Splinter Cell sc-1 Read online

  There was one problem, though. The Turkish authorities would wonder why Akdabar Enterprises had been destroyed. They would investigate possible motives for such an attack and look more closely into Namik Basaran’s background. His true identity could be uncovered. The intelligence forces of the entire world would then focus on Basaran, aka Tarighian, and eventually trace him to Northern Cyprus.

  For the sake of Allah, they had to hurry! The United Nations could come sweeping down on them within hours.

  He picked up the intercom and punched in the code for Mertens. When the physicist answered, Tarighian said, “The Phoenix will rise in twelve hours. Sooner if possible. That’s an order. Make it happen or you will face a firing squad.”

  32

  Lieutenant Colonel Irving Lambert wiped the sweat from his brow as he hurried from the Operations Room to the conference room where his team was assembled. Like the others in Third Echelon’s Washington, D.C., office, he had been up all night. None of them had received much sleep the past couple of days. Sometimes it got to be like that.

  For an hour he had been on the phone with the secretary of defense, who had coordinated the attack on the stealth plane with Turkey. The fact that the fighters had been minutes too late to stop the destruction of Akdabar Enterprises was a political wrinkle that would be smoothed over as soon as the truth about Namik Basaran was confirmed. At any rate, the Turkish government was understandably skeptical about the NSA’s claims. Furthermore, Turkey wanted to involve the United Nations in any further actions against Basaran if indeed he was really the terrorist supporter Nasir Tarighian. That was going to take time.

  But Lambert was convinced that Tarighian was in possession of some kind of large weapon in Cyprus. He didn’t know what it was, but the presence of Albert Mertens, the physicist who had been Gerard Bull’s right-hand man, indicated that it was a weapon of mass destruction.

  Third Echelon had to act alone for now.

  He looked at his watch as he entered the conference room. Since it was early morning in Washington, it would be late afternoon for Fisher. He’d be arriving at the Dhekelia garrison in the Republic of Cyprus — the southern portion — about now. Lambert knew he shouldn’t let personal feelings interfere with the job at hand, but he couldn’t help worrying about his best Splinter Cell. As the team in Washington was able to monitor all incoming and outgoing communications on Fisher’s OPSAT, they were aware of Sarah Burns’s situation as soon as Sam was. Lambert considered pulling Sam out. He had spoken to Fisher and assured him they would work around the clock to try and locate Sarah, but Sam had a job to do. Fisher was beside himself, insisting that he needed to be in Israel to find her, but Lambert was forced to order him to stick with the mission. Tarighian would be a desperate man at this point and was liable to do anything with whatever weapon he had in his hands. Fisher reluctantly obeyed, but it might have been at the cost of the friendly relationship with his boss.

  “Morning, Chief,” Carl Bruford said.

  “Morning, everyone,” Lambert replied. Along with Bruford, the team included Carly St. John, Research Analyst Mike Chan, and Chip Driggers, who had the catchall title of logistics coordinator. Mike Chan was roughly the same age as Bruford and specialized in cryptography. Driggers was in his forties, an army buddy of Lambert’s who had been recruited for his painstakingly compulsive eye for detail.

  Lambert sat and looked at Bruford. “What have you got?”

  Bruford cleared his throat and said, “Our man in Chicago went to Sarah Burns’s apartment in Evanston. It’s on Foster Street, not far from the university. He got the super to let him in. The first thing he did was to take a look at her computer. He found several e-mails to and from a boy named Eli Horowitz, who lives in Jerusalem. From what we gather, this guy’s a former boyfriend or maybe he still is one. That’s not certain. At any rate, they made plans to meet up in Jerusalem. We know she went to Israel with her friend Rivka Cohen, whose parents haven’t seen Sarah since… well, last Thursday.”

  Lambert and the rest of the team were fully aware of what had happened to Sarah’s friend.

  “Go on,” Lambert said.

  “Okay, we started looking into this Eli Horowitz. He’s twenty-three years old and is an Israeli citizen. He was a student at Northwestern University last year, and we assume that’s how he met Sarah. He was enrolled as a music major, but his grades sucked. Immigration came after him in late spring last year because his student visa had expired… and get this — he’s on a terrorist watch list with the Department of Homeland Security.”

