Splinter Cell sc-1 Read online

  The most impressive thing is that the plant has its own airstrip and hangar. I see a cargo plane with Akdabar’s logo painted on the side readying for takeoff. Basaran must do very well for himself indeed.

  Reza was able to provide me with a letter of introduction to see Basaran. Although the two men have never met, their business connections should be enough to get me in. I’m counting on the letter and my Interpol credentials to get me in the front door. I want to meet Basaran personally in order to get a sense of the guy. If he knew Benton, then perhaps he’ll be forthcoming with information.

  I dress in civilian clothes, put on a tie, leave the Osprey in the car, and drive down to the visitors’ parking area. I present my papers and letter to the guard at the front gate and ask to see Basaran.

  “Do you have an appointment?” he asks in heavily accented English.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I had no time to arrange it. I just entered the country. If Mr. Basaran is busy I can come back later…?”

  “Wait here.” The guard went into the checkpoint booth and made a call. I could see him reading from Reza’s letter, nodding his head, and glancing at me. Finally he came back and said, “If you don’t mind waiting a little while, Mr. Basaran will see you when he gets out of a meeting.” He gave me a map of the complex, pointed to the group of small buildings by the lake, and told me to drive there and park in the accompanying lot. He gave me a visitor’s pass and admonished me not to drive anywhere else on the property.

  Over by the lake the view is spectacular. It’s a clear day and the water stretches out to the horizon, much like Lake Michigan does at the edge of Chicago. The buildings here are modern constructions and apparently house the administrative offices, an employees’ facility that includes lockers, dressing rooms, a gym, a cafeteria, and vending, and the Tirma charity organization headquarters. By the way, Carly back at Third Echelon pointed out that the word tirma means “silk” in Farsi. My question is, why Farsi? Why not Turkish?

  The waiting room in the main administrative building is modern and comfortable. It contains pretty much the kind of furniture you’d expect in a reception area — and I note the surveillance camera in the corner keeping a record of who goes in and out. A pretty Turkish receptionist sits behind the glass window and glances at me every now and then. It’s refreshing to be in a predominantly Muslim country where the rules are relaxed enough that women can reveal their hair and the skin on the arms and legs.

  I wait approximately twenty minutes and another lovely Turkish — or maybe Kurdish — woman fetches me and leads me to a door to the right of the receptionist that requires keypad code access. Part of my training with Third Echelon was to try to memorize codes by watching someone press the keys. Depending on how fast the person was, I eventually achieved an eighty-eight-percentile success rating. I stand beside the woman and fake a cough just as she begins the sequence — this creates the illusion that I’m not watching. Her fingers quickly zip over the pad, but I’m able to catch it—8, 6, 0, 2, 5.

  The door opens and she leads me through a hallway adorned with Middle Eastern artwork. As we walk I quickly enter the code sequence into my OPSAT so I won’t forget it. We turn a corner and I notice another surveillance camera on the ceiling, and then we enter the head man’s spacious, and very Western, office. In fact, there’s a Picasso hanging on the wall. In one corner of the room stands a table displaying a scale model of a fancy modern building.

  Namik Basaran greets me at the door, grins broadly, and holds out his hand as I’m ushered into the room. A very large guy, wearing a suit and a turban, stands to the side and eyes me closely.

  “Mr. Fisher, welcome to Turkey,” he says in good English. I shake his hand and thank him. I notice that he’s squeezing a rubber ball in his other hand. He chuckles and says, “It’s for tendonitis. It’s also a nervous habit!” He walks over to his desk and drops the ball into a drawer. He turns to the big guy and says, “You may leave us, Farid, thank you.”

  The big guy nods, glares at me once more, and leaves the room.

  “My bodyguard,” Basaran explains. “And driver. And assistant. A man in my position can’t be too careful. Poor Farid, I took him into the organization from the street. He’s an Iranian, a victim of Saddam Hussein’s regime. Farid doesn’t speak — his tongue was cut out while he was a prisoner in Abu Ghraib Prison during the Iran-Iraq war. Now, would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

  I shrug and say that I’ll have whatever he has.

