Splinter Cell (2004) (12 page)

There are sixteen crates in all, most of them still sealed. This must be the captured cache that Lambert told me about. What do the Arbil police plan to do with it? Aren’t they going to turn it over to the authorities, whoever they may be?

I have to figure out where the damn things came from. The first crate is unmarked, but the second one has an ink stamp on the side. In Arabic—Farsi, really—it reads Tabriz Container Company. Tabriz? That’s in Iran! I move to the next crate and it has the same marking. In fact, nine of the sixteen crates bear the Tabriz stamp.

Either the weapons came through Iran or the supplier is simply using crates that were manufactured there. At any rate, it’s a lead.

Against the far wall of the room is a stack of four large, flat cases. They resemble electric guitar cases only they’re much wider. I unsnap the clasps and open the top one.

Stingers. Four cases of Stingers, two in each case. Un-fucking-believable. These are American made. How the hell did they get them? Off to the side of the cases are two shoulder-launchers for the Stingers. These babies are terribly effective against low-level aircraft, such as helicopters, and a single man can fire one like a bazooka.

I make notes of the inventory on my OPSAT, take a few photographs, and leave the room. I move farther down the hall to a large steel door with bars in a window. The jail perhaps? I turn to the key ring again and unlock the door. It squeaks with rust and I wince. Hopefully no one is back there. I look inside and see a row of six barred cells. A small desk is to my left, but it is unmanned. There’s nothing here except a hammer lying on it. Upon closer examination of the tool, I discern a substance that appears to be dried blood and perhaps fleshy material and hair on the hammerhead. I turn to leave, but something in the first cell catches my eye. At first I think it’s a bundle of blankets, but I see now that there might be a figure lying on the cot. I turn on the lights and step closer to the cell. It is indeed a body, completely covered by a blanket. Is he dead?

I move to the next cell and there’s another guy, covered by a blanket. The third, fourth, and fifth cells contain the same. Number six is empty. I look on the ring and try the keys until I find one that opens cell number one. I pull the blanket back, and sure enough, there’s a guy with a bullet hole in his head. From what I can tell, he was shot in the back of the skull and the round exited through the front of his face. He is unrecognizable, of course. I pull the blanket back farther and see that the man is wearing only his underwear.

The man in the second cell received the same treatment, although it looks as if he was tortured before being killed. There are burn marks, probably from a cigarette, on his upper body. The third guy’s right hand is mangled, as if someone had pounded it a few times with a hammer.
The
hammer. The fourth man, like the first, was just shot.

I back out of the jail area and close the door behind me. I lock it again only because whoever had done this is sure to return. My friend in the outer lobby will be waking soon, and he probably knows a lot about what’s going on here. Perhaps he’s one of the killers.

I go back to the front of the building and see that the guard is still unconscious. He’s breathing steadily, so I’m sure he’ll recover with just a bad headache to remember me by. I make my way to the first corridor and head for the back door but decide to check out the office I saw upon entering. I open the door, step inside, and use my night vision to avoid turning on lights.

I have good reason to believe that this is the office of the chief of police. There are a couple of citations on the wall and a photo of the chief shaking hands with a man I figure is one of the Kurdish politicos. I look closely at the photo and I could swear that one of the dead guys in the jail cell is the chief. I’m not positive because the victims’ faces were bloody messes. Even so, if I had to bet on it, I’d say that the guy in the photo is the man in the second cell, the one who had been tortured before being executed.

On the desk are several manila folders full of mug shots. I open the top folder and am surprised to see none other than No-Tooth. In fact, the top four photographs in the pile are the same four men who tried to steal my car and leave me for dead outside of Arbil. Notes on the back of each photo are written in Kurdistan script, but I can make out the words
terrorist
,
wanted
, and
Iran.
On the back of No-Tooth’s photo is another word I recognize—
Shadows
with a big question mark beside it.

