by Tom Clancy
As they fire more wild shots at me, I make it across the square and skirt into a dark alley. The grappling hook I fashioned is still coiled around my shoulder. If I can get a minute to use it again, I’ll take to the rooftops. But first I have to take care of Mutt and Jeff behind me.
I find a nook in the wall that’s deep enough to cover me in shadow. I stop running, slip into the cranny, and wait until I hear the two cops enter the alley. They slow down, suddenly realizing I’m not in sight. The men speak to each other in low voices — one of them seems to be adamant that I came this way, the other is not so sure. With their weapons in hand they walk slowly toward me. The element of surprise is key here, so I hold myself back until just the right moment. When I see both of their backs, I step out of the nook and move between them. I grab their shirt collars, one in each hand, and slam the two men together. A pistol discharges and the owner drops it. The two cops are shaken but have the tenacity to turn and face me. Using the Krav Maga technique of moving forward in offense and positioning myself on the opponent’s dead side, I prevent the armed cop from shooting me. The “dead side” of an opponent is his “outside.” If you face an enemy who has his left foot forward, you must move forward and to your right. Moving in this direction places you in a position where the opponent’s hands or feet can’t readily strike you since you’re at his side. This also allows you to clobber the guy because he’s on your “inside.” And that’s just what I do. A quick jab to his arm causes him to drop his weapon. I swing to the right, raising my leg for a kick, and slam my boot into his chest. He goes down. The other cop is too shocked to budge. I move in, punch him hard in the stomach, and then pound him on the back of the head when he bends over in agony.
The alley’s quiet after that.
I take the rope and grappling hook off my shoulder, swing it like a lasso, and throw it onto the roof of the building closest to me. I hear shouts and running footsteps in the square, so I have no time to lose. Getting up the wall is easy, and once I’m at the top I have a bird’s-eye view of the Old Town. Below me, three more policemen enter the alley and rouse their stunned colleagues. I move to the other side of the roof so I can see Fountain Square and the bank beyond it. The number of patrol cars has increased and there’s a lot of activity around the building.
Using the rooftop route, I head northeast toward the harbor, one shadow at a time.
25
Third Echelon’s headquarters is nowhere near the National Security Agency, which is housed on Savage Road in Fort Meade, Maryland. The NSA is halfway between Baltimore and Washington, D.C., but Third Echelon resides in a small, nondescript building in the nation’s capital, not far from the White House. The reason for this separation is because technically Third Echelon doesn’t exist. Most NSA employees will have never heard of Third Echelon. As one of the most classified, top-secret organizations in the government, only those on a “need to know” basis are aware of the faction.
Third Echelon’s mission is to activate individual operatives — the Splinter Cells — in targeted locations to assess and access information vital to the security of the United States. Third Echelon is not the CIA or the FBI. While men such as Sam Fisher have a license to kill in the line of duty, it is never an objective. Thus it is important that Third Echelon’s support team in Washington provide the most accurate and up-to-date information to the Splinter Cells. It could mean the difference between successful missions with or without bloodshed.
Colonel Irving Lambert and his team had pulled an allnighter reviewing NSA satellite photographs of the Middle East and evaluating various reports pertaining to Fisher’s assignment. After Lambert studied the revelations concerning Namik Basaran and the possibility that he may not be what he seemed, he directed the team to have a close look at Akdabar Enterprises’ construction site in Northern Cyprus.
Carl Bruford, Third Echelon’s director of research analysis, sat with Lambert at the light table examining the photos with a magnifier. Bruford, a thirty-one-year-old man from Illinois, was considered an expert on reading between the lines of intelligence reports and deciphering cryptic messages.
“I’ll be damned if I can see anything weird,” Bruford said. “The site looks like what Basaran says it is — a shopping mall. It’s finished, too, from the looks of it. I don’t think it’s open to the public yet. There are still a lot of construction vehicles going in and out of the site, but the parking lot is empty.”
Lambert rubbed the top of his head and frowned. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Keep looking. But I’ll send this info to Sam anyway.”
“Right. Oh, Chief, I had a thought that, I don’t know, you might want to consider.”
“What’s that, Carl?”
“Doesn’t Fisher have a daughter?”
“Yes, he does. She’s a college student in Illinois.”
“Northwestern, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling, but shouldn’t we check up on her? I mean, since Fisher’s out of the country and all. And, you know, since three of our Splinter Cells are dead.”
Lambert made a face and rubbed his head again. “You think we’re losing Splinter Cells due to a hit list?”
“I do, Colonel.”
“And you think Sam’s probably on it?”
“Don’t you?”
Lambert looked away and Bruford thought he could see the wheels turning in the man’s head. The colonel turned back to Bruford and said, “Yeah, go ahead. Be discreet, though. We don’t want to alarm her.”
“Will do.”
The colonel went into the next room, where Carly St. John was busy working on hacking into Basaran’s server. Probably Third Echelon’s Most Valuable Player, St. John was a computer programmer extraordinaire, a woman who had the ability to dismantle the most complex code and put it back together the way she wanted. At twenty-eight St. John was the youngest member of the team yet one of the most senior — she held the position of technical director. And while she didn’t consider herself attractive, men who met her fell in love at first sight. She was petite — five feet, one inch tall — and had a brunette bob-cut and sparkling blue eyes. She had heard the description “pixie” far too many times.