  “Well, personally at this time of day I prefer a small cup of çay. Is that suitable?”

  I groan inwardly but smile and reply, “That would be fine.”

  Çay is Turkish tea that comes from the Black Sea area and is usually served with tremendous amounts of sugar. It’s a bit on the strong side, but I can grin and bear it when I have to. Basaran walks to his wet bar, pours the tea into tiny tulip-shaped glasses, and brings them over. We sit on black leather chairs at a low table beneath the Picasso. A wall-sized window to our left overlooks the lake.

  It’s difficult to determine how old Basaran is, but I’d guess early fifties. He’s medium-height, and, as in the photograph, there’s a noticeable skin condition on his face and hands. I’m not sure what it is. It’s not as bad as skin grafting, but it doesn’t look as if it’s due to some disease, either.

  “Very impressive place you have here, Mr. Basaran,” I say.

  “Thank you. It’s very gratifying to achieve the success one yearns for in one’s youth and then still be alive to enjoy it.”

  “I’m particularly impressed with your airstrip. How do you use it?”

  He shrugs. “We ship materials all over. Currently I’m in the process of building an elaborate indoor shopping mall in Northern Cyprus. That’s a model of it over there on the table. Beautiful, isn’t it? We ship materials daily to the island. As you can guess, I’m a firm supporter of Turkey’s right to claim Cyprus. I’m helping the cause by building up the north, giving the people more modern facilities and attractions. This mall will be the largest shopping center of its type in the Middle East.” He shakes his head and sips his tea. “The ongoing struggle with the Greek Cypriots there is tragic. Why can’t they just accept us and be done with it? But that’s a whole other conversation. Now. Tell me what brings you to Van, Mr. Fisher. I read your letter of introduction from Mr. Hamadan, and I see that you work for Interpol. How can I assist you?”

  I give him my spiel on how I’m compiling an extensive report on terrorists in the region. Interpol will publish the report and send it to law enforcement agencies all over the world, but most important, it will help in combating terrorism here in the Middle East. “Mr. Hamadan suggested that I speak to you, as I hear you’re an expert on terrorism here in Eastern Turkey,” I say. A little flattery usually goes a long way.

  “You give me too much credit,” Basaran says, but he smiles and enjoys the compliment. “I wouldn’t call myself an expert. That’s ridiculous. But I do know some things. I’ve followed the various groups in this area for many years and even met some of the leaders. That is not to say that I’m friendly with any of them. As a Turkish entrepreneur — and a successful one — they probably hate me as much as they hate anyone else in Turkey who favors a Westernized lifestyle. I could probably talk for hours about terrorism, Mr. Fisher, so unless you have specific questions, we might need to postpone our meeting for another time. I am very busy today.”

  I decide to drop another name. “I see. Rick Benton also said you’d be very helpful.”

  I notice a flicker in his eyes. “You know Mr. Benton?” he asks.

  “Only by his work,” I say. “I never met the late Mr. Benton.”

  Basaran’s mouth drops slightly. “The late Mr. Benton? Is he…?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “He was murdered in Brussels just last week.”

  “That is tragic. I’m sorry to hear it. Do they know who did it?”

  “No, it’
s a mystery.”

  Basaran takes a sip of tea. “I met him one time. He asked me questions about some of the terrorist groups operating in this part of the country, just as you have asked. I assure you, I am compelled to speak out against terrorism whenever I have a public forum. It is important to me and to my family.”

  I’d like to find out more about his family but decide that now’s not the best time.

  “You do know about my charity organization, Tirma?” he asks.

  “Yes, that’s one reason why I wanted to meet you.”

  “Tirma is a personal project for me. I’ve pledged much of my income to help fight terrorism, and Tirma allows me to make a difference — if only a small one.”

