Splinter Cell sc-1 Read online

  There’s a back door, presumably used as an emergency exit, and a couple of windows on the ground floor. I try the windows first, but they’re both locked. It’ll have to be the door. Once again my lock picks are useful, and I’m able to open the simple bolt lock in six seconds.

  I’m inside the building, in a room that’s apparently used for putting stuff that doesn’t fit anywhere else. There are stacks of folding chairs that I guess must be for big meetings. I see shelves full of office supplies and a bunch of boxes beneath them. There’s a soft drink vending machine here, too.

  This room leads to a hallway that shoots straight to the front door on the other side of the building. I listen carefully for any signs of occupation and hear nothing. I move on and see that the hallway connects to a large conference room, complete with a big-screen television and A/V equipment, and another room that appears to be a social parlor. They must hold fund-raising cocktail soirees in there. The largest room on the floor contains samples of the various goods that Tirma sends out for relief. I figure the complete stock is stored elsewhere on the campus, in one of the storage sheds or a warehouse. These include medical supplies, dried food, water bottles, grain, and articles of clothing. Besides a couple of modern bathrooms there’s not much else on the ground floor, so I quietly ascend the staircase to the second. The place is furnished with thick carpet, even on the stairs. My movements are relatively silent except every now and then the wooden floor creaks beneath the carpet. That can’t be helped.

  Upstairs I find four offices. One is obviously for support staff — there are three desks, computers, filing cabinets, a copy machine — what you’d normally find in an office. The other three offices are probably for administrators of the charity organization. In one of them I find a lot of company literature printed in several different languages — pamphlets and brochures explaining Tirma’s purpose and goals. I take a handful; some are printed in English, some in Farsi, some in Turkish, and some in Arabic. I place these in my Osprey and move on.

  The other two rooms are executives’ offices. I boot up the computers in each room and spend a little time at them. I don’t need any security passwords, and I’m able to browse through the files easily. I’m unable to find anything suspicious, even when I search for the names Tarighian, Mohammed, Mertens, or Zdrok.

  For all intents and purposes, it appears that Tirma is a legitimate charity organization.

  I make my way out of the building and exit through the door I came in. The next stop is Basaran’s office, inside the building that’s a couple of doors down. This one’s going to prove more difficult. It’s very well lit and I’m sure the security is stronger. There may be people inside. I stay in the back and dart to the next structure — the employees’ cafeteria — and then the next… until I’m looking at the main administrative building where I met Basaran earlier. There are no guards in the back, but I know that at least one is patrolling the front.

  The back door has a keypad lock. I’m betting that the same code is used throughout the building, so I punch my OPSAT to recall the sequence I noted earlier. I press the buttons 8, 6, 0, 2, 5 and the door unlocks. I know there are surveillance cameras all over the place, so I open the door just a sliver and use the corner periscope to peek inside. Sure enough, there’s a camera trained at the door.

  If I wanted to I could take it out with the Five-seveN pistol, but that would only call attention to the fact that someone had been in the building. I’d rather get around it another way. The camera appears to be a standard off-the-shelf model that continuously records, but only if there’s sufficient lighting in the room. There has to be a switch just inside the door — I maneuver the periscope until I see it, then reach my hand in quickly and flick off the lights. I then enter the room and shut the door. With my night-vision goggles I can see fine, but the camera is recording nothing but darkness.

  I move out of the room and look through an archway to the outer lobby, which is well lit. Glass windows face the front and I can see the guard standing with his back to me, looking toward the parking lot. He’s bundled up, smoking a cigarette, and probably hating every minute of this assignment. I scan the ceiling, walls, and corners for more cameras and find one aimed directly at the front doors. I can easily scoot past this one because I’m already in the building. While the guard’s not looking, I move across the outer lobby, through the double wooden doors and into the main receptionist’s office. Thank goodness the lights are already off.

