Splinter Cell sc-1

by Tom Clancy

  Bridges are among my most frequented hotels. The accommodations are not always of the four- or five-star variety, but they usually offer me what I need the most — privacy.

  I make my way down the hill to the edge of the highway, then inch down the steep slope next to the bridge. I grab the steel supports and climb up and around to the inside. It’s an easy ascent to the underside of the highway, where a hollow section — a ledge — runs the complete length of the bridge. It’s about four feet wide, with headspace of a couple of feet. It’s perfect for me to lie in, as long as I don’t roll over in my sleep and fall off. It’s never happened before.

  Before retiring for the day, I send a text message to Lambert via my OPSAT, telling him I’m in Iran and on my way to Tabriz. I then eat a very satisfying pack of rations. It’s not a gourmet meal by any means, but it reduces the hunger pangs and lulls me into the disposition to get some shut-eye.

  And that’s where I sleep most of the daylight hours — underneath a bridge, the highway into Iran directly over my prone body.

  * * *

  My OPSAT wakes me at nine o’clock that night, after the sun has set. The constant rumbling of vehicles passing over the bridge hasn’t kept me awake — on the contrary, there’s something akin to white noise about it. I slept like a log.

  I carefully slip out from my crawl space under the bridge, grasp the support, and climb down to the ground. I move away from the road and into the brush, where my presence will go unnoticed. I sit behind a tree and check my OPSAT. Lambert has left a message—

  CONTACT REZA HAMADAN IN TABRIZ BAZAAR “TABRIZ CARPET COMPANY” HE IS ON CIA PAYROLL AND EXPECTS YOU

  Okay. Now the trick is finding a ride to Tabriz. Hitch-hiking isn’t an option, so I start the long walk to the next town, which is Mahabad — about thirty miles away. I estimate I can make it in seven or eight hours. The drawback is the up-and-down terrain, which contributes to the wear and tear on my legs and feet. I silently thank Katia Loenstern for all the leg exercises she had us do in Krav Maga class. It’s tough going and I have to stop and rest several times, which makes me realize it’s going to take a lot longer than I initially thought. What the hell, I’ve had to rough it many times in my career, though, and this is a relatively tame sojourn compared to some.

  Along the way I pass through a couple of seemingly deserted whistle-stop villages. While Iran is a very modern country, the rural parts still contain vestiges of the past. You’ll see shepherds dressed in the same type of clothing that was worn hundreds of years ago. Not everyone drives cars. If I happen to get hurt or ill, I’m on my own. There aren’t going to be any emergency clinics on the road. This thought flits through my mind when I hear wolves howling in the deep woods to my left.

  It’s nearly morning when I finally reach Mahabad. Not a large town, but bigger than a village, it’s a rural community that is just beginning to rouse from slumber. I hear the musical intonations of Islamic morning prayers drifting through the air — something I have to admit I find very soothing. Besides the dominant Persian population of Iran, the region where I’m headed is full of Kurds and Azerbaijanis. Persians are direct descendents of the Aryans that first inhabited the land about four thousand years ago, and they make up over half the total population in the country. Nearly everyone in Iran is a Shiite Muslim, the Islamic branch that dictates the cultural, religious, and political direction of the country. Sunni Muslims make up a small ten percent or so. It’s interesting to note that in the rest of the world, almost all Muslims are of the Sunni variety — but in Iran, and most of Iraq, the majority is Shiite.

  I wander into town, now dressed in casual clothing with my uniform underneath. It’s not as hot here in the mountain region, so I’m fairly comfortable. Most Persians are light-skinned and can pass for a Westerner if they have to. I blend right in, even with my darker complexion. I probably look as if I’ve just come off the bus from Tehran. No one looks twice at me. As long as I don’t have to talk I’ll be fine.

