Splinter Cell sc-1

by Tom Clancy

  I take a frag grenade from my Osprey, set it to manual mode — which allows me to ignite it from a distance by pressing a button on the OPSAT — and I place it underneath the hangar’s fuel tank. For good measure I place another grenade on the control panel that operates the platform. Before I climb the rope back to the upper level, I shove the dead guards off and onto the floor. I ascend the rope, replace it in my backpack, and go back to the foreman’s office. I flip the switch to raise the platform and wait until it’s in place.

  I exit the building the way I came in. I make a careful countersurveillance sweep of the area and determine I’m alone. I run back to the Pazhan and change — I put on the jeballa, fix the turban so it looks correct, and then saunter back to the building.

  This time I use the picks to open the employee entrance and walk inside, in full view of the surveillance camera. It will record an ordinary Arab walking into the warehouse. I take one of the Tirma pamphlets I stole from Basaran’s place in Turkey — excuse me, I mean Tarighian’s place — and drop it on the floor where I’m standing. I then proceed to set and plant frag grenades all over the place. I pay special attention to the gasoline drums. As I go around the building, I drop Tirma pamphlets.

  Finally, when I’m done, I leave the building and drop the remainder of the Tirma literature on the loading dock, the ramp, and on the runway field. Investigators will surely find whatever Tirma pieces are not obliterated in the coming fireworks.

  Back at the Pazhan, I get rid of the jeballa and turban, sit in the car, and activate the OPSAT trigger. The diaper factory goes up in a massive fireball that turns the night sky into an orange-and-yellow backdrop. I’m sure the thunderclap is heard for miles.

  I drive away from the disaster area and can’t help smiling. I’d love to be there when Andrei Zdrok gets the news that his terrorist department store has been blown to kingdom come. And with the “evidence” I left behind, hopefully he’ll think the Shadows are responsible. Beautiful.

  As I approach the city limits of Baku, I receive a message on the OPSAT from Carly St. John. I laugh out loud when I read it, for it serves my little plan that much more.

  HI SAM. JUST LETTING YOU KNOW THAT I’VE SUCCEEDED IN DIVERTING TARIGHIAN’S MONEY TRANSFER TO A TEMPORARY HIDDEN ACCOUNT IN OUR OFFSHORE BANK. THAT’S ONE PAYMENT THE SHOP WON’T GET.

  — CARLY

  28

  The Russian military lagged behind the United States in stealth technology and only recently began to aggressively pursue an updated, modern approach to air defense development. The cause was advanced considerably by the recovery and sale of a shot-down U.S. Air Force F-117A stealth fighter during the 1999 war against Serbia. Serbs reportedly sold the remains of the American aircraft directly to the Russians. Since then, Russian fighter maker Sukhoi began to use the S-37 Berkut, or “Golden Eagle,” as a test bed for developing technologies for the next generation of military aircraft. The S-37 eventually evolved into the modern Su-47.

  Western intelligence speculates that the new Su-47 is a stealth fighter. To date the truth is not known to the U.S. or Great Britain, but Russian military insiders are well aware of the state of affairs. The stealth fighter does exist, if only in a prototype stage, and it is destined to compete with the F-117A.

  An impressively designed aircraft, the Su-47 has swept-forward wings and a shape not unlike the Su-27 series. This configuration provides many benefits in aerodynamics at subsonic speeds and at high angles of attack. The foremounted canards are somewhat triangular and placed unconventionally far from the cockpit and close to the wings. The rear tailplanes are small but sleek and of unusual design. A strange hump behind the canopy encloses computer systems. There are two ordinary-looking D-30F6 engines and an IR targeting tracking blister mounted just in front of the canopy. With a wingspan of nearly seventeen meters and an overall length of twenty-two and a half meters, the Su-47 is the perfect size aircraft for stealth missions.

  It was General Stefan Prokofiev who made one of the prototypes available to the Shop. He was in charge of the development team that was the liaison between Sukhoi and the Russian military. As a handful of prototypes emerged from the factory, Prokofiev made sure that one of them “disappeared” during a test flight. In reality it was stolen and diverted to one of the Shop’s secret hangars located in southern Russia.

  The only consolation Andrei Zdrok could attribute to the disaster that befell the diaper factory in Azerbaijan was the fact that their Su-47 was currently safely at rest in a different hangar in southern Russia. To replace the aircraft would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible, and it was a loss that Zdrok did not want to incur. Losing the twenty-three million dollars’ worth of arms, equipment — and the Baku facility itself — was bad enough.

  He was furious.

  Too many strange things had happened in the past couple of days, and he was convinced it was not a coincidence. First, an intruder broke into the bank and blasted a hole in his safe. Nothing was taken — although Zdrok was certain that the documents were most likely photographed — and a great deal of damage had been done.

  And now the warehouse/factory had been destroyed. By whom? Initial reports by his own investigators indicated that the Shadows might have had something to do with it. The site was littered with Tirma literature. Was that an accident or had it been done on purpose as a protest against the Shop’s refusing to refund the money for the Shadows’ lost arms shipment?

  A knock on the door rustled Zdrok from his mind racing.

  “Come in,” he said.