  I go to the keypad, punch in the same code, and enter the hallway leading to Basaran’s office. The lights are on here and I see no way to turn them off. I know there’s another camera around the corner up ahead, so I use the periscope again to take a look. It’s a motion-detection camera that pivots in a wide arc. Midway in the arc is Basaran’s office. There’s no keypad for his door — they must figure that once you’re past the reception desk, you’re clear to roam wherever you want.

  I have to distract that camera. I take the camera jammer out of the Osprey and turn it on. The thing vibrates a little, so I know it’s working — I sure can’t see the microwave pulses coming out of it — and it works best if you’re moving at the same time. So I aim the jammer in front of me, turn the corner, and quickly move down the hall. I hear the camera lens zoom in and out as it attempts to focus on whatever it thinks it detects, but it’s very confused. I open Basaran’s door and slip inside just as the camera regains its functionality.

  The overhead lights are off in the office, but mood lighting is on — behind the wet bar, on the desk, and here by the door. Curtains cover the big glass window overlooking the lake, and fortunately they’re closed.

  First, I examine the desk and its contents. The drawers hold nothing of interest — just a bunch of personal items, credit card bills, employee phone numbers, and other papers relating to the company. There’s also that hand exerciser, the rubber ball I saw Basaran squeezing when I first met him. I boot up the computer and see that a password is required to gain access. Damn. If only I had Carly St. John’s expertise now. I had informed Lambert I’d be coming here tonight, but Carly didn’t have much notice to try to hack Akdabar’s server. There’s not much I can do.

  I shut down the computer and then notice for the first time that there’s a framed photograph sitting on the desk. It shows a veiled woman with two young girls, ranging maybe six to eight years old. Basaran’s family? The thing is, they don’t look Turkish. Most Turkish women, even very religious ones, don’t wear veils as they do in, say, Iraq or Iran. I quickly snap a copy of the picture and store it in my OPSAT, then move to the filing cabinets.

  The lock picks open the cabinets easily, and I find more documents relating to Akdabar Enterprises — employee records, accounting books, and other boring stuff. One drawer, however, contains files marked Cyprus. I pull these out and thumb through them. I see records relating to the shopping mall that Basaran is building — expense reports, schedules, press releases, and company memos. The place is located near the city of Famagusta, a seaport that is perhaps Northern Cyprus’ most strategic urban center after the capital, Lefkosia.

  At the back of the drawer is a document portfolio with twine tied around it. I remove it, untie the twine, and look inside. It’s full of copies of blueprints that have been reduced in size. They show portions of some kind of machine — there’s a base that takes up a couple of prints, an engine shown from several sides, and what looks like a series of cylindrical pieces that fit together. I’ll be damned if it isn’t some kind of weapon.

  The machine’s designer is named “Albert Mertens,” and this name is on every page. Surely he’s the same Professor Mertens I met earlier in the day. I snap some photos of the plans for good measure.

  I put everything back the way I found it and approach the door. The damned camera jammer uses so much power that it’s basically just good for one go, and then it has to be recharged. I don’t risk using it again, so how do I get out without the camera seeing me? I think for a moment a
nd get an idea. I go back to Basaran’s desk, open the drawer, and remove the rubber ball. I return to the door, open it a crack, and roll the ball down the hall in the opposite direction from where I need to go. The camera whirrs and follows the ball as I slip out and close the door behind me. It will just have to be a mystery as to how the ball got into the hall.

  Moving back to the outer lobby is not a problem. When I look out the front, I see that the guard isn’t there. I quickly scoot around to the corridor that leads to the back door. The lights are still off, so I’m okay. I carefully open the door, peer outside, and leave the building.

  I guess it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it’d be.

  Now I need to zigzag back across the complex and take a look inside the steel mill/warehouse. I retrace my steps, bouncing from building to building and avoiding the glare of the floodlights, and finally make it to a shed across from the courtyard that’s in the center of the compound. The lights are bright here and I see two guards standing lazily by the flagpoles. Not only that, but there are more surveillance cameras perched on the poles. The big building is on the other side. I could go the long way around the courtyard, building to building, but that increases the chances of my being seen.

