by Tom Clancy
Eli was happy that he didn’t have to do what Noel had to do.
The Rohypnol worked amazingly well. He had broken up the two white tablets, one in each shot glass, and waited until the powder dissolved before bringing the Irish Car Bombs back to the table. Sarah and Rivka never knew what hit them. Car bombs, indeed.
It was approaching midnight when he turned off the main highway and took a little-used route toward an industrial area of the city. Eli could hear planes overhead, flying in low for a landing at the small airport. When he had first gone to the warehouse to prepare it for Sarah’s arrival, he wasn’t happy about its location. He would have preferred it to be farther out of Jerusalem and not so close to the airport. But orders were orders. Apparently Yuri and Vlad’s people already owned the building. Eli supposed it didn’t really matter. As long as he was paid what was coming to him.
It was at the end of a curving road full of derelict warehouses and condemned office buildings. Vlad had said it was “where Jesus lost his sandals.” This wasn’t far from the truth. Aside from the proximity to the airport, the warehouse seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. The building was dark and would have appeared deserted were it not for the two sports cars parked in front. The Ferrari and the Jaguar were a little too conspicuous for Eli’s comfort level, but what was he going to tell those guys? Get a couple of ugly old cars like his?
He pulled the Chevy next to the Jaguar and shut off the motor. He looked at his sleeping passenger and softly said, “Sorry, Sarah.”
Eli got out of the car and went to the front door of the building. He knocked and waited until the little window slid opened. Dark eyes peered out.
“You going to help me or not?” Eli asked.
The door unlocked and opened and the two Russians came out.
“She okay?” the one called Yuri asked.
“Yeah. She’s out cold, though,” Eli said.
“Let’s get her inside, then,” the one called Vlad said.
They walked to the car and opened the passenger door. When he saw Sarah, Vlad remarked, “Hey, she’s a beauty! This is going to be a more interesting assignment than I thought.”
“Shut up, you horny bastard,” Yuri said. “Help me.”
The two men pulled her out of the car and carried her to the building.
“Don’t drop her,” Eli said. “Be careful.”
“Don’t worry, kid,” Yuri said. “She’s worth gold.”
Eli followed them inside and shut the door behind him. The warehouse was clear in the middle, but the sides were full of old and broken kitchen and bathroom appliances. A loft, supported by two concrete columns, jutted out halfway over the ground floor, serving as half of a second floor. It, too, was covered in junk. The men carried Sarah across the floor of the dusty warehouse, through a door on the west wall, and into a moldy-smelling corridor lined with three offices. They went into the third office, which was empty except for a cot, a small table, and a chair. The cot was made up with blankets and a pillow. Adjoining the room was a bathroom containing a toilet, a sink, and a shower stall.
There were no windows, of course.
Yuri and Vlad placed the unconscious girl on the cot, covered her with a blanket, and left the room. Vlad locked the door and motioned for Eli to follow him into one of the other rooms.
“You did good,” he said. “I have your money.”
The middle room was both an office and a bedroom, as it contained another cot along with a desk and phone. Yuri stood in the doorway and watched as Vlad opened a drawer and removed a large white envelope. He tossed it to Eli, who opened it and glanced inside.
“It’s all there,” Vlad said. “But you can count it if it will make you feel better.”
Eli wanted to do just that, but he thought it would make him look weak. He didn’t want to appear weak in front of these guys.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said. “How did . . . how did the other thing go?”
“What other thing?”
“That guy Blaine?”
“Oh, Blaine,” Yuri said. “That went . . . very well.”
Eli nodded. “Well, I guess your people are pretty happy, then. I think everything I found out from her”—he gestured with his head toward the next room—“will be accurate. Her father is the one you’re looking for.”
Vlad spoke again. “Like I said, you did good. Now, we’ve made you a nice cozy place to sleep in the loft in there. Sorry, but there are no more vacancies back here. Yuri sleeps in the next room, I have this one, and our guest has the other one.”
“I know,” Eli said. “I’ll be all right.”
