Splinter Cell (2004)

by Tom Clancy

  I’ll have to think about that one.

  For now, though, I need to send Andrei Zdrok my little present. I’m surprised to find a bagel shop in Baku right across the street from his bank and decide that’s as good a place as any from which to keep a surveillance going. I position myself at a corner table, have some breakfast, and read the newspaper, poised where I can look through the window at the street. The proprietors don’t seem to mind that I’m loitering as long as I keep filling the coffee cup. Finally, at a little after ten o’clock, I see him get out of a Mercedes in front of the bank. He’s dressed as sharply as always. When the Mercedes drives off, though, Zdrok doesn’t enter the building. Instead he turns, looks in my direction, and crosses the street toward the bagel shop. Shit. It’s quite possible Zdrok knows what I look like. Tarighian’s cameras had surely captured my mug when I first visited his office. The guy could have sent my picture to Zdrok.

  I stand and walk toward the washroom. Zdrok enters the shop just as I go through the door. I enter the stall and wait a few minutes until I’m fairly certain that he’s made his purchase and left. I move to the door and open it slightly.

  Damn, he’s heading this way! There’s nothing I can do about it so I turn to the sink and start washing my hands. The door swings open and Zdrok walks in. I see that he has a sticky pastry in one hand and he’s wolfing it down. He stands beside me, obviously waiting for me to finish with the sink so he can wash the goo off his hands.

  I don’t look him in the eyes, but I nod, smile, and move away from the sink. I grab a couple of paper towels as he rubs his hands in the running water. I feel him looking at me in the mirror—in fact, he’s staring at me. I have to get out of here, fast. I finish drying my hands and walk toward the washroom door.

  “Do I know you?” he asks in Russian.

  I stop. My Russian isn’t perfect, but I can get by. “Excuse me?” I say.

  “Were you in my bank the other day?” he asks.

  What does he mean? “I beg your pardon?”

  “Didn’t I see you in the bank? The one across the street. You were there the other day, at the information table.”

  Whew. So that’s what this is about. “Um, yes, I was.”

  Zdrok smiled. “I’m Andrei Zdrok, the bank manager. If there’s anything I can help you with, please let me know.”

  I nod and say, “Thank you,” and then leave as if I’m embarrassed. I walk straight through the bagel shop and out the front door. I turn left and stride purposefully away from the bank and hope that Zdrok doesn’t follow me. It’s unlikely, but I don’t want to take any chances.

  I stop at a newsstand and pretend to browse the magazines, keeping an eye on the bagel shop. After a moment I see Zdrok exit and cross the street to the bank. He doesn’t look my way. He’s probably forgotten all about the encounter. I’m counting on it, anyway.

  Once he’s inside the building I move back down the street and enter an old-fashioned phone booth. These relics are pretty much a thing of the past in America, but you’ll still find them in Europe.

  I cradle the phone between my head and shoulder and activate the OPSAT. I’m able to send an e-mail anywhere in the world with the thing as long as I have an unhindered signal to the satellite. It works best when I’m outdoors, but it’ll do all right in some buildings. For this, though, I don’t take any chances. I want Zdrok to get this e-mail.

  His address is stored in the OPSAT so it’s a simple procedure to send Carly’s file. For a message, I type in Russian, “I thought you’d find the attached conversation interesting.” I sign it “A Friend” and send it.

  I leave the phone booth and walk the two blocks back to where I parked the Pazhan. I get inside, put on my headset, and listen to the bug in Zdrok’s office. At first there’s nothing but static. After a few minutes, though, I hear someone walk into the room and the subsequent creak of the chair as he sits in it.

  He picks up the phone and makes a call. “Ivan, find out where General Prokofiev is. I want to talk to him,” he says. It’s Zdrok, all right. He hangs up the phone and I hear him typing something on his computer keyboard. Good. Maybe he’s checking his e-mail. There’re a few minutes of silence and then I hear Carly’s file, broadcast loud and clear on the computer’s speakers.

