by Tom Clancy
“What happened? Do we know?” I ask.
Lambert shakes his head. “Details are still coming in. The Belgian police are all over it, so we have to get the information through ordinary diplomatic channels, and you know how slow that can be. But we’re getting cooperation from the Belgian Military Intelligence and Security Service. One of their guys was killed with Benton.”
“What do we know?”
“Benton was in the process of obtaining some sensitive information from his contact in Brussels, an intelligence officer named Dirk Verbaken. Unknown assassins murdered both men in Benton’s hotel room during the lunch hour. Apparently Benton and Verbaken got together for a face-to-face, but someone else knew about it. They were both shot, and there’s every reason to believe that it’s the same MO as what happened in Macau to Dan Lee. Same ballistics—caliber and so forth.”
“You think it’s the Shop?”
“It has to be. I can’t think of another enemy organization that has an inkling that we exist. The Shop has been on notice for over a year now, and they know the NSA is on to them. Whether or not they’re completely aware of Third Echelon and what we do is anyone’s guess. Mine is that they are aware of us. How else would they be able to target two Splinter Cells in a three-month period?”
I shrug and venture, “They’ve tapped into our personnel records? Maybe they have talented hackers, too.”
“Our firewall is impenetrable,” Lambert replies. “Carly’s too good at that stuff. We’d know if we were being hacked.”
“There was the security breach that occurred nine months ago.”
Lambert nods. “I’ve thought of that. It’s a possibility. A remote one, but yeah, you’re right. Carly and I discussed this and there’s about a one-in-three-hundred chance that someone got in. Improbable but not impossible.”
“So what were Benton and this Belgian guy meeting about? What was his name?”
“Verbaken. The last report I received from Benton indicated he was investigating a possible connection between the Shop and ‘something in Belgium.’ He told me he was going to Brussels to meet with an intelligence contact there and that he would report in as soon as he was done. For months he was in the process of tracking a major Shop arms supply line coming into Iraq from the north. The customers are the various insurgents and terrorist factions that have been hounding our allies, the new Iraqi government, and us ever since the president declared that the war in Iraq was over. I know Benton was getting close to finding out some truths about those guys.” Lambert took a long slurp of soda. “I’m afraid Benton turned out to be careless. It cost him his life.”
“Is Belgium giving us any info on their guy? What was he working on?”
“Well, we have a clue. Benton’s OPSAT was recovered from the hotel room. It was smashed to hell, but upon examination of the device our people were able to extract a minimum number of files that hadn’t been transmitted to us. One was a shot of a page from a file belonging to Verbaken. When Belgian Intelligence saw the photo, they confirmed that it was from a missing file that detailed the activities of Gerard Bull.”
“Gerard Bull?” I’m surprised. I haven’t heard that name in many years. Gerard Bull was a Canadian arms designer and dealer who was active in the sixties, seventies, and eighties. He worked for our government for a while until there was a falling out. He served some prison time for illegal arms dealing. After he got out of prison, he worked extensively out of Europe. During the eighties he had close ties with Saddam Hussein and spent a lot of time designing and building high-tech arms for Iraq. His most famous “creation” was the design for what he called a “supergun.” He called it the “Babylon.” It was supposed to be a giant cannon-like weapon that could fire a payload an incredibly long distance. Alternatively, with the aid of boosters, a payload could be launched into space without the need of rockets. Bull never finished the project, but he did build a small prototype called the “Baby Babylon.” It was dismantled and destroyed during the Gulf War. Bull was assassinated in 1990—in Brussels, to be exact. It is widely believed that the Mossad was responsible for the killing.
“So what’s that all about?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Lambert replies. “Belgian intelligence confirmed that Verbaken had recently added material to the file because he believed that someone previously associated with Bull was continuing the physicist’s work for terrorists in the Middle East. Unfortunately, Verbaken hadn’t completed his investigation and had not filed any detailed reports. He died without leaving anyone a clue as to where his notes are. They were probably in the file. And it’s gone.”
