by Tom Clancy
Zdrok cracked his knuckles and nodded. “Vlad and Yuri. They’re careful, right? They leave no trace?”
“None. They are as professional as they come. They were my most trusted executioners in the KGB,” Antipov replied.
“What did they learn in Belgium?”
“Not only did they eliminate Benton but also a Belgian intelligence officer that Benton was working with. These men knew far too much about what we’ve been distributing to our number-one customer. Hopefully the material we took from Benton’s hotel room will be one-of-a-kind documents. I’ve taken the precaution to destroy all of it. This should slow down our enemies. In addition, much of our new information about Third Echelon came from Benton’s personal computer, which we have also destroyed.”
Zdrok waved his hand slightly. “Fine. I leave you in charge of it. Proceed as you see fit. But I want results by the end of the week. If they discover who we are or where we are, it’s not going to be pretty. The sooner we get rid of these American bloodhounds, the better off we’ll be.”
With that, Zdrok took another bite of his bagel and the meeting was over.
12
The lovemaking was as good as it had been in Illinois. As they lay entwined in the narrow twin bed in Eli’s small studio apartment, Sarah was convinced more than ever that he was “the one.”
She knew she had better get up and phone Rivka. She was supposed to have been back by ten o’clock at the latest. Now it was nearly noon. They had slept in, waking only to make love. How many times had they done it since coming back to his place the night before? Four times? Five? Sarah smiled inwardly and sighed.
“You okay?” Eli asked.
“I sure am,” she said, snuggling closer to him.
“I heard you sigh.”
“It was a sigh of contentment.”
“Oh, I see.” He kissed her. “I am glad you’re content.”
“How about you? Are you content?”
“You better believe it.”
She yawned and squeezed his lean torso. “I could stay here forever.”
“Me, too,” he said. “But I’m getting hungry. How about you?”
“Who needs food when you can have sex?” she said as she placed her hand on his crotch.
“Hey, hey, what are you, a junkie?” He laughed but didn’t bother to move her hand.
“With you, yes!”
Eli sat up. “Okay, then I think it’s time you go cold turkey for a little while. I’m really hungry. I’m not kidding.”
Sarah loved his Israeli accent. There was something about a foreign accent that turned her on. “Shall I make you breakfast?” she asked.
“No, no, I’ll make you breakfast. Or lunch, I think. My God, look at the time.”
“Oh, boy, Rivka’s gonna be pissed at me. I can’t imagine what her parents will think.”
Eli waved her comment away and said, “Don’t worry. Rivka spent the night with Noel. I bet they slept late, too.”
“Still, it’s scandalous behavior, don’t you think?”
“You’re a big girl. You’re an adult, right?”
“I’m twenty. I can’t drink in America yet.”
“Yeah, but you’re legally an adult. That’s what counts.” He slipped out of bed and walked across the room to the bathroom. She enjoyed watching his backside.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a cute tush?” she called out as he closed the door. He didn’t answer. Sarah sighed again and finally swung her legs out from under the covers and sat upright. Naked, she went to the kitchen area and looked in the cabinet to see what was there. Typical bachelor apartment, she thought. Nothing but junk food and sugary cereal.
“Eli, do you have coffee?” she called, but the shower started and he couldn’t hear her.
She opened another cupboard and found some instant coffee. “Yuck,” she said. She shrugged and took it, found a pot to boil water, and tried the tap. The water was brownish. Sarah made a face, turned off the tap, and put the coffee back in the cupboard. She looked around her and realized that Eli’s apartment was decidedly a dump. Last night, in the dark, she hadn’t noticed. She did remember that the neighborhood where he lived appeared to be a poor one, almost a ghetto. The room smelled moldy. She hadn’t noticed the odor earlier because she had been tipsy on wine. Now as she examined the apartment she felt a little repelled.
“Hey, Eli, can I take a shower, too?” she called.
“Sure, come on in!”
She smiled and opened the bathroom door. The little cubicle was steamy from the hot water. At least he had hot water, she thought.
First things first. She put the toilet seat down, sat, and urinated. Without thinking she flushed the toilet, eliciting a yelp from Eli.
“Sorry!” she said as she opened the shower stall and joined him.
They took turns lathering each other’s bodies, pausing every now and then to kiss. He became aroused again and she grasped him firmly with a slippery hand.
“Oh, please, no more,” he said. “I’m raw!”
She giggled and said, “I don’t think your penis agrees with you.”
“My penis never agrees with me,” he said, closing his eyes.
“That’s typical for guys, isn’t it?” she whispered as she continued playing with him.
Afterward they stepped out of the stall and used the same towel to dry off. “You don’t have another towel?” she asked.
“Sorry. I’m poor and destitute.”
That prompted her to ask a question she’d been considering for a while. “Eli, do you have a job?”
“A job? Sure, I have a job.” He looked in the mirror, took a razor, and started to shave without lather.
“What is it?”
“I work for a delivery service. I’m off this week so I can see you.”
“What kind of delivery service?”
“You know, I deliver packages and stuff.”