  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.”

  I wish I could see Zdrok’s face. He’s probably sitting there with his mouth wide open. Silence fills the room again. He’s not moving. I hope he’s in shock. After a minute goes by he plays the file again. When it’s done, there’s more silence. He plays it a third time and then picks up the phone.

  “Ivan, have you found General Prokofiev yet? Well, hurry!” He hangs up. I hear him type some more. Maybe he’s forwarding the file to all his buddies in Russia or wherever they hang out.

  After a minute the phone rings. He answers it with a “Yes?” I switch on the OPSAT’s record mode and listen.

  “General, where the hell are you?” he asks. “I see. Where’s the plane? Yes, our plane, what did you think I—? Yes. I see. Listen, this is what I want you to do. I want to order an air strike on Akdabar Enterprises in Van, Turkey. Yes, I know what I’m doing. I have proof that the Shadows are double-crossing us. They never sent that money and have no intention to do so. And I know now they are responsible for what happened at the hangar in Baku. Yes. I just sent you an e-mail, did you get it? Well, check it, damn it! I’ll wait.”

  There are a few moments of silence, but I can hear Zdrok breathing heavily. The guy’s blood pressure has probably shot up.

  “I’m still here,” he says. “You have it? Listen to the file. I’ll wait.”

  More breathing. A cough.

  “Well? You see? No, no, I just want to—General, this is not negotiable. These are my orders. Send the plane to Turkey and bomb the shit out of that facility. I want it done today. Right. Keep me informed. Thank you, General.”

  He hangs up the phone and I hear him stand and walk out of the room.

  I stop recording and play back the file. His voice comes through clearly. He said all the right things and it’s beautiful. Apparently Tarighian’s people are going to see some fireworks later today. Too bad the big man won’t be there. I know he’s down in Cyprus now. Carly got hold of his e-mail address easily enough, so I prepare the file and type the same message in Russian—“I thought you’d find the attached conversation interesting.” I sign it “A Friend” once again and send it to Tarighian.

  As I drive away from Fountain Square and head toward my floating hotel, I hear Lambert’s tinny voice in my ear.

  “Sam? Are you there?”

  I press the implant in my throat and speak to him. “I’m here, colonel.”

  “You’re finished in Azerbaijan, Sam,” he says. “All the evidence you’ve managed to capture in pictures is enough for us to move against the Shop. We’re going after
the Swiss-Russian banks there in Baku and in Zurich. We’re also making arrangements to move in on Nasir Tarighian. Good job.”

  I tell Lambert about Zdrok’s conversation I just recorded. “He’s going to do some damage to Tarighian’s operation in Turkey and it’s gonna happen soon,” I say. “You might want to alert the Turkish air force. If they’re on the lookout for a small plane capable of dropping bombs, they can kill two birds with one stone. Let the Shop do their thing on Tarighian’s place and then knock their plane out of the sky.”

  “Good idea, will do. Now listen, Sam. I want you to go to Cyprus. We need to know exactly what Tarighian is up to. All we know is that he’s built a shopping mall in the north, but he’s got to be hiding something.”

  “I agree.”

  “Go to the American Embassy on Azadliq Avenue there in Baku. Find our man George Tootelian and he’ll set you up with transport out of the country. We’re going to fly you to Tel Aviv, where you’ll catch a ride to Cyprus. Tootelian’s expecting you. I’ll talk to you again once you’re in Tel Aviv. Have a good trip.”

  “Thanks, Colonel.”

  He signs off as I arrive at my hotel. I’ll need to check out and head for the embassy, but I’m hungry and want a bite to eat first. Knowing the efficiency of our embassies abroad, they’ll have me on a plane before I’m able to fill my belly.

  My OPSAT beeps and I check it for an incoming message. It’s coded so I know it’s—Christ, it’s from Sarah! It’s the first time she’s ever used the private number to reach me.

