Splinter Cell (2004)

by Tom Clancy

  “What?” Now Tarighian really sounded concerned. “That money was transferred. I gave the order personally.”

  “It’s not here.”

  “That’s peculiar. I’ll have to—”

  “It’s more than just peculiar, Tarighian. I suggest that you drop everything and look into the matter right now.”

  “Andrei, we’re trying to finish our project. You know I have grand plans for what we’ve been building.”

  “Yes, I know. And I can imagine you’re currently having cash-flow problems, too. But I don’t care. Prove to me that you didn’t do this terrible thing to me and pay me what you owe me.”

  Zdrok hung up without giving Tarighian a chance to respond. He looked at Antipov and said, “So he thinks the American is dead? The girl in Israel hasn’t talked yet, so I suppose it’s time we convince her to do so. If he’s really dead, we’ll soon know for certain.” He picked up the phone again and made a call to Jerusalem.

  “DAMN Zdrok,” Tarighian said to Mertens as he hung up the phone.

  They were in Tarighian’s private office inside the Cyprus shopping mall complex.

  “What is it now?” Mertens asked.

  “They’re screwing us,” Tarighian replied. He dialed another number and waited. “Hello, Hani?”

  Tarighian’s head of finance was on the other line. “Yes?”

  “Was that payment transferred to the Shop?”

  “Yesterday, sir.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I did it personally.”

  “They say it wasn’t received.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Look into it, will you? I have enough problems right now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tarighian hung up and glared at Mertens. “I suppose you want to tell me again how crazy this scheme is.”

  Mertens shrugged. “As a matter of fact . . .”

  “All right, Professor. If Baghdad isn’t a suitable target, then what is? Are you going to say Israel again?”

  “Of course! I cannot believe you are blind to this. Tel Aviv or Jerusalem should be the target because Israel is the key objective in the Middle East. Destroy Jerusalem and the region really will be in chaos. And it will avenge the assassination of Gerard Bull.”

  “So that’s what this is about? Your former boss?”

  “He was much more than a boss. He was my mentor. He was like a father to me.”

  “There is no proof that Israel was responsible for Bull’s murder.”

  “There is every indication that the Mossad was responsible. I was there. I was working with Gerard when it happened. I swore to avenge his life then and I intend to do it.”

  “Not with my money you don’t,” Tarighian said. “Just because you were Gerard Bull’s right-hand man doesn’t give you the privilege to question my motives. Professor, you have done a wonderful job with the Phoenix, but in Allah’s name I will not tolerate insubordination. Now that the Phoenix is complete, you are expendable. Don’t forget that.”

  Tarighian’s cold brown eyes stared holes through Mertens, and the Belgian physicist saw—not for the first time—why so many men respected and feared the man. Tarighian possessed that rare quality known as charisma. Great men throughout the ages used charisma to influence others, whether it was for good or for evil, and Tarighian was no different. He had seduced Mertens long ago, convincing the Belgian to devote his life to designing and building a weapon for the Shadows. The pay was an additional incentive, of course, along with protection from the Belgian authorities who had been looking for him ever since his escape from the mental institution.

  For Mertens, though, he was not in it only for the money. By working on Tarighian’s project, Mertens had fulfilled his goal of continuing the dreams of Gerard Bull, the man who taught Mertens everything he knew. Mertens was not a Muslim, nor did he care about the Shadows’ objectives to drive the West out of the Middle East and take over Iraq. He had no loyalty to Jews, Muslims, or Christians. His devotion was to Bull and the man’s genius. Mertens owed it to Bull to fulfill the man’s prophecy.

  “Very well,” Mertens said. “I apologize. But you should know that many of your own men are unhappy with what you plan to do. They do not agree with your decision to attack a city in a Muslim country.”

  “Are you talking about Ahmed Mohammed by any chance?” Tarighian growled. “I will deal with him in due time. Ahmed has been my friend and ally for over twenty years. If he is disgruntled, he’ll get over it. Now get back to work. I don’t want to hear another word about it. I expect the Phoenix to be fully operational tomorrow and we’ll begin tests in the afternoon. Is that clear?”