It’s all very clear to me. Those four bandits I encountered outside the city were here earlier. They killed the four
real
policemen and placed the corpses in the cells after stripping off and donning the uniforms. The bandits had wanted my Land Cruiser. To move the crates of weapons? One of them had said they were waiting for a truck to “move some boxes.” Are those guys the Shop’s customers? The Shop is selling arms to the Shadows? I have to say I’m not surprised. If the Shadows are the terrorist group
du jour
, then it makes sense that the Shop, the biggest illegal arms dealer in the world, would want them as customers.

I hear a car door slam outside. Shit. As keys rattle in the back door, I flatten against the wall of the office and hope whoever it is doesn’t come in here.

Two voices. One man is laughing and speaking rapidly—in Arabic. I catch the words “police,” “taking care of,” and “move the boxes.” The men walk past the office and continue to the outer lobby. I hear exclamations of surprise and concern when they find my friend on the floor. There’s a groan and a slap and another groan. The guard is coming around. One of the men orders the other one to check on the weapons, and I hear him ask for the keys. More talk, the sound of moving things on the desk, and an angry shout. The keys are gone, of course. They’re in my pocket.

The angry guy sounds familiar. I figure it’s probably in my best interest to get a look at him. I reach into the Osprey and pull out a handy tool I call the “corner periscope.” It’s really a lot like a dentist’s tool—it’s a thin piece of metal with a small round mirror at the end. The metal is bendable so I can adapt it to just about any kind of space. It’s best for looking around corners when you don’t want to be noticed.

I quietly creep out of the office and snake down the hall with my back to the wall. When I reach the corner by the front office, I stick the mirror out and position it so I can see.

The guard is sitting in the chair, rubbing the back of his head. The angry guy is sitting on the desk in front of him, his back to me. The other man is behind the chair and looks concerned. He doesn’t look familiar. Both of the new men are wearing police uniforms. I want the angry guy to turn around so I can see his face.

“What are you going to tell Ahmed?” the second man asks. I can now follow the conversation pretty well.

“I’ll worry about that later,” answers the angry guy. “It’s more about what Ahmed will tell Tarighian!” He grabs the guard by the chin. “You sure you didn’t see who did this to you?” The guard shakes his head. “Allah help me. Tarighian will be most displeased. We’d better find a way to break down that door. If our stuff is gone . . .”

Tarighian? Who the hell is Tarighian?

The angry guy turns slightly and I see his face. It’s my old buddy No-Tooth, the one that got away. I knew I’d heard his voice before.

I could take them out if I wanted, but that’s not my directive. I move away, down the hall and toward the back door. There’s a garbage can beside the door, so I quietly lay the key ring inside. No need to make it easy for them. I’m sure the proper authorities will have the means to break down the doors if they have to.

I slip outside and run to the shadows on the opposite end of the parking lot. I crouch and then move quickly to the street, satisfied I’m not being followed. I run in the darkness to the Toyota, get inside, and crouch low in the seat just in case the goons come out and start to look around.

Using my OPSAT, I send a message to Colonel Petlow in Baghdad. I explain that the Arbil policemen were murdered by Shadows terrorists who are attempting to remove a shipment of illegal arms from the station. I blind-copy the report to Lambert in Washington and wait.

Approximately thirty-five minutes later I hear sirens. I’m surprised by the rapid response. I was afraid the terrorists would get away with the goods by the time the Iraqis or the U.S. Army arrived. I see three police vehicles pull up in front of the station, followed by a U.S. Army jeep with four soldiers inside. I’d like to give them a hand, but I need to stay innocuous. So I sit back with an intention to watch and enjoy the fireworks.

But to my horror the terrorists suddenly appear from behind the building, firing AK-47s at the policemen. Three Iraqi police fall to the ground and the others jump behind cover. I recognize No-Tooth as the terrorist ring-leader. He throws something into the midst of the vehicles, and a few seconds later it explodes with a powerful blast. The grenade destroys the U.S. Army jeep and most likely kills or seriously wounds the four American soldiers. I now seriously consider joining the fight, but before I can make a move a van pulls around from the back of the building. The terrorists jump inside and the van speeds away with a screech.

