Текст книги "Splinter Cell (2004)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

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.

As I ponder the problem, I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching. It apparently entered through the front gate and is now driving down the main road toward the courtyard. Concealed by shadow, I lie in the grass beside the shed and watch as the car stops so that the driver can speak to one of the guards.

It's the Citroen, the car that chased me earlier! Three men are inside, as before. Son of a bitch. Further proof that Basaran had something to do with the incident in the town square. No wonder he stood there doing nothing. Shit, is my cover blown? Does he know who I am? And the bigger question is–why? Basaran's supposed to be on ourside, isn't he?

But I could be jumping to conclusions. These guys in the Citroen could be acting independently of Basaran, for all I know. Maybe Basaran has enemies within his own organization. It's possible.

Then something odd occurs. The two guards get into the Citroen and drive away toward the airstrip on the far side of the compound. The courtyard is empty. It still doesn't solve the problem of getting to the other side without the cameras seeing me. Do I dare shoot them out?

The answer comes to me as I look to my left and see a shed housing the three-wheelers, those golf carts I saw the guards driving earlier. I run to the shed and climb into a cart. No key is needed because it runs on electric power. There's a nice canopy over the driver's seat–so if I hunch over and keep my head down, I'm fairly certain that the cameras won't make me. On the surveillance video I'll probably just look like another guard. I decide to risk it.

The thing starts up and I drive into the courtyard. I hear the cameras move as they pick me up, but I don't worry about it. I putter along at a slow speed as if I'm just another lazy guard doing his rounds. For authenticity I stop once and pretend to rummage around in the floor of the cart, then continue on.

I make it across, get out of the cart, and begin to explore the sides of the big building. The main employee entrances and loading doors are closed, locked, and directly under floodlight beams. On the far side, though, there's a garbage Dumpster sitting directly beneath an open window. I scramble up the Dumpster and peer into the place.

For the most part the space is dark. There are lights on here and there, but it's a very big building. I crawl through the window and drop to the floor on my hands and feet like a cat. Lambert once told me that I'd make a pretty good cat burglar if I were into that sort of thing. I let him think I may have been at one time.

It's a typical steel mill. There's the huge furnace, belts, worktables, overhead trolleys, forklifts, and everything else that accompanies a legitimate construction plant. As I explore the place, I'm beginning to think I'm wasting my time here. There's nothing out of the ordinary. I'm about to give up and get the hell out when I turn a corner and see a lone guard sitting in a chair in front a heavy steel door on rollers. He's holding an AK-47 and is staring straight ahead, probably counting the minutes until his shift is over. I wonder what he's guarding.

This time I decide to act aggressively. I load the SC– 20K with a ring airfoil projectile, aim for the guy's head, and fire. Zap–the guard falls over, unconscious. I rush over to him, pick up the round, and return it to my Osprey. He won't know what happened to him, but he'll have a fairly big knot on his head when he wakes up.

I unbolt the big door and slide it open. It's a storeroom containing dozens of crates and boxes. I step inside and– bingo. I recognize the crates as having the same stamp as before, from the Tabriz Container Company. With my reliable combat knife I pry off the crate lid. Guns. AK-47s. I pry open another crate–Hakims. Explosives. Bomb-making materials. Pistols. More rifles. Ammunition.

Just what the hell is Akdabar Enterprises doing with a shitload of weapons?

I continue to examine the containers, closing them as I go, and eventually find a shipping manifest still stuck on one of the crates. The originating location is an address in Baku, Azerbaijan. I note it in the OPSAT and decide I've seen enough. I snap a few shots of everything and leave the storeroom. I close the heavy sliding door and latch it. The guard is still in Dreamsville.

As I make my way to the window where I entered, I hear the rusty screech of a door opening. It's the front employee entrance. I rush to cross the floor, but it's no good–whoever it is will see me if I continue on this path. I hear a single set of footsteps clomping toward me at a slow pace, so I just have time to slip behind a column and stand perfectly still.

The man discovers the unconscious guard and grunts. It's a sound that's familiar to me, so I risk peeking around the column. The newcomer is none other than Farid, Basaran's big bodyguard. I have to get out of here quickly before the goon sounds the alarm. I look around for an escape route and find no other recourse but to climb onto the tall conveyor belt mechanism and grab hold of a pipe that runs the length of the room, forty or fifty feet off the ground. While Farid is bending over the guard and trying to revive him, I dart across the floor, step onto the base of the mechanism, use a set of cranks as leverage, and climb the thing like a monkey. The machine resembles a gigantic old-fashioned jukebox with the conveyor belt coming out of a "mouth." It's not easy to climb, especially toward the top, which is rounded. After two tries I manage to clutch a handhold on top of the machine and pull myself up. Sliding off would be a disaster, so I take a moment to catch my breath and concentrate.