She pictured the car he drove and shuddered. It was a relic from the early nineties. When she first got in the passenger seat, she imagined that she was in a cartoon car that went putt putt pfft pop as it creaked along the road.
“You don’t do anything with your music?”
“No, that’s hard to do.”
Come to think of it, she thought, she had never heard him play an instrument. In fact, there was no evidence at all in his apartment that he was interested in music. No sheet music, no CDs of classical music, no busts of Beethoven — nothing.
He glanced at her off the mirror. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “When will you know about Juilliard?”
He shrugged. “Those things take time.” He nicked himself with the razor. “Look what you made me do.”
“How did I make you do that?”
“By asking me difficult questions.”
“You should use shaving cream.”
“I’ve always done it this way. Go on, you’re making me nervous!” He pushed her out of the bathroom and shut the door.
Sarah sighed once more, walked over to her pile of clothes that she had dropped on a chair, and dressed.
ELI ended up making the instant coffee himself. They sat at the excuse for a breakfast table as Sarah called Rivka on her cell phone. Her friend was slightly upset with her for not calling earlier. Rivka’s parents were not too happy, either. Sarah apologized and said she’d be there in an hour.
“Why don’t you just come stay here for the rest of your visit?” Eli suggested.
“Oh, I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” Sarah replied.
“Why not? Don’t you like me?” He winked at her.
She punched him and said, “Of course I do! But, you know, I’m staying with Rivka’s parents and all. How would it look?”
He shrugged. “It would look like we’re together.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t feel right. Sorry.” She took his hand.
“It’s okay. Your daddy might not approve, either.”
That struck her as an
odd thing to say. “I don’t think my father would even know. He doesn’t keep tabs on me like that. We live in different cities, remember?”
“Oh, right. Your father is the CIA spy.”
“He is not.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Sam Fisher.”
“Why not ‘Sam Burns.’ ”
“My mother changed our last names legally after the divorce.”
“Right. Sam Fisher. Sam Fisher — Government Agent.”
She punched him again. “Stop it. He is not.”
Eli kept at it. He hummed the “James Bond Theme” and pointed his finger like a gun. Sarah laughed. “Cut it out,” she said.
“Okay. But I still think he’s a government agent and not some kind of salesman.”
“Why do you say that? Why do you even care?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just want to know what my future father-in-law is like.”
Sarah blinked. “Your what?”
“You heard me.”
“Eli.”
He grasped her hand and said, “I know, it’s too soon to talk that way. But listen, if you do decide to come live with me in New York, it might happen. I care for you, Sarah. Really.”
She looked down. “I know. Me, too.”
“Tell me about your mother. What was her name?”
“Regan.”
“She worked for the government, too?”
“Yes, I told you that. She was in the NSA.”
“National Security Advisory?”
“Agency.”
“National Security Agency — whatever.”
“She was stationed in Georgia. You know, the former Soviet satellite.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s where she met my father. At the time he was in the CIA.”
“Once a spy, always a spy, that’s what I always say.” She gave him a look. “Sorry. Go on.”
“Anyway, they had this torrid love affair and eventually got married. In Germany. That’s where I was born, on a military base there.”
“Army brat.”
She nodded. “I guess so.”
“But they didn’t stay together?”
“No. It lasted three years. I really don’t remember much about my father living with us at the time. I was three when he left. My mom always said that the breakup was mutual — in fact it was her idea for him to go away — but I can’t help thinking that he abandoned me. I guess any kid whose father leaves would think that.”
“So what happened?”
“Mom took me back to the States. She continued to work in Washington and raised me by herself. I didn’t really get to know my dad until I was a teenager. I’d see him every now and then, and he was like this stranger who’d come see us, claiming to be my father. He’d bring me presents and stuff, but it all seemed very detached. Then there was a period of time I didn’t see him at all. Several years. It was between the time I was nine years old and… fifteen, I guess.”
“Where was he?”
“I don’t know. Mom never said. Maybe she told him to stay away, I really don’t know. Anyway, it was after mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. That’s when he showed up again. He came to see her in the hospital and even tried for a reconciliation, but it wasn’t to be. After she died, he became my guardian.”
“And then you lived with him?”
“Yep. And it was weird. I was in high school and suddenly I lived with a man who was supposed to be my father. It was rough going at first, but I guess it turned out all right. We became friends, especially after I graduated and went to college.” She shrugged and smiled. “Now I think he’s a great guy.”
“Even though he’s so mysterious.” Eli exaggerated the word with a whisper.
“Oh stop.”
“Hey, I’m going to run downstairs and get a couple of sandwiches. How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
“Stay here and I’ll be back in a few minutes. You want meat, right?”
She laughed. “Whatever. I don’t care.”
“Coming right up.”
He got up from the table and left the apartment, leaving Sarah shaking her head and wondering how she got involved with such an interesting man.
Downstairs, Eli stood outside the deli below his apartment, pulled out his cell phone, and made a quick call.
“Everything checks out with Sam Fisher,” he said. “He was with the CIA in the nineteen-eighties and he married a woman named Regan Burns. She died of cancer and they had one daughter. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and supposedly works as a ‘salesman.’ ”
Eli listened to the voice on the other end and then said, “Right. Definitely. It’s just as you suspected. It’s him — he’s the one.”