  “It’s not-for-profit, I take it?”

  “Certainly. With an all-volunteer staff, I might add. If you’d care to quit Interpol and work for us for free, we would be more than happy to have you!” He laughed boisterously.

  I laugh, too, but quickly swing the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Well, since you’re pressed for time, I do have a couple of specific questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  “What do you know about the Shop and what do you know about the Shadows?”

  Basaran nodded, as if he was expecting the question. “Mr. Benton asked me the same thing. Those two groups are becoming the hot topics on everyone’s list. As far as the Shadows are concerned, our friend Tarighian has certainly taken the word mystique to a new level.”

  “Tarighian?” I feign ignorance.

  “Nasir Tarighian,” Basaran says. “He’s the money behind the Shadows. Didn’t you know?”

  “I thought Nasir Tarighian died in the 1980s.”

  “That’s what he wants everyone to believe. But he’s alive and well, and financing and directing the Shadows’ operations with a firm hand. I’m afraid that no one knows where he is, though. Or much about his personal life, either. He’s a very mysterious man, just like his organization. It is said that Tarighian lives like a nomad, much like Osama Bin-Laden. He and his band of merry terrorists travel from one place to another so they can’t be caught. I imagine they live in caves in the mountains somewhere.”

  “Any guesses as to what country they stay in the most?”

  “I think it’s Armenia, Georgia, or Azerbaijan. It’s safer for them there. If they were in Turkey, they’d probably be caught. If they were in Iran, they’d probably be caught. If they were in Iraq, they’d most certainly be caught. But I really don’t know. Perhaps they move from country to country periodically.”

  “Do you know an Ahmed Mohammed?” I ask.

  “Yes, indeed. He’s the more visible leader of the Shadows. Perhaps leader is not the right word. He receives instructions and money from Tarighian and then sees that things get done. He’s very much a wanted terrorist, and I’m sure he is always on the run. He is a snake, that man.”

  “No idea where he is?”

  “None. Anywhere and everywhere. Like Tarighian.”

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Basaran says. “Come in!”

  A thin man with unkempt blond hair enters the room. He is a Caucasian and appears to be in his late forties or early fifties. “May I speak to you for a moment?” he asks Basaran. I can’t place the accent, but it’s European.

  Basaran stands and says, “Professor, how many times a day must you interrupt me?” He winks at me and says, “The professor is a stickler for details. Please excuse me a moment. I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as they are gone, I quickly stand, reach into my jacket pocket, and remove three miniature sticky bugs. They’re a lot like the sticky cameras I use except that they’re audio-only. I move to Basaran’s desk and quickly stick one bug underneath, attaching it to one of the legs up high where it won’t be noticed. I hurry over to the scale model and place another bug on the underside of the table. Finally I attach the third bug underneath the small table where we’re currently sitting. I resume my place, pick up my teacup, and am mid-sip when Basaran returns.

  “I’m sorry, please accept my apologies for the interruption,” he says. “I’m afraid I must cut short our talk. Something has come up that requires my attention. However, if you are free for dinner tonight, I would be more than happy to meet you and we can continue our discussion.”

  I stand and say, “Why, I’d be delighted. Just tell me where and what time.”

  He gives me the address of a restaurant in the harbor area, and we arrange to meet at eight o’clock that evening. We shake hands and I’m escorted out of the building.

  * * *

  I drive out of the Akdabar complex and park on the hill where I was earlier, turn on my OPSAT, and tune in to the little bugs I left in Basaran’s office. Reception is very good, but I know the farther away I am, the less quality I’ll get. I recognize Basaran’s voice. He’s talking in English with another man. It doesn’t sound like the professor fellow I saw briefly.

  BASARAN: “And what is their answer?”

  OTHER GUY: “The suppliers refuse to refund our money for the first shipment. The goods were confiscated in Iraq and were under our control at the time. The suppliers say it’s not their responsibility.”

