Splinter Cell (2004) (17 page)

Sure enough, I see the lone elderly night watchman walk slowly into my aisle. He’s not sure what he heard or if he heard anything at all. Nevertheless the poor guy looks scared. This tells me there’s nothing in this warehouse that’s of any interest. If there were illegal arms here, the Shop wouldn’t guard them with a lone sixty-year-old grandfather.

He eventually gives up and returns to the desk at the front of the warehouse. I can see him clearly from where I’m lying. He sits, opens the book, and begins to read. Every now and then he looks up and scans the aisles in his view, then goes back to reading. Damn. How long am I going to have to stay here?

I really don’t want to do it, but I have no choice. I’m not going to spend the rest of the night in this goddamned warehouse. I slowly pull the SC-20K off my shoulder and reach for another ring airfoil projectile. I load the rifle and aim for the old guy’s head. At this range it shouldn’t do much damage. It’ll knock him out for a while and he’ll have a nasty headache when he wakes up, but that’ll be it.

I aim at the back of his head and squeeze the trigger. Perfect shot. The watchman slumps forward and looks as if he’s fallen asleep while reading.

I climb down from my lofty position and head toward the back of the warehouse. Everything looks innocent enough and I’m about to call it a night and leave when I notice the office. It’s in the back corner—an enclosed room with windows and a door. It’s unlocked, too.

Using the night-vision mode so I don’t have to turn on the office lights, I riffle through the papers on the desk. Most of it means nothing to me. However, I do come across a blank “shipping manifest” form that is written in both Farsi and English. Where there’s one, there must be more. I turn to the filing cabinets and pull them open one by one. I eventually find a drawer that’s full of shipping manifest forms—and these are filled out. I scan the dates and find the folder for last month’s shipments. Again, I don’t understand a lot of it, but I do recognize certain city and country names.

The Tabriz Container Company apparently ships its products all over the Middle East. I see that they have customers in Iraq, Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, Egypt, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and even Israel. There are clients in Russia, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Georgia, the Czech Republic, and Poland.

So those containers I saw in Arbil could have come from anywhere. This has turned out to be a false lead.

Then I see something that’s interesting. I find some Shipping Manifests to Akdabar Enterprises in Van, Turkey. This is the company that Reza told me about. The one owned by that humanitarian guy, Basaran. There are also manifests to his charity organization, Tirma. A coincidence?

I put everything back the way I found it and leave the office. When I get back to the front of the warehouse, I see that my friend the night watchman is still counting sheep. I approach him silently and determine that he’s breathing steadily. He’ll be all right. I go out the front door, walk back to the Pazhan, and drive into town.

At daybreak I’ll head towards Turkey. I think it’s time I meet this Namik Basaran fellow and see what he’s really all about. I’ll send a report to Lambert, say goodbye to Reza, and chalk up my visit to Iran as educational but ultimately a dead end.

SARAH
had been drunk on two previous occasions, and neither of them had been pleasant. The first time was when she was in high school. She and some girlfriends had been at a party in which the boys had gotten hold of a keg of beer. It was an unchaperoned event, and just about everyone had too much to drink. Some parents found out about it and there was hell to pay at school the next day. Sarah’s father had been disappointed but didn’t punish her too severely. He just made sure that adults would be around the next time his daughter went to a party.

The second time was about a month after she had left home to go to college in Evanston. She was with a boy she had just begun dating, and one night he procured a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He mixed it with Coke and she drank three glasses. It made her violently sick, much to the boy’s chagrin.

Who was it that said the “third time’s the charm”? This thought went through Sarah’s head as she sipped the glass of red wine. Rivka had already announced that she planned to drink enough to get “tipsy,” and the boys proclaimed they were going to drink much more than that. Sarah decided that she, too, would drink enough to feel a buzz. She just didn’t want to feel sick.

They were in a bar in the New City. It was a place Noel had been to several times, and he was sure the girls wouldn’t be asked for IDs. They weren’t. Noel and Eli started by buying two bottles of wine, and then the quartet sat in a booth in the back of the smoky dive, unseen by the few patrons that were too lost in their own drinks to pay much attention to the laughing, happy young people.

