Lambert’s intercom buzzed. “Yes?” he said, pushing the button.
“We’ve got some news on Horowitz,” Bruford said.
“I’m on my way.”
Lambert rose, grabbed his coffee cup, and rushed to the Operations Room where Bruford and other team members were working. Carly St. John had her hands on a printout that she was studying closely.
“What have you got?” Lambert asked, taking a seat at the table.
“Eli Horowitz isn’t an Israeli,” Bruford said. “He’s from Azerbaijan. He entered Israel when he was sixteen on the pretext that he was a Jewish refugee from Russia. The Mossad has just confirmed that Horowitz—which is his real name by the way—has used a number of aliases throughout his life. When he was living in Azerbaijan, he was arrested on conspiracy charges with a group of terrorists associated with the Kurds there. Because of his age and some political connections, he was set free. On a later occasion he was arrested in Georgia in possession of a cache of illegal weapons. He was about to stand trial when he miraculously escaped from jail. It was a daring operation that involved several participants. Georgian authorities believed the jailbreak to be the work of a powerful Russian mafia.”
“The Shop?”
“Very likely. That terrorist watch list he was on, when it was tardily discovered by U.S. Immigration, identified Horowitz as a mule for the Shop.”
Lambert slapped the table. “Okay, so we’ve definitely established he’s a bad guy. How the hell do we find him?”
Carly spoke up. “The Mossad has been very cooperative. They found his apartment in East Jerusalem and ransacked it. The boy left the place as if he was planning to return. All of his clothes and belongings were there—including a computer.”
Lambert raised his eyebrows, and Carly wiggled hers in reply.
“And we might have something,” she said. “This is a printout showing the contents of the hard drive. Although there isn’t anything that directly connects him to the Shop, we’ve retrieved some recent e-mails that indicate he was planning something before Sarah Burns came to Israel. Most of the mail prior to two weeks ago was deleted, but the Mossad is delivering a subpoena to Horowitz’s ISP as soon as they can. What we do have are some of the last communications between him and Sarah, much of which we already uncovered on Sarah’s computer in Illinois, but also some e-mails between Horowitz and someone named Yuri. We’ve traced this Yuri’s e-mail address, and the server is at the Russian-Israeli Bank in Jerusalem.”
“The Russian-Israeli Bank? Is that legit?” Lambert asked.
“It is. It’s a private and fairly young institution. The bank opened two years ago, and the board of directors consists of nothing but Russians.”
“Interesting.”
Then Carly smiled, pausing for dramatic effect. “And here’s the clincher. The bank is a subsidiary of the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank.”
Lambert raised his fists above his head. “Praise the Lord! We need the Israel Security Forces to get in there and tear the place apart. Now.”
Bruford replied, “It’s already in the works. The bank manager and its employees are going to have a rude surprise when they arrive at work in the morning—which should be happening any minute over there.”
“Great work, people,” Lambert said. “Now if we’d just hear something from Fisher, my ulcer might settle down.”
Chip Driggers spoke up. “Colonel, there’s a transmission coming through!”
Lambert rose and went over to Driggers’s terminal. “Is it Sam?”
“Looks like it. He’s sending some JPG files.”
When the image appeared on the monitor, both men’s jaws dropped.
“Holy shit, what the hell is that thing?” Driggers asked.
Lambert rubbed his eyes and looked again. “It’s a goddamned Babylon supergun. We should have known. We should have known!”
“There are more pics coming through. Look.”
The entire team gathered around the monitor, watching in awe as Fisher’s captures of the Babylon Phoenix came into view. Lambert didn’t waste any time running back to his office. He picked up the phone on Bruford’s desk and ordered, “Get me the president.”
37
NASIR Tarighian wiped the sweat from his brow and looked at his watch. The sun had completely risen, and he felt that time was running out. If the American had contacted his people during the night, it was only a matter of hours—maybe minutes—before the forces arrived to stop his plan to punish Iraq.
