Suddenly the horrible, heavy weight came off and she could breathe again. She was aware of a struggle in the room.
It was Eli. He had come in and pulled Vlad away. The older man stepped on the breakfast tray, causing it to spill its contents over the floor. Now the two of them were fighting. Vlad swung at Eli, but the young man was faster and more agile. He dodged the blow and sneaked in one of his own, hitting Vlad on the nose.
“You goddamned bastard!” Vlad said. He wiped his face and smeared blood over his upper lip. “I’m going to kill you!”
The door opened again and Yuri entered.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop it right now!” He pulled his Heckler & Koch pistol and pointed it at Vlad. “Move back, Vlad! Now!”
Eli and Vlad halted and lowered their fists. Both of them had traces of oatmeal on their clothes. The floor was a mess.
Vlad looked at his partner as if Yuri had betrayed him. “I was just going to have some fun. I’m going crazy here. This isn’t what we usually do—guard hostages. You know that.”
Yuri kept the gun pointed at him and said, “We do what we’re told because we’re well paid. Don’t forget that.” He looked at Eli. “And you, don’t you ever attack him again. If he acts up, as he sometimes does, you come and get me.”
Eli stood his ground, breathing heavily. “Keep him away from her,” he said.
Yuri took the gun off Vlad and pointed it at Eli. The VP70 appeared huge in his hand. “You don’t give me orders,” he said. “Never.”
“Fine,” Eli said.
The two stared at each other for a moment and then Yuri said, “Stay and clean up this mess. Let’s go, Vlad. Out of here.” Vlad grunted and left the room. Yuri kept his eyes trained on Eli and followed his associate out. The door slammed shut.
Eli turned to Sarah, moved to the cot, and sat down beside her. “I’m sorry for that,” he said.
Sarah whirled around and slapped his face. “Get out of here and take that tray with you,” she said.
Eli stood, rubbing his face. “I guess I deserved that. I have to clean this up.”
“Leave it, I don’t give a shit if my room’s a pigsty. It was a pigsty before it was covered in breakfast,” she said.
“Look, Sarah,” Eli said. “You’re just making this worse for yourself. I don’t have to be nice to you, you know.”
“Oh, really? You don’t have to be nice? You didn’t have to kidnap me, either!”
“Goddamn it, Sarah, all we want to know is how to reach your father. I know you have a way to get hold of him. If you don’t tell us, you’re going to suffer. I can’t stop that. Vlad will have his way with you. I guarantee I won’t be able to prevent it. And Yuri, if he gets started on you, it’s all about pain. Those guys are experts, Sarah. So far they haven’t been given the orders to hurt you, but if the orders come, they won’t hesitate to do it. Now, tell me, is your father here in the Middle East?”
Sarah folded her arms in front of her, still shaken by what had just occurred. Eli’s words frightened her, and she wasn’t sure what to do.
“Sarah. Talk to me. Is he in the Middle East? We have reason to believe he might be in Turkey at this moment.”
Sarah brought her knees up to her chin and buried her face. The tears came freely.
“I see,” Eli said. “Stubborn to the end. Fine. Well, you just think about it some more, then. Oh, and by the way, I
brought you something to read. Maybe it will help you make up your mind.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper. He tossed it on the cot beside her, picked up the tray and dishes, left the spilled oatmeal on the floor, and went out of the room.
After she heard the door lock, Sarah looked at the newspaper and saw that it was in English—and a picture of Rivka was on the front page. Sarah picked up the paper and stared at the front-page headline, her heart racing in terror.
ISRAELI WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN EAST JERUSALEM
The story related how a twenty-year-old woman was found strangled to death, her body lying in a trash heap in an alley. Police suspected Palestinian militants for the slaying, but an investigation was under way.