  As I ponder the problem, I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching. It apparently entered through the front gate and is now driving down the main road toward the courtyard. Concealed by shadow, I lie in the grass beside the shed and watch as the car stops so that the driver can speak to one of the guards.

  It’s the Citroën, the car that chased me earlier! Three men are inside, as before. Son of a bitch. Further proof that Basaran had something to do with the incident in the town square. No wonder he stood there doing nothing. Shit, is my cover blown? Does he know who I am? And the bigger question is — why? Basaran’s supposed to be on our side, isn’t he?

  But I could be jumping to conclusions. These guys in the Citroën could be acting independently of Basaran, for all I know. Maybe Basaran has enemies within his own organization. It’s possible.

  Then something odd occurs. The two guards get into the Citroën and drive away toward the airstrip on the far side of the compound. The courtyard is empty. It still doesn’t solve the problem of getting to the other side without the cameras seeing me. Do I dare shoot them out?

  The answer comes to me as I look to my left and see a shed housing the three-wheelers, those golf carts I saw the guards driving earlier. I run to the shed and climb into a cart. No key is needed because it runs on electric power. There’s a nice canopy over the driver’s seat — so if I hunch over and keep my head down, I’m fairly certain that the cameras won’t make me. On the surveillance video I’ll probably just look like another guard. I decide to risk it.

  The thing starts up and I drive into the courtyard. I hear the cameras move as they pick me up, but I don’t worry about it. I putter along at a slow speed as if I’m just another lazy guard doing his rounds. For authenticity I stop once and pretend to rummage around in the floor of the cart, then continue on.

  I make it across, get out of the cart, and begin to explore the sides of the big building. The main employee entrances and loading doors are closed, locked, and directly under floodlight beams. On the far side, though, there’s a garbage Dumpster sitting directly beneath an open window. I scramble up the Dumpster and peer into the place.

  For the most part the space is dark. There are lights on here and there, but it’s a very big building. I crawl through the window and drop to the floor on my hands and feet like a cat. Lambert once told me that I’d make a pretty good cat burglar if I were into that sort of thing. I let him think I may have been at one time.

  It’s a typical steel mill. There’s the huge furnace, belts, worktables, overhead trolleys, forklifts, and everything else that accompanies a legitimate construction plant. As I explore the place, I’m beginning to think I’m wasting my time here. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. I’m about to give up and get the hell out when I turn a corner and see a lone guard sitting in a chair in front a heavy steel door on rollers. He’s holding an AK-47 and is staring straight ahead, probably counting the minutes until his shift is over. I wonder what he’s guarding.

  This time I decide to act aggressively. I load the SC- 20K with a ring airfoil projectile, aim for the guy’s head, and fire. Zap—the guard falls over, unconscious. I rush over to him, pick up the round, and return it to my Osprey. He won’t know what happened to him, but he’ll have a fairly big knot on his head when he wakes up.

  I unbolt the big door and slide it open. It’s a storeroom containing dozens of crates and boxes. I step inside and—bingo. I recognize the crates as having the same stamp as before, from the Tabriz Container Company. With my reliable combat knife I pry off the crate lid. Guns. AK-47s. I pry open another crate — Hakims. Explosives. Bomb-making materials. Pistols. More rifles. Ammunition.

  Just what the hell is Akdabar Enterprises doing with a shitload of weapons?

  I continue to examine the containers, closing them as I go, and eventually find a shipping manifest still stuck on one of the crates. The originating location is an address in Baku, Azerbaijan. I note it in the OPSAT and decide I’ve seen enough. I snap a few shots of everything and leave the storeroom. I close the heavy sliding door and latch it. The guard is still in Dreamsville.

  As I make my way to the window where I entered, I hear the rusty screech of a door opening. It’s the front employee entrance. I rush to cross the floor, but it’s no good — whoever it is will see me if I continue on this path. I hear a single set of footsteps clomping toward me at a slow pace, so I just have time to slip behind a column and stand perfectly still.