“Except for the one page recovered from the OPSAT.”
“Right.”
“Did the killers take the file?”
“We assume so. I wonder if they were after the file to begin with, or were the targets either Verbaken or Benton and the file was just gravy?”
“Or after both guys and the file,” I suggest.
“There’s that possibility, too.”
We’re quiet for a moment as we let these thoughts sink in. I finish my pizza and ask, “You heard the news about London?”
Lambert nods grimly. “That’s another thing I wanted to talk with you about. As you can imagine, we’re all very concerned about it.”
“The news report was very vague. What happened?”
“I was in my car when it happened,” Lambert says. “I got on to the Pentagon immediately, and what they could gather in the few minutes after it occurred was that some suicide bombers were masquerading as actors or something. It happened by the National Theatre. A big truck packed with explosives blew up. Part of Waterloo Bridge crumbled. It’s a big mess.”
“Anyone claiming responsibility?”
“Not yet,” Lambert answers. “But the modus operandi suggests the Shadows, don’t you think?”
The Shadows. They’re a bunch of shady characters who’ve grabbed some headlines lately. A relatively new barrel of terrorists, the Shadows operate all over the world but are believed to be headquartered somewhere in the Middle East. (Where else?) I can’t remember who coined the name, but it wasn’t them. I think it was a newspaper from the region—maybe Turkey—that referred to them as the Shadows and it stuck. From then on messages from the group were signed “the Shadows.” I think they were flattered.
Third Echelon’s been trying its best to collect data on the Shadows. Because they’re so new it’s been pretty difficult. No one knows if they represent a particular country. They’re a lot like al Qaeda and other nomadic, independent terrorist factions. They’ve probably got a sugar daddy somewhere who provides all the cash. What we do know is that they’ve claimed responsibility for a rash of bombings over the last year. There was a really bad one in Nice, France, just a couple of weeks ago. Same kind of thing—a truck pulls up in some public place and blows up. Goddamned bastards. It’s a shitty, evil thing to do.
“It’s too early, isn’t it?” I ask. “For them to issue a claim of responsibility, I mean?”
“Yeah. It’ll be tomorrow. But I’ll give you ten to one it’s them.”
I nod. “You’re probably right.”
“The interesting thing about all this is that there’s a connection.”
“How so?”
“That sheet of paper from the Gerard Bull file—the one from the copier?”
“Yeah?”
“It also mentions the Shadows.”
“Really.”
“The implication in the wording is that they’re the Shop’s biggest customers right now and possibly the group behind whatever it was that Benton was chasing in Belgium.”
I sit back in my chair. “If we could establish a connection between the two groups—and identify the major players in each—”
Lambert smiles. “You catch on quick.”
“So you want me to go to Belgium?”
“No. I want you to go to Iraq.”
Iraq. Shit.
Lambert continues. “I want
you to pick up Benton’s trail there. Find out what he was investigating. He was sure suspicious about something, and damn it, he died before he could tell us what it was. You’ll be drop-shipped to Baghdad.” Lambert reaches into a briefcase and pulls out a manila envelope. He slides it across the table to me. “Everything you need to know is in there. Be ready to leave by army transport tonight at twenty-two hundred hours from Dulles. That should give you enough time to get home, make your preparations, and be back at the airport by twenty-one hundred.”
Yeah, just barely enough time.
I nod and tap my fingers on the envelope without opening it. That can wait until I get back to Towson.
“Okay,” I say. I have nothing else on the calendar.