  Most of the men are wearing the traditional jeballa, a full-length robe, and many wear turbans. In the bigger cities you’ll see men wear Western clothing — suits, casual trousers, and shirts. The women, however, are almost always covered in the hejab, the modest dress. This is usually represented by the chador, a tentlike cloak that is draped loosely over the head, legs, and arms. Nothing that suggests the shape of the body can be worn. All bits of skin except for the hands, feet, and face above the neckline and below the hairline must be covered. In the cities women can get away with wearing a full-length skirt or even trousers worn beneath a long dark coat known as a roupush. The hair is covered by a simple headscarf. Here, though, everything’s more traditional, more old-fashioned.

  I find what I’m looking for at the edge of town. It’s a sort of minor truck stop for commercial vehicles traveling to the north. I walk around to the back of the place where I can’t be seen and sit down to wait for my ride. Thirty minutes later it arrives.

  It’s a ten-wheeler truck — perfect for my needs — with the words “Tabriz Moving Company” painted in Farsi on the side. I wait until the right moment, when the driver is inside the station using the washroom, then I run to the back of the rig, crouch, and crawl beneath the hot flatbed. I turn my belt all the way around so that the buckle is on my back and pull out the hook. I then lodge my body up above the axles, facedown, and position myself so I can hold on to and rest my legs on parts of the chassis with the hook securing me in place. It’s not the most comfortable way to ride a hundred miles, but I’ve done it many times, and it really isn’t so bad as long as you keep your wits about you, don’t fall asleep, and never let go.

  Five minutes pass and the driver gets back in the cab. The engine fires up and we’re off. For the next three hours I have a lovely view of a speeding blur of highway, four feet below my face.

  * * *

  Tabriz is the largest city in northern Iran and is occupied primarily by Azerbaijanis. It seems to be an unsightly spread of high-rise apartment buildings, but the areas in the old town center are more representative of traditional Iran. After slipping out from under the truck, I make my way to the bazaar, just south of the Mehran River. It’s the oldest and largest bazaar in all of Iran and is typical of the maze-like medinas of most Middle Eastern countries. I arrive midday, just as business is bustling. The teahouses are full, lined with men smoking water pipes or having lively conversations over Persian tea. The hawkers are out in force, soliciting every person that walks by to come into a particular shop and buy something. The atmosphere is much more relaxed and pleasant than it was in Iraq — understandably so.

  I wander around like a tourist until I find the Tabriz Carpet Company, an unusually large shop that specializes not only in Persian carpets but also in silk and spices. A woman greets me when I enter and nods enthusiastically when I ask for Reza Hamadan. She goes through drapes to a back room while I examine the intricate work of the carpets on display. I’m always amazed by the craftsmanship that goes into these things. Carpets are not made just to cover your floor — in this part of the world a carpet is a symbol of wealth or an integral part of a religious or cultural festival. From what I can see here, Reza Hamadan is a master carpet maker.

  He comes out of the shop, dressed in a loose-fitting white shirt with baggy sleeves, dark trousers, and sandals. He appears to be in his fifties, clean-shaven except for a small, Chaplin-esque mustache. His deep blue eyes sparkle and exhibit warmth.

  “I am Reza Hamadan,” he says, extending his hand.

  I shake it. “Sam Fisher.”

  “I have been expecting you, Mr. Fisher. Welcome to Tabriz,” he says. His English is very good.

  “Thank you.”

  “Come with me to a more comfortable place. My wife will mind the store.” He calls to the woman I saw earlier. She enters the shop, smiles, nods her head at me, and allows us to go through the drapes and into the back room. Hamadan leads me to what appears to be his office. The walls and floor are covered in
magnificent carpets, a mahogany desk that looks English sits in a corner, and large pillows occupy the middle of the room.

  “Please sit. Would you like some tea?” he asks.

  “I would love some.”

  “Please,” he says again, gesturing to the pillows. I sit cross-legged and then find it’s better to lounge sideways. It feels really good to be off my feet. Hamadan leaves the room and returns a few moments later with a tray. “Normally my wife would serve us, but she has a customer.”