  “Shit,” Lambert said.

  “Anyway, with those two strikes — expired visa and his name on a list — he was immediately deported.”

  “Known associates?” Lambert asked.

  “A Noel Brooks was at Northwestern the same year and the two were roommates. Brooks is also Israeli and was deported at the same time as Horowitz. He wasn’t on the terrorist watch list, but his visa had expired. Other than him, we have no other information on known associates.”

  “Is there any mention in the e-mails of where this guy lives?”

  “No. Only that he lives in Jerusalem and that he was going to show Sarah the sights when she got there. I think she’s pretty intimate with the guy. Some of those e-mails were… suggestive.”

  Lambert sighed. “Okay, it’s a start. Get onto tracing Horowitz’s movements after his deportation. We have to find out where he lives today and get the Israeli National Police to bring him in for questioning. Or should we ask the Security Police to be involved?”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Get on it. It’s tedious, I know, but it’s the only lead we’ve got.” Lambert looked at Chip Driggers and asked, “Have you heard from Fisher?”

  “Not since he left Tel Aviv. I expect him in Cyprus any minute,” Driggers said. “I’ve arranged with the British military there to supply him with diving equipment and anything else he might need. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “And what about our friends in Zurich and Baku?”

  “We’ve alerted the Azerbaijan and Swiss authorities as well as Interpol and our own FBI. The local law enforcement agencies are preparing raids as we speak. We should know something by lunchtime. I’m afraid, though, that the Turkish air strike on the Shop’s stealth plane most likely tipped them off that the jig was up. They could be long gone by now.”

  “Yeah, I know, it was a risk,” Lambert said. “I hope the Azeris and Swiss understand the gravity of the situation and realize who these people are.”

  “I believe they do, Colonel.”

  Lambert nodded and then looked at Carly. “And what have you got for me?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m just trying to find out everything I can about that shopping mall in Cyprus. I’m mapping routes to the place from Famagusta, pinpointing the best spot for Sam to go ashore, that kind of thing. I want to have everything he’ll need ready to go in an hour or two.”

  “Good. Well, we have work to do, people. Let’s get it done.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Carly?”

  “What about the fallout with the Turks? Hasn’t our government been able to convince them that Namik Basaran is really Nasir Tarighian?”

  “No. That’s why we can’t go to the police in northern Cyprus to help us. If they knew we were planning to possibly muck up their new shopping mall, they’d probably fight on Basaran’s side even if they know the truth about him. I’m afraid the secretary of defense — and the president — have ruled out letting the Turks in on what we want to do. They’re not happy about what happened to Akdabar Enterprises in Van. In hindsight I guess it wasn’t a good move on our part.”

  “Hell, we got the Shop’s stealth plane,” Bruford said. “That counts for something.”

  “True, but now they see Tarighian — or rather, Basaran — as a victim. One of their respected businessmen and philanthropists was irrationally attacked by a Russian terrorist organization. That’s how they see it.”
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  “I’ll try to put together a convincing presentation you can give to them,” Carly said.

  “That might help, Carly. Thanks.”

  With that, the meeting adjourned. Lambert went back to his office, eyed the large electronic map on the wall, and focused on the current trouble spots lit in red — outside of Famagusta in Cyprus, Jerusalem, Baku, and Zurich.

  He hoped he could diminish the priority of these four places by the end of the day.

  * * *

  Andrei Zdrok hadn’t worked so hard in years.

  He carried the box of file folders out of the bank, loaded them in the back of the Mercedes, and went back inside. He and his driver, Erik, had been at it for the past two hours. Zdrok didn’t dare tell the bank staff what was happening. When the authorities arrived, they would have to deal with it on their own. If he could clear out his office of any incriminating evidence, then the bank employees shouldn’t have any problems other than perhaps a night in an interrogation room. And if they were detained, well, tough luck.

  Zdrok looked at his Rolex and saw that it was getting late. When Erik passed him with another box, he said, “Hurry. We have to leave.” Erik nodded and said, “There’s only one more box.”

