by Tom Clancy
I crawl on my belly out from under the front of the pickup, putting the truck between them and me. I keep low and rally toward the dock where dozens of small boats are moored. The guy stops shooting, but I hear the Citroën’s door open and slam shut. Now they’re on foot.
I run to the edge of the dock and weigh my options. I could jump into the water and swim. Or I could jump into one of the sailboats to my left or right, but by the time I untie one and push it off, they’d be in the boat with me. The last recourse would be to draw my Five-seveN from the holster I wear at the small of my back and fight back. That could cause problems with the local authorities, though, and my mission is too sensitive to get involved in foreign legal problems. I don’t fancy spending the rest of my life in a Turkish prison.
The shooter appears at the other end of the dock. He raises the AK-47 and fires. The wood splinters in a million places at my feet as I turn and dive into the cold, murky water.
It’s a shock. Thank heavens I’m wearing my uniform; otherwise I’d be freezing. It’s dark as hell, but I don’t risk using the LED on my OPSAT for illumination. They might be able to see me from the surface.
As I swim away from the shore, bullets chop through the water, producing that otherworldly slow-motion effect you get when you fire a gun into water. Even in the pitch black I can see the trails of the rounds cutting lines on all sides of me. One comes dangerously close to my ear, and I feel the heat emanating from it as it groans past. I quickly reverse direction and swim back toward the dock and hope they can’t see me. I’m pretty good at holding my breath. That’s another thing that Krav Maga classes teach you—stamina and resistance to pain. My lungs are strong—the last time I timed myself holding my breath, I clocked a little less than four minutes. It was Katia Loenstern that pushed me to achieve a score past three minutes. I’ll have to remind myself to be nicer to her when I get back to Baltimore.
I make my way to the line of sailboats on one side of the dock. I feel the hull of the first one and swim on, past the second and third. I figure it’s been at least two minutes since I submerged because my lungs are burning. When I can’t take it anymore, I dare to surface between the boats so I can catch a breath. As I hold on to the side of one of the rocking crafts, I hear two men talking on the dock above me. They’re down at the end, maybe thirty feet away. It sounds as if they’re arguing. I can’t understand the language, but I know it’s not Turkish. Actually it sounds like Farsi, but I’m not positive.
The man with the gun suddenly lets loose with another barrage of gunfire into the water, and the other one shouts at him to stop. More arguing. Then I hear the men walk toward the shore, their boots clomping on the wood above me. I dunk my head and position myself directly beneath the sailboat and wait. More gunfire darts the water between the boats, but I’m safely out of the way.
Where the hell are the police in this town? This is one time when I wouldn’t mind some interference.
Another minute passes and I feel the pressure in my chest. The gunfire stops and I need to suck some air, but I’m not moving yet. I wait at least another thirty seconds—when I know I can’t take it anymore—before coming back up. When I do, I gasp for oxygen as quietly as possible and listen. I hear nothing. They’re gone. Maybe they think I’m dead.
I wait another three minutes before pulling myself up and onto the dock. I walk back to the square and hear a police siren approaching from the distance. The Citroën is gone and the street is deserted. I run to the Pazhan and get in, even though I’m soaking wet. I start the car, back out, and head out of town before the cops arrive.
I do notice that Namik Basaran and his goon are no longer standing in front of the restaurant.
21
AFTER midnight I park the Pazhan on the hill overlooking Akdabar Enterprises and survey the scene. There are plenty of floodlights illuminating the compound, and I see a handful of security guards patrolling the premises. This isn’t going to be easy.
First I tune in to the bugs I left in Basaran’s office. The OPSAT’s silence tells me that the room is empty. I quickly leave my civilian clothes in the car, take my SC- 20K and sling it over my shoulder, adjust my headset and goggles, regulate the temperature control of my uniform, and I’m off.
Once I’m at the bottom of the hill near the wire fence, I crouch behind a large shrub to assess the situation. Two huts are directly across the fence from where I am—and this will be a good place from which to operate. I wait as a guard walks past, between the huts and the fence, heading toward the front gate. His beat must be this entire side of the compound—so I estimate his return trip to be a little less than ten minutes.
Armed with heavy-duty wire cutters, I clip the fence enough so I can bend the loose section out far enough for me to slip inside. I close this “trapdoor” behind me and carefully position the cut ends together so that unless someone carefully inspects them, the fence appears normal.
I quickly skirt to the space between the two huts and pause to map out my plan of attack. I want to hit the administrative building, especially Basaran’s office. I’d also like to get inside the Tirma office and see what I might find in there. Finally, the big warehouse and steel mill must hold some secrets. It will be a busy night.
I decide to begin at the end of the complex near the lake—the Tirma building and Basaran’s office—and then make my way back this way. The key is to stay in the shadows. My uniform is embedded with photosensors that detect and let me know how much light falls on me. When I switch on the OPSAT meter, I can see exactly how invisible I really am. At the moment I’m at thirty-two percent. It’s very luminous throughout the compound, and my only screens are the broad shadows of buildings, cast by the floodlights. Walkways between buildings are so bright it’s like daylight.
