Splinter Cell (2004) (25 page)

I take a couple of pamphlets and leave the lobby. As I walk by the guard I don’t look at him—instead I study one of the pamphlets as if I’m trying to make up my mind whether or not to use the bank’s services. He says something that probably translates to “Have a nice day, sir,” and I grunt affirmatively without looking up.

I walk south to what is referred to as the Old Town. It’s a little maze of alleys that probably should be more impressive than it is. There are some interesting medieval monuments scattered about, but it’s mostly made up of nineteenth-century oil-boom structures and Soviet-era tenement buildings. I find a harbor
restoran
that specializes in barbecue and have a seat outside. The waiter brings me Azeri’s standard fare—barbecued chicken and
shashlyk
, which is marinated lamb kebab. I find the “fast food” in this town better than the restaurant menus.

When I’m done I walk along the harbor and contact Lambert via my implant.

“Colonel, are you awake?” I ask. “Colonel?”

He answers after twenty seconds or so. “Sam?”

“It’s me, Colonel. Did I wake you?”

“Um, yeah, but that’s all right. We haven’t spoken in a while. Are you in a secure place?”

“I’m walking along Baku harbor. There’s no one around. I thought I’d check to see if you have news, because I have some.”

“I do,” Lambert says. “But you go first.”

“You know the address I found attached to the arms at Akdabar Enterprises?”

“Yes?”

“It’s a bank. The Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank. Right off of Fountain Square in Baku.”

I hear Lambert chuckling. “What’s so funny?” I ask.

“It’s such a coincidence. We’ve been hard at work gathering information about those men you asked for. Just a second, let me get to my portable transmitter. . . .” I wait a few seconds. He probably has to get out of bed and go into his office. After a moment I hear him again in the depths of my ear. “I’m uploading a photo. Take a look.”

In a flash my OPSAT displays a picture of the guy I just saw in the bank. The same guy in the photo with Namik Basaran. “Got it,” I say.

“That’s Andrei Zdrok.”

“No shit.”

“That’s him.”

“Son of a bitch. You won’t believe this, but he’s here. I just saw him in the bank. He walked in like he owned the joint and went into the back offices.”

“Well, he does own the joint,” Lambert says. “Unfortunately there’s not a lot on him we could dig up, but what we’ve found is interesting. He’s a Russian banker—he’s actually from Georgia—and he’s the
president
of the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank. He resides in Zurich, Switzerland, where the main branch of the bank is located. The only other branch is there in Baku.”

“Okay.”

“Our intelligence reports suggest that Zdrok has ties to organized crime, but nothing has ever been proven. He’s never been accused of anything or had any problems with the law. He’s on a watch list, though. The Russian government suspects he might be a major player in the black market.”

“Colonel, I have reason to believe he may be one of the top dogs in the Shop,” I say. “Rick Benton thought so, I think. You saw the chart I sent you?”

“I’ve made that same connection, Sam. I label the guy Russian mafia.”

“I’m going to have a look inside the bank tonight. No telling what I might find.”

“In the meantime we’ll see what else we can dig up.”

“And don’t forget there’s his connection with Namik Basaran. They obviously know each other and Basaran lied to me about it. Basaran’s dirty, Colonel. I don’t care what kind of charity he runs, the guy’s a phony.”

“So far he’s clean, Sam,” Lambert says. “The Turkish government insists he’s the equivalent of a saint.”

“What about his background? Do we know anything about him? He’s got skeletons in his closet, I just know he does. I saw a photo in his office of a woman and two girls—I’d bet they’re his family, but where are they now?”

“We’re still digging. I’m afraid there isn’t much on the guy before the nineties.”

“Well, that’s enough to make me suspicious. A man in his forties just doesn’t magically materialize in a country without some sort of history. Find it, Colonel.”

“We’re doing our best. Oh, here’s one report I’m looking at now . . . hmm, it’s a memo from a Turkish intelligence officer that’s apparently been disputed by his superiors, but he claims that Basaran isn’t really Turkish.”

“I’d like to talk to this officer. Who is he?”

“Well, unfortunately, he’s dead. Doesn’t say how or when he died . . . just says he’s deceased.”

“Shit.”

“Now, there’s the other fellow you wanted to know about. . . .”

