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.
I do find an emergency exit in the back of the building, near the washrooms. There are warning notices all over it, which means another alarm will go off if I open the door. Too late to worry about that now.
I push the bar on the door, shove it open, and am greeted by another siren that resounds through the building. I leap into the alley, alight in a crouch, and look up to see two policemen standing fifty feet away, guns in hand. One yells at me, levels his pistol, and fires! What happened to “Don’t move or I’ll shoot”? The hell with it, he misses anyway. I bounce to my feet and run toward the other end of the alley—but I quickly see this wasn’t a wise move, because there’s a sixteen-foot wall there. A goddamned dead end.
I’ve never been one to be stopped by something as insignificant as a wall. First, though, I have to get rid of the pests firing bullets at me. The cops are either drunk or blind because they’re lousy shots. I draw the Five-seveN, drop to my knee, twist my torso, take aim, and discharge two rounds for each man. It’s as if they’re both punched in the chest by an invisible sledgehammer. I figure they’re probably wearing bulletproof vests, but the force of getting hit, even in a vest, is enough to knock you down.
This gives me time to pull out the cigar holder from the pocket on my left calf. I call it a cigar holder because it’s a long cylindrical tube—but it has many uses. I then reach into the Osprey, find the length of rope I keep there for emergencies just like this one, and attach the end of the rope to the cigar holder. I push the button on the holder and four steel prongs snap out, creating a portable grappling hook.
I swing the hook twice and throw it over the wall. The hook catches on the bricks, and I give the rope a good tug or two to make sure it’ll take my weight. Then it’s just a matter of climbing up the wall, retrieving the hook, and jumping down to the other side.
Now I’m on a street around the corner from the bank. The sirens are still blaring, so I can’t stay and watch the excitement. I run across the street to the nearest building and flatten myself against a side bathed in shadow. I need a moment to get my bearings. From here I can see the front of the bank. Three police cars have pulled up, lights blazing. The original guard is sitting up against the wall, rubbing the back of his head. I don’t know how many cops are in there looking for me but as soon
as they figure out I’ve left two of their buddies in the alley, they’re going to be hunting for me like angry bees.
Before I can slip away into the darkness, a policeman appears at the end of my street and sees me. He shouts and draws his weapon. I immediately turn and run in the opposite direction. I hear gunshots and now there’re more of them aware of my presence. I turn the corner and suddenly I’m at Fountain Square where a small handful of people—college-age kids, really—are still huddling together, laden with heavy overcoats, smoking cigarettes and drinking vodka. It takes a real hardcore crowd to remain outside after midnight in this kind of wind chill. I have no time to stop and chat—I dart across the square just as two policemen appear behind me in pursuit. Another gunshot proves to me that the cops in Baku don’t care much about innocent bystanders. The group of young people scream and disperse in all directions, which is a good thing for me. Suddenly there are several moving targets in the square, and I’m hoping this will confuse my hunters.
As they fire more wild shots at me, I make it across the square and skirt into a dark alley. The grappling hook I fashioned is still coiled around my shoulder. If I can get a minute to use it again, I’ll take to the rooftops. But first I have to take care of Mutt and Jeff behind me.
I find a nook in the wall that’s deep enough to cover me in shadow. I stop running, slip into the cranny, and wait until I hear the two cops enter the alley. They slow down, suddenly realizing I’m not in sight. The men speak to each other in low voices—one of them seems to be adamant that I came this way, the other is not so sure. With their weapons in hand they walk slowly toward me. The element of surprise is key here, so I hold myself back until just the right moment. When I see both of their backs, I step out of the nook and move between them. I grab their shirt collars, one in each hand, and slam the two men together. A pistol discharges and the owner drops it. The two cops are shaken but have the tenacity to turn and face me. Using the Krav Maga technique of moving forward in offense and positioning myself on the opponent’s dead side, I prevent the armed cop from shooting me. The “dead side” of an opponent is his “outside.” If you face an enemy who has his left foot forward, you must move forward and to your right. Moving in this direction places you in a position where the opponent’s hands or feet can’t readily strike you since you’re at his side. This also allows you to clobber the guy because he’s on your “inside.” And that’s just what I do. A quick jab to his arm causes him to drop his weapon. I swing to the right, raising my leg for a kick, and slam my boot into his chest. He goes down. The other cop is too shocked to budge. I move in, punch him hard in the stomach, and then pound him on the back of the head when he bends over in agony.
The alley’s quiet after that.
I take the rope and grappling hook off my shoulder, swing it like a lasso, and throw it onto the roof of the building closest to me. I hear shouts and running footsteps in the square, so I have no time to lose. Getting up the wall is easy, and once I’m at the top I have a bird’s-eye view of the Old Town. Below me, three more policemen enter the alley and rouse their stunned colleagues. I move to the other side of the roof so I can see Fountain Square and the bank beyond it. The number of patrol cars has increased and there’s a lot of activity around the building.
Using the rooftop route, I head northeast toward the harbor, one shadow at a time.
25
THIRD Echelon’s headquarters is nowhere near the National Security Agency, which is housed on Savage Road in Fort Meade, Maryland. The NSA is halfway between Baltimore and Washington, D.C., but Third Echelon resides in a small, nondescript building in the nation’s capital, not far from the White House. The reason for this separation is because technically Third Echelon doesn’t exist. Most NSA employees will have never heard of Third Echelon. As one of the most classified, top-secret organizations in the government, only those on a “need to know” basis are aware of the faction.
