Splinter Cell (2004) (24 page)

Petlow hurried out of the hospital and ran toward his quarters. He had to get this information to Washington as soon as possible.

 

 

SARAH’S
stomach growled for the sixth time since she began clocking the noises. She didn’t care, though. She was determined to see her hunger strike through. No matter how starved and weak she became, Sarah resolved not to eat the food they brought her. They
had
been consistent. One of them had brought her a separate meal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but until they let her go, she wasn’t eating. To hell with them. If they considered her a valuable hostage, she wouldn’t be worth much dead.

Most of the time it was one of those creepy Russians who came in. They said their names were Vlad and Yuri, which were probably fake—or else why would they tell her their names? Unless they really planned to kill her all along once they got what they wanted. This was the reasoning that motivated Sarah to go on a hunger strike.

She had been in the little room for two nights and was beginning her third day. Once she asked if she could go outside just to get some fresh air. They wouldn’t let her. Now the room smelled of her sweat. The bathroom stank due to bad plumbing. She showered daily just to feel better, but the last half-day hadn’t been easy. She was beginning to feel the effects of not eating. All she wanted to do was lie on the cot and sleep.

Sarah was dozing, daydreaming about an Asian barbecue restaurant in Evanston that she and Rivka liked to frequent, and her mouth started watering. Her stomach growled again and she willed herself not to think about it. It was hard. She missed her home. She wanted to leave Israel more than anything.

The sound of the key in the door startled her. It always did. The place was usually deathly quiet until that damned key rattled.

The door opened and she saw Vlad’s cold face peek inside.

“Go away,” she said.

“I brought your breakfast,” he said. He came in with a tray. The dish was covered, so she couldn’t see what it was. It smelled cooked, though, and that went a long way toward breaking down her defenses.

Vlad set the tray on the floor by the cot and then sat in the chair. “You’d better eat, Princess. We are becoming very tired of your behavior.”

“Go to hell,” she murmured.

Vlad chuckled. “You still have spirit, eh, Princess? Even after not eating for so many hours? What is it now, two days? That’s nothing. Do you know how you’ll feel in a week? Me and Yuri, we made a bet to see how long you will keep this up. He says you’ll eat tomorrow. Me, I think you have more willpower and will last another two days. What do you think? Is Yuri going to win, or am I going to win?”

“Take the tray and go. I’m not going to eat it,” she said.

“You know, Princess, I think what you need is a little more encouragement,” Vlad said. He scooted the chair closer to the cot. She looked at him with alarm and recoiled.

“Now, now,” he said. “Don’t be afraid of Vlad. I won’t hurt you. I make you feel real good. I have a way with the ladies. They all say so.” He reached out and stroked her hair.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” she spat as she jerked up and away from him.

This angered Vlad. “You little bitch!” he shouted. He grabbed hold of her shoulders and threw her back onto the cot. She struggled with him, but he moved his heavy body on top of her. She felt his scratchy, unshaven face against her cheek as he nuzzled her neck. Sarah attempted to fight him off, but she was no match for his weight and girth. When she felt his wet tongue on her ear, she lost control.

“No!” she screamed. “Help!”

Vlad covered her mouth with one thick hand. “Shut up!” he commanded. “It’s time you learn to obey your masters!”

She felt his other hand grope between her legs, and she tried in vain to kick him away.

Oh, my God, she thought to herself.
This
is what it’s going to be. It all comes down to
this
. She closed her eyes tightly and prepared herself for the ordeal that was surely coming.

“What the
fuck
are you doing?” It was an angry voice at the door.

Suddenly the horrible, heavy weight came off and she could breathe again. She was aware of a struggle in the room.

It was Eli. He had come in and pulled Vlad away. The older man stepped on the breakfast tray, causing it to spill its contents over the floor. Now the two of them were fighting. Vlad swung at Eli, but the young man was faster and more agile. He dodged the blow and sneaked in one of his own, hitting Vlad on the nose.

“You goddamned bastard!” Vlad said. He wiped his face and smeared blood over his upper lip. “I’m going to kill you!”