  It’s what I expect—chay, the unofficial national drink. It’s a strong tea, served hot and black in a small glass cup. I’m not a huge fan of the stuff, but at the moment it tastes like heaven. The highway dust of the trip from Mahabad has infiltrated my throat, and the tea works wonders in clearing the air passages.

  “How was your journey, Mr. Fisher?” Hamadan asks.

  “As pleasant as it could be,” I say tactfully.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now that you are here, I am authorized to lend you a car. It’s my son-in-law’s and he is away on business for an extended period of time. Feel free to use it as long as you need it. You can take it anywhere except into Iraq.”

  “That’s quite kind, thank you.”

  “I suppose you have questions for me?”

  “I do, but before we get to business, I’d like to ask you something personal.”

  “By all means.”

  “How did you get to be a CIA mole?”

  Hamadan grins, revealing a wide set of sparkling white teeth. “I spent my early twenties in the United States, during the 1970s, before the fall of the Shah. I went to a small college in West Texas, where other Iranian students attended. The school had an exchange program with Iran at the time. I studied political science and English. During that period, men from your government came to talk to us. It was quite blatant — they wanted to recruit young men to help the U.S. spy on Iran. The money was good. I was young and didn’t know better, so I accepted. I’ve been earning extra income from the CIA ever since. I have no complaints.”

  “Fascinating,” I said. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “It grows smaller daily. Now then, to the business at hand.” He sets down his teacup and looks me in the eyes. “Mr. Fisher, I have many connections in the underworld and in law enforcement in this country and surrounding areas. Before your government contacted me and said to expect you here, I had heard your name mentioned in… other places.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mr. Fisher, there is a price on your head. You are a marked man.”

  14

  “Well, that’s nothing new,” I say.

  Hamadan looks at me as if he’s sizing me up. “I detect that you are either a very brave man, Mr. Fisher, or a very foolish one.”

  “Call me Sam, please.”

  “Very well, but you must call me Reza.”

  “All right, Reza. What exactly do you mean?”

  “You appear not to take what I say seriously.”

  “Of course I do. I take all death threats seriously.”

  “Forgive me, then. Perhaps I mistook your self-confidence for indifference.”

  “Reza, I’ve been in this business for a long time. It takes a lot to shake me up. Now, why don’t you tell me what it is you know?”

  He nods and smiles. “I like you already, Sam. You have… what’s the word? Aplomb.” He takes a sip of tea and continues. “I assume you knew Mr. Benton?”

  “Not personally. Rick Benton worked for the same organization as I.”

  “I had dealings with Mr. Benton. I was one of his informers. I liked him as well. I find it difficult to believe he was killed. He was also a man with great self-confidence.”

  “Go on.”

  “You must know that Mr. Benton was trying to track down the Shop. He wanted to know where they were based, who was in charge, how they worked. For the last two years this had become his obsession. I helped him the best I could. I found out things for him, guided him in certain directions. I believe he may have shown his hand too soon, though. The Shop became aware of him. Mr. Benton told me as such right after your man in the Far East was killed. Mr. Lee?”

  “Yes. Dan Lee. In Macau.”

  “Right. After that happened, Mr. Benton told me that he thought the Shop had a list of names. Names of possible agents with the National Security Agency. He was afraid the Shop had begun a campaign to eliminate everyone on the list.”

  I consider this. “I don’t question Rick’s suspicions, but I think you both give the Shop too much credit. If the Shop really does have a list of names, then I can’t imagine how they got it.”

  “That is exactly what Mr. Benton said. Very mysterious.”

  “I tell you, Reza, I’m not going to worry about it,” I say. I mean it, too. I have more important things to think about. I spend a great deal of energy watching my back when I’m on an assignment. It’s routine. “Now, what can you tell me about Rick’s investigations?”

