by Tom Clancy
The gun battle lasted twenty-two minutes. Thirteen of the terrorists were dead and the rest were captured. The U.S. lost two men. The seven prisoners were brought to a temporary base outside of Arbil and lined up outside of Petlow’s quarters.
Sam Fisher had made copies of the relevant file photos he found in Arbil and forwarded them to Petlow. The lieutenant colonel, along with a representative from the Iraqi police force, had a chance to take a look at the dead militants first but didn’t recognize any of them as being the men that Fisher had seen that night. Petlow then confronted the seven prisoners, one by one. They were a mangy bunch, men who had lived in the brush and avoided the law for months at a time.
None of them looked familiar. As he briefly interrogated each man with the Iraqi policeman serving as interpreter, Petlow had a sinking feeling they had failed to catch the men they were looking for. But as he spoke to the fourth man in line, something sparked his memory.
“Open your mouth,” Petlow ordered the prisoner. When the man did so, Petlow saw he was missing some teeth. He was the man Fisher called “No-Tooth.” The man responsible for the deaths of the four U.S. soldiers.
Petlow gave the order for the Iraqi policeman to interpret. “They’re all under arrest, of course, but this one is to be charged with the murder of the Arbil police officers and our soldiers. We’ll start serious interrogation this afternoon. In the meantime, tell this guy that he’s in some serious shit.”
* * *
Sarah had slept for nearly sixteen hours. When she awoke she was understandably confused and disoriented. She had no idea where she was. She sat up too quickly, bringing on a wave of nausea. A hot flash immediately surged through her body and she broke out into a sweat. Sarah knew she was about to be sick and started to panic. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the door to the bathroom and bolted for it. She made it to the toilet just in time.
When she was done, Sarah sat on the dirty floor beside the toilet for a few moments before attempting to stand.
Where the hell was she? What was this place? And more important, where was Eli? And Rivka?
She stood slowly, using the toilet seat as leverage. A stained, cracked mirror over the sink reflected a pale, frightened girl of twenty. She looked terrible.
A washcloth and towel sat on the edge of the sink. She turned on the cold water and let it run. At least it wasn’t brown, like in Eli’s apartment, so she splashed her face and let the water run down her neck. It felt good. She realized she was terribly thirsty, but she didn’t want to drink the tap water.
She carefully went back into the other room and saw nothing in there but the cot she had slept on and her purse on the floor next to it. She went to the door and turned the knob, only to find it locked.
“Hello?” she called. “Eli?” It was eerily quiet on the other side of the door. “Rivka? Somebody?” She felt the panic build again as she knocked loudly.
When she heard footsteps on the other side, Sarah backed away, ready to let Eli have it.
The man who unlocked the door and peeked inside was not Eli. He had a cold, cruel look about him, and he grinned lecherously at her.
“Good morning, Princess,” he said. “You slept a long time. How are you feeling?”
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I?” She was suddenly so frightened and confused that she felt light-headed again. She staggered and her knees buckled. The man rushed into the room to catch her and help her to the cot.
“Whoa, miss, sit down. There, there.”
She reclined on the pillow and then asked again, more softly, “Who are you?”
“My name is Vlad. I think you need some more sleep.”
“Where am I?”
“Just sleep,” he said and turned to walk out.
“Wait!”
But he was out the door and she heard it lock.
What the hell was going on? Who was he? Where were her friends?
She heard an airplane overhead. Was she near an airport? Come to think of it, she had dreamed of airplanes, or so she thought. She remembered an unpleasant state of consciousness that she wasn’t sure was real or part of her sleep. She thought she might have been carried someplace by men who gripped her ankles and wrists too tightly. Even now, as she touched her arms, they felt bruised. She also recalled a feverish tossing and turning, which may or may not have occurred there on the cot, and hearing the occasional roar of overhead planes.