“How about the girl’s friend?” Yuri asked.
Eli shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to Noel. He got her in the car and drove away. I assume everything is fine. By the way, don’t you think you should move your cars?”
“We were going to do that,” Yuri replied. “We’ll put ’em in the back and cover them with a tarp. You should do the same.”
The three men left the warehouse, moved their vehicles, and met back in the little office.
“Good,” Yuri said. “Let’s get some sleep, boys.” He held out his hand to Eli. Eli shook it, and then he grasped Vlad’s hand. He nodded and left the room, following the corridor back to the warehouse. He ascended the wooden stairs leading to the loft and found the sleeping bag in the back corner.
As he undressed and climbed into the bedroll, Eli wondered if he was going to hell.
18
SOUTHEASTERN Turkey is beautiful, but it’s a bitch to travel through. It’s extremely rugged terrain. I’m afraid that Reza’s Pazhan doesn’t have the oomph to continuously travel up and down the mountain roads. The car slows down considerably on an uphill incline. While northeastern Iran is also mountainous, it doesn’t compare to this part of Turkey. The Caucasus range is vast and the roads are not as well kept. I’m lucky that it isn’t winter, for then it would really be difficult. It can be bitterly cold and snowy between December and April, and I’m pushing it by being here at the very end of March. On the higher slopes there’s still a lot of snow and ice, and I’ve taken to adjusting the temperature controls on my uniform to keep me warm.
Another thing that distinguishes the region from the rest of the country is that eastern Turkey is more “Asian” than “European.” As it was once upper Mesopotamia, the land and people still retain remnants of that long-lost culture, thereby giving the region a much more exotic feeling than the rest of Turkey. By the same token, people here are more conservative, more suspicious, and less warm toward strangers than in the Westernized European half of the country. It’s also dominated by the Kurds, perhaps a fifth of the total population.
During the past decade the region was plagued by terrorism instigated by the Kurdistan Workers Party, the PKK, considered to be one of the more dangerous terrorist groups in the world today. They recently changed their name to KADEK (Kurdistan Freedom and Democracy Congress) and yet again to KONGRA-GEL (the People’s Congress of Kurdistan) in attempts to diminish the perception that they support terrorism. The jury’s still out on whether or not this is true. At any rate, Turkish police and antiterrorism forces are plentiful in the southeast, and I’m prepared to be stopped at checkpoints without warning.
Reza supplied me with the necessary identity papers and visa. I’m back to being a Swiss detective for Interpol. Getting across the border isn’t a problem, although I’m asked a lot of questions. I’m pretty good at bluffing my way out of interrogations from your everyday variety policemen. They let me drive on after issuing a strict warning to stay off the roads at night, to not talk to Kurds who ask me to carry items for them, and to report any suspicious activity.
I drive to Van, a midsize town on the eastern shore of Lake Van, the largest body of water in Turkey, excluding Istanbul’s Sea of Marmara. Mount Ararat is nearby, a spectacular sight but also the location of a Turkish military facility that is off-limits to civilians. I can’t be caught dead anywhere
around there.
With help from Third Echelon’s navigation capabilities, I find Akdabar Enterprises on the very edge of town, overlooking the vast lake. It strikes me as an odd place for a construction and steel conglomerate site. Why Van? Perhaps its main clientele consists of Kurds in the region. Who knows? I realize now that the place gets its name from Akdabar Island, one of the more important islands on the lake. One of Van’s few tourist attractions is the tenth-century Church of the Holy Cross located on Akdabar.
I park the Pazhan on a hill overlooking the expansive complex so I can get a bird’s-eye view of the place. Using a pair of Third Echelon’s binoculars, I see that a tall wire fence surrounds the property. In the very center is an open courtyard with two flagpoles at opposite ends. A Turkish flag is on one while the Akdabar logo sails on the other. A large refinery sporting two tall smokestacks appears to be the dominant landmark; it’s probably where the steelworks are located. There are a couple of big oil drums near the edge of the water, along with smaller constructions that are probably workers’ quarters and offices. From what I can see there are several armed guards patrolling the grounds—along the fence perimeter and around the buildings. The oil drums, certainly a target for terrorists, have a particularly strong security presence. Other guards ride around in three-wheelers, golf cartlike vehicles that I suppose are faster than walking.