“Mertens?”

“Albert Mertens. Dr. Albert Mertens was one of Gerard Bull’s right-hand men during the years when Bull was an arms designer and dealer. Mertens was one of the top physicists on the fabled ‘Babylon Gun.’ Remember that?”

“Sure. When we were talking about Gerard Bull in Washington, I happened to recall it. It’s the supergun that could fire a payload at a target a thousand kilometers away. Saddam Hussein commissioned Bull to make one so he could attack a neighboring country without more expensive cruise missiles. Wasn’t it able to fire not just conventional explosives but also biological or chemical warheads, or even nuclear bombs?”

“You’re right, Sam. Luckily the thing was never finished.”

“Okay, so what’s this Professor Mertens doing working for Basaran?”

“I don’t know, but it’s got us concerned. You see, Mertens served seven years in a Belgian prison for illegal arms dealing. According to the data we received, Mertens was transferred during the seventh year to a mental institution and was committed. The guy’s a raving lunatic. Then, five years ago, he disappeared from the clinic. Either he escaped on his own or someone broke him out. We don’t know. The Belgian police have been looking for the guy ever since.”

“So what’s Basaran up to?” I ask. “Has he got Mertens building him a supergun? And if so, why? Basaran’s supposed to be on
our
side, but it’s looking more and more like he isn’t.”

“Let’s just keep moving forward, Sam. You’re doing a great job.”

“Any luck on Nasir Tarighian?”

“Not yet. The research team does have a lead on obtaining a photograph of the man. As soon as it’s available, you’ll be the first to get it.”

“Fine. I’ll send you a report tonight after I’ve had a look inside that bank.”

“Just be extra careful, Sam,” Lambert says. “If this Zdrok guy is really part of the Shop, he’ll have your intestines for dinner if you’re caught.”

“Don’t worry, I intend to stay off the menu.”

IT’S
a little after midnight when I make my way through the streets, sticking to the shadows and pausing every now and then to make sure no one is following me. Not only is it important to make sure you’re not seen as you move forward, you need to have eyes in the back of your head as well.

There are a few late-nighters in Fountain Square. I can’t imagine why, because it’s cold as hell with the wind coming off the Caspian. I avoid the place altogether and take backstreets to reach the bank. As expected, there’s a lone security guard standing outside under a light, bundled up and rubbing his arms to keep warm. I see his breath wafting from his nose and mouth. Unfortunately that’s also a hazard for me when it’s cold outside. There’s not a lot I can do to mask my breathing except stay in the shadows and avoid light.

I have to move quickly for this to work—he mustn’t see me coming. I choose a dark spot along the street and then dart across so I’m on the same side as the guard. I

crouch and draw my Five-seveN. I’m approximately thirty feet from the guy, but he can’t see me. Like a cat, I run lightly and noiselessly right up to him and halt with the barrel of my pistol at his temple.

It takes him a few seconds to realize what has just happened. He doesn’t move his head but tries to look at me with his eyes. With my free hand I take the Glock from his holster and toss it away. The guard asks me something, probably, “What is it you want?” or something like that. I don’t answer. Instead, I turn him around to face the retinal scanner. I point to it and he gets the idea. At first he shakes his head, but I tap him with the barrel again. The guard slowly leans forward and looks into the scanner.

I hear the door unlock.

While he’s still in this position, I club him hard on the pressure point at the base of his skull. He drops like a sack of Azeri beets. I get a good grip under his arms and drag him into the shadows. For good measure I kick his Glock into the sewer drain.

I lower my goggles, turn on the night vision, and open the bank door. In two seconds flat I crouch and shoot out the overhead lights with the Five-seveN—
one
,
two
. I shut the door and now it’s dark in the lobby. The surveillance cameras can’t see me.

Bypassing the teller windows, I go straight to the barred gate and use the lock picks to open it. Beyond that is a small room to the left that holds a minimal amount of safe-deposit boxes. Across from that is an office, presumably Zdrok’s. Down the corridor is the vault. I go into Zdrok’s office.