13
I have to enter Iran illegally. Iraq wasn’t a problem because of the U.S. presence there. Iran, however, is a different story. Of course, an ordinary tourist or official governmental representative could simply apply for a visa and enter the country. Despite the prevalent notion in America that Iran is a hostile and dangerous place, it is actually a relatively warm and friendly place. I have been to Iran on numerous occasions, mostly to Tehran, and I’ve always found the people to be helpful and welcoming. Things have relaxed in the country since the heyday of the Islamic Revolution. There was a time when the komite, the religious police, were comparable to the Gestapo. Not anymore — today they are hardly visible on the streets. Nevertheless, you have to watch yourself. You must abide by the laws, especially the religious ones, stay away from rallies and demonstrations, and avoid talking about politics.
But since I’m on a Third Echelon assignment, I can’t very well get a visa and enter the country by the normal channels. Even my Interpol cover won’t fly in Iran, and I certainly wouldn’t get anywhere telling the Immigration authorities that I’m with the NSA. So, even more than in Iraq, I have to be invisible.
The worst part about it is that I have to abandon the Toyota Land Cruiser in Iraq and make my way across the border on foot. Once I’m in Iran, I have to find transportation to Tabriz. Walking isn’t an option.
I drive east before dawn, through Rawanduz, until I’m a mile away from the border checkpoint. I pull off the highway at the first dirt road I see, drive a ways, and stop. I make sure I have all my belongings, and then I leave the keys in the car. Some lucky son of a bitch is going to find himself a free SUV! I get out and walk across the rugged terrain, avoiding the highway, until I see the checkpoint in the distance. I’m on a hill overlooking the highway. I count three armed guards stopping vehicles traveling in both directions. On the other side of the border is another checkpoint run by the Iranians. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but I have only an hour or so before daylight destroys my chances of getting across today.
I strip down to my uniform, stuff my outer clothes in the Osprey, and make my way down the hill. I dart from one large bush or tree or boulder to another, pausing at each step to make sure I haven’t been seen. It’s unlikely. My uniform is dark and there are no lights on the hill. The guards’ attention is focused on the vehicles entering and leaving the country.
In fifteen minutes I’m at ground level, lying on the slope of a ditch, my head barely peeking over the top so I can see the checkpoint. They don’t expect anyone on foot to try and cross over. If I stay down and move laterally east, I should make it. I wait until a car approaches the checkpoint and one of the guards talks to the driver.
Employing a crablike maneuver on all fours, I traverse the ditch. I’m parallel with the checkpoint when one of the agents steps out to smoke a cigarette. He walks to the side of the building that faces me and gazes at the night sky. I can’t take a chance of him seeing me, so I lie perfectly still.
Shit, he’s starting to walk toward the ditch. He’s lost in thought, tugging on the cigarette, probably wondering what he’ll have for breakfast when he gets off his shift. However, I’m close enough that he could possibly spot me if I move.
Then one of
his associates calls for him. The guard acknowledges the summons, takes one last drag on the cigarette, and then tosses the butt toward me. It lands a foot away from my face and it’s still burning. Luckily he doesn’t bother to look where the butt fell — he’s forgotten all about it as he walks back to the building.
I take the opportunity to pick up the butt and rub it out in the dirt.
Once again I apply the crab walk to move farther east. Now I have two checkpoints to watch. At this time in the early morning there is very little traffic. I’m fortunate that there were one or two cars going through to mask my transit thus far. Now, though, there’s nothing. The road is deadly quiet. The Iraqi border guards retreat into their checkpoint building, but there’s a lone Iranian outside of his. He’s standing there, looking west, as if a parade of cars is on the way and he’s preparing himself to inspect them. What’s he doing?
The guy calls out to the Iraqi checkpoint. He waits a few seconds, then calls again. Someone’s name. In a moment the cigarette-smoking Iraqi I saw earlier comes out of his building. He shouts back to the Iranian. I don’t understand what the Iranian says, it’s in Farsi, a language I can’t speak. I have an easier time reading Farsi than speaking it, because written Farsi is very similar to Arabic. The Iraqi nods and the two men walk toward each other. Shit, what’s going on? They meet halfway between the two checkpoints, and I realize I have nothing to worry about. The Iraqi pulls out his cigarette pack and offers one to the Iranian. They share a joke, I think, for they talk and laugh, and after five minutes they separate and stroll back to their respective positions.
All clear. I literally crawl into Iran.
I continue to walk in the darkness, remaining off the highway. The sky is beginning to turn deep orange and red. The sun will be up within minutes. I have to find a place to stay put through the day, and I think I see a good possibility about a mile ahead, where the highway crosses a bridge.
Ten minutes later I’m at the bridge just as the sun peeks over the hills directly in front of me. The bridge spreads across a ravine that appears to be a good two hundred feet deep. This is very hilly country — these foothills eventually become the volcanic Sabalan and Talesh mountain ranges.