The most impressive thing is that the plant has its own airstrip and hangar. I see a cargo plane with Akdabar’s logo painted on the side readying for takeoff. Basaran must do very well for himself indeed.
Reza was able to provide me with a letter of introduction to see Basaran. Although the two men have never met, their business connections should be enough to get me in. I’m counting on the letter and my Interpol credentials to get me in the front door. I want to meet Basaran personally in order to get a sense of the guy. If he knew Benton, then perhaps he’ll be forthcoming with information.
I dress in civilian clothes, put on a tie, leave the Osprey in the car, and drive down to the visitors’ parking area. I present my papers and letter to the guard at the front gate and ask to see Basaran.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asks in heavily accented English.
“No, I’m afraid not,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I had no time to arrange it. I just entered the country. If Mr. Basaran is busy I can come back later . . . ?”
“Wait here.” The guard went into the checkpoint booth and made a call. I could see him reading from Reza’s letter, nodding his head, and glancing at me. Finally he came back and said, “If you don’t mind waiting a little while, Mr. Basaran will see you when he gets out of a meeting.” He gave me a map of the complex, pointed to the group of small buildings by the lake, and told me to drive there and park in the accompanying lot. He gave me a visitor’s pass and admonished me not to drive anywhere else on the property.
Over by the lake the view is spectacular. It’s a clear day and the water stretches out to the horizon, much like Lake Michigan does at the edge of Chicago. The buildings here are modern constructions and apparently house the administrative offices, an employees’ facility that includes lockers, dressing rooms, a gym, a cafeteria, and vending, and the Tirma charity organization headquarters. By the way, Carly back at Third Echelon pointed out that the word tirma means “silk” in Farsi. My question is, why Farsi? Why not Turkish?
The waiting room in the main administrative building is modern and comfortable. It contains pretty much the kind of furniture you’d expect in a reception area—and I note the surveillance camera in the corner keeping a record of who goes in and out. A pretty Turkish receptionist sits behind the glass window and glances at me every now and then. It’s refreshing to be in a predominantly Muslim country where the rules are relaxed enough that women can reveal their hair and the skin on the arms and legs.
I wait approximately twenty minutes and another lovely Turkish—or maybe Kurdish—woman fetches me and leads me to a door to the right of the receptionist that requires keypad code access. Part of my training with Third Echelon was to try to memorize codes by watching someone press the keys. Depending on how fast the person was, I eventually achieved an eighty-eight-percentile success rating. I stand beside the woman and fake a cough just as she begins the sequence—this creates the illusion that I’m not watching. Her fingers quickly zip over the pad, but I’m able to catch it—8, 6, 0, 2, 5.
The door opens and she leads me through a hallway adorned with Middle Eastern artwork. As we walk I quickly enter the code sequence into my OPSAT so I won’t forget it. We turn a corner and I notice another surveillance camera on the ceiling, and then we enter the head man’s spacious, and very Western, office. In fact, there’s a Picasso hanging on the wall. In one corner of the room stands a table displaying a scale model of a fancy modern building.
Namik Basaran greets me at the door, grins broadly, and holds out his hand as I’m ushered into the room. A very large guy, wearing a suit and a turban, stands to the side and eyes me closely.
“Mr. Fisher, welcome to Turkey,” he says in good English. I shake his hand and thank him. I notice that he’s squeezing a rubber ball in his other hand. He chuckles and says, “It’s for tendonitis. It’s also a nervous habit!” He walks over to his desk and drops the ball into a drawer. He turns to the big guy and says, “You may leave us, Farid, thank you.”
The big guy nods, glares at me once more, and leaves the room.