Surely Eli would show up soon and explain what was going on. Right now she felt too dazed and confused to care very much. Perhaps she should try to sleep more. If this was what a hangover felt like, she never wanted to take another drink.
She admonished herself that she hadn’t been the most model twenty-year-old girl while on her trip to Israel. She had had sex several times, had drunk alcohol, had stayed at a boy’s house overnight… what would her father think?
Her father! She could call him! There was that special number she could dial on her cell phone and send a message to him. She didn’t know where he was, but he was sure to get it. Sarah reached for her purse on the floor and frantically looked inside it for her phone.
It wasn’t there, of course. Nor was her address book. Damn, she thought. What now?
A key rattled in the lock again. This time the door opened to reveal Eli.
“Eli! My God, what the… where are we?”
He closed the door behind him, set a bottle of water on the floor, and stood in front of her. The expression on his face disturbed her.
“What’s wrong? Eli? What is this place?”
“Sarah, as long as you cooperate they won’t hurt you,” he said.
She wasn’t sure that she’d heard him correctly. “What? Where am I? Where’s Rivka?”
“Shut up,” he spat. “Listen to me. You’re a hostage. You’re all alone. You can’t escape, so don’t try. Don’t try to scream for help, because no one will hear you. We’re miles and miles from anyone.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What? Eli?”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. That’s just the way it is.”
“Are you… who was that guy who came in? He said his name was Vlad.”
“You’re not listening to me, Sarah,” Eli said. “You are a fucking hostage!”
She gasped. He really meant it. This wasn’t a joke. The look on his face was something she had never seen before. This wasn’t the Eli she knew. This wasn’t the funny, tender Eli who had once made love to her. This was someone who scared her.
“What’s going on, Eli? Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“We want to know where your father is.”
The enormity of what he said nearly made her faint. She took a deep breath and said, “So that’s what this is about. My father.” She shook her head and turned from him.
“Tell us where he is and you’ll be all right. If you won’t, then… I can’t be responsible for what Vlad and Yuri will do to you.”
“Vlad and Yuri? What about what you’ve already done to me, Eli! Fuck you, Eli!”
Eli stood there unfazed. There was a knock on the door and Eli said, “Come in.”
It was Noel.
“Noel!” Sarah said. “What the hell is going on? Where’s Rivka?”
Noel looked at Eli, who shook his head.
“Noel? Where’s Rivka?” Sarah asked again.
Noel shrugged at her. He looked at Eli again and then walked out of the room.
My God! she thought. Something bad had happened to her friend. She knew it. She felt it in her gut.
Eli turned to follow Noel and said to her, “Your father is an American government Splinter Cell, and you’re going to help us find him. We have your cell phone and your address book. After we finish examining these items, if we haven’t found the means to contact him, then we will come back to you. If you know how to get in touch with him, then you had better tell us. I wouldn’t want to see you… hurt.”
She stared at the young man she thought would so
meday be her fiancé.
“Think about it,” he said. “I’ll be back in a while. There’s some water for you. I’ll bring you some food, too. But this isn’t a hotel, Sarah, so don’t expect room service whenever you want it.”
He opened the door and left. The sound of the door slamming and locking reverberated in the small room.
Her private cell.
* * *
General Prokofiev couldn’t make the meeting. He had business in Moscow and would be returning with an important piece of equipment for exclusive use by the Shop. As one of the top officers in the Russian military, Prokofiev had access and clearance to an unbelievable amount of material. If something was lost or diverted, the buck stopped with him — and he was certainly not going to tell his superiors about it. It was one method by which the Shop obtained much of their product.
Andrei Zdrok spent twenty minutes going over the sales of the last month and outlining the Shop’s profit margin. He also detailed the company’s losses and what it meant for them.
“If we don’t reestablish our position in the Far East within the next two months the Shop will lose six point three million dollars,” he said. “Gentlemen, I do not want to give up my chateau on Lake Zurich. If we have to recruit another partner, then we will. Jon Ming has expressed interest on numerous occasions. What do you think of the notion of bringing on a Chinese partner?”