At first Sarah thought the bar looked dumpy and was depressing. Eli assured her they would liven up the place. Sure enough, after one bottle was empty, the boys and girls were having a grand time in the little back room. Eli and Noel could be very funny, especially when they told off-color jokes, and Sarah and Rivka were thoroughly entertained by them. It didn’t hurt that in-between laughs the boys planted kisses on their dates.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Eli said. He looked at Noel. “What do you think, Noel? Irish Car Bombs?”

Noel’s eyes widened and he grinned. “Yeah!”

“Huh? What’s that?” Sarah asked.

“Irish Car Bomb! You’ll love it,” Noel said.

“Irish Car Bomb?” Rivka asked, giggling. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a drink, silly,” Eli said. “I’ll be right back.” He got up and left the room, heading toward the bar.

“You didn’t know this was an Irish pub, did you?” Noel asked the girls.

“This is an Irish pub? In Jerusalem?” Sarah asked.

“It doesn’t look like an Irish pub,” Rivka said.

A few minutes later Eli returned with a tray carrying four pint glasses of what appeared to be beer and four shot glasses of an odd, creamy brown liquid.

Eli sat down and pointed to a pint glass. “This is a half-pint of Guinness.” He then pointed to a shot glass. “This is Irish whiskey mixed with Bailey’s Irish Cream.” He then proceeded to take the shot glasses and drop them—glass and liquid—
into
the pint glasses. The whiskey and Irish cream mixed with the Guiness. Once that was done, he put a completed “Car Bomb” in front of each person at the table, took the one in front of him, and chugged the entire contents without breathing. When he was done, he slammed the empty pint glass on the table—the empty shot glass rattled inside of it—and burped loudly.

“Wow,” Sarah said.

“Drink up, before the cream curdles!” Noel commanded. He took one of the glasses and chugged the mixture faster than Eli had.

“Come on, ladies,” Eli said. “Your turn.”

Rivka took one of the glasses and asked, “I’m supposed to drink it all at once?”

“Chug it,” Noel said. “That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“You can’t sip it,” Eli added.

“Okay, here goes.” She turned up the glass and started drinking. The shot glass slid down and hit her nose. She almost laughed but kept going. The boys chanted, “Go, go, go, go . . . !” When she got it all down, Rivka slammed the glass on the table as she had seen the guys do it.

“Wow, that was great!” she said.

“Your turn, Sarah!” Eli said.

“I don’t know,” Sarah said, eyeing the drink warily.

“I’ve never chugged anything like that. I’ll probably choke.”

“No, you won’t. Just gulp gulp gulp. Don’t stop to breathe. Do it fast.”

She took hold of the drink and smelled it.

“Don’t smell it, drink it!” Noel ordered, playfully poking her arm.

“It’s good, Sarah,” Rivka said, smiling. “Really.”

Sarah shrugged and put the glass to her lips. Then she started to drink. And drink.

“Go, go, go, go, go!”

When she was done, she slammed the glass on the table.

“Yeah!” the others cried.

Sarah felt proud of herself. She wiped her mouth and said, “Yum!” Eli beamed at her and then leaned over to kiss her. It was a mushy open-mouthed one.

“Whoa, Sarah!” Rivka cried. She laughed. Noel laughed. Eli and Sarah broke apart and laughed as well.

That was when Sarah realized the room was spinning more than it was five minutes earlier. She felt light-headed and woozy.

“I’m getting drunk,” she said, but it didn’t sound like those particular words to her. She laughed again. Rivka burst out laughing, too, and reached for her friend. The two girls leaned on each other, laughing so hard that tears fell from their eyes. Eli sat with his arms folded across his chest, watching them and keeping an eye on his watch.

It should take about ten minutes,
he thought.

He poured another glass of wine for the girls but left his and Noel’s glasses empty.

“Tell us about your uncle Martin, Noel,” Eli suggested.

Noel raised his eyebrows and said, “Oh. Okay. That’s a good story.” The girls smiled and looked at him, ready for more hilarity. “I have this uncle, his name is Uncle Martin, and he used to live in the basement of a tenement building. His hobby, if you can believe this, was collecting mice feces. I kid you not. You know what he did with the feces?”