  But as the words appear on the screen, my heart skips a beat. I feel a growing dread that threatens to erupt into full-blown panic. I want to tear off the OPSAT and throw it into the Caspian Sea. I want to scream at the heavens for allowing this to happen.

  The message reads:

  WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. YOU HAVE 72 HOURS TO COME TO JERUSALEM FROM WHEREVER YOU ARE.

  The message goes on, ordering me to phone a specific number when I arrive and ends with the parting shot:

  NO TRICKS IF YOU WANT TO SEE HER ALIVE AGAIN.

  31

  FOR the Shop, one of the advantages of keeping a top Russian general in a major administrative position was his ability to procure and modify military equipment. When the Su-47 prototype stealth plane was presented to Andrei Zdrok, the aircraft was still in the stage in which design alterations could be made. The plane was originally conceived to carry air-to-air missiles, such as the R-73 (AA-11 “Archer”) or the R-77 (AA-12 “Adder”). However, Zdrok thought that air-to-surface missiles would be more useful for the Shop’s purposes, and he asked General Prokofiev to adapt the Su-47 to fire tactical ASMs.

  The Soviets lagged behind in developing air-to-surface missiles. The first one introduced, in the late 1960s, was the Kh-66 Grom, a solid-fuel, radio-guided missile with a general appearance similar to that of the U.S. Bullpup-A. This was followed in the 1980s by the Kh-25 series, modular weapons that allowed field fit of different guidance heads, including radio and laser-seeker systems. The Kh- 25 gave way to the bigger Kh-29, another solid-fuel ASM. Designed by Molniya Design Bureau, it has a NATO designation of AS-14 “Kedge.” The Kh-29 was built to be carried by small and medium tactical aircraft such as the MiG-27, Su-17, Su-24, and MiG-29 and was specifically designed for use against hardened targets. It has a reinforced nose section and the warhead takes up almost half the weight of the missile. Today it comes in three styles—a laser-seeker Kh-29L, the TV-guided Kh-29T, or the fire-and-forget thermal imaging guidance Kh-29D. All three versions have been heavily exported and can be encountered almost anywhere in the world.

  It seemed to General Prokofiev that the Shop’s stealth plane could be most easily adapted to carry the Kh-29L, with its semi-active laser homing head 24N1. Weighing approximately 657 kilograms, the missile has a minimum range of 1,000 meters and a maximum of 8,000. With a speed of 3,000 meters per minute, the thing is fast and deadly.

  The Shop kept three hidden hangars for the Su-47—one in Baku, which was now destroyed, one south of Moscow in the tiny village of Volovo, and one south of Kiev in a small hamlet called Obukhov. The stealth fighter was in the hangar at the latter location when the orders came through to attack Akdabar Enterprises. The Shop’s ace pilot, Dimitri Mazur, lived and breathed with the plane. He had apartments near each of the three locations so that wherever the plane had to go, he was there to take it. He then baby-sat the aircraft until the next assignment.

  Three hours after Zdrok gave the order to attack the Shadows, Mazur eased the Su-47 off the runway and rose to an altitude of 10,000 feet, where he would stay until he was a good distance from Kiev. Within ten minutes the plane ascended to 30,000 feet and turned in the direction of southeast Turkey. While in flight Mazur kept in contact with the Obukhov control center, but for all intents and purposes he was on his own. Mazur worked from a set flight plan that he prepared before takeoff, and he served as his own navigator. The rules were that if he got into trouble, he was to destroy the plane by activating a self-destruct mechanism. Prokofiev had installed explosives within the plane for this purpose because he couldn’t afford having the Su-47 discovered by the Russian government. Pilot Mazur was well aware of his obligations should events transpire that might force him to eject. What he didn’t know was that Prokofiev had fixed the system so that the pilot wouldn’t be able to eject—he would meet the same fate as the plane itself. This was done to protect the integrity of the Shop and keep its directors in the clear. Should the government recover fragments of the plane, it would be chalked up to one of the many mysterious bureaucratic snafus that occurred when the Soviet Union fell apart.