Herzog shrugged. “If we have to in order to save the company, then fine. But let’s try to repair the Far East damage ourselves first.”
Antipov said, “Never. I hate the Chinese.”
Zdrok almost smiled at his associate’s bigotry. “At least you’re honest, Anton.” He then moved on to another important topic and announced, “I’m happy to report that we have the identity of the next Splinter Cell on the list. His name is Sam Fisher. He lives in Baltimore, USA, and is not assigned to any particular territory. The NSA sends him out to do specialized missions — the difficult assignments. We believe he was responsible for Kim Wei Lo’s death in Macau and for the damage done to our interests there. His identification has given us an opportunity to dispose of him. Someone close to him is now in our control, and hopefully she will lead us to Mr. Fisher… or lead him to us, more likely.”
Antipov and Herzog nodded.
“Mr. Fisher will not be an ordinary enemy. He is probably the best trained and formidable opponent we have faced. The other Splinter Cells were mere children compared to Fisher.”
“What would you like us to do?” Antipov asked.
“Nothing,” Zdrok answered. “I have assigned our enforcers to the task.”
More nods. Antipov and Herzog had no problem with that.
Zdrok turned to Antipov. “Anton, I want you to handle this situation with the Shadows. It’s turned into a mess.”
“How do you want me to handle it, Andrei?” the former KGB officer asked. “Do everything I can to patch things up, or do everything I can to insist on implementing our policies?”
Zdrok said, “Let me put it this way. If their management doesn’t see eye to eye with us, then fuck them. We don’t need them. I don’t care who the hell they are. I have a feeling that they’re treading down a road that will bring them serious consequences. This new project of theirs makes no sense to me. But then again, I’m not a fundamentalist Muslim.”
Antipov asked, “Then I should…?”
“Cut them off,” Zdrok said. “If they give us any more trouble about money or refunds or credit or shit, just cut them off.”
Antipov nodded, but it was clear that he wasn’t sure if he agreed with the boss.
Zdrok ignored him. He knew that Antipov would do his job and perform it mercilessly. Zdrok took a breath and then had another idea.
“On second thought, we might look to Mr. Mohammed for a solution,” he said.
“Ahmed Mohammed?” Antipov asked.
“Yes. He’s the one who really does all the work for the Shadows, isn’t he? Why not get word to Mohammed that should leadership in the Shadows suddenly become questionable, then the Shop will continue to support him.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Antipov said. Herzog nodded as well.
“Good. I’m off to Baku,” Zdrok said. “I’ll be in touch. If you need me, you know how to find me.”
With that, he stood and left the room. Antipov and Herzog looked at each other, shrugged, and got up from the table.
The Shop had a unique four-man leadership. They each had specific jobs and duties. Each man commanded a legion of underlings. Each of the four partners had tremendous wealth and power.
But there was never any question as to who was in charge.
20
I go to my dinner appointment with Namik Basaran and arrive at the restaurant on time. It’s a little place overlooking Lake Van in a tourist-oriented square and marina. There are a couple of chartered boat services, a travel agency, gift shops, two hotels, and several restaurants. It’s not far from Akdabar Enterprises.
Basaran and his bodyguard are waiting for me inside the restaurant. The big man glares at me again but departs as soon as his employer gives him a nod. Basaran is wearing the same suit he was wearing when I saw him earlier. I’ve put on a different tie but have on the same sports jacket. My Osprey can fit only so much civilian clothing. I’m wearing my uniform underneath, not just for practical purposes but also because the night air is cool up in the mountains. A breeze wafts in from the lake and produces quite a chill.
The maître d’ greets Basaran warmly, calling him by name. Basaran asks for a table by the window and then leads the way. I happen to enjoy Turkish food. Like the people in many European and Asian countries, the Turks make an event out of dinner, and it can sometimes last for hours. I get the feeling that tonight will not be one of those occasions, as Basaran is a busy man.