“What, Noel?” Eli asked.

The girls were beginning to lose it. Their mouths hung open and their eyes drooped, but they hung on to every word Noel was saying.

“He liked to use the feces to make art. He would mix the stuff with water and use a paintbrush to paint. And you know what he would paint?”

“What would he paint, Noel?” Eli asked.

“Mice!”

He continued the nonsensical story for several minutes. Sarah tried to concentrate on it, but the words kept fading in and out. It was as if she were in a waking dream.

The words droned on. Eventually she couldn’t understand them anymore. She had to close her eyes, just for a minute.

Noel stopped talking.

Rivka was out. Her head was on Sarah’s shoulder. Sarah’s eyelids fluttered and finally fell. She began to slide over in the booth, but Eli caught her and held her up.

“Wow, that was fast,” Noel said.

“Always is,” Eli agreed.

“I’m glad you gave them the correct glasses.”

“Come on. Let’s get them out of here.” He pulled Sarah out of the booth and let her lean on him.

“What’s going on?” she slurred.

“Sarah, I’m taking you home. You’re drunk,” Eli said.

“I am?”

Noel helped Rivka up. She whimpered a little. “Rivka, come with me. We have to go home now,” he said. Rivka started to cry a little.

“My stomach hurts,” she mumbled.

“Let’s go,” Noel said.

Eli left money on the bar as they helped the girls out. He winked at the bartender and said, “I guess those Car Bombs were a little too strong.”

When the night air hit Sarah’s face, she became aware that she was outside. “What’s going on?” she asked again, but her voice sounded far away.

“I’m taking you back to my place.” She thought it was Eli’s voice. The nice man was helping her walk, though. She shouldn’t have drunk so much. She knew that drinking didn’t agree with her. Now she felt awful. She just wanted to climb into bed.

The last thing she remembered before passing out was a car door slamming as she fell into the passenger seat.

 

 

ELI
drove his beat-up 1995 Chevrolet Cavalier out of the New City and headed north, toward Atarot Airport. Sarah was snoring lightly in the seat beside him. Before he had left the street where the bar was located, he watched Noel get Rivka into his car and drive away.

Eli was happy that he didn’t have to do what Noel had to do.

The Rohypnol worked amazingly well. He had broken up the two white tablets, one in each shot glass, and waited until the powder dissolved before bringing the Irish Car Bombs back to the table. Sarah and Rivka never knew what hit them. Car bombs, indeed.

It was approaching midnight when he turned off the main highway and took a little-used route toward an industrial area of the city. Eli could hear planes overhead, flying in low for a landing at the small airport. When he had first gone to the warehouse to prepare it for Sarah’s arrival, he wasn’t happy about its location. He would have preferred it to be farther out of Jerusalem and not so close to the airport. But orders were orders. Apparently Yuri and Vlad’s people already owned the building. Eli supposed it didn’t really matter. As long as he was paid what was coming to him.

It was at the end of a curving road full of derelict warehouses and condemned office buildings. Vlad had said it was “where Jesus lost his sandals.” This wasn’t far from the truth. Aside from the proximity to the airport, the warehouse seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. The building was dark and would have appeared deserted were it not for the two sports cars parked in front. The Ferrari and the Jaguar were a little too conspicuous for Eli’s comfort level, but what was he going to tell those guys? Get a couple of ugly old cars like his?

He pulled the Chevy next to the Jaguar and shut off the motor. He looked at his sleeping passenger and softly said, “Sorry, Sarah.”

Eli got out of the car and went to the front door of the building. He knocked and waited until the little window slid opened. Dark eyes peered out.

“You going to help me or not?” Eli asked.

The door unlocked and opened and the two Russians came out.

“She okay?” the one called Yuri asked.

“Yeah. She’s out cold, though,” Eli said.

“Let’s get her inside, then,” the one called Vlad said.

They walked to the car and opened the passenger door. When he saw Sarah, Vlad remarked, “Hey, she’s a beauty! This is going to be a more interesting assignment than I thought.”