6
I never pack much when I’m going OCONUS on assignment. An important component of my uniform is a slim custom-made Osprey backpack that fulfills a zillion functions. I can fit two or three changes of clothing inside, plus an assortment of Third Echelon equipment that I can pull out at a moment’s notice. I have a medical kit that contains painkillers, bandages, antiseptic, and atropine injections to combat exposure to a chemical attack. I have a limited supply of flares—both chemical and emergency—for various uses. Chemical flares glow in the dark when you crack the inner containers. They’re useful for attracting and distracting enemies. Emergency flares are standard road flares that emit heat, which can distract sensors like the ones found on automated turrets. I also keep a few frag grenades handy. These 14-ounce M67 babies consist of 2.5-inch steel spheres surrounding 6.5 ounces of high explosive. When these things go off, you don’t want to be close, believe me. The high-velocity shrapnel will rip you to shreds. In addition to the grenades I usually carry at least one wall mine. This is a motion-sensitive explosive device that can be attached to almost any surface. I’m able to improvise in the field, too—I’ve found that I’m pretty good at deactivating enemy mines and adding them to my inventory if I need more.
Other tools of the trade include a standard set of lock picks, wrenches, and probes for bypassing basic cylinder locks. For more difficult enclosures, such as safes, I use what we call disposable picks that can be adjusted to different strengths, depending on what it is you want to open. They contain microexplosive charges that deliver a quick impact to any standard lock cylinder, shattering the pins. The downside of these things is that they’re sometimes a little noisy. I’ve also got a nifty little camera jammer that emits microwave pulses. This is useful for disrupting the characteristic signals used in the microcircuitry of surveillance cameras. The only problem with the jammer is that it operates off a capacitor that you have to recharge. Then there’s the optic cable—kind of like those things doctors use to stick up your ass to look around with when you’re a lucky colonoscopy patient. It’s very flexible and I can slip it under doors and through holes to see what’s on the other side. There’s even a night-vision enhancement.
My standard issue weapon is a Five-seveN tactical handgun with a single-action trigger. The twenty-round magazine comes equipped with a silencer and flash suppressor. I’ve already told you a little bit about the gun, but I don’t think I mentioned that it has a T.A.K. integrated inside it. The Tactical Audio Kit is a laser-operated microphone that enables me to read the vibration off certain surfaces, mainly glass windows. The laser mic provides a zoomed camera-like field that can be aimed at different objects. It’s great for listening to conversations, but I have to be careful to make sure I use it only when I’m concealed. The damn thing lights up red when it’s on.
My uniform, which I’ve already described, folds up neatly and fits in a special pouch in the Osprey. My goggles are a lifesaver. They have two modes of operation—night vision and thermal vision. Night vision, of course, allows me to pick up illumination at the lower end of the infrared spectrum. This is great for exploring in the dark—the only drag is that the image is slightly grainy, so fine details are difficult to see. Thermal vision is an essential tool in darkness as well, for it captures the upper level of the infrared spectrum, which is emitted as heat rather than reflected light. This allows me to discern warm bodies through visual obstacles such as smoke and gas. One cool thing it does is that if I happen to examine a computer keyboard or keypad immediately after someone has touched it, the keys that were pressed will have a faint heat signature still on them. No well-equipped spy should be without thermal vision. A special fluorescent mode allows me to see fingerprints, stains, and dust disturbance that is normally invisible to the naked eye. This is useful when I’m searching for secret compartments.
My favorite weapon and tool has to be the standard issue SC-20K, a modular assault weapon system. This is something I can’t carry with me when I travel. It usually needs to be drop-shipped by the NSA—along with my toy-filled Osprey—and left someplace where I can pick them up. Sometimes that can be a tricky maneuver in a country where we have no embassy. The SC-20K looks like a stocky rifle, but it’s much more than that. The Bull Pup configuration makes it light and compact without sacrificing firepower (it uses 5.56×45mm ss109, 30 rounds, and it can be fired in semiautomatic or full automatic modes). There’s a flash/sound suppressor combined with a multipurpose launcher that makes it an ideal appliance in the field, and for long-distance shots I can use the scope. The launcher is beneath the main barrel and it utilizes a number of different devices. I can shoot off a ring airfoil projectile, which incapacitates an enemy rather than kills him. A good head shot will knock a guy out, or if I hit someone in the torso, it’ll stun him. I can launch sticky cameras that attach themselves to surfaces I can’t climb to. These miniature cameras have full pan and zoom functionality plus night and thermal vision modes. The images are fed directly to my OPSAT. An adaptation of the sticky camera is the diversion camera. This honey has had its zoom motor as well as its vision enhancement apparatus replaced with a noisemaker and a CS gas canister. I can trigger it with my OPSAT from a distance, attracting enemies with sound and then dispensing the gas to stop them in their tracks. Similar to the sticky cameras are the sticky shockers, high-voltage discharge devices coated in adhesive resin. They stick to enemies and give them an incapacitating shock. Smoke grenades come in useful as well. These are standard CS gas canisters that stop groups of enemies cold. I like to treat them like bowling balls and aim for strikes. I have additional smoke grenades without CS that just produce black smoke to cover my tracks.