  The man discovers the unconscious guard and grunts. It’s a sound that’s familiar to me, so I risk peeking around the column. The newcomer is none other than Farid, Basaran’s big bodyguard. I have to get out of here quickly before the goon sounds the alarm. I look around for an escape route and find no other recourse but to climb onto the tall conveyor belt mechanism and grab hold of a pipe that runs the length of the room, forty or fifty feet off the ground. While Farid is bending over the guard and trying to revive him, I dart across the floor, step onto the base of the mechanism, use a set of cranks as leverage, and climb the thing like a monkey. The machine resembles a gigantic old-fashioned jukebox with the conveyor belt coming out of a “mouth.” It’s not easy to climb, especially toward the top, which is rounded. After two tries I manage to clutch a handhold on top of the machine and pull myself up. Sliding off would be a disaster, so I take a moment to catch my breath and concentrate.

  I look down and see Farid standing by the guard, who is now sitting up and rubbing his head. No time to lose. I can easily reach the pipe, so I grab it and begin traversing it, hand over hand, my body dangling precariously high over the floor.

  Bang! The gunshot comes from below. Shit, Farid has seen me. I continue to move along the pipe, but the guy’s taking potshots at me with a pistol. He doesn’t have a very good aim, praise the Lord. As I approach the end of the pipe near the far wall, where I can easily climb down to the floor, the gunshots stop. He’s figured out he’ll meet me there, and sure enough, he’s standing below me when I reach my destination.

  With my helmet and goggles on, I’m hoping he doesn’t recognize me. Besides, I’m pretty high above him. I hear him grunt at me, motioning me to come down. He expects me to climb down and take my punishment like a man. So what do I do? I let go of the pipe and drop the forty or fifty feet directly on top of him.

  We both crash to the hard floor and I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder as it hits the concrete. It’s a good thing Farid is so big; otherwise I could have caused a lot more damage to myself. He made a nice cushion. I quickly scramble to my feet, ready to take on the brute — but I see he’s sprawled faceup, not moving. His arm is bent unnaturally behind his back, obviously broken.

  Fine. Saves me the trouble of killing him. Before the other guard can run over to see what’s happened,
I move quickly to the spot where I came in, climb some crates to reach the window, and squeeze through.

  Outside, I get back in the three-wheeler and drive around the building and head through the courtyard toward the side of the complex where I originally entered. I don’t see a soul. Eight minutes later I park the vehicle near the fence, skirt through the shadows until I find the incisions I made at the beginning of my adventure, pull open the trap, and squeeze through the hole.

  Damn, my shoulder hurts. It could be a sprain, but I don’t think it’s a bad one. I’ve taken some pretty hard knocks in my time and this is nothing.

  When I’m away from the complex and back in the Pazhan, I send Lambert a message:

  URGENT — FIND OUT ALL YOU CAN ABOUT NAMIK BASARAN, ALBERT MERTENS, AND ANDREI ZDROK.

  22

  Lieutenant Colonel Petlow was tired. He had overseen the interrogation of the prisoners for nearly twenty-four hours. After the “Iraqi prisoner abuse” scandal that had rocked the world several months ago, the U.S. government was being overly cautious with regard to what could or could not be done during interrogation sessions. As a result, interrogations became matters of time. A lot of time.

  The prisoner Petlow was most interested in, of course, was No-Tooth, whose real name was supposedly Ali Al-Sheyab. Petlow preferred to call him No-Tooth.

  Although no one had realized it at first, No-Tooth had been wounded during his capture. He had taken a bullet in the side, but it hadn’t damaged any vital organs. The round had entered and exited, leaving a bloody hole that wasn’t noticed until No-Tooth had been booked and placed in a prisoner holding pen. Then the man fainted and was taken to a mobile army surgical unit to be stitched up. That’s when the doctors saw that the prisoner was already feverish and hosting a bad case of pneumonia. Such were the hazards of living as a nomad in an unstable country.