“How’s it coming?” Lambert asked her.
“Well, I’m getting closer,” she replied. “It’s pretty tough encryption, but I think I have a handle on it. I’ve got Basaran’s bank account hacked, now I just have to work on the Swiss account.”
“Sam says that Basaran is supposed to transfer the money tomorrow. I’d really like to sabotage that wire transfer.”
“I know, Chief,” St. John said. “Give me the rest of the day, okay?”
Lambert squeezed her shoulder and left her alone. He went back into the Operations Room and saw Bruford hanging up the phone.
“No answer at Sarah Burns’s apartment in Evanston, Chief,” Bruford announced.
“I thought she lived in a dorm.”
“That was last year. She’s a junior now and lives in her own apartment.”
Lambert rolled his eyes. “Sheesh, time flies. Keep trying, but you might contact our man in Chicago to have a look-see. He probably has nothing to do.”
Bruford chuckled and picked up the phone again. “Right.”
Lambert went into his private office, a small space that allowed him to get away from the hustle and bustle for a few minutes at a time. He sat in his swivel chair, scanned his e-mail inbox, and took a sip of the now-cold coffee. He made a face, thought about going to get a fresh cup, but decided he’d rather shut his eyes for a bit. He was dead tired. All-nighters were for college kids.
But as soon as he closed his eyes the fax machine began to beep. He glanced at the cover page and saw that it was from Lieutenant Colonel Petlow in Baghdad. Lambert figured that perhaps he should go ahead and get a fresh cup of hot coffee — by the time he returned, the fax would be finished. Four minutes later he was back in the office, java in hand, ready to examine Petlow’
s fax.
TO: Colonel Irving Lambert
FROM: Lieutenant Colonel Dan Petlow
RE: Nasir Tarighian
Dear Colonel—
Pursuant to your instructions I have had my intelligence people work on the Tarighian business 24/7, and we now have something to report.
Nasir Tarighian was/is a wealthy Iranian citizen who was politically active during the Iraq-Iran War. In 1983 his home in Tehran was bombed and destroyed, killing his wife and two daughters. He formed a radical anti-Iraq terrorist outfit that made frequent sojourns across the border to Iraq, where he and his men performed vicious raids against innocent Iraqi civilians. In Iran and in parts of Iraq, Tarighian’s band of terrorists was already beginning to be known as the Shadows. The Iranian government disapproved of Tarighian’s methods and exiled him, but he left behind a populace that considered him a war hero, a sort of avenger for the Iranian people. In November 1984, Iraqi soldiers ambushed the Shadows — in Iraq. The force was wiped out and Tarighian was believed to have been burned to death in a massive explosion. No remains were found. But the Shadows live on to this day. In the last five to ten years they have regrouped and became better managed and financed. Terrorist Ahmed Mohammed has been linked to the group and may be directing their operations in the field. Four years ago the rumor mill perpetuated the story that Nasir Tarighian was alive and well and still leading the Shadows from outside of Iran. Since no one had really seen him, Tarighian remained a mythical figure — part righteous warrior, part ghost.
However, one of our prisoners here is apparently a top lieutenant in the Shadows and knows Mohammed personally. We believe he knew Tarighian in the 1980s. After lengthy interrogation he identified a photo of a man we believe is Nasir Tarighian. I attach that photo for your use.
Dan
Lambert turned to the photo. His heart rate increased as he realized that his and Sam Fisher’s instincts were correct.
The man in the picture was Namik Basaran. There was no question about it. Here, though, he was dressed in an Arabic robe and a turban. The shot was taken outdoors circa 1984.
Lambert opened his file and studied the more recent photo of Basaran with Andrei Zdrok. Yes, it was the same man. Basaran had apparently undergone some skin grafting and plastic surgery, which was what made his face look as if he had a dermatological condition.
Now it was clear. Nasir Tarighian had reinvented himself as Namik Basaran, obtained Turkish citizenship, and used his already-amassed wealth to establish Akdabar Enterprises in Turkey. No wonder Basaran had no history prior to the 1990s! By using the front of Akdabar, and especially the “charity” organization Tirma, Basaran/Tarighian had been funding and giving strategic direction to the Shadows for years. He may not be personally running the Shadows, but he was certainly providing them with what mattered — money.
Lambert suddenly felt wide-awake.
26
Of the two major ports in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, Kyrenia and Famagusta, the latter has the most colorful history. Located on the east coast of the island, it is a walled city that has been utilized throughout the ages — by a number of landlords — as a convenient strategic base from which to control the Mediterranean Sea. Today the harbor is used mainly for shipping and trade, whereas Kyrenia is more of a passenger terminal. The TRNC government had questioned why Namik Basaran would want to build a shopping mall just outside of Famagusta. Wouldn’t Kyrenia make more sense? Kyrenia had more people and more traffic. Basaran stuck to his guns, saying that Famagusta was the most historically important city in Northern Cyprus. After all, it was the location of Othello’s Castle, the inspiration for Shakespeare’s famous play. Famagusta needed building up, he claimed. It demanded a refurbishing. Once a proud seaport, Famagusta had declined in respectability and Basaran aimed to change that.