Basaran orders a dry red wine made in the region along with raki, an aniseed drink a lot like Greek ouzo or Arab arak — it burns wonderfully on the way down. We start with appetizers, or mezeler, consisting of finely chopped salad, roasted pureed eggplant, and pepper and turnip pickles. A lentil-and-mint soup enriched with an abundance of paprika follows. The main course is a lamb casserole, filled with cubed roasted meat, green beans, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini, peppers, and a lot of garlic. A good adjective to describe Turkish meals is hearty.
Basaran begins the conversation by saying, “I just heard on the news that there was another terrorist bombing attributed to the Shadows.”
“Oh?” I hadn’t heard anything.
“In Iraq again. A motorcade carrying two members of the Iraqi government was targeted. They were both killed.”
I shook my head. “That’s precisely why the nations of the world have to get together on this.”
He looks at me skeptically. “But Mr. Fisher, you are from Switzerland, right? Are not the Swiss notoriously neutral when it comes to the problems of the world?”
“That’s a misconception, I’m afraid,” I answer. “Just because we don’t participate in wars doesn’t mean we don’t care.”
“What do you think of the United States’ policies in the Middle East?”
Yikes. I have to be careful here. I don’t want him to suspect that I’m not really from Switzerland.
“I suppose I’d have to say that it’s… disappointing,” I reply. I don’t like admitting it to myself — I actually believe that.
“Ha!” he says loudly. “Disappointing is an understatement. Look, I was no admirer of Saddam Hussein and I sympathized with Iran during the Iran-Iraq war, but what the United States did in Iraq was monstrous. How stable is that country going to be from now on? There will always be insurgents wanting to take it down again, simply for the purpose of showing the world that America made a big mistake. Sometimes a country’s culture requires that the people be told what to do. Democracy doesn’t work everywhere.”
“I think America must have learned that lesson from Vietnam, don’t you think?” I suggest.
&
nbsp; “Bah. They learned nothing. Or if they did, they forgot it. Don’t you agree that American policy in the Middle East has turned many of their former friends against them? The Arabs hate them. The Turks, well, I can say many of them hate America. Not all. But overall, Muslims have been given the impression that the U.S. is out to stamp out their religion.”
“We both know that’s not true,” I say. My hackles are starting to rise.
“We do? Oh, I see, then it’s really about oil! Am I right?”
I have to keep my thoughts close to my chest. “Oil is a very valuable commodity, not only in the U.S. but all over the world. Keeping a stable Middle East is important for everyone, not just Americans with their freeways and sports cars.”
Basaran shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I fear that Arab opinion of America has been so badly damaged that recovery may be impossible.”
I tend to agree with that statement, but I think it’s best to change the subject. “So, tell me, how did you get so interested in fighting terrorism? Or rather, providing relief for terrorist victims?”
“Everyone has a passion, don’t they? Mine is helping victims of evil doers. I have seen first hand the tragedy that befalls families when their loved ones are killed by a suicide bomber or by a land mine or by a hijacked airplane that is flown into a building.”
“Forgive me if I’m being too outspoken here, but I sense that terrorism has affected you personally.”
Basaran’s eyes cloud over for a second. I hit a nerve, I know I did. “Doesn’t terrorism affect everyone personally?” he asks, avoiding the question.
“The thing is, terrorism is a means to an end that really doesn’t accomplish what the terrorists hope to achieve,” I answer.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Governments don’t usually change their policies because of terrorism.”
“That’s not entirely true,” he says. “Look what happened in Spain when the Madrid train was bombed. The people voted out the existing government. Make no mistake — terrorism makes its point in a number of ways. People today are more frightened of terrorism than of anything else. Look what’s happening in Iraq. That can’t go on forever. Pretty soon something will break and the terrorists will win there.”