  BASARAN: “Damn them to hell. What happened to the shipment was not our fault and they know it. Bastards.”

  OTHER GUY: “Not only that, but the payment for the replacement is due in two days.”

  BASARAN: “It’s highway robbery, that’s what it is. Damn Zdrok! Fine, do what you have to do. Proceed with the payment. And tell Professor Mertens to expect me in his lab in twenty minutes.”

  Mertens? I recall the name scrawled on Rick Benton’s chart. Was that the “professor” I saw in Basaran’s office?

  I hear the door open and close. There is silence for a moment, and then I hear Basaran mutter again, “Damn Zdrok.” After that the door opens and shuts once more and the room is quiet.

  Tarighian. Mertens. Zdrok. It’s all trying to come together.

  19

  Lieutenant Colonel Petlow knew that the confiscated arms would be excellent bait for the Shadows.

  After he had received Sam Fisher’s report from Arbil, the U.S. Army took the initiative to secure the arms shipment that was held in the police headquarters and move it to an unspecified location. The Shadows had shown they were keen to get it back, so a plan was instigated to draw the terrorists out. The Iraqi police were also under pressure to find those responsible for murdering the members of their force, as well as make up for the botched arrest raid that occurred outside the Arbil police headquarters. The debacle was more an embarrassment for the Iraqi police than the U.S. Army. In fact, the Pentagon blamed the Iraqi government’s lack of adequate police training for the deaths of the four American soldiers, who were officially along on the arrest raid only as observers. So in a unique instance of military and civilian police cooperation, the two organizations worked together to formulate a plan to draw in the escaped terrorists.

  One of the more positive developments to come out of Iraq gaining its own government in the summer of 2004 was that informers were more willing to cooperate with Iraqi police, intelligence officers, and the military. These people, most often civilians but sometimes men who had served in various Iraqi militias, were interested in not only receiving monetary compensation for their efforts but also in developing a favorable relationship with those in power. Sometimes a reliable informer would be granted special status with employment or tangible means such as property. In a country like Iraq, which was still finding its way back to the level of economic existence it held before the war, many people jumped at the chance to get ahead.

  Thus, informers were paid to spread the word around Arbil that the arms confiscated from the Shadows were being kept in a cave that was in control of a Kurdish army platoon. Furthermore, the Kurds were reportedly green and undisciplined.

  In reality the arms were nowhere near the cave. The U.S. Army positioned two platoons at the site
with orders that if the Shadows didn’t try to retake the arms within two weeks, then the soldiers would be reassigned. Petlow figured it was worth the time and expense to deploy the troops in this way.

  It was a dependable informant named Ali Bazan who came through with the goods. He had at one time been a top lieutenant to the militant Shiite cleric who waged a guerilla war against the U.S. in the spring of 2004. Now working for the young Iraqi government and police force, Bazan made contact with the alleged terrorists who were itching to find and take back the arms taken from them. Bazan duped them into believing he was on their side and was helping them achieve their goal. They foolishly shared with him their plans to attack the Kurdish platoon at the cave on a given morning.

  Sure enough, in the early hours of the same day that Sam Fisher drove to Turkey from Iran, a group of twenty militants laid siege to the cave. They were armed with AK-47s and handguns of various makes and models. The U.S. platoons were armed with standard issue M16A2s, M4A1s, M203 grenade launchers, M67 fragmentation grenades, and M84 stun grenades. There was no contest.

  The terrorists struck first with six men storming the cave opening, guns blazing. As they engaged the men inside, the Shadows quickly realized they weren’t fighting Kurds. The American firepower overwhelmed the attackers and the six men were killed. This brought forward the remainder of the terrorists, who found themselves surprised by the sudden appearance of the U.S. army at their right and left flanks. The Americans had hidden in dugouts covered by trapdoors camouflaged with dirt, rocks, and vegetation.