  Fortunately, the Su-47 had thus far performed beautifully. Most of its missions had been to transport small loads of weapons. Only once had it been used aggressively, and that was to obliterate the home and storehouse of an arms-dealing competitor who had refused to cooperate with the Shop.

  Mazur thought it unwise to fly the plane during daylight hours, but who was he to question orders? Regardless, he looked forward to flexing the plane’s muscles. He enjoyed the feel of the recoil when the missiles launched and found pleasure in the reverberation of the impact. But what he really wanted to do some time was to fire a nuke. He could fly the plane in above the target, let loose with the ASM, and speed away unseen. The Shop had yet to acquire a nuke, but the Kh-29s were plentiful and potent. The Su-47 normally carried fourteen air-to-air missiles, but since it was modified, the plane’s armament capacity was ten ASMs. This was enough to destroy a small village.

  As the plane crossed the border into Turkish airspace, Mazur contacted Obukhov control and informed them he would be in sight of the target area within the half-hour. The Turkish air force patrolled the eastern portion of the country with vigor since it was in close proximity to Iraq and often had dealings with the PKK. A stealth plane wasn’t completely invisible by any means, so Mazur had to be extremely vigilant and avoid the flight patterns of other aircraft. The goal of stealth technology is to make an airplane imperceptible to radar. There are two different ways to create invisibility—the airplane can be shaped so that any radar signals it reflects are bounced away from the radar equipment, and the airplane can be covered in materials that absorb radar signals. Most conventional aircraft have a rounded shape. This shape makes them aerodynamic, but it also creates a very efficient radar reflector. The round shape means that no matter where the radar signal hits the plane, some of the signal gets reflected back. A stealth aircraft, on the other hand, is made up of completely flat surfaces and very sharp edges. When a radar signal hits a stealth plane, the signal reflects away at an angle. In addition, surfaces on a stealth aircraft can be treated so they absorb radar energy as well. The overall result is that a stealth aircraft can have the radar signature of a small bird rather than an airplane. The only exception is when the plane banks; there will often be a moment when one of the panels of the plane will perfectly reflect a burst of radar energy back to the antenna.

  Mazur de
scended to 20,000 feet and finally to 10,000 upon approaching Van. He guided the plane to the lake and descended another 5,000 feet. Now he could be seen from the ground no matter what he did, but he would quickly unleash the payload and be out of there before anyone had time to react.

  The Su-47 flew low over Akdabar Enterprises, and Mazur discerned the large steelworks building with its smokestacks, the airfield, and the numerous smaller buildings that appeared the size of bugs. Mazur set his sights on the big building first and fired two Kh-29s, one after the other. The recoil in the cockpit felt heavenly. The missiles hit their target—how could they miss?—and the plane pulled up as the explosions engulfed the space beneath it.

  Mazur banked and came around for another pass. This time he aimed for the administrative buildings by the shore. The computer centered on the target and Mazur released the weapon. It was a direct hit, turning Tarighian’s office structure into a mass of flames and rubble. The Tirma building was next on the list. He had strict instructions to be sure and hit the white colonial-style building. Mazur flew the plane over the lake, banked, and approached the target from behind the edifice. The fourth missile launched and hit the Tirma headquarters dead in the middle.

  Mazur could see dozens of people running on the ground and congregating in the center courtyard. He didn’t know if they were soldiers or civilians, and he didn’t care. He shot missile number five directly into the courtyard, reducing Akdabar’s payroll by at least forty percent.

  The sixth missile went into a section of the big steelworks building that was still untouched by fire. Now the entire structure was demolished, collapsing in a fiery heap of blackened metal. Mazur fired his seventh missile into a row of smaller sheds, causing a fire to spread over the grassy open areas of the compound. Missile eight blew up the front gate and security checkpoint, where several guards attempted to shoot the plane out of the sky with pathetic handguns.