His computer is on, but the monitor is off. I switch it on and examine the hard drive. His e-mail address is easy to pick up, so I note it in my OPSAT. Armed with this information, Carly St. John can hack into his server and retrieve everything he’s sent and received that hasn’t been deleted. The rest of the files are Excel and Word documents that appear to be legitimate bank business. I do find a folder that’s encrypted, and I try all the basic hacker tricks to get inside. No luck. I’m also unable to copy the file into my OPSAT. Whatever’s in there, Zdrok made sure he’s the only one that can access it. I end up making a copy of the folder’s properties so I can send it to Carly.

A quick search of the desk and filing cabinets reveals nothing of interest. I’m beginning to feel as if I’ve struck out. Perhaps Zdrok keeps all the good stuff in Zurich. I sit in his chair for a moment and look around the room. Sometimes this helps inspire me to try something I hadn’t thought of. I notice that the interior designer placed polished mahogany panels on the walls, arranged in a geometric, artistic pattern. The panels jut out slightly, creating an embossed effect. I stand and cross the room for a closer look. On a whim I switch the mode on my goggles to fluorescent. In this mode I see that the panels’ top edges are very dusty.

I move to the other wall and examine the panels there. The dust on one panel reveals evidence of disturbance, as if someone had gripped the panel and inadvertently wiped the top edge clean in some spots. I carefully grip the panel and pull. What do you know—the thing snaps out and pivots on a hinge, revealing a small safe. I dig into my thigh pocket to retrieve a disposable pick and adjust the amount of force I’d like the microexplosive to have. To open a safe it has to be on full strength. That can make a bit of noise, not to mention a mess.

Screw it, they’re gonna know I was here anyway.

I arm the pick and position it next to the knob. When I’m confident it’s in the right place, I take a step back, brace myself, and push the firing pin on the side of the pick.

The blast feels like the equivalent of three Black Cat firecrackers, the kind I used to ignite on the Fourth of July when I was a kid. The damage it does, however, is much worse—there’s now a hole in the front of the safe. I can easily reach through it, turn the tumblers, and open the door. I’m always amazed by the fact that every time I use one of these things, nothing within the safe gets damaged.

Inside is a stack of papers, facedown. Some are clipped or stapled together, others loose or in manila folders. Upon examining them I see they’re records of money transfers to what appears to be a numbered Swiss bank account—which means it’s private and secure. The amounts of the transfers are in the millions of dollars. I also note they’re from a variety of organizations and individuals, but the locations are not indicated. In some cases there’s simply a number—a transfer from one numbered account to another. Trying to trace these accounts back to whom they belong isn’t going to be easy, if it can be done at all. Nevertheless, I snap pictures of several pages to see what Third Echelon can do.

The last document—that is, the record most recently placed in the safe—does denote the name of the customer. The money came from Tirma in the amount of eight million dollars. The transfer is dated tomorrow and the memo notation reads “Replacement.” Damn. What’s an alleged charity organization doing spending eight million dollars? They just bought a shitload of stuff. More proof that Namik Basaran isn’t what he seems.

Many of the records reference another Azerbaijan address in regard to the payee. I don’t recognize it, but I think it’s in the suburban outskirts of Baku. I make note of the location, snap a shot of the document, replace everything neatly in the safe—even though the front is blown away—and stand in the middle of the room. I open the Osprey and take out two sticky cameras. I climb onto the desk so I can reach the air vent above it, pry off the grating, and attach the camera so it aims out and down at the desk. The second camera I place in the bookshelf and set it to the far left, on top of a large book. It isn’t noticeable unless you pull out the book or stand right in front of the shelf and look closely. Finally I wedge an audio bug on the underside of Zdrok’s desk.

Now I’m ready to leave, but as I step out of the office into the hallway, the blasted alarm goes off. I nearly jump out of my skin—it’s about as loud and abrasive as an alarm can be. I edge to the end of the hall, near the barred gate, and hear shouting outside. Just my luck—someone must have discovered the unconscious guard I left outside, or he came floating back to reality earlier than I expected.

Well, I can’t go out the way I came in, can I? The front door bursts open just as I turn and head back through the corridor to look for an emergency exit. I don’t wait to see who comes in. I toss a smoke grenade behind me and run. It explodes, filling the entrance to the corridor with thick smoke. Men shout at me from the lobby, even though I’m certain they haven’t seen me yet.