Splinter Cell (2004)

by Tom Clancy

  However, one of our prisoners here is apparently a top lieutenant in the Shadows and knows Mohammed personally. We believe he knew Tarighian in the 1980s. After lengthy interrogation he identified a photo of a man we believe is Nasir Tarighian. I attach that photo for your use.

  Dan

  Lambert turned to the photo. His heart rate increased as he realized that his and Sam Fisher’s instincts were correct.

  The man in the picture was Namik Basaran. There was no question about it. Here, though, he was dressed in an Arabic robe and a turban. The shot was taken outdoors circa 1984.

  Lambert opened his file and studied the more recent photo of Basaran with Andrei Zdrok. Yes, it was the same man. Basaran had apparently undergone some skin grafting and plastic surgery, which was what made his face look as if he had a dermatological condition.

  Now it was clear. Nasir Tarighian had reinvented himself as Namik Basaran, obtained Turkish citizenship, and used his already-amassed wealth to establish Akdabar Enterprises in Turkey. No wonder Basaran had no history prior to the 1990s! By using the front of Akdabar, and especially the “charity” organization Tirma, Basaran/Tarighian had been funding and giving strategic direction to the Shadows for years. He may not be personally running the Shadows, but he was certainly providing them with what mattered—money.

  Lambert suddenly felt wide-awake.

  26

  OF the two major ports in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, Kyrenia and Famagusta, the latter has the most colorful history. Located on the east coast of the island, it is a walled city that has been utilized throughout the ages—by a number of landlords—as a convenient strategic base from which to control the Mediterranean Sea. Today the harbor is used mainly for shipping and trade, whereas Kyrenia is more of a passenger terminal. The TRNC government had questioned why Namik Basaran would want to build a shopping mall just outside of Famagusta. Wouldn’t Kyrenia make more sense? Kyrenia had more people and more traffic. Basaran stuck to his guns, saying that Famagusta was the most historically important city in Northern Cyprus. After all, it was the location of Othello’s Castle, the inspiration for Shakespeare’s famous play. Famagusta needed building up, he claimed. It demanded a refurbishing. Once a proud seaport, Famagusta had declined in respectability and Basaran aimed to change that.

  The TRNC, unwilling to challenge such a valued supporter of the republic, allowed him to go ahead and strike ground.

  Now, three years later, Famagusta Center was finished and Basaran was ready to begin leasing space to vendors. After a few finishing touches were added, Famagusta Center would be unveiled to the world.

  Of course, Namik Basaran, aka Nasir Tarighian, had no intention of ever using the site as a shopping mall. Its proximity to Famagusta and the east coast was chosen simply for strategic reasons. He felt no compunction to help the Turks in their fledgling republic. It had all been a decade-long ruse just to arrive at this moment.

  Tarighian and his chief weapons designer, Albert Mertens, walked around and inspected the massive structure that occupied a space large enough for a sports stadium. Topped by a reflective dome, the building might have been mistaken for some kind of planetarium or observatory if it weren’t for the TRNC and Turkish flags hoisted on flagpoles and recognizable Western logos such as the McDonald’s arches and the Virgin Megastore script mightily displayed on neon billboards.

  “Isn’t it beautiful, Professor?” Tarighian sighed. “The architect did a nice job with the building, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Mertens said, but he wasn’t smiling.

  “And you’re sure the Phoenix will be ready in two days?”

  “Barring any unforeseen problems, yes.”

  “It’s a shame that it will never open for business. We might have made a little money selling Big Macs.”

  Mertens didn’t laugh.

  “What’s the matter, Professor?” Tarighian asked. “You seem a little unhappy lately.”

  “I’ve told you before, I don’t agree with your proposed . . . plan,” he said.

  Tarighian stopped walking and threw up his hands. “Do we have to go through this again?”

  Mertens turned and pointed his finger at his boss. “You know we have one shot and one shot only. Why waste it on Iraq? Don’t you want to make the strongest statement you can possibly make?”

  “Professor, enough!” The force in Tarighian’s voice silenced the physicist. “I’ve made up my mind, so don’t mention it again. Let’s go inside. They’re waiting for us.”

  Mertens nodded resignedly.

  “Professor, you’re a brilliant physicist,” Tarighian said. “I couldn’t have done this without you. But do me a favor and stick to what you know best and leave the strategic and military decisions to me.”

  “Fine.”

  Tarighian slapped Mertens on the back and said, “Good. Come on.”

  THE five men gathered in the bowels of the shopping mall were Nasir Tarighian’s closest aides and lieutenants. Each of them was responsible for a faction of the Shadows’ operations. Ahmed Mohammed, an Iranian, was responsible for the Political Committee, whish issued fatwas, or edicts purporting to be based on Islamic law, including orders for deadly attacks. He was also the unrecognized number two in the organization, the man responsible for making sure operations in the field were carried out properly. Nadir Omar, a Saudi, led the Military Committee that proposed targets, supported operations, and ran training camps. Hani Yousef, an Iranian, ran the Finance Committee, which provided fundraising and financial support in league with Tarighian. Ali Babarah, a Moroccan, headed the Information Committee, which was responsible for propaganda and recruitment. Finally, Ziad Adhari, an Iranian, led the Purchasing Committee, the machine that procured weapons, explosives, and equipment. These five men rarely met face-to-face for security reasons.