  Mertens bowed his head slightly. “Absolutely.” He stood and left the room.

  He walked down the dark, empty corridor to his own office, where Heinrich Eisler was waiting for him, whittling on a piece of wood.

  “Well?” Eisler asked.

  “I’ve had enough of Nasir Tarighian and the Shadows,” Mertens said. “It’s time to take matters into our hands. I’m placing a call to Mohammed.”

  29

  SARAH wiped the tears from her cheeks, rose slowly from the cot, and walked weakly into the bathroom. The dirty mirror reflected a frightened mess of a girl. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair was stringy, and the makeup was long gone. Sarah hadn’t showered in a couple of days—what was the point? The hunger pangs no longer bothered her, but she felt extremely feeble. Now it was just a question of how much longer she’d be able to perform other normal functions.

  Over the years she had been aware of other kidnap-pings in the Middle East. The stories were always on CNN or in the newspaper. Americans were abducted while performing their jobs or while serving in the military. Sometimes the hostages were rescued . . . more often not.

  What would the bastards eventually do to her? So far they hadn’t mistreated her physically, although the creep named Vlad had come close. She hated Eli now, but in many ways he’d been her protector. There was no telling what the two Russians would do if Eli wasn’t around.

  Several times she had been tempted to tell them how to contact her father. Sarah was loath to involve him, but she also suspected that he could get her out of this situation. If Eli was right and her father really was a government spy of some kind, he would have the resources to rescue her. Perhaps he could bring the army in and blow her asshole kidnappers to hell.

  On the other hand, the kidnappers wanted him for a reason, and Sarah didn’t think it was a good one. She could see the hate in their eyes and hear the venom in their voices when they spoke of him. Sarah was certain they wanted to kill her father, and she understood full well that she was the bait to lure him into their clutches. She was resolved not to let that happen.

  How many days had it been? She had lost count. She now realized she should have done what she’d seen prisoners in movies do—scratch on the wall with something and make a mark for every passing day. She knew she’d been there less than a week but more than four days. If she hadn’t been kidnapped, she’d be home now. She would have said goodbye to Rivka and her family and—

  Oh, Rivka.

  What happened to her friend haunted Sarah and tore at her heart. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t been Rivka’s friend, the girl would still be alive. During one of Eli’s frequent visits to her room, Sarah asked him what had happened to her. How did she die? Eli refused to tell her. He said he didn’t really know—only that she was dead. Sarah asked him if Noel was responsible and Eli simply shrugged. How could he be so cold? How could both of them do what they have done? She and Rivka had given the boys their bodies, their love, their devotion. She and Eli had spoken of living together in New York and maybe getting married someday. Had Rivka and Noel done the same? Had he convinced her to trust him and look forward to a future with him?

  Bastards.

  Sarah finished her business in the bathroom and lumbered back to the cot and lay down. She then heard a familiar knock on the
door. Eli again. The key turned in the lock and the door opened. She didn’t look at him but felt his presence as he stood over her.

  “You want anything to eat yet?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Come on, Sarah. You better eat something. You’re . . . you’re going to need your strength.”

  Sarah refused to acknowledge him.

  “Look, Sarah, we’ve had new orders come through. Vlad and Yuri—they’ve been given the go-ahead to be more, um, aggressive. This is your last chance. You have to tell us what we want to know. Where is your father? How do we get a message to him?”

  Her silence finally got to him. Eli grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head up. She shrieked and he shouted, “Goddamn it, Sarah! Talk to me! I can’t be responsible for what they’re going to do!”

  The tears welled in her eyes, so she closed them. That way she wouldn’t have to look at him.

  He let go of her and she burrowed herself into the blankets and pillow, sobbing.

  “Sarah,” he said, a little softer. “Vlad and Yuri . . . they’re going to come in here and make you talk. I promise you, they will make you. So please. Tell us what we want to know.”

  She mumbled something.

  “What?” he asked.

  She lifted her head and said evenly, “Go to hell.”