His advisers had been telling him for months that the plan was folly. Albert Mertens and his team were against targeting Baghdad, and his committee heads strongly protested the choosing of Iraq. Tarighian knew fully well that he might be sacrificing the Shadows as an entity to satisfy his lust for revenge. He didn’t care. His most trusted colleague, Ahmed Mohammed, had said that this was a plan of “madness.” But Tarighian knew he wasn’t mad, at least not in the “crazy” sense. He was simply intent on allowing his wife and children to rest peacefully. If it meant that he had to die a martyr, then so be it. Many others had done the same.
He looked out the control room window and up at the magnificent creature that was his to command. The Babylon Phoenix was primed and ready, calibrated to fire the MOAB at Baghdad. He was awaiting last-minute preparations that Mertens assured him would take no longer than a half hour. That was forty minutes ago.
“Mertens!” he called across the room. “What the hell is going on?”
Mertens exchanged glances with Eisler, and Tarighian didn’t like it. He had seen too many furtive looks between those two.
“Yes, sir?” Mertens asked calmly.
“Are we ready yet?”
“Not quite. There seems to be a problem in the engine room. I would like you to come with me to check it out. I want you to see with your own eyes the problems we are having. This rushing to fire the weapon on such short notice is having a domino effect.”
“What kind of problem is it?”
“I’m not sure. The engineers want us down there in person. I suggest that you come with me.”
“Damn,” Tarighian muttered. “All right, lead the way.” Farid started for the door and Tarighian said, “Yes, Farid, you come with us.” The mute strongman grunted and held the door open. Once again Mertens and Eisler exchanged looks, and both men rose to head out of the control room. They followed Tarighian and Farid down the short flight of steps and walked across the platform to the bloated hydraulics base that was supporting the Babylon Phoenix on ground level. Several of Tarighian’s more loyal armed soldiers stood nearby. They watched as Mertens opened the heavy iron door that led to the bowels of the mechanism, which were enclosed deep within.
Mertens gestured inside. “After you, sir.”
Tarighian ducked his head and clambered down the steel steps into the engine room. Although illuminated by work lights, the place was darker than other areas of the compound. The monstrous engines that manipulated the hydraulics dominated the room, which pounded noisily with life. Several men were busy at control panels while two worked feverishly on one of the hydraulics.
Once the four men had entered the room and shut the door, another man wearing a jeballa and turban turned from the control panel and faced Tarighian.
“Ahmed!” Tarighian said. “What are you doing here?”
Ahmed Mohammed gave Tarighian a slight bow. “I have been in the complex since last night. You were too busy to notice.”
“Why, I’m sorry. You should have—”
“I was concerned about your plans, Nasir. That’s why I am here.”
Tarighian put an arm around his Political Committee head and said, “I am happy that you are. You are just in time! This morning we shall fire the Babylon Phoenix and finally show the West that Islam will not let America and its allies control Iraq or the Middle East. In a few minutes there will no longer be a Baghdad. What do you think of that, Ahmed?”
Mohammed shook his head. “Nasir, my fri
end, I must tell you that we all feel you have strayed too far from the path. This insane notion you have of destroying Baghdad is nonsense. Baghdad is a Muslim city. Iraq is a Muslim country. You are blinded by your thirst for revenge. Your goals are misplaced and inappropriate. The decision has been made to relieve you of your leadership.”
Tarighian blinked. He wasn’t sure he had heard the man correctly. “What did you say? I don’t think you understand, Ahmed. We are ready to fire the gun now. We will soon be the masters of the Middle East, and we will kick out the Western dogs.”
“No, Nasir, it is you who does not understand. You were once a great warrior and leader. You brought the Shadows to unprecedented glory. But you veered from the path of true Islamic spirituality. You live like a Westerner. You do business with Westerners. You have friends that are Westerners. You constantly seek publicity and you crave money. In the eyes of Allah you have sinned a great deal.”
Tarighian took a step back. “What are you saying? You can’t take the Shadows away from me! You can’t take me away from the Shadows!”