  Tarighian and Albert Mertens joined them in the small conference room on the ground level. Farid, his broken arm in a cast and sling, stood by the door. Tarighian took the chair at the head of the table, as expected. Mertens sat next to his second-in-command, German physicist Heinrich Eisler. Mertens was happy to have an ally in Eisler, who was ten years his junior. Despite the disparity in backgrounds and age, the two men shared similar ideologies. They were also once roommates in a mental institution in Brussels. Eisler had a habit of whittling on small pieces of wood with a Swamp Monster combat knife, which was made of 420 stainless steel, a full 1-1/2 inches wide and 1/2ch thick. Mertens knew that aside from the fact that Eisler was a brilliant physicist, he was very handy with the bladed weapon. When they lived in the institution, Eisler wasn’t allowed to keep a knife. Ever since they had been “released,” Eisler was never seen without it.

  Tarighian, the man the world knew as Namik Basaran, stood and addressed the room. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming to Cyprus for this meeting. We praise Allah for delivering you safely and for the secure return to your posts. I thought it important that you be here in person as I outline my plans for what has been the realization of a dream. It’s a dream I’ve had for twenty years. Now it will finally come to fruition.”

  He paused to make sure he had everyone’s attention.

  “The Phoenix is complete. It is ready, thanks to the genius of Professor Mertens.” Tarighian held out his hand toward the physicist. The other men in the room turned to him and nodded, but there was no applause. These men were too serious for that kind of self-congratulatory nonsense. Mertens remained stone-faced.

  “You’ve been wondering, I know,” Tarighian continued, “what I want to do with the Phoenix. Today I shall tell you.” He looked at every man in the eyes and announced, “It is time for Iraq to pay for what they did to Iran during the 1980s.”

  The committee heads shifted in their seats. Three of them leaned forward, their interest sparked.

  “I am going to destroy Baghdad,” Tarighian said softly. “And the destruction will be such that the city will be unrecognizable. Iran’s revenge on Iraq will be swift and c
omplete.”

  Nadir Omar cleared his throat. “Sir, with all due respect . . . ?”

  “Yes, Nadir?” Tarighian faced his lieutenant.

  “What will this accomplish for us?”

  “Don’t you see?” Tarighian held out his arms. “The resulting disorder in Iraq, and in the Middle East as a whole, will set the entire region against the West—in particular, against America, for not ‘protecting’ Iraq from terrorism. Iraq’s government is made up of puppets, we all know that. The entire world knows that. America continues to monitor the country and influence the decisions made by the Iraqi leadership. This must end, once and for all. With such a disaster occurring in Iraq under America’s watch, the entire Muslim world will react. America will be driven out of Iraq and perhaps even the rest of the Middle East. And then . . . with that opening, Iran will take America’s place.”

  Two committee heads eyed each other.

  “And Iran’s government knows this?” asked Ahmed Mohammed.

  “Not yet, but once the deed is done, then I will reveal myself to the world. Can you see the headlines in Tehran? ‘Nasir Tarighian is still alive!’ My followers in Iran will most assuredly back me. They will pressure the government to do what Iran has wanted to do but hasn’t dared to do for nearly two decades. Iran will invade and conquer Iraq because Iraq is weak and under Western management! The West has tried to make Iraq a democracy in the image of a Western country, but it won’t and will never work. Muslims should be the caretakers of the Muslim world. My loyal armies in Iran and neighboring countries are waiting for this showdown, and the Shadows will lead them into Iraq. And we will be victorious!”

  Mertens nudged Eisler under the table.

  Ahmed Mohammed cleared his throat and said, “Sir, if I may be so bold as to venture an opinion?”

  “Yes, Ahmed?” Tarighian acknowledged.

  “I do not believe the men who have claimed to be serving Islam in the Shadows will agree to destroying a city in what is essentially a Muslim country. I herewith express my disapproval for the whole thing.”

  Tarighian folded his arms in front of him. There was a tense moment as he glanced at Farid, who appeared ready to do something about the insurgent. Finally Tarighian merely smiled and said, “I appreciate your candor, Ahmed. Your objection is noted. Now I would like to meet with Ahmed and Nadir to discuss the next steps. The rest of you please stay and enjoy my hospitality. I’m sure Professor Mertens will be happy to show you the completed Phoenix.” With that, Farid opened the conference room door with his one good hand and made a gesture indicating that the meeting was over.

  Tarighian didn’t notice that Mertens and Ahmed Mohammed exchanged a look that only they understood.

  THREE hours later Nasir Tarighian shut himself in his private office and stared into the mirror on the wall. He normally hated mirrors, but ever since he had resolved to proceed with the project to bring Iraq to her knees, he wanted a daily reminder of why he was doing it.