  “I’ll get it,” Zdrok replied. He went through the lobby and was suddenly confronted by Gustav Gomelsky, the bank’s assistant manager and the man who really ran everything.

  “Andrei,” he said, “I demand to know what’s going on. Why are you doing this?”

  “Gustav, I don’t have time to explain it to you. You’ll find out soon enough.” Zdrok attempted to push past him, but Gomelsky grabbed him by the arm.

  “Are we in some kind of trouble?”

  Zdrok stopped and stared at the man. Softly but with menace, he whispered, “Get your hand off of me.”

  Gomelsky swallowed and released his boss. He had always been a little afraid of Andrei Zdrok because he knew so little about the man. “Sorry, sir, I was just—”

  “I’m leaving this office and relocating,” Zdrok said. “That’s all you need to know for now. I’ll be in touch.” Fat chance, Zdrok thought to himself.

  “What about the police investigation?” Gomelsky asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The break-in! The other night. Your safe was blown, remember?”

  “Oh, that.” Zdrok had practically forgotten about it.

  “The inspector will want to know where you went. The case is still under investigation, you know.”

  “Tell him I’m away on business.”

  “Don’t you think he’ll be suspicious that you cleaned out your office? Andrei, you’re putting us in a very awkward position.”

  Zdrok lost his temper, grabbed the man by his jacket, and got into his face. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up!” He released Gomelsky and shoved him away. “Deal with it and leave me alone,” he said.

  Zdrok went on past the teller windows into the back and to the remains of his office. It was a shambles. He and Erik had torn out the computer, the files, emptied the desk and the blown-out safe, and the phone. Antipov was doing the same thing in the Zurich branch and Zdrok wished he could be there to oversee it. Antipov was thorough, but Zdrok liked to make sure nothing was missed. If he could clone himself, he would do it.

  How long would it be before the authorities arrived? Zdrok was certain that it would be no later than tomorrow.

  Those goddamned terrorists. The so-called Shadows, Nasir Tarighian and his band of religious fanatics. Why did they have to be the Shop’s best customers? They had compromised the Shop’s cover, and now Zdrok was faced with having to reorganize under a different, unknown camouflage in another country.

  And what was the cost? Zdrok had no idea what it was, but he knew it was going to be in the billions. The loss of the stealth plane was a huge blow, but having to relinquish the two banks was a disaster. The very worst part was leaving his chateau on Lake Zurich. He’d never make it back to his home to retrieve his personal belongings. Zdrok had to abandon the place and everything in it. A fucking eight-million-dollar write-off and there was nothing he could do about it. Christ, the automobiles! He had forgotten all about them. His beloved collection! And his precious yacht! At least he was fairly certain he had left nothing incriminating in the chateau. It was simply the home of an eccentric banker who had expensive tastes.

  Zdrok clenched his fists and shook them at the ceiling. Someone would pay for all this. Andrei Zdrok swore, then and there, that once he had reestablished the Shop in a new location and regrouped, he would exact revenge on the parties that set this catastrophe in motion — namely the United States of America.

  33

  I’m not happy.

  My daughter is in jeopardy and needs me. I’m up against a mad religious fanatic who finances terrorism and is intent on causing some kind of mass destruction. I’m on a British military base on an island in the Mediterranean, and I have to perform a job I don’t particularly feel like doing. I’ll be the first to admit I’m distracted. For me the first priority is to go find Sarah. For my country the first priority is to stop the mad religious fanatic. The only thing I can hope for is that I finish the country’s assignment in record time so I can tackle the personal one as soon as possible.

  Cyprus. It’s a beautiful place, but it’s rife with tension. Back in 1963 some British officer drew a green line across the island’s map when violence broke out between the Greek and Turkish Cypriots. The United Nations tried to keep the peace along what has since been referred to as — surprise — the “Green Line.” Then, in 1974, the Greek government attempted a coup, and the Turks responded by invading and occupying the area north of the Green Line. Today, the United Nations recognizes only the Greek Cypriot side, the Republic of Cyprus. The so-called Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is not recognized by any nation other than Turkey. It’s a situation that has provoked a great deal of mistrust and conflict ever since.

