idea where she was. She sat up too quickly, bringing on a wave of nausea. A hot flash immediately surged through her body and she broke out into a sweat. Sarah knew she was about to be sick and started to panic. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the door to the bathroom and bolted for it. She made it to the toilet just in time.
When she was done, Sarah sat on the dirty floor beside the toilet for a few moments before attempting to stand.
Where the hell was she? What was this place? And more important, where was Eli? And Rivka?
She stood slowly, using the toilet seat as leverage. A stained, cracked mirror over the sink reflected a pale, frightened girl of twenty. She looked terrible.
A washcloth and towel sat on the edge of the sink. She turned on the cold water and let it run. At least it wasn’t brown, like in Eli’s apartment, so she splashed her face and let the water run down her neck. It felt good. She realized she was terribly thirsty, but she didn’t want to drink the tap water.
She carefully went back into the other room and saw nothing in there but the cot she had slept on and her purse on the floor next to it. She went to the door and turned the knob, only to find it locked.
“Hello?” she called. “Eli?” It was eerily quiet on the other side of the door. “Rivka? Somebody?” She felt the panic build again as she knocked loudly.
When she heard footsteps on the other side, Sarah backed away, ready to let Eli have it.
The man who unlocked the door and peeked inside was not Eli. He had a cold, cruel look about him, and he grinned lecherously at her.
“Good morning, Princess,” he said. “You slept a long time. How are you feeling?”
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I?” She was suddenly so frightened and confused that she felt light-headed again. She staggered and her knees buckled. The man rushed into the room to catch her and help her to the cot.
“Whoa, miss, sit down. There, there.”
She reclined on the pillow and then asked again, more softly, “Who are you?”
“My name is Vlad. I think you need some more sleep.”
“Where am I?”
“Just sleep,” he said and turned to walk out.
“Wait!”
But he was out the door and she heard it lock.
What the hell was going on? Who was he? Where were her friends?
She heard an airplane overhead. Was she near an airport? Come to think of it, she had dreamed of airplanes, or so she thought. She remembered an unpleasant state of consciousness that she wasn’t sure was real or part of her sleep. She thought she might have been carried someplace by men who gripped her ankles and wrists too tightly. Even now, as she touched her arms, they felt bruised. She also recalled a feverish tossing and turning, which may or may not have occurred there on the cot, and hearing the occasional roar of overhead planes.
Surely Eli would show up soon and explain what was going on. Right now she felt too dazed and confused to care very much. Perhaps she should try to sleep more. If this was what a hangover felt like, she never wanted to take another drink.
She admonished herself that she hadn’t been the most model twenty-year-old girl while on her trip to Israel. She had had sex several times, had drunk alcohol, had stayed at a boy’s house overnight . . . what would her father think?
Her father! She could call him! There was that special number she could dial on her cell phone and send a message to him. She didn’t know where he was, but he was sure to get it. Sarah reached for her purse on the floor and frantically looked inside it for her phone.
It wasn’t there, of course. Nor was her address book. Damn, she thought. What now?
A key rattled in the lock again. This time the door opened to reveal Eli.
“Eli! My God, what the . . . where are we?”
He closed the door behind him, set a bottle of water on the floor, and stood in front of her. The expression on his face disturbed her.
“What’s wrong? Eli? What is this place?”
“Sarah, as long as you cooperate they won’t hurt you,” he said.
She wasn’t sure that she’d heard him correctly. “What? Where am I? Where’s Rivka?”
“Shut up,” he spat. “Listen to me. You’re a hostage. You’re all alone. You can’t escape, so don’t try. Don’t try to scream for help, because no one will hear you. We’re miles and miles from anyone.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What? Eli?”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. That’s just the way it is.”
“Are you . . . who was that guy who came in? He said his name was Vlad.”
“You’re not listening to me, Sarah,” Eli said. “You are a fucking hostage!”
She gasped. He really meant it. This wasn’t a joke. The look on his face was something she had never seen before. This wasn’t the Eli she knew. This wasn’t the funny, tender Eli who had once made love to her. This was someone who scared her.
“What’s going on, Eli? Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“We want to know where your father is.”
The enormity of what he said nearly made her faint. She took a deep breath and said, “So that’s what this is about. My father.” She shook her head and turned from him.
“Tell us where he is and you’ll be all right. If you won’t, then . . . I can’t be responsible for what Vlad and Yuri will do to you.”
“Vlad and Yuri? What about what you’ve already done to me, Eli! Fuck you, Eli!”
Eli stood there unfazed. There was a knock on the door and Eli said, “Come in.”
It was Noel.
“Noel!”
Sarah said. “What the hell is going on? Where’s Rivka?”
Noel looked at Eli, who shook his head.
“Noel? Where’s Rivka?” Sarah asked again.
Noel shrugged at her. He looked at Eli again and then walked out of the room.
My God! she thought. Something bad had happened to her friend. She knew it. She felt it in her gut.
Eli turned to follow Noel and said to her, “Your father is an American government Splinter Cell, and you’re going to help us find him. We have your cell phone and your address book. After we finish examining these items, if we haven’t found the means to contact him, then we will come back to you. If you know how to get in touch with him, then you had better tell us. I wouldn’t want to see you . . . hurt.”
She stared at the young man she thought would someday be her fiancé.
“Think about it,” he said. “I’ll be back in a while. There’s some water for you. I’ll bring you some food, too. But this isn’t a hotel, Sarah, so don’t expect room service whenever you want it.”
He opened the door and left. The sound of the door slamming and locking reverberated in the small room.
Her private cell.
GENERAL Prokofiev couldn’t make the meeting. He had business in Moscow and would be returning with an important piece of equipment for exclusive use by the Shop. As one of the top officers in the Russian military, Prokofiev had access and clearance to an unbelievable amount of material. If something was lost or diverted, the buck stopped with him—and he was certainly not going to tell his superiors about it. It was one method by which the Shop obtained much of their product.
Andrei Zdrok spent twenty minutes going over the sales of the last month and outlining the Shop’s profit margin. He also detailed the company’s losses and what it meant for them.
“If we don’t reestablish our position in the Far East within the next two months the Shop will lose six point three million dollars,” he said. “Gentlemen, I do not want to give up my chateau on Lake Zurich. If we have to recruit another partner, then we will. Jon Ming has expressed interest on numerous occasions. What do you think of the notion of bringing on a Chinese partner?”