The corner periscope comes in handy here. I use it to look around the corner of the hut and determine that the walkway is clear. I scan the pole supporting a floodlight and don’t spot any cameras. I go for it.
I run across the walkway and stop at the next building, my back to the wall. I then inch around to the next corner and repeat the process. I count six buildings between my goal and me. It goes smoothly until I reach the fifth building. The periscope shows two guards in the walkway, smoking and talking. I have to find a way to distract them, so I take the SC-20K off my shoulder and load it with a diversion camera. If I wanted to, I could set the camera to also trigger CS gas, but I don’t wish to leave traces of my presence if I don’t have to. The main thing is simply to get the guards out of the way.
I load the gun and aim at a building directly in line from where I am, some fifty yards away. I check to make sure the suppressor is fitted correctly, take a bead, and squeeze the trigger. The soft pfft! sound blends with the night breeze and is unheard by my two buddies. Through the scope I see that the sticky camera adhered to the upper part of the building’s side—a little low—but it will have to do. I sling the rifle back over my shoulder and tap the OPSAT to activate the diversion device. There are a variety of sounds in the menu that I can pick, from animal noises to a recording of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” I decide on a static white noise, one that’s loud enough for them to hear. They’ll think it’s a malfunctioning loudspeaker and go over to investigate it. I hope.
Sure enough, the two guards look over at the sound. They mumble to each other and then walk in that direction. Hurrah. Now’s my chance. I inch around the corner, and the light meter on my OPSAT goes up to the danger area. I’m in full sight. I run to the sixth building on my route, exposed for approximately eight seconds. By the time I’m there, the guards have reached the diversion camera and are probably wondering what the hell it is.
The path is clear for me to scoot across the road and small parking lot to the Tirma building. It’s very different from the rest of the structures in the compound. The two-story Tirma building seems to have been designed after an American Colonial house, something you’d see in a middle-class New England neighborhood. It’s made of
wood, is painted white, and has two fat columns on opposite sides of the front door. Instead of a number to mark the building’s location, the word TIRMA is displayed on the molding above the door. Very strange.
I slink around to the back of the building, where there is less chance of being spotted. Luckily there’s no lighting back here. I can look out across the vast lake and see the town square marina about a mile along the shore. The wind coming off the lake is icy cold.
There’s a back door, presumably used as an emergency exit, and a couple of windows on the ground floor. I try the windows first, but they’re both locked. It’ll have to be the door. Once again my lock picks are useful, and I’m able to open the simple bolt lock in six seconds.
I’m inside the building, in a room that’s apparently used for putting stuff that doesn’t fit anywhere else. There are stacks of folding chairs that I guess must be for big meetings. I see shelves full of office supplies and a bunch of boxes beneath them. There’s a soft drink vending machine here, too.
This room leads to a hallway that shoots straight to the front door on the other side of the building. I listen carefully for any signs of occupation and hear nothing. I move on and see that the hallway connects to a large conference room, complete with a big-screen television and A/V equipment, and another room that appears to be a social parlor. They must hold fund-raising cocktail soirees in there. The largest room on the floor contains samples of the various goods that Tirma sends out for relief. I figure the complete stock is stored elsewhere on the campus, in one of the storage sheds or a warehouse. These include medical supplies, dried food, water bottles, grain, and articles of clothing. Besides a couple of modern bathrooms there’s not much else on the ground floor, so I quietly ascend the staircase to the second. The place is furnished with thick carpet, even on the stairs. My movements are relatively silent except every now and then the wooden floor creaks beneath the carpet. That can’t be helped.
Upstairs I find four offices. One is obviously for support staff—there are three desks, computers, filing cabinets, a copy machine—what you’d normally find in an office. The other three offices are probably for administrators of the charity organization. In one of them I find a lot of company literature printed in several different languages—pamphlets and brochures explaining Tirma’s purpose and goals. I take a handful; some are printed in English, some in Farsi, some in Turkish, and some in Arabic. I place these in my Osprey and move on.
The other two rooms are executives’ offices. I boot up the computers in each room and spend a little time at them. I don’t need any security passwords, and I’m able to browse through the files easily. I’m unable to find anything suspicious, even when I search for the names Tarighian, Mohammed, Mertens, or Zdrok.
For all intents and purposes, it appears that Tirma is a legitimate charity organization.
I make my way out of the building and exit through the door I came in. The next stop is Basaran’s office, inside the building that’s a couple of doors down. This one’s going to prove more difficult. It’s very well lit and I’m sure the security is stronger. There may be people inside. I stay in the back and dart to the next structure—the employees’ cafeteria—and then the next . . . until I’m looking at the main administrative building where I met Basaran earlier. There are no guards in the back, but I know that at least one is patrolling the front.
The back door has a keypad lock. I’m betting that the same code is used throughout the building, so I punch my OPSAT to recall the sequence I noted earlier. I press the buttons 8, 6, 0, 2, 5 and the door unlocks. I know there are surveillance cameras all over the place, so I open the door just a sliver and use the corner periscope to peek inside. Sure enough, there’s a camera trained at the door.