  Eli sighed, moved toward the door, and said, “I’m sorry, Sarah.” And then he left.

  Now Sarah was really frightened. What were those two men going to do to her? Please God, don’t let it be rape. Anything but that.

  She felt movement in the room and heard the door slam shut. Sarah looked up and saw them—Vlad and Yuri—standing near the cot. Vlad had a coil of rope. Yuri carried a tool kit.

  “Hello, Princess,” Vlad said. “Are you ready to have some fun with us?”

  Adrenaline pumped through Sarah’s body as she leaped from the cot and ran toward the bathroom. Vlad caught her around the waist and swung her back to the cot. She fell on it hard, collapsing it.

  Vlad uncoiled the rope.

  CARLY St. John finally had a good night’s sleep after spending two days straight on hacking Tarighian’s and Zdrok’s bank accounts. Now she had a new assignment and it was just as urgent. Lambert had given her digital files of phone conversations that Sam Fisher had recorded in Turkey, and he wanted a splice job. This meant she had to take pieces of the conversation, cut them up, and put them back together so the speakers were saying something very different from the original.

  The subjects were Nasir Tarighian, aka Namik Basaran, and an unknown subordinate. They spoke in Farsi, not Turkish. After Third Echelon’s crack interpreter translated the dialogue into English, Carly heard the original conversation like this—

  MAN: “But surely the Shop can see that it wasn’t us?”

  TARIGHIAN: “No, the Shop can’t see, Zdrok is blind to everything but his own little world.”

  MAN: “Let me get this straight. The diaper factory was attacked by someone—”

  TARIGHIAN: “An Arab.”

  MAN: “—and he blew up the building.”

  TARIGHIAN: “And left Tirma material all over the place.”

  MAN: “So obviously someone wants to create a rift between you and the Shop.”

  TARIGHIAN: “The rift was already there. They just made it wider.”

  MAN: “So I suggest you tell him that you’re convinced it was an outside job. Someone is setting you up.”

  TARIGHIAN: “I told him that, but he didn’t listen. Now he doesn’t take my calls. Damn it, doesn’t he know who I am?”

  MAN: “Has Hani found out what happened to the money transfer?”

  TARIGHIAN: “No. We sent the money. According to Hani’s records the transfer made it safely into Zdrok’s Swiss bank account. However, Zdrok claims he never got it.”

  MAN: “You did give the order for the transfer, didn’t you?”

  TARIGHIAN: “Of course!”

  MAN: “Then why would he lie?”

  TARIGHIAN: “He’s angry that the first shipment of arms was confiscated in Iraq. The Iraqi police arrested the men red-handed. Ahmed and his men tried to mount an operation to retrieve it, but that failed. We had to bite the bullet and pay for a completely new shipment. So far Zdrok says he hasn’t been paid.”

  MAN: “He delivered it without us paying up front, right?”

  TARIGHIAN: “Yes. His one Good Samaritan act. Now he wants his damned money yesterday.”

  MAN: “So he probably thinks you’re trying to put him out of business.”

  TARIGHIAN: “Yes, that’s probably what he thinks.”

  MAN: “Surely the Azeri police will catch someone for the crime.”

  TARIGHIAN: “Not likely, you fool. The media’s already blaming the Shadows for it. Ali put out a statement denying responsibility but you know how far that goes.”

  MAN: “So what now?”

  TARIGHIAN: “The man better apologize for his behavior and exonerate us of this crime. And he should not charge us for the new shipment. The man’s a billionaire, he can write it off.”

  Carly heard the sound of a knock.

  TARIGHIAN: “Come in.”

  ANOTHER MAN: “You’re wanted in the control room.”

  TARIGHIAN: “I’ll be right there.”

  And that was the end of it. A second file contained the following short exchange between Tarighian and the same man.

  TARIGHIAN: “The Filipinos behave as if they’re in the West. They are a godless bunch.”

  MAN: “The Shadows’ influence on them will change things.”

  TARIGHIAN: “The authorities can’t deny that Islam is growing in the Far East. Our cells in the Philippines and Indonesia will soon make strikes but not until—” (garbled).