  “Mr. Benton was working on tracing an arms supply line coming into Iraq. He believed the arms come from Azerbaijan, but he wasn’t completely sure. I tend to agree with him. If this is true, then there are two routes the arms could take — one through Iran, and one through Armenia and Turkey. I’ll tell you what I think. I don’t believe they’re coming through Iran, although maybe the Shop wants to give us that impression. There are arms that do come into Iran, but they do not originate in my country. I know for a fact that our government is working very hard to keep illegal arms out of Iran. They do not want to be perceived as a contributor to international terrorism, despite how the world arena has portrayed us. Our government is particularly concerned about radical terrorist groups that may have Iranian connections.”

  “Like the Shadows, for instance?”

  Hamadan smiles again. “You are very perceptive, Sam.”

  “They are quickly becoming a priority for us,” I explain.

  “Yes, well, as they should. There have been some suspicions in the media and in our government that the Shadows are based in Iran. I hope it’s not true. I don’t believe it.”

  “Reza, whatever enlightenment you can provide would be appreciated.”

  “I don’t know much, either. Only that the group is taking credit for a lot of attacks lately. Are we even sure that the Shadows really exist? Could they be al Qaeda or another one of the established groups merely trying to confuse us?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Their methods are slightly different. Results are the same, though. I actually think I met some Shadows in Arbil the other day.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. That reminds me. What do you know about the Tabriz Container Company?”

  Hamadan wrinkles his brow. “Why?”

  “There was a shipment of arms confiscated in Arbil. The stuff was in crates made by the Tabriz Container Company.”

  Hamadan shrugs. “It’s a large company here that makes boxes, crates, containers… Their warehouse is located outside the city.”

  “I’m going to check them out.”

  “It can’t hurt, but I can’t imagine that this company is involved in anything illegal. They sell their products to all kinds of clients. The Shop might be buying the containers through a middleman or a front.”

  “Could be. Here’s another question for you. Have you ever heard of anyone named Tarighian?”

  “Tarighian?” Hamadan looks surprised. “Nasir Tarighian?”

  “I don’t know his first name.”

  “If you’re talking about Nasir Tarighian, you’re talking about an Iranian war hero. He was a hero during the Iran-Iraq War.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He was very wealthy, owned several businesses, and was very active politically. He got into a little trouble in the early 1980s by speaking out against the Islamic Revolution. When the war started he underwent a tragedy — his home was destroyed and he lost some relatives, killed by Iraqi bombs. After that incident he swore revenge against Iraq.
He formed an anti-Iraqi militia — a terrorist group, really. They made frequent raids across the border. They were merciless — they killed innocent civilians and destroyed a lot of property. Tarighian became something of a cult hero here in Iran, but the government didn’t approve of his actions. They were going to step in and stop him, but before they could, the Iraqi army ambushed Tarighian and his little band of soldiers. Tarighian was killed and the militia was wiped out.”

  “Tarighian’s dead?”

  “That’s the general consensus. He hasn’t been heard from since. No bodies were recovered from the battle, I might add.”

  “Hmm. I heard a member of the Shadows mention that name in Arbil.”

  “I shall make inquiries,” Hamadan says. “However, the one name I have heard associated with the Shadows’ leadership is a man named Ahmed Mohammed. Have you heard of him?”

  “Yes, I heard his name in Arbil as well and I remember his name coming up in reports,” I answer. “I’m sure he’s on the FBI wanted terrorist list.”

  “Mohammed is an Iranian, a known terrorist who is wanted by our government for a number of crimes. My sources tell me that he is a major player in the Shadows. He may not be the supreme boss, but he most likely plans operations and has them carried out.”

  “Well then, I’ll be sure to watch out for him.”

  Hamadan stands and goes to his desk. He opens a drawer and removes an accordion folder. He brings it back to me. “This is Mr. Benton’s. He sometimes stayed in a room we have above our shop. In fact, he was here just before he went to Belgium. He left that material here and I found it in the room. Perhaps the material will be useful. You are also welcome to stay here in the room if you wish, Sam.”

  “Thanks.” I open the file and find several papers and some photos. I remove the first photo and have a look. There are two men in the picture. One of them looks vaguely familiar to me. He’s obviously Middle Eastern, is in his fifties, and appears to have a skin condition. The other guy I don’t know.