The door opened again and Yuri entered.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop it right now!” He pulled his Heckler & Koch pistol and pointed it at Vlad. “Move back, Vlad! Now!”

Eli and Vlad halted and lowered their fists. Both of them had traces of oatmeal on their clothes. The floor was a mess.

Vlad looked at his partner as if Yuri had betrayed him. “I was just going to have some fun. I’m going crazy here. This isn’t what we usually do—guard hostages. You know that.”

Yuri kept the gun pointed at him and said, “We do what we’re told because we’re well paid. Don’t forget that.” He looked at Eli. “And you, don’t you ever attack him again. If he acts up, as he sometimes does, you come and get me.”

Eli stood his ground, breathing heavily. “Keep him away from her,” he said.

Yuri took the gun off Vlad and pointed it at Eli. The VP70 appeared huge in his hand. “You don’t give me orders,” he said. “Never.”

“Fine,” Eli said.

The two stared at each other for a moment and then Yuri said, “Stay and clean up this mess. Let’s go, Vlad. Out of here.” Vlad grunted and left the room. Yuri kept his eyes trained on Eli and followed his associate out. The door slammed shut.

Eli turned to Sarah, moved to the cot, and sat down beside her. “I’m sorry for that,” he said.

Sarah whirled around and slapped his face. “Get out of here and take that tray with you,” she said.

Eli stood, rubbing his face. “I guess I deserved that. I have to clean this up.”

“Leave it, I don’t give a shit if my room’s a pigsty. It was a pigsty before it was covered in breakfast,” she said.

“Look, Sarah,” Eli said. “You’re just making this worse for yourself. I don’t have to be nice to you, you know.”

“Oh,
really
? You don’t have to be
nice
? You didn’t have to
kidnap
me, either!”

“Goddamn it, Sarah, all we want to know is how to reach your father. I know you have a way to get hold of him. If you don’t tell us, you’re going to suffer. I can’t stop that. Vlad will have his way with you. I guarantee I won’t be able to prevent it. And Yuri, if he gets started on you, it’s all about pain. Those guys are experts, Sarah. So far they haven’t been given the orders to hurt you, but if the orders come, they won’t hesitate to do it. Now, tell me, is your father here in the Middle East?”

Sarah folded her arms in front of her, still shaken by what had just occurred. Eli’s words frightened her, and she wasn’t sure what to do.

“Sarah. Talk to me. Is he in the Middle East? We have reason to believe he might be in Turkey at this moment.”

Sarah brought her knees up to her chin and buried her face. The tears came freely.

“I see,” Eli said. “Stubborn to the end. Fine. Well, you just think about it some more, then. Oh, and by the way, I

brought you something to read. Maybe it will help you make up your mind.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper. He tossed it on the cot beside her, picked up the tray and dishes, left the spilled oatmeal on the floor, and went out of the room.

After she heard the door lock, Sarah looked at the newspaper and saw that it was in English—and a picture of Rivka was on the front page. Sarah picked up the paper and stared at the front-page headline, her heart racing in terror.

 

 

The story related how a twenty-year-old woman was found strangled to death, her body lying in a trash heap in an alley. Police suspected Palestinian militants for the slaying, but an investigation was under way.

At the bottom of the page was a photo of both Rivka and Sarah. Sarah recognized it as one that Rivka’s parents had taken earlier in the week. The caption read:

THE
Caucasus Mountains. Would you believe that the Soviet elite thought of these small republics—Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan—as a holiday paradise? They have everything: sunny beaches, snowy mountains, luxurious orchards, and some of the best wine in Eastern Europe. Or is it Asia? It’s hard to say. The region seems to connect Asia with Europe, and it’s a mixture of cultural elements from both continents. Now that the Soviet Union is no more and these countries are more or less independent, all we hear about are the ethnic conflicts that plague the area. But I’ve never had any problems here. In fact, I kind of like it.

I drive out of Turkey in the Pazhan, which is beginning to worry me. The engine’s starting to make a
cough-cough
noise every now and then. I just hope it makes it to Baku. The mountain roads are tough on even the sturdiest of vehicles.