At the bottom of the page was a photo of both Rivka and Sarah. Sarah recognized it as one that Rivka’s parents had taken earlier in the week. The caption read:
MISSING AMERICAN WOMAN LAST SEEN WITH SLAIN ISRAELI
23
THE Caucasus Mountains. Would you believe that the Soviet elite thought of these small republics—Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan—as a holiday paradise? They have everything: sunny beaches, snowy mountains, luxurious orchards, and some of the best wine in Eastern Europe. Or is it Asia? It’s hard to say. The region seems to connect Asia with Europe, and it’s a mixture of cultural elements from both continents. Now that the Soviet Union is no more and these countries are more or less independent, all we hear about are the ethnic conflicts that plague the area. But I’ve never had any problems here. In fact, I kind of like it.
I drive out of Turkey in the Pazhan, which is beginning to worry me. The engine’s starting to make a cough-cough noise every now and then. I just hope it makes it to Baku. The mountain roads are tough on even the sturdiest of vehicles.
I travel north and enter Armenia just west of Yerevan. I have no trouble at the border. My Interpol credentials get me through, and it helps that these places are far less suspicious than the other countries I’ve visited on this assignment. I have to cross over the mountains, north of Lake Sevan, to access the straighter, more level road heading east into Azerbaijan. The distance in miles really isn’t that much, but the up-and-down nature of the trip stretches the time frame. I just try to relax and enjoy the gorgeous scenery.
I reach my destination after nightfall. Baku, or Baki—depending on whom you talk to—is the largest city in the Caucasus. In America they say that Chicago is the “windy city,” but it has nothing over Baku. Baku’s name, in fact, comes from Persian words that mean “city of winds.” Perched on the shore of the Caspian Sea, Baku is bombarded by strong gales on a frequent basis. Another distinctive aspect of Baku is that it’s surrounded by gaseous and flammable oil fields. Since oil is the country’s main commodity, most of Baku is an industrial city that works to refine the huge amounts of petroleum. What’s amazing is there are areas of earth that literally flame up because gas is coming out of the ground. So Baku is sometimes called the “land of fire,” as well. Back in the times of the Greeks, many of the myths grew out of this area because of its unusual natural characteristics.
It’s not a very attractive city. I find it very polluted, especially on the outskirts, but I believe this is a legacy of former Soviet rule. The inner city and the harbor area have lately been built up to attract more tourists. It’s trying to be downright cosmopolitan, albeit a little more conservative than, say, Istanbul.
If I wanted to I could stay at a four-star hotel, but that’s not my style. I prefer budget places where no one pays much attention to the guests. I find such an establishment located on board a former Caspian Sea ferry that sits on a permanent mooring beside the Port Office in the area known as Boom Town. The place is a dump but the cabins have hot water and privacy. I don’t plan to stay long.
After a welcome night’s sleep I greet the morning refreshed and ready to work. I have a breakfast of bread and honey with yogurt at the teahouse near my so-called hotel, and then I walk through Boom Town to the address I found on the shipping manifest in the Akdabar storeroom. Those weapons were definitely shipped from Azerbaijan, and whatever business occupies the address had something to do with it.
It turns out to be a bank just off Fountain Square, the center for people watching in Baku. The fountains happen to be working today, so the café terraces are busy and lively. Since I’m wearing my civilian sports jacket and trousers, I blend in easily. No one notices the casually dressed businessman enter the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank except the security guard at the front door. He’s standing outside as if he w
ere actually a hotel concierge waiting to hail a taxi for a guest. I notice there’s a retinal scanner by the door—which will make my entry during off-hours all the more difficult. I’ll have to think about that one.
As I open the door, the guard nods at me and asks me something in Azeri. I simply smile, point to the information desk, and go inside. It’s a fairly small bank lobby with two teller windows and two executive desks on the floor. A barred gate leads to an area behind a wall, which I presume are back offices, the vault, and maybe safe-deposit boxes. I go to the table that holds bank literature, pick up a pamphlet, and pretend to study it as I case the place. There are two surveillance cameras up in the corners and appear to cover the entire lobby. I glance through the teller windows—only one is occupied—and see a pretty Azeri woman in her thirties counting manat, the official currency. There’s not much room back there, so I figure all the good stuff in the bank is through the barred gate.