  It was Antipov. The man entered the room, stepped over the rubble that still lay on the floor, and shut the door. “The two policemen are fine,” he said. “Their vests stopped the bullets. The night sentry insists that the man who made him use the retinal scanner was definitely American.” He handed a CD to Zdrok and said, “This is from the camera at the warehouse. What was left of it, anyway. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  Zdrok took the disk and put it in his computer. They watched the clips together.

  A man dressed in a jeballa and turban entered the back entrance… He set grenades… he dropped leaflets… and then he left.

  “Who is he?” Zdrok asked. “He’s not American.”

  “Who knows? He’s obviously an Arab militant. He deliberately left that Tirma stuff. It’s a message, Andrei. Tarighian is sending us a message.”

  “What does he want, a goddamned war?” Zdrok fumed. He took out the disk and gave it back to Antipov. “I’m going to call the bastard.”

  He picked up the phone, consulted the directory in his computer, and dialed the number in Cyprus.

  “Yes.” It was Tarighian, otherwise known as Basaran.

  “It is I,” Zdrok said.

  “Are you on a secure line?”

  “Of course.”

  “How are you, Andrei?” Tarighian sighed. He sounded tired and stressed.

  “I could be better.”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong? You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Our facility south of Baku was destroyed last night. By one of your men.”

  “What?”

  “We have him on tape. He left Tirma shit all over the place so we’d know it was you.”

  “I don’t believe this! What the hell are you talking about? You’re accusing me?” Tarighian sounded way too offended. Zdrok smelled a rat. The man was an actor — after all, he’d been acting a part for the last twenty years.

  “Only a handful of people know about that place,” Zdrok said. “And I trust every one of them with my life. Except you.”

  “What are you saying? That I was somehow responsible for this?”

  “My friend, if you think you can get away with this, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “Andrei, it sounds to me as if we’re being set up. It was not me, I swear it.”

  “Oh? Is this the American agent you told me about, then? Is he the one who may
be infiltrated our bank in Baku?”

  “Your bank in Baku? I know nothing about that!”

  “We think an American broke into the bank the other night.”

  “Well, no, I don’t think it was the man who was here. My men said they killed him. He drowned in Lake Van. Although I must tell you that our facility in Van was breached the other night. My bodyguard was hurt. A lone operative was seen in the steel mill, but he escaped.”

  Zdrok was aghast. “Tarighian, if this man was a CIA or NSA agent and he obtained some of our secrets from you, I can’t tell you how much you and your organization will suffer.”

  “For the love of Allah, Andrei, we’re on your side!”

  “We’re not on anyone’s side but our own. You know that. I don’t care about your bloody jihad. What you’re planning to do with the materials we sold you over the last three years is foolish. I wouldn’t be surprised if your own men turn against you. All I care about is the business. And speaking of that, why haven’t we received payment for the replacement of goods that was sent to you? That was supposed to be in the account this morning, if you recall.”

  “What?” Now Tarighian really sounded concerned. “That money was transferred. I gave the order personally.”

  “It’s not here.”

  “That’s peculiar. I’ll have to—”

  “It’s more than just peculiar, Tarighian. I suggest that you drop everything and look into the matter right now.”

  “Andrei, we’re trying to finish our project. You know I have grand plans for what we’ve been building.”

  “Yes, I know. And I can imagine you’re currently having cash-flow problems, too. But I don’t care. Prove to me that you didn’t do this terrible thing to me and pay me what you owe me.”

  Zdrok hung up without giving Tarighian a chance to respond. He looked at Antipov and said, “So he thinks the American is dead? The girl in Israel hasn’t talked yet, so I suppose it’s time we convince her to do so. If he’s really dead, we’ll soon know for certain.” He picked up the phone again and made a call to Jerusalem.

  * * *

  “Damn Zdrok,” Tarighian said to Mertens as he hung up the phone.

  They were in Tarighian’s private office inside the Cyprus shopping mall complex.

  “What is it now?” Mertens asked.

  “They’re screwing us,” Tarighian replied. He dialed another number and waited. “Hello, Hani?”

  Tarighian’s head of finance was on the other line. “Yes?”

  “Was that payment transferred to the Shop?”

  “Yesterday, sir.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I did it personally.”

  “They say it wasn’t received.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Look into it, will you? I have enough problems right now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tarighian hung up and glared at Mertens. “I suppose you want to tell me again how crazy this scheme is.”

  Mertens shrugged. “As a matter of fact…”

  “All right, Professor. If Baghdad isn’t a suitable target, then what is? Are you going to say Israel again?”

  “Of course! I cannot believe you are blind to this. Tel Aviv or Jerusalem should be the target because Israel is the key objective in the Middle East. Destroy Jerusalem and the region really will be in chaos. And it will avenge the assassination of Gerard Bull.”

  “So that’s what this is about? Your former boss?”

  “He was much more than a boss. He was my mentor. He was like a father to me.”

  “There is no proof that Israel was responsible for Bull’s murder.”

  “There is every indication that the Mossad was responsible. I was there. I was working with Gerard when it happened. I swore to avenge his life then and I intend to do it.”