  He had never forgotten that fateful day when the bombs fell in Tehran. The air-raid sirens were loud and always frightened his daughters. On that morning school had been called off and the children were at home with their mother. Tarighian was busy at a political rally protesting the war and the current government’s strict religious rules. When the bombing began he left and went straight home, running the six miles to be with his family. He imagined the face of his wife and how happy she would be to see him as he walked through the front door of their lovely, two-story home. He had worked hard to give his family such a house. Nasir Tarighian had been one of the fortunate Iranians who had shared in the former Shah’s wealth by advising him on a number of policies. Needless to say, Tarighian was not a fan of the Islamic Revolution and Iran’s newfound religious fervor. Nevertheless he was a loyal Iranian and he hated the Iraqis for what was happening to his country.

  As he ran, Tarighian remembered the night before, when he embraced his wife and children and told them not to worry. Allah would protect them. The bombs would not strike their house. They would be safe.

  But he was wrong.

  The bomb hit the house just before he made it home. He recollected a wave of intense heat and a deafening noise that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. He recalled flames and smoke, flying debris, and screams.

  He remembered finding the charred bodies of his family in the rubble.

  Tarighian looked in the mirror at his own scarred face and prayed to Allah. He admitted to his god that he knew he had not been a good Muslim. He didn’t pray five times a day. He had never made the pilgrimage to Mecca. He had to forgo the more orthodox rituals of Islam in order to perpetuate the pretension of being a Turk. He had lived a lie for twenty years, and he promised to prostrate himself, confess his many sins to Allah, and reap his punishment—after he obtained his revenge.

  He had seen the faces of his most trusted men in the meeting today. They thought he was crazy. They thought he was embarking on a disastrous journey. He smelled the insurgency within his ranks. But didn’t this happen to all leaders at some point in their tenures?

  It didn’t help that an intruder had infiltrated Akdabar Enterprises in Van. Farid said it was only one man, but no one saw his face. It was unclear where in the complex other than the steel mill the intruder had been. The surveillance cameras picked up nothing out of the ordinary, although there was the odd appearance of Tarighian’s exercise rubber ball in the hallway outside his office. Was that supposed to be the intruder’s idea of a joke? Could he have been the American that had posed as a Swiss Interpol policeman? Surely the man calling himself Sam Fisher was dead. The men had assured him the American never came out of Lake Van.

  Enough of that, Tarighian told himself. Think of the matters at hand. Should he do something about the negativity within his organization? What could he do at this point other than continue on the course he was on? No, he shouldn’t worry about his own men. They would continue to obey him, he knew that. They would remain loyal. He had instilled devotion in them. After all, he was the source of the Shadows’ funding; he was their lifeblood. He was Nasir Tarighian and they viewed him as a prophet. It was he who would lead the Islamic nation out of the depths of misery and to a superior position in the world arena.

  This was his destiny.

  MERTENS and Eisler finished leading the tour around the facility and watched as the committee heads immediately got on cell phones to their lieutenants back at their respective bases. Mertens pulled Eisler to the side and said, “I told you. He’s quite mad.”

  “I didn’t believe it until now,” Eisler said. “What are we going to do?”

  Mertens shook his head. “I don’t begrudge Tarighian his desire to seek revenge on Iraq. But it’s a personal vendetta. He wants to avenge the deaths of his wife and children. It has nothing to do with Iran. He’s delusional to think that Iran is going to back him on this. He was exiled from his country a long time ago. What makes him think he’ll gather support now? Just because he’s a cult hero, a mythological warrior? He’s insane.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  Mertens put his hand on Eisler’s shoulder and said, “Yes. I do. And so does Ahmed Mohammed.”

  27

  ARMED with Third Echelon’s revelations about Namik Basaran, I head out of Baku in the Pazhan to the address I found in Zdrok’s safe. The built-in GPS in the OPSAT leads me to a heavy industrial area south of the city on the Abseron Peninsula, probably the most polluted part of Azerbaijan due to the predominance of petrochemical plants and oil refineries. The land itself is semidesert, the earth is scorched by oil, and derelict derricks stand like forgotten sentinels amidst a panorama of desolation. The images invoke a bizarre postapocalyptic hell on earth.

  The sun is setting as I reach my destination. I’m surprised to see that the building is a diaper factory and warehouse. Who are they kidding? I’ve heard of deadly weapons of mass destruction, but this is ridiculous.

  I wait until it’s completely dark,
but the night sky tends to glow from the fires of the surrounding refineries. There’s not much I can do about it, so I hope for the best and leave the Pazhan dressed in my uniform. I make my way around to the back of the building, where I find a loading dock with a long ramp inclining toward it, a large folding steel door, and an employees’ entrance. A vast, flat field stretches three hundred feet or more behind the building and I’m perplexed as to why nothing is built there. No time to wonder about that now.

  The lock picks work easily on the employee door and there are no burglar alarms. Too simple. I utilize the corner periscope to peek through the door before opening it wider. This part of the building is a warehouse, of course, full of boxes and crates with the diaper company logo on them. Work lights illuminate the place much too brightly for my taste. I scan the ceiling and corners and see in the mirror a lone surveillance camera trained at the door. Damn. There’s no way I can get inside without it seeing me, even if I blast it with the Five-seveN. I have to figure out something else.