I curse at myself for not doing something sooner—but what could I have done? I’m not supposed to interact with the local law enforcement without authorization. Could I have made a difference? I honestly don’t know. Next time, though, I think I’ll go with my instincts and buck the directives.

Approaching sirens wail some distance away, and a few seconds later I see more police cars and an ambulance arrive at the scene. There’s nothing I can do now; I have to let the Iraqis handle it.

Disgruntled, I start the Toyota and drive away.

ANDREI
Zdrok was in a foul mood.

His driver let him off in front of the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank, pausing long enough to receive instructions regarding when to return to pick up his employer. The Mercedes sped away and Zdrok strode toward the heavy glass doors. Just before entering the building, though, he looked at his Rolex and saw that he had fifteen minutes before the meeting. He decided that a bagel and coffee might go a long way toward improving his frame of mind.

He made a detour and crossed the avenue to the bakery. Even Andrei Zdrok agreed with the food critics that Zabat’s was the best bakery in Zurich. That it happened to be in the financial district was a plus for its proprietors. They sold hundreds of bagels, muffins, rolls, and pastries daily to the bankers and accountants who worked in the area. By coincidence, there was also a bagel shop across the street from the other Swiss-Russian bank branch located in Baku, Azerbaijan. Zdrok often frequented that establishment as well, although it wasn’t as good.

Zdrok went inside Zabat’s, bought an onion bagel with cream cheese, a coffee—black—and paid for it with a five-franc bill. He told the server to keep the change. He did this often and had a reputation in the bakery of being the “generous man in the Brioni suit.”

Zdrok returned to the bank, entered the lobby, and nodded to the security guard standing just inside the door. A banking customer was already at the teller window; two more were in the private safe-deposit rooms. As one of the many private financial institutions in Zurich offering numbered bank accounts, the Swiss-Russian, as Zdrok referred to it for short, dealt only with wealthy international clients. In a city where money was the lifeblood, the Swiss-Russian was well on its way to becoming a major player in worldwide finance. The beauty of it was that the bank was small and not very well known. The authorities paid little attention to it. Zdrok made sure that all of its legitimate business was aboveboard and clean so that trouble never came knocking. He didn’t want too much circumspection into what really went on behind the scenes of the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank.

Zdrok unlocked the gate that led to the “employees only” area, glanced back into the lobby to make sure nothing was amiss, then entered the conference room, where his three associates were waiting. Not surprisingly, they had also purchased bagels or muffins with coffee prior to attending the meeting.

Anton Antipov was fifty-two years old. A former colonel with the KGB, he had formed a partnership with Andrei Zdrok shortly after the fall of the Soviet Union. He was tall, imposing, and had a reputation for being a sadist. Zdrok had never witnessed anything supporting this rumor, but he had heard plenty of stories. Antipov had been in charge of one of the gulags outside of Moscow during the eighties, and he had connections throughout the underworld and black markets in Russia and Eastern Europe. As Zdrok’s right-hand man, Anton Antipov merely had to invoke his name in some circles to elicit respect—or fear.

Oskar Herzog was fifty-three years old and hailed from the former German Democratic Republic. At the time of his country’s reunification, Herzog was one of the most dreaded prosecutors in East Berlin. He put away for life or sentenced to death hundreds of alleged political criminals. Associates called him “The Hatchet” behind his back until one day when he heard the nickname. Instead of becoming angry, he embraced the moniker and encouraged others to perpetuate it. He figured it might help instill apprehension in his enemies.

General Stefan Prokofiev was fifty-five years old and claimed to be related to the famous Russian composer that bore his surname. As a high-ranking officer in the Russian army, Prokofiev spent most of his time in Moscow. He made the trip to Zurich only when Zdrok called a meeting, which wasn’t very often. Prokofiev had been one of the top military advisers in charge of weapons development while his country was still under Soviet rule. In 1990 he was promoted to general and became the liaison between the military and the physicists who designed and created Russia’s modern armaments. Prokofiev had a reputation of being a communist hard-liner, although he had no qualms at all about making the equivalent of forty million U.S. dollars a year in Zdrok’s organization.