  “Not with my money you don’t,” Tarighian said. “Just because you were Gerard Bull’s right-hand man doesn’t give you the privilege to question my motives. Professor, you have done a wonderful job with the Phoenix, but in Allah’s name I will not tolerate insubordination. Now that the Phoenix is complete, you are expendable. Don’t forget that.”

  Tarighian’s cold brown eyes stared holes through Mertens, and the Belgian physicist saw — not for the first time — why so many men respected and feared the man. Tarighian possessed that rare quality known as charisma. Great men throughout the ages used charisma to influence others, whether it was for good or for evil, and Tarighian was no different. He had seduced Mertens long ago, convincing the Belgian to devote his life to designing and building a weapon for the Shadows. The pay was an additional incentive, of course, along with protection from the Belgian authorities who had been looking for him ever since his escape from the mental institution.

  For Mertens, though, he was not in it only for the money. By working on Tarighian’s project, Mertens had fulfilled his goal of continuing the dreams of Gerard Bull, the man who taught Mertens everything he knew. Mertens was not a Muslim, nor did he care about the Shadows’ objectives to drive the West out of the Middle East and take over Iraq. He had no loyalty to Jews, Muslims, or Christians. His devotion was to Bull and the man’s genius. Mertens owed it to Bull to fulfill the man’s prophecy.

  “Very well,” Mertens said. “I apologize. But you should know that many of your own men are unhappy with what you plan to do. They do not agree with your decision to attack a city in a Muslim country.”

  “Are you talking about Ahmed Mohammed by any chance?” Tarighian growled. “I will deal with him in due time. Ahmed has been my friend and ally for over twenty years. If he is disgruntled, he’ll get over it. Now get back to work. I don’t want to hear another word about it. I expect the Phoenix to be fully operational tomorrow and we’ll begin tests in the afternoon. Is that clear?”

  Mertens bowed his head slightly. “Absolutely.” He stood and left the room.

  He walked down the dark, empty corridor to his own office, where Heinrich Eisler was waiting for him, whittling on a piece of wood.

  “Well?” Eisler asked.

  “I’ve had enough of Nasir Tarighian and the Shadows,” Mertens said. “It’s time to take matters into our hands. I’m placing a call to Mohammed.”

  29

  Sarah wiped the tears from her cheeks, rose slowly from the cot, and walked weakly into the bathroom. The dirty mirror reflected a frightened mess of a girl. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair was stringy, and the makeup was long gone. Sarah hadn’t showered in a couple of days — what was the point? The hunger pangs no longer bothered her, but she felt extremely feeble. Now it was just a question of how much longer she’d be able to perform other normal functions.

  Over the years she had been aware of other kidnap-pings in the Middle East. The stories were always on CNN or in the newspaper. Americans were abducted while performing their jobs or while serving in the military. Sometimes the hostages were rescued… more often not.

  What would the bastards eventually do to her? So far they hadn’t mistreated her physically, although the creep named Vlad had come close. She hated Eli now, but in many ways he’d been her protector. There was no telling what the two Russians would do if Eli wasn’t around.

  Several times she had been tempted to tell them how to contact her father. Sarah was loath to involve him, but she also suspected that he could get her out of this situation. If Eli was right and her father really was a government spy of some kind, he would have the resources to rescue her. Perhaps he could bring the army in and blow her asshole kidnappers to hell.

  On the other hand, the kidnappers wanted him for a reason, and Sarah didn’t think it was a good one. She could see the hate in their eyes and hear the venom in their voices when they spoke of him. Sarah was certain they wanted to kill her father, and she understood full well that she was the bait to lure him into their clutches. She was resolved not to let that happen.

  How many days had it been? She had lost count. She now realized she should have do
ne what she’d seen prisoners in movies do — scratch on the wall with something and make a mark for every passing day. She knew she’d been there less than a week but more than four days. If she hadn’t been kidnapped, she’d be home now. She would have said goodbye to Rivka and her family and—

  Oh, Rivka.

  What happened to her friend haunted Sarah and tore at her heart. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t been Rivka’s friend, the girl would still be alive. During one of Eli’s frequent visits to her room, Sarah asked him what had happened to her. How did she die? Eli refused to tell her. He said he didn’t really know — only that she was dead. Sarah asked him if Noel was responsible and Eli simply shrugged. How could he be so cold? How could both of them do what they have done? She and Rivka had given the boys their bodies, their love, their devotion. She and Eli had spoken of living together in New York and maybe getting married someday. Had Rivka and Noel done the same? Had he convinced her to trust him and look forward to a future with him?

  Bastards.

  Sarah finished her business in the bathroom and lumbered back to the cot and lay down. She then heard a familiar knock on the door. Eli again. The key turned in the lock and the door opened. She didn’t look at him but felt his presence as he stood over her.

  “You want anything to eat yet?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Come on, Sarah. You better eat something. You’re… you’re going to need your strength.”

  Sarah refused to acknowledge him.

  “Look, Sarah, we’ve had new orders come through. Vlad and Yuri — they’ve been given the go-ahead to be more, um, aggressive. This is your last chance. You have to tell us what we want to know. Where is your father? How do we get a message to him?”