If I wanted to I could take it out with the Five-seveN pistol, but that would only call attention to the fact that someone had been in the building. I’d rather get around it another way. The camera appears to be a standard off-the-shelf model that continuously records, but only if there’s sufficient lighting in the room. There has to be a switch just inside the door—I maneuver the periscope until I see it, then reach my hand in quickly and flick off the lights. I then enter the room and shut the door. With my night-vision goggles I can see fine, but the camera is recording nothing but darkness.
I move out of the room and look through an archway to the outer lobby, which is well lit. Glass windows face the front and I can see the guard standing with his back to me, looking toward the parking lot. He’s bundled up, smoking a cigarette, and probably hating every minute of this assignment. I scan the ceiling, walls, and corners for more cameras and find one aimed directly at the front doors. I can easily scoot past this one because I’m already in the building. While the guard’s not looking, I move across the outer lobby, through the double wooden doors and into the main receptionist’s office. Thank goodness the lights are already off.
I go to the keypad, punch in the same code, and enter the hallway leading to Basaran’s office. The lights are on here and I see no way to turn them off. I know there’s another camera around the corner up ahead, so I use the periscope again to take a look. It’s a motion-detection camera that pivots in a wide arc. Midway in the arc is Basaran’s office. There’s no keypad for his door—they must figure that once you’re past the reception desk, you’re clear to roam wherever you want.
I have to distract that camera. I take the camera jammer out of the Osprey and turn it on. The thing vibrates a little, so I know it’s working—I sure can’t see the microwave pulses coming out of it—and it works best if you’re moving at the same time. So I aim the jammer in front of me, turn the corner, and quickly move down the hall. I hear the camera lens zoom in and out as it attempts to focus on whatever it thinks it detects, but it’s very confused. I open Basaran’s door and slip inside just as the camera regains its functionality.
The overhead lights are off in the office, but mood lighting is on—behind the wet bar, on the desk, and here by the door. Curtains cover the big glass window overlooking the lake, and fortunately they’re closed.
First, I examine the desk and its contents. The drawers hold nothing of interest—just a bunch of personal items, credit card bills, employee phone numbers, and other papers relating to the company. There’s also that hand exerciser, the rubber ball I saw Basaran squeezing when I first met him. I boot up the computer and see that a password is required to gain access. Damn. If only I had Carly St. John’s expertise now. I had informed Lambert I’d be coming here tonight, but Carly didn’t have much notice to try to hack Akdabar’s server. There’s not much I can do.
I shut down the computer and then notice for the first time that there’s a framed photograph sitting on the desk. It shows a veiled woman with two young girls, ranging maybe six to eight years old. Basaran’s family? The thing is, they don’t look Turkish. Most Turkish women, even very religious ones, don’t wear veils as they do in, say, Iraq or Iran. I quickly snap a copy of the picture and store it in my OPSAT, then move to the filing cabinets.
The lock picks open the cabinets easily, and I find more documents relating to Akdabar Enterprises—employee records, accounting books, and other boring stuff. One drawer, however, contains files marked Cyprus. I pull these out and thumb through them. I see records relating to the shopping mall that Basaran is building—expense reports, schedules, press releases, and company memos. The place is located near the city of Famagusta, a seaport that is perhaps Northern Cyprus’ most strategic urban center after the capital, Lefkosia.
At the back of the drawer is a document portfolio with twine tied around it. I remove it, untie the twine, and look inside. It’s full of copies of blueprints that have been reduced in size. They show portions of some kind of machine—there’s a base that takes up a couple of prints, an engine shown from several sides, and what looks like a series of cylindrical pieces that fit together. I’ll be damned if it isn’t some kind of weapon.
The machine’s designer is named �
�Albert Mertens,” and this name is on every page. Surely he’s the same Professor Mertens I met earlier in the day. I snap some photos of the plans for good measure.
I put everything back the way I found it and approach the door. The damned camera jammer uses so much power that it’s basically just good for one go, and then it has to be recharged. I don’t risk using it again, so how do I get out without the camera seeing me? I think for a moment and get an idea. I go back to Basaran’s desk, open the drawer, and remove the rubber ball. I return to the door, open it a crack, and roll the ball down the hall in the opposite direction from where I need to go. The camera whirrs and follows the ball as I slip out and close the door behind me. It will just have to be a mystery as to how the ball got into the hall.
Moving back to the outer lobby is not a problem. When I look out the front, I see that the guard isn’t there. I quickly scoot around to the corridor that leads to the back door. The lights are still off, so I’m okay. I carefully open the door, peer outside, and leave the building.
I guess it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it’d be.
Now I need to zigzag back across the complex and take a look inside the steel mill/warehouse. I retrace my steps, bouncing from building to building and avoiding the glare of the floodlights, and finally make it to a shed across from the courtyard that’s in the center of the compound. The lights are bright here and I see two guards standing lazily by the flagpoles. Not only that, but there are more surveillance cameras perched on the poles. The big building is on the other side. I could go the long way around the courtyard, building to building, but that increases the chances of my being seen.