Finally, I need to activate my subdermal implants. These are transmitter/receivers that Third Echelon put in my neck next to my vocal cords and in my inner ear. When the devices are activated, I can receive voice messages from Lambert via satellite that only I can hear. It works best outdoors, naturally, but in most buildings it works pretty well. If I’m underground, it’s not worth crap. By the same token, the PTT—Push To Talk—transmitter translates data for use with a voice synthesizer located at Third Echelon. All I have to do is press the area of my neck near my Adam’s apple and talk, or whisper, and what I say is sent to the synthesizer. Therefore, I can communicate with Third Echelon from just about anywhere. Pretty cool. The only drawback is that the signals can be picked up by the enemy pretty easily, so Lambert and I have an understanding that we communicate with text messages via the OPSAT first and use the implants only for urgent contact.
Once I’m packed, I make arrangements for my bills to be paid automatically for as long as I’m away. I confirm that I have plenty of cash in various accounts I can access just about anywhere in the world. I also make a phone call to the Krav Maga Studio and leave a message on Katia’s answering machine, explaining that I was called away once again. She’ll probably think I’m some kind of a nut. Alas.
I’ll leave the Grand Cherokee at home. Lambert arranged for a car to pick me up and take me to Dulles. I wouldn’t be comfortable with the idea of leaving my beloved Jeep in a long-term airport parking lot for what could very well be months.
There isn’t much left to do when the house phone rings.
“Dad?”
It’s the sweet voice of my not-so-little-anymore girl.
“Hey, Sarah, I’m glad you called!” I say. I’m very happy to hear from her so I do my best to control my feelings about her going abroad against my wishes. Our last conversation wasn’t a pleasant one. “Are you in Israel?”
“Uh-huh. It’s the middle of the night, but we can’t sleep. Rivka and I are still on Chicago time.”
“How was the flight over?”
“Long, so I was glad that Rivka was with me. That made it more interesting. Hey, Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. You know, about me going.”
Misunderstanding? In my mind there was no misunderstanding. She disobeyed my wishes but it was too late now.
“I’m sorry, too, honey.”
“Dad, we had the most beautiful sunset tonight. It was all orange and red, and from Rivka’s rooftop it looked like something out of a movie. It’s beautiful here.”
“And her parents are there with you?”
“Uh-huh. Her mom and dad are real nice.”
“That’s great to hear. Listen, honey, I have to go out of the country tonight, too. It’s for work.”
“Again? Didn’t you just get back?”
I sigh. “Yeah. But you know how it is.”
There was a bit of the old frustration in her voice. “No, I don’t know how it is. You’re so secretive about what you do. Where are you going this time?”
“I’m . . . I’m going to the Middle East, too. But don’t worry, I won’t be anywhere near you.”
I hear Sarah talk to someone in the background and I distinctly hear a male laugh.
“Sarah, who’s that with you?” I ask.
“Huh? Oh, that’s Rivka.”
“I thought I heard a boy.”
“Oh, that’s Noel, Rivka’s boyfriend. He and Eli came over since we couldn’t sleep. They’re helping us party. You remember me telling you about Eli?”
“Is he that music student you were dating at college?” I ask.