The TRNC, unwilling to challenge such a valued supporter of the republic, allowed him to go ahead and strike ground.
Now, three years later, Famagusta Center was finished and Basaran was ready to begin leasing space to vendors. After a few finishing touches were added, Famagusta Center would be unveiled to the world.
Of course, Namik Basaran, aka Nasir Tarighian, had no intention of ever using the site as a shopping mall. Its proximity to Famagusta and the east coast was chosen simply for strategic reasons. He felt no compunction to help the Turks in their fledgling republic. It had all been a decade-long ruse just to arrive at this moment.
Tarighian and his chief weapons designer, Albert Mertens, walked around and inspected the massive structure that occupied a space large enough for a sports stadium. Topped by a reflective dome, the building might have been mistaken for some kind of planetarium or observatory if it weren’t for the TRNC and Turkish flags hoisted on flagpoles and recognizable Western logos such as the McDonald’s arches and the Virgin Megastore script mightily displayed on neon billboards.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Professor?” Tarighian sighed. “The architect did a nice job with the building, don’t you think?”
“Yes, indeed,” Mertens said, but he wasn’t smiling.
“And you’re sure the Phoenix will be ready in two days?”
“Barring any unforeseen problems, yes.”
“It’s a shame that it will never open for business. We might have made a little money selling Big Macs.”
Mertens didn’t laugh.
“What’s the matter, Professor?” Tarighian asked. “You seem a little unhappy lately.”
“I’ve told you before, I don’t agree with your proposed… plan,” he said.
Tarighian stopped walking and threw up his hands. “Do we have to go through this again?”
Mertens turned and pointed his finger at his boss. “You know we have one shot and one shot only. Why waste it on Iraq? Don’t you want to make the strongest statement you can possibly make?”
“Professor, enough!” The force in Tarighian’s voice silenced the physicist. “I’ve made up my mind, so don’t mention it again. Let’s go inside. They’re waiting for us.”
Mertens nodded resignedly.
“Professor, you’re a brilliant physicist,” Tarighian said. “I couldn’t have done this without you. But do me a favor and stick to what you know best and leave the strategic and military decisions to me.”
“Fine.”
Tarighian slapped Mertens on the back and said, “Good. Come on.”
* * *
The five men gathered in the bowels of the shopping mall were Nasir Tarighian’s closest aides and lieutenants. Each of them was responsible for a faction of the Shadows’ operations. Ahmed Mohammed, an Iranian, was responsible for the Political Committee, whish issued fatwas, or edicts purporting to be based on Islamic law, including orders for deadly attacks. He was also the unrecognized number two in the organization, the man responsible for making sure operations in the field were carried out properly. Nadir Omar, a Saudi, led the Military Committee that proposed targets, supported operations, and ran training camps. Hani Yousef, an Iranian, ran the Finance Committee, which provided fundraising and financial support in league with Tarighian. Ali Babarah, a Moroccan, headed the Information Committee, which was responsible for propaganda and recruitment. Finally, Ziad Adhari, an Iranian, led the Purchasing Committee, the machine that procured weapons, explosives, and equipment. These five men rarely met face-to-face for security reasons.
Tarighian and Albert Mertens joined them in the small conference room on the ground level. Farid, his broken arm in a cast and sling, stood by the door. Tarighian took the chair at the head of the table, as expected. Mertens sat next to his second-in-command, German physicist Heinrich Eisler. Mertens was happy to have an ally in Eisler, who was ten years his junior. Despite the disparity in backgrounds and age, the two men shared similar ideologies. They were also once roommates in a mental institution in Brussels. Eisler had a habit of whittling on small pieces of wood with a Swamp Monster combat knife, which was made of 420 stainless steel, a full 1–1/2 inches wide an
d 1/2ch thick. Mertens knew that aside from the fact that Eisler was a brilliant physicist, he was very handy with the bladed weapon. When they lived in the institution, Eisler wasn’t allowed to keep a knife. Ever since they had been “released,” Eisler was never seen without it.
Tarighian, the man the world knew as Namik Basaran, stood and addressed the room. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming to Cyprus for this meeting. We praise Allah for delivering you safely and for the secure return to your posts. I thought it important that you be here in person as I outline my plans for what has been the realization of a dream. It’s a dream I’ve had for twenty years. Now it will finally come to fruition.”
He paused to make sure he had everyone’s attention.
“The Phoenix is complete. It is ready, thanks to the genius of Professor Mertens.” Tarighian held out his hand toward the physicist. The other men in the room turned to him and nodded, but there was no applause. These men were too serious for that kind of self-congratulatory nonsense. Mertens remained stone-faced.
“You’ve been wondering, I know,” Tarighian continued, “what I want to do with the Phoenix. Today I shall tell you.” He looked at every man in the eyes and announced, “It is time for Iraq to pay for what they did to Iran during the 1980s.”
The committee heads shifted in their seats. Three of them leaned forward, their interest sparked.