  MAN: (garbled) “—and the United States will then relent.”

  TARIGHIAN: “All they care about is money. I’ve hit them where it hurts and I’ll continue to do so. Come on, let’s worry about the Far East after the Phoenix project is completed.”

  And that file was over.

  Her intercom beeped. She pressed the Talk button and said, “Yeah?”

  “What do you think?” It was Lambert.

  “It doesn’t seem too difficult,” she answered. “I’ve got plenty to work with.”

  “It has to sound convincing. I can tell Sam we need more material if you can’t put something together that will—”

  “Don’t worry, Chief, I can do it. Is that pizza here yet?”

  Lambert laughed. “For such a small person you sure eat a lot.”

  “My brain cells need feeding—they soak up all the nutrition.”

  “The delivery should be here in another five minutes or so.”

  “Let me know, I’m starving.”

  Carly released the intercom and went back to her computer. Sometimes the work was like this and she never went home. Here she was with a bedroll in her office. There were periods of time when she felt as if she were back in the dormitory at Harvard. She could remember all-nighters when she’d catch a nap for an hour or two and then hit the books again. During finals she never left her room.

  Her mother always complained that she wasn’t married and didn’t date. If her mother only knew that Carly was busy saving the country and didn’t have the time or the will to see anyone, perhaps the woman would leave her alone. Of course, knowing her mom, she’d probably say that “settling down and raising a family” was more important. No, thanks. Carly was content to live a celibate lifestyle and drown herself in work. If human desire ever raised its ugly head, she wasn’t beyond picking up some hunk for a one-night stand. Commitment, for her, was a four-letter word.

  When the pizza arrived, she took a plate-full of slices back to her office. She never sat with the other employees in the break room. She was aware of her reputation as aloof, but she didn’t care. Lambert knew better, and that’s all that counted.

  Carly began the work by cutting all the lines of speech into individual phrases.
If a word or phrase needed repeating, she copied it and created a new file. It wasn’t long before she had all the puzzle pieces needed to create the picture.

  Four hours later she called Lambert into her office. He came in, sat, and rubbed the top of his head.

  “Listen to this,” she said. She manipulated the mouse and clicked something on her computer.

  TARIGHIAN: “Zdrok is blind to everything but his own little world. He’s angry that the first shipment of arms was confiscated in Iraq. The Iraqi police arrested the men who had it. Ahmed and his men tried to mount an operation to retrieve it, but that failed. We had to bite the bullet and pay for a completely new shipment. So far, Zdrok says he hasn’t been paid.”

  MAN: “So he probably thinks you’re trying to put him out of business.”

  TARIGHIAN: “Yes, that’s probably what he thinks.”

  MAN: “You did give the order for the transfer, didn’t you?”

  TARIGHIAN: “Not likely, you fool.”

  MAN: “The Shadows’ influence on them will change things.”

  TARIGHIAN: “The Shop behave as if they’re in the West. They are a godless bunch. All they care about is money. I’ve hit them where it hurts and I’ll continue to do so.”

  MAN: “Let me get this straight. The diaper factory was attacked—”

  TARIGHIAN: “The rift was already there. We just made it wider.”

  MAN: “An Arab—”

  TARIGHIAN: “I sent him—” (garbled) “—and left Tirma material all over the place.”

  The recording stopped. Carly looked at Lambert and raised her eyebrows. “Well?”

  Lambert smiled. “I think it’ll work. Send the file to Sam.”

  30

  I receive Carly’s file of the doctored conversation between Tarighian and one of his henchmen and it’s great. Carly also sends me a second file with the English translation. The folks at Third Echelon really know their stuff. It must have been extremely difficult reconstructing a conversation without speaking the language, but then Carly St. John is brilliant. I have to admit I find her attractive. She’s a tiny little thing and smart as a whip. I’ve never made any moves toward her, though. For all my skittish tendencies toward women, you’d think that seeing someone in the same agency would be all right. At least she’d understand my line of work, and I wouldn’t be putting her at risk simply by knowing me.