Mohammed had a sad, cold expression on his face. “Yes, Nasir, we can.”
Tarighian didn’t expect Albert Mertens to lift a Glock, suddenly point it at the side of Tarighian’s head, and squeeze the trigger. Nasir Tarighian’s skull exploded, spraying a mass of blood and gray matter onto the wall beside them. His body collapsed to the floor.
This was Eisler’s cue to act. In a swift, unexpected maneuver, Eisler drew his Swamp Monster knife, grabbed Farid’s hair through the turban, pulled the man’s head back, and sliced the exposed throat from ear to ear. Farid’s reflexes were abrupt and forceful—he swung around and slammed his free arm into Eisler, knocking him back onto a desk. The big man wanted his assailant’s hide, but it was too late. Blood gushed from the open wound below his chin as if it was a spigot. Farid’s grunts became gurgles as he clutched his neck in a helpless attempt to close the lesion. Then, in a rage, he tried to grab hold of Eisler’s leg but clumsily knocked over a computer monitor instead. Eisler scrambled to the floor on the other side of the desk and backed away from the man-monster bellowing in front of him.
Farid threw himself forward, trying to go around the desk, but he stumbled and fell to the floor. Emitting a sickening, choking noise, Tarighian’s bodyguard thrashed violently for nearly a minute until he began to lose steam. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Farid lay dead.
The others in the room stared at the carnage in disbelief but looked up at Ahmed Mohammed, Albert Mertens, and Heinrich Eisler with newfound respect.
Mohammed looked at Mertens and said, “As leader of the Shadows, I now give you the authority to recalibrate the Babylon Phoenix and point it at the target we spoke about.”
Mertens put away his gun and nodded. “Thank you, sir. This is really the best decision.” He turned to the workers and said, “Take these bodies and put them inside the engine.” Four of the men came forward, picked up Tarighian’s corpse, opened the engine doors, and shoved the lifeless form inside. There the hydraulics would mash it to a pulp. Then they did the same with Farid.
Mertens, Eisler, and Mohammed left the engine room and stood against the closed door. Tarighian’s armed men watched them with curiosity. Where was their leader?
Before anyone could register what was happening, two dozen men leaned over the circular balcony rail and fired AK-47s on Tarighian’s loyalists. The sudden burst of noise reverberated through the complex, frightening the rest of the workers to a standstill. It was as if hell had rained down from the heavens, chopping up any living thing that dared to be in the way of the ammunition. The loyalists never had a chance to aim their weapons for a return volley. After twenty seconds Tarighian’s loyalists lay in pools of their own blood. The men faithful to Mohammed ran down the ramp from the upper balcony and stood at attention, awaiting further orders.
Ahmed Mohammed shouted to everyone. “Sons of Allah! Hear me!” Every worker in the complex turned to look at him. “Nasir Tarighian is dead! I will be assuming leadership of the Shadows from now on. Continue your good work and Allah will reward you.”
Some of the workers cheered. Others were confused. Only a few were disappointed.
Mertens looked at Mohammed and explained, “As you can hear, Tarighian’s objectives were not very popular.”
“No, they weren’t,” Mohammed said.
As they returned to the control room, Mertens asked Eisler, “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” He wiped his knife clean on his trouser leg and sheathed it.
Mertens nodded and said, “Recalibrate the weapon for a new target.”
“Yes, sir,” Eisler said. “And what is the new target?”
“Jerusalem.”
38
THE two armed goons march me up the ramp and onto the perimeter balcony. As we head for the double doors, I notice several guys with AK-47s crouched below the rail as if they’re waiting for something. The one closest to us nods at my two guards, and they give him a silent acknowledgment. What the hell’s going on? If I didn’t know better I’d say there’s going to be some kind of rebellious action happening soon. Do I smell an uprising in the air? Is that something I can use to my advantage?
I’ve lost track of how much time is left on the frag grenades. It has to be nearly forty-five minutes since I set them and was caught. I suspect that there’s less than five or ten minutes left to go. I really don’t want to be on this balcony when they go off—it’s liable to collapse.
