Splinter Cell (2004) (19 page)

“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.

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.

The gun battle lasted twenty-two minutes. Thirteen of the terrorists were dead and the rest were captured. The U.S. lost two men. The seven prisoners were brought to a temporary base outside of Arbil and lined up outside of Petlow’s quarters.

Sam Fisher had made copies of the relevant file photos he found in Arbil and forwarded them to Petlow. The lieutenant colonel, along with a representative from the Iraqi police force, had a chance to take a look at the dead militants first but didn’t recognize any of them as being the men that Fisher had seen that night. Petlow then confronted the seven prisoners, one by one. They were a mangy bunch, men who had lived in the brush and avoided the law for months at a time.

None of them looked familiar. As he briefly interrogated each man with the Iraqi policeman serving as interpreter, Petlow had a sinking feeling they had failed to catch the men they were looking for. But as he spoke to the fourth man in line, something sparked his memory.

“Open your mouth,” Petlow ordered the prisoner. When the man did so, Petlow saw he was missing some teeth. He was the man Fisher called “No-Tooth.” The man responsible for the deaths of the four U.S. soldiers.

Petlow gave the order for the Iraqi policeman to interpret. “They’re all under arrest, of course, but this one is to be charged with the murder of the Arbil police officers and our soldiers. We’ll start serious interrogation this afternoon. In the meantime, tell this guy that he’s in some serious shit.”

 

 

SARAH
had slept for nearly sixteen hours. When she awoke she was understandably confused and disoriented. She had no idea where she was. She sat up too quickly, bringing on a wave of nausea. A hot flash immediately surged through her body and she broke out into a sweat. Sarah knew she was about to be sick and started to panic. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the door to the bathroom and bolted for it. She made it to the toilet just in time.

When she was done, Sarah sat on the dirty floor beside the toilet for a few moments before attempting to stand.

Where the hell was she? What
was
this place? And more important, where was Eli? And Rivka?

She stood slowly, using the toilet seat as leverage. A stained, cracked mirror over the sink reflected a pale, frightened girl of twenty. She looked terrible.

A washcloth and towel sat on the edge of the sink. She turned on the cold water and let it run. At least it wasn’t brown, like in Eli’s apartment, so she splashed her face and let the water run down her neck. It felt good. She realized she was terribly thirsty, but she didn’t want to drink the tap water.

She carefully went back into the other room and saw nothing in there but the cot she had slept on and her purse on the floor next to it. She went to the door and turned the knob, only to find it locked.

“Hello?” she called. “Eli?” It was eerily quiet on the other side of the door. “Rivka? Somebody?” She felt the panic build again as she knocked loudly.

When she heard footsteps on the other side, Sarah backed away, ready to let Eli have it.

The man who unlocked the door and peeked inside was not Eli. He had a cold, cruel look about him, and he grinned lecherously at her.