While I’m studying the place, a man enters from the street, stands and speaks quietly to the guard, and then walks over to the teller window. I recognize him as the man with Namik Basaran in the photo that was in Rick Benton’s folder. He’s dressed impeccably in an expensive suit and has the demeanor of a king. I make him out to be perhaps the bank manager.
He speaks to the teller for a moment and then moves to the barred gate. He unlocks it with his own set of keys, enters, closes and locks the gate behind him, and disappears. He didn’t look at me once.
It’s funny how all the little pieces start falling into place. Whoever this guy is, he’s obviously pretty chummy with Basaran. In the photo they look like old pals who have enjoyed a longtime business relationship. Of course, the guy could simply be Basaran’s banker. Much remains to be seen.
I take a couple of pamphlets and leave the lobby. As I walk by the guard I don’t look at him—instead I study one of the pamphlets as if I’m trying to make up my mind whether or not to use the bank’s services. He says something that probably translates to “Have a nice day, sir,” and I grunt affirmatively without looking up.
I walk south to what is referred to as the Old Town. It’s a little maze of alleys that probably should be more impressive than it is. There are some interesting medieval monuments scattered about, but it’s mostly made up of nineteenth-century oil-boom structures and Soviet-era tenement buildings. I find a harbor restoran that specializes in barbecue and have a seat outside. The waiter brings me Azeri’s standard fare—barbecued chicken and shashlyk , which is marinated lamb kebab. I find the “fast food” in this town better than the restaurant menus.
When I’m done I walk along the harbor and contact Lambert via my implant.
“Colonel, are you awake?” I ask. “Colonel?”
He answers after twenty seconds or so. “Sam?”
“It’s me, Colonel. Did I wake you?”
“Um, yeah, but that’s all right. We haven’t spoken in a while. Are you in a secure place?”
“I’m walking along Baku harbor. There’s no one around. I thought I’d check to see if you have news, because I have some.”
“I do,” Lambert says. “But you go first.”
“You know the address I found attached to the arms at Akdabar Enterprises?”
“Yes?”
“It’s a bank. The Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank. Right off of Fountain Square in Baku.”
I hear Lambert chuckling. “What’s so funny?” I ask.
“It’s such a coincidence. We’ve been hard at work gathering information about those men you asked for. Just a second, let me get to my portable transmitter. . . .” I wait a few seconds. He probably has to get out of bed and go into his office. After a moment I hear him again in the depths of my ear. “I’m uploading a photo. Take a look.”
In a flash my OPSAT displays a picture of the guy I just saw in the bank. The same guy in the photo with Namik Basaran. “Got it,” I say.
“That’s Andrei Zdrok.”
“No shit.”
“That’s him.”
“Son of a bitch. You won’t believe this, but he’s here. I just saw him in the bank. He walked in like he owned the joint and went into the back offices.”
“Well, he does own the joint,” Lambert says. “Unfortunately there’s not a lot on him we could dig up, but what we’ve found is interesting. He’s a Russian banker—he’s actually from Georgia—and he’s the president of the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank. He resides in Zurich, Switzerland, where the main branch of the bank is located. The only other branch is there in Baku.”
“Okay.”
“Our intelligence reports suggest that Zdrok has ties to organized crime, but nothing has ever been proven. He’s never been accused of anything or had any problems with the law. He’s on a watch list, though. The Russian government suspects he might be a major player in the black market.”
“Colonel, I have reason to believe he may be one of the top dogs in the Shop,” I say. “Rick Benton thought so, I think. You saw the chart I sent you?”
“I’ve made that same connection, Sam. I label the guy Russian mafia.”
“I’m going to have a look inside the bank tonight. No telling what I might find.”
“In the meantime we’ll see what else we can dig up.”
“And don’t forget there’s his connection with Namik Basaran. They obviously know each other and Basaran lied to me about it. Basaran’s dirty, Colonel. I don’t care what kind of charity he runs, the guy’s a phony.”
“So far he’s clean, Sam,” Lambert says. “The Turkish government insists he’s the equivalent of a saint.”