“Sam?” It’s Lambert. The tiny voice in my ear. “Sam? Are you there?”
Shit. I can’t respond.
One of my captors uses his keycard to open the double doors and we walk through. I don’t particularly relish being marched to my death, so I need to think of something quickly. The guy with the keycard has my stuff. They didn’t remove the OPSAT, but it’s not going to do me much good with my hands tied behind my back.
Lambert speaks again. “Sam? If you can hear me, get the hell out of that shopping mall. The UN forces will be there in about ten minutes, maybe sooner! If you can read me, get the hell out, now!”
I’d like to do just that, Colonel.
We walk through the empty department store, and we’re now level with the upper half of the supergun barrel, which is poking through the opening in the middle of the shopping mall complex. They haven’t opened the domed ceiling or raised the supergun to its maximum height yet. My fascination with machinery and weapons makes me want to stay and watch them shoot the thing, but I know I can’t do that. I don’t want to be caught inside this place when the cavalry arrives.
They take me around the supergun into one of the three storefront wings. A steel door marked “Maintenance” in Turkish and in English appears to be our destination. Abbott takes a set of keys from his pocket while Costello sticks his AK-47 in my lower back. Abbott unlocks the door and holds it open for his pal and me. Once we’re inside, I see why Tarighian called this the “incinerator room”—there’s one dominating the far wall. I figure they throw their garbage into it. The room is also full of hardware and tools, a table saw, and a few of those three-wheelie carts.
There’s also a video camera sitting on a tripod in the middle of the room. A couple of floodlights on stands point to an area of the floor near the incinerator. I wonder how many executions they’ve put on tape or if I’m their debut production.
Abbott opens the incinerator’s grilled door. The flames inside cast a golden glow over the room. I figure they think this makes their home movies more aesthetically pleasing. Abbott then turns on the floodlights and checks the video camera. He looks through the viewfinder, makes sure it’s pointed in the proper place, and then says “Put him in place” in Arabic. These guys aren’t Turkish.
Costello jabs his gun into my back again, pushing me over to the “stage.” Abbott presses the Record button, the camera’s red light turns on, and then he moves to join us in front of the lens.
We’re stand
ing in a line with me in the middle—Abbott on my right, Costello on my left—facing the camera. Abbott announces to the audience in Arabic, “This is American spy Sam Fisher. He is to die today for waging war against Islam.”
Suddenly we hear the sound of gunfire in the distance. It’s intense, too, as if an entire platoon is firing machine guns at enemy forces. Abbott and Costello look at each other and smile. “We have a new leader,” Costello says.
Now’s my chance. I hip-check Abbott—I ram my hip-bone as hard as I can into his, knocking him sideways. At the same time I lodge my right boot on the inside of his left leg, causing him to fall to the floor. Before Costello can react, I raise my left boot, run it down his right shin, and stomp hard on his foot. I take a step to my right, turn, and then kick the ever-loving shit out of his right knee. I hear the bones snap as he screams and falls to the ground.
By now Abbott is scrambling to his feet and trying to level his AK-47 at me. I turn to him and kick him hard in the face with my right boot. He falls onto his back, dropping the rifle.
Part of my training included perfecting a maneuver that allows me to roll my legs through my tied arms—like jumping rope backwards. You have to be really limber to do it, and I spent weeks getting to where I could just manage it. It’s possible to execute the move while doing a forward roll—you just have to throw your arms around your body in the opposite direction from the way legs are going. Scrunching yourself up into a ball beforehand makes it easier. So, very quickly, I squat, form my body into a ball, and perform that forward roll, bringing my arms over and around my body. Perfect. I jump to my feet and now my tied hands are in front of me.
Abbott is on his knees now, trying to get up for a second time. Another kick to the face sends him to Never-land. For good measure I scoot the AK-47 across the floor out of his reach. I then turn my attention to Costello, who’s writhing in agony on the floor. I raise my left boot above his head and bring it down as hard as I can. No more pain for him.