  Britain maintains important military bases in the southern portion of the island. In fact, the British Sovereign Base Areas cover about three percent of the island’s land. The Royal Air Force occupies the Western Sovereign Base Area in the Episkopi Garrison and the Akrotiri airfield. I’m over on the eastern side, in the Dhekelia Garrison. Because Cyprus was once a British crown colony, these areas remained under the UK’s jurisdiction when the Treaty of Establishment created the independent Republic of Cyprus in 1960.

  The army presence at Dhekelia consists of sixty-two Cyprus Support Squadron Royal Engineers and sixteen Flight Army Air Corps (equipped with Gazelle helicopters). There are also a variety of supporting arms such as the Royal Logistics Corps, Royal Army Medical Corps, Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, Royal Military Police and others located in both Sovereign Base Areas. Dhekelia, also known as a “cantonment,” is home to a total British population of just over 2,000 people.

  It seems to me to be a fairly cushy assignment for the Brit soldiers. Dhekelia is on the northern shore of the wide sweeping Larnaca Bay and is situated some 15km northeast of the important coastal town of Larnaca and 20km west of Ayia Napa, the premier tourist resort for the club music scene in the Eastern Mediterranean. Dhekelia Cantonment has an abundance of sporting and recreational facilities, with the emphasis, naturally, on water sports. When I arrived by military transport, I could see some die-hard skiers in the bay getting in some last-minute thrills before sunset.

  Captain Peter Martin, a proper British soldier in his thirties, escorts me to the mess, where I am fed a fine meal of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. A good Western meal would hit the spot and I’m starving. Captain Martin sits and briefs me on his orders and how he plans to proceed in helping me.

  “I’m to take you out in a boat after nightfall,” he says. “We’ll sail around Cape Pyle and Cape Gkreko and then turn north up the coast. After three miles or so I’ll stop and let you out. You’ll swim another half-mile or so underwater to the Famagusta harbor, where you’ll go ashore and make your wa
y to the shopping mall site. Once you’re out of the boat, we have no knowledge of your being anywhere near Cyprus. You’ll have to make your way back across the border by sea. I’ll give you my mobile number. When you’re ashore I’ll come and collect you. If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll have to assume that you’ve either found another way off the island or that you’re dead. Is that clear?”

  “Clear and very blunt,” I answer.

  “We’ll fit you with some SCUBA gear. We can’t give you the best stuff; we need that for our own men. It will be spare equipment, fairly old, but I assure you that it’s in good working condition. If you’re able to bring it back, we would appreciate it. If not, don’t worry about it.”

  “Thank you for that,” I say, swallowing my last bite of chicken. “As long as the tanks are full.”

  “I guarantee that you’ll have the same quality air that we do,” the captain says, smiling.

  “What do you know about the shopping mall? Surely you’ve done some recon on the site?” I ask.

  “We have indeed and I can honestly tell you that it looks completely legit. They’ve been working on it for three years, and not once have we seen anything remotely suspicious.”

  I have nothing to say to that. I find it difficult to believe that Tarighian is really building a shopping mall for Turkish Cypriots when he devotes the rest of his energy financing the Shadows’ directives to kill and maim as many non-Muslims as they can.

  After dinner Captain Martin takes me to the army’s diving club, which overlooks gorgeous Larnaca Bay. I ask the captain if Cyprus is good for tourism, and he tells me that it’s a fabulous vacation spot. When the Greek and Turkish Cypriots behave themselves, Cyprus is a fantastic island paradise.

  “Actually the Turkish side of the island is even prettier,” he says. “Mostly Turks and people from other Muslim countries visit the north. Everyone else comes to the south.”

  Captain Martin gives me a single tank, an MK2Plus regulator, a Glide 500 buoyancy compensator device, a Smart-Pro wrist computer, Twin Speed adjustable fins, a standard weight belt, and a frameless face mask. Everything fits nicely over my uniform, which will keep me warm enough, but I’ll have to fasten the Osprey on my chest. Martin also gives me a small Diver Propulsion Device — a portable hand-held mechanism that propels a diver by dragging him through the water. This saves the diver’s strength. I’m ready to go, but first I need to check in with Lambert.