“What about his background? Do we know anything about him? He’s got skeletons in his closet, I just know he does. I saw a photo in his office of a woman and two girls—I’d bet they’re his family, but where are they now?”
“We’re still digging. I’m afraid there isn’t much on the guy before the nineties.”
“Well, that’s enough to make me suspicious. A man in his forties just doesn’t magically materialize in a country without some sort of history. Find it, Colonel.”
“We’re doing our best. Oh, here’s one report I’m looking at now . . . hmm, it’s a memo from a Turkish intelligence officer that’s apparently been disputed by his superiors, but he claims that Basaran isn’t really Turkish.”
“I’d like to talk to this officer. Who is he?”
“Well, unfortunately, he’s dead. Doesn’t say how or when he died . . . just says he’s deceased.”
“Shit.”
“Now, there’s the other fellow you wanted to know about. . . .”
“Mertens?”
“Albert Mertens. Dr. Albert Mertens was one of Gerard Bull’s right-hand men during the years when Bull was an arms designer and dealer. Mertens was one of the top physicists on the fabled ‘Babylon Gun.’ Remember that?”
“Sure. When we were talking about Gerard Bull in Washington, I happened to recall it. It’s the supergun that could fire a payload at a target a thousand kilometers away. Saddam Hussein commissioned Bull to make one so he could attack a neighboring country without more expensive cruise missiles. Wasn’t it able to fire not just conventional explosives but also biological or chemical warheads, or even nuclear bombs?”
“You’re right, Sam. Luckily the thing was never finished.”
“Okay, so what’s this Professor Mertens doing working for Basaran?”
“I don’t know, but it’s got us concerned. You see, Mertens served seven years in a Belgian prison for illegal arms dealing. According to the data we received, Mertens was transferred during the seventh year to a mental institution and was committed. The guy’s a raving lunatic. Then, five years ago, he disappeared from the clinic. Either he escaped on his own or someone broke him out. We don’t know. The Belgian police have been looking for the guy ever since.”
“So what’s Basaran up to?” I ask. “Has he got Mertens building him a supergun? And if so, why? Basaran’s supposed to be
on our side, but it’s looking more and more like he isn’t.”
“Let’s just keep moving forward, Sam. You’re doing a great job.”
“Any luck on Nasir Tarighian?”
“Not yet. The research team does have a lead on obtaining a photograph of the man. As soon as it’s available, you’ll be the first to get it.”
“Fine. I’ll send you a report tonight after I’ve had a look inside that bank.”
“Just be extra careful, Sam,” Lambert says. “If this Zdrok guy is really part of the Shop, he’ll have your intestines for dinner if you’re caught.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to stay off the menu.”
24
IT’S a little after midnight when I make my way through the streets, sticking to the shadows and pausing every now and then to make sure no one is following me. Not only is it important to make sure you’re not seen as you move forward, you need to have eyes in the back of your head as well.
There are a few late-nighters in Fountain Square. I can’t imagine why, because it’s cold as hell with the wind coming off the Caspian. I avoid the place altogether and take backstreets to reach the bank. As expected, there’s a lone security guard standing outside under a light, bundled up and rubbing his arms to keep warm. I see his breath wafting from his nose and mouth. Unfortunately that’s also a hazard for me when it’s cold outside. There’s not a lot I can do to mask my breathing except stay in the shadows and avoid light.
I have to move quickly for this to work—he mustn’t see me coming. I choose a dark spot along the street and then dart across so I’m on the same side as the guard. I
crouch and draw my Five-seveN. I’m approximately thirty feet from the guy, but he can’t see me. Like a cat, I run lightly and noiselessly right up to him and halt with the barrel of my pistol at his temple.
It takes him a few seconds to realize what has just happened. He doesn’t move his head but tries to look at me with his eyes. With my free hand I take the Glock from his holster and toss it away. The guard asks me something, probably, “What is it you want?” or something like that. I don’t answer. Instead, I turn him around to face the retinal scanner. I point to it and he gets the idea. At first he shakes his head, but I tap him with the barrel again. The guard slowly leans forward and looks into the scanner.
Splinter Cell (2004) Page 19