Third Echelon’s mission is to activate individual operatives—the Splinter Cells—in targeted locations to assess and access information vital to the security of the United States. Third Echelon is not the CIA or the FBI. While men such as Sam Fisher have a license to kill in the line of duty, it is never an objective. Thus it is important that Third Echelon’s support team in Washington provide the most accurate and up-to-date information to the Splinter Cells. It could mean the difference between successful missions with or without bloodshed.
Colonel Irving Lambert and his team had pulled an allnighter reviewing NSA satellite photographs of the Middle East and evaluating various reports pertaining to Fisher’s assignment. After Lambert studied the revelations concerning Namik Basaran and the possibility that he may not be what he seemed, he directed the team to have a close look at Akdabar Enterprises’ construction site in Northern Cyprus.
Carl Bruford, Third Echelon’s director of research analysis, sat with Lambert at the light table examining the photos with a magnifier. Bruford, a thirty-one-year-old man from Illinois, was considered an expert on reading between the lines of intelligence reports and deciphering cryptic messages.
“I’ll be damned if I can see anything weird,” Bruford said. “The site looks like what Basaran says it is—a shopping mall. It’s finished, too, from the looks of it. I don’t think it’s open to the public yet. There are still a lot of construction vehicles going in and out of the site, but the parking lot is empty.”
Lambert rubbed the top of his head and frowned. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Keep looking. But I’ll send this info to Sam anyway.”
“Right. Oh, Chief, I had a thought that, I don’t know, you might want to consider.”
“What’s that, Carl?”
“Doesn’t Fisher have a daughter?”
“Yes, he does. She’s a college student in Illinois.”
“Northwestern, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling, but shouldn’t we check up on her? I mean, since Fisher’s out of the country and all. And, you know, since three of our Splinter Cells are dead.”
Lambert made a face and rubbed his head again. “You think we’re losing Splinter Cells due to a hit list?”
“I do, Colonel.”
“And you think Sam’s probably on it?”
“Don’t you?”
Lambert looked away and Bruford thought he could see the wheels turning in the man’s head. The colonel turned back to Bruford and said, “Yeah, go ahead. Be discreet, though. We don’t want to alarm her.”
“Will do.”
The colonel went into the next room, where Carly St. John was busy working on hacking into Basaran’s server. Probably Third Echelon’s Most Valuable Player, St. John was a computer programmer extraordinaire, a woman who had the ability to dismantle the most complex code and put it back together the way she wanted. At twenty-eight St. John was the youngest member of the team yet one of the most senior—she held the position of technical director. And while she didn’t consider herself attractive, men who met her fell in love at first sight. She was petite—five feet, one inch tall—and had a brunette bob-cut and sparkling blue eyes. She had heard the description “pixie” far too many times.
“How’s it coming?” Lambert asked her.
“Well, I’m getting closer,” she replied. “It’s pretty tough encryption, but I think I have a handle on it. I’ve got Basaran’s bank account hacked, now I just have to work on the Swiss account.”
“Sam says that Basaran is supposed to transfer the money tomorrow. I’d really like to sabotage that wire transfer.”
“I know, Chief,” St. John said. “Give me the rest of the day, okay?”
Lambert squeezed her shoulder and left her alone. He went back into the Operations Room and saw Bruford hanging up the phone.
“No answer at Sarah Burns’s apartment in Evanston, Chief,” Bruford announced.
“I thought she lived in a dorm.”
“That was last year. She’s a junior now and lives in
her own apartment.”
Lambert rolled his eyes. “Sheesh, time flies. Keep trying, but you might contact our man in Chicago to have a look-see. He probably has nothing to do.”
Bruford chuckled and picked up the phone again. “Right.”
Lambert went into his private office, a small space that allowed him to get away from the hustle and bustle for a few minutes at a time. He sat in his swivel chair, scanned his e-mail inbox, and took a sip of the now-cold coffee. He made a face, thought about going to get a fresh cup, but decided he’d rather shut his eyes for a bit. He was dead tired. All-nighters were for college kids.
But as soon as he closed his eyes the fax machine began to beep. He glanced at the cover page and saw that it was from Lieutenant Colonel Petlow in Baghdad. Lambert figured that perhaps he should go ahead and get a fresh cup of hot coffee—by the time he returned, the fax would be finished. Four minutes later he was back in the office, java in hand, ready to examine Petlow’s fax.
TO: Colonel Irving Lambert
FROM: Lieutenant Colonel Dan Petlow
RE: Nasir Tarighian
Dear Colonel—
Pursuant to your instructions I have had my intelligence people work on the Tarighian business 24/7, and we now have something to report.
Nasir Tarighian was/is a wealthy Iranian citizen who was politically active during the Iraq-Iran War. In 1983 his home in Tehran was bombed and destroyed, killing his wife and two daughters. He formed a radical anti-Iraq terrorist outfit that made frequent sojourns across the border to Iraq, where he and his men performed vicious raids against innocent Iraqi civilians. In Iran and in parts of Iraq, Tarighian’s band of terrorists was already beginning to be known as the Shadows. The Iranian government disapproved of Tarighian’s methods and exiled him, but he left behind a populace that considered him a war hero, a sort of avenger for the Iranian people. In November 1984, Iraqi soldiers ambushed the Shadows—in Iraq. The force was wiped out and Tarighian was believed to have been burned to death in a massive explosion. No remains were found. But the Shadows live on to this day. In the last five to ten years they have regrouped and became better managed and financed. Terrorist Ahmed Mohammed has been linked to the group and may be directing their operations in the field. Four years ago the rumor mill perpetuated the story that Nasir Tarighian was alive and well and still leading the Shadows from outside of Iran. Since no one had really seen him, Tarighian remained a mythical figure—part righteous warrior, part ghost.