“My bodyguard,” Basaran explains. “And driver. And assistant. A man in my position can’t be too careful. Poor Farid, I took him into the organization from the street. He’s an Iranian, a victim of Saddam Hussein’s regime. Farid doesn’t speak—his tongue was cut out while he was a prisoner in Abu Ghraib Prison during the Iran-Iraq war. Now, would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”
I shrug and say that I’ll have whatever he has.
“Well, personally at this time of day I prefer a small cup of çay. Is that suitable?”
I groan inwardly but smile and reply, “That would be fine.”
Çay is Turkish tea that comes from the Black Sea area and is usually served with tremendous amounts of sugar. It’s a bit on the strong side, but I can grin and bear it when I have to. Basaran walks to his wet bar, pours the tea into tiny tulip-shaped glasses, and brings them over. We sit on black leather chairs at a low table beneath the Picasso. A wall-sized window to our left overlooks the lake.
It’s difficult to determine how old Basaran is, but I’d guess early fifties. He’s medium-height, and, as in the photograph, there’s a noticeable skin condition on his face and hands. I’m not sure what it is. It’s not as bad as skin grafting, but it doesn’t look as if it’s due to some disease, either.
“Very impressive place you have here, Mr. Basaran,” I say.
“Thank you. It’s very gratifying to achieve the success one yearns for in one’s youth and then still be alive to enjoy it.”
“I’m particularly impressed with your airstrip. How do you use it?”
He shrugs. “We ship materials all over. Currently I’m in the process of building an elaborate indoor shopping mall in Northern Cyprus. That’s a model of it over there on the table. Beautiful, isn’t it? We ship materials daily to the island. As you can guess, I’m a firm supporter of Turkey’s right to claim Cyprus. I’m helping the cause by building up the north, giving the people more modern facilities and attractions. This mall will be the largest shopping center of its type in the Middle East.” He shakes his head and sips his tea. “The ongoing struggle with the Greek Cypriots there is tragic. Why can’t they just accept us and be done with it? But that’s a whole other conversation. Now. Tell me what brings you to Van, Mr. Fisher. I read your letter of introduction from Mr. Hamadan, and I see that you work for Interpol. How can I assist you?”
I give him my spiel on how I’m compiling an extensive report on terrorists in the region. Interpol will publish the report and send it to law enforcement agencies all over the wor
ld, but most important, it will help in combating terrorism here in the Middle East. “Mr. Hamadan suggested that I speak to you, as I hear you’re an expert on terrorism here in Eastern Turkey,” I say. A little flattery usually goes a long way.
“You give me too much credit,” Basaran says, but he smiles and enjoys the compliment. “I wouldn’t call myself an expert. That’s ridiculous. But I do know some things. I’ve followed the various groups in this area for many years and even met some of the leaders. That is not to say that I’m friendly with any of them. As a Turkish entrepreneur—and a successful one—they probably hate me as much as they hate anyone else in Turkey who favors a Westernized lifestyle. I could probably talk for hours about terrorism, Mr. Fisher, so unless you have specific questions, we might need to postpone our meeting for another time. I am very busy today.”
I decide to drop another name. “I see. Rick Benton also said you’d be very helpful.”
I notice a flicker in his eyes. “You know Mr. Benton?” he asks.
“Only by his work,” I say. “I never met the late Mr. Benton.”
Basaran’s mouth drops slightly. “The late Mr. Benton? Is he . . . ?”
“Yes,” I reply. “He was murdered in Brussels just last week.”
“That is tragic. I’m sorry to hear it. Do they know who did it?”
“No, it’s a mystery.”
Basaran takes a sip of tea. “I met him one time. He asked me questions about some of the terrorist groups operating in this part of the country, just as you have asked. I assure you, I am compelled to speak out against terrorism whenever I have a public forum. It is important to me and to my family.”
I’d like to find out more about his family but decide that now’s not the best time.
“You do know about my charity organization, Tirma?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s one reason why I wanted to meet you.”
“Tirma is a personal project for me. I’ve pledged much of my income to help fight terrorism, and Tirma allows me to make a difference—if only a small one.”