I travel north and enter Armenia just west of Yerevan. I have no trouble at the border. My Interpol credentials get me through, and it helps that these places are far less suspicious than the other countries I’ve visited on this assignment. I have to cross over the mountains, north of Lake Sevan, to access the straighter, more level road heading east into Azerbaijan. The distance in miles really isn’t that much, but the up-and-down nature of the trip stretches the time frame. I just try to relax and enjoy the gorgeous scenery.

I reach my destination after nightfall. Baku, or Baki—depending on whom you talk to—is the largest city in the Caucasus. In America they say that Chicago is the “windy city,” but it has nothing over Baku. Baku’s name, in fact, comes from Persian words that mean “city of winds.” Perched on the shore of the Caspian Sea, Baku is bombarded by strong gales on a frequent basis. Another distinctive aspect of Baku is that it’s surrounded by gaseous and flammable oil fields. Since oil is the country’s main commodity, most of Baku is an industrial city that works to refine the huge amounts of petroleum. What’s amazing is there are areas of earth that literally flame up because gas is coming out of the ground. So Baku is sometimes called the “land of fire,” as well. Back in the times of the Greeks, many of the myths grew out of this area because of its unusual natural characteristics.

It’s not a very attractive city. I find it very polluted, especially on the outskirts, but I believe this is a legacy of former Soviet rule. The inner city and the harbor area have lately been built up to attract more tourists. It’s trying to be downright cosmopolitan, albeit a little more conservative than, say, Istanbul.

If I wanted to I could stay at a four-star hotel, but that’s not my style. I prefer budget places where no one pays much attention to the guests. I find such an establishment located on board a former Caspian Sea ferry that sits on a permanent mooring beside the Port Office in the area known as Boom Town. The place is a dump but the cabins have hot water and privacy. I don’t plan to stay long.

After a welcome night’s sleep I greet the morning refreshed and ready to work. I have a breakfast of bread and honey with yogurt at the teahouse near my so-called hotel, and then I walk through Boom Town to the address I found on the shipping manifest in the Akdabar storeroom. Those weapons were definitely shipped from Azerbaijan, and whatever business occupies the address had something to do with it.

It turns out to be a bank just off Fountain Square, the center for people watching in Baku. The fountains happen to be working today, so the café terraces are busy and lively. Since I’m wearing my civilian sports jacket and trousers, I blend in easily. No one notices the casually dressed businessman enter the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank except the security guard at the front door. He’s standing outside as if he were actually a hotel concierge waiting to hail a taxi for a guest. I notice there’s a retinal scanner by the door—which will make my entry during off-hours all the more difficult. I’ll have to think about that one.

As I open the door, the guard nods at me and asks me something in Azeri. I simply smile, point to the information desk, and go inside. It’s a fairly small bank lobby with two teller windows and two executive desks on the floor. A barred gate leads to an area behind a wall, which I presume are back offices, the vault, and maybe safe-deposit boxes. I go to the table that holds bank literature, pick up a pamphlet, and pretend to study it as I case the place. There are two surveillance cameras up in the corners and appear to cover the entire lobby. I glance through the teller windows—only one is occupied—and see a pretty Azeri woman in her thirties counting manat, the official currency. There’s not much room back there, so I figure all the good stuff in the bank is through the barred gate.

While I’m studying the place, a man enters from the street, stands and speaks quietly to the guard, and then walks over to the teller window. I recognize him as the man with Namik Basaran in the photo that was in Rick Benton’s folder. He’s dressed impeccably in an expensive suit and has the demeanor of a king. I make him out to be perhaps the bank manager.

He speaks to the teller for a moment and then moves to the barred gate. He unlocks it with his own set of keys, enters, closes and locks the gate behind him, and disappears. He didn’t look at me once.

It’s funny how all the little pieces start falling into place. Whoever this guy is, he’s obviously pretty chummy with Basaran. In the photo they look like old pals who have enjoyed a longtime business relationship. Of course, the guy could simply be Basaran’s banker. Much remains to be seen.