I look down and see Farid standing by the guard, who is now sitting up and rubbing his head. No time to lose. I can easily reach the pipe, so I grab it and begin traversing it, hand over hand, my body dangling precariously high over the floor.

Bang!The gunshot comes from below. Shit, Farid has seen me. I continue to move along the pipe, but the guy's taking potshots at me with a pistol. He doesn't have a very good aim, praise the Lord. As I approach the end of the pipe near the far wall, where I can easily climb down to the floor, the gunshots stop. He's figured out he'll meet me there, and sure enough, he's standing below me when I reach my destination.

With my helmet and goggles on, I'm hoping he doesn't recognize me. Besides, I'm pretty high above him. I hear him grunt at me, motioning me to come down. He expects me to climb down and take my punishment like a man. So what do I do? I let go of the pipe and drop the forty or fifty feet directly on top of him.

We both crash to the hard floor and I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder as it hits the concrete. It's a good thing Farid is so big; otherwise I could have caused a lot more damage to myself. He made a nice cushion. I quickly scramble to my feet, ready to take on the brute–but I see he's sprawled faceup, not moving. His arm is bent unnaturally behind his back, obviously broken.

Fine. Saves me the trouble of killing him. Before the other guard can run over to see what's happened, I move quickly to the spot where I came in, climb some crates to reach the window, and squeeze through.

Outside, I get back in the three-wheeler and drive around the building and head through the courtyard toward the side of the complex where I originally entered. I don't see a soul. Eight minutes later I park the vehicle near the fence, skirt through the shadows until I find the incisions I made at the beginning of my adventure, pull open the trap, and squeeze through the hole.

Damn, my shoulder hurts. It could be a sprain, but I don't think it's a bad one. I've taken some pretty hard knocks in my time and this is nothing.

When I'm away from the complex and back in the Pazhan, I send Lambert a message:

URGENT–FIND OUT ALL YOU CAN ABOUT NAMIK BASARAN, ALBERT MERTENS, AND ANDREI ZDROK.

22

LIEUTENANTColonel Petlow was tired. He had overseen the interrogation of the prisoners for nearly twenty-four hours. After the "Iraqi prisoner abuse" scandal that had rocked the world several months ago, the U.S. government was being overly cautious with regard to what could or could not be done during interrogation sessions. As a result, interrogations became matters of time. A lot of time.

The prisoner Petlow was most interested in, of course, was No-Tooth, whose real name was supposedly Ali Al-Sheyab. Petlow preferred to call him No-Tooth.

Although no one had realized it at first, No-Tooth had been wounded during his capture. He had taken a bullet in the side, but it hadn't damaged any vital organs. The round had entered and exited, leaving a bloody hole that wasn't noticed until No-Tooth had been booked and placed in a prisoner holding pen. Then the man fainted and was taken to a mobile army surgical unit to be stitched up. That's when the doctors saw that the prisoner was already feverish and hosting a bad case of pneumonia. Such were the hazards of living as a nomad in an unstable country.

Petlow thought that No-Tooth's condition might work to an advantage. The man was fairly drugged up and probably more comfortable than he had been in months. Armed with new directives from Central Command to find out the identities of specific individuals, Petlow decided to give No-Tooth a try before going to bed.

The surgical unit was housed in an air-conditioned portable building that had clean running water. Things had improved immensely since the days of Vietnam, when an army hospital was just as filled with deadly bacteria as the jungle itself. Depending on the seriousness of the wounds, an injured soldier or prisoner could find it pleasant staying in the hospital.

Petlow was aware of this when he entered with his interpreter. He filled out the necessary paperwork and asked the sergeant in charge to give them some privacy. After checking with the doctors, a folding screen was placed around No-Tooth's bed and Petlow and the interpreter took seats beside him.

"Mr. Al-Sheyab, do you recognize me?" Petlow asked. The interpreter translated the questions and answers as the two men spoke.

No-Tooth grinned and nodded. They didn't call him No-Tooth for nothing.

"I'd like to ask you some questions. Will you talk to me?"

No-Tooth grinned wider and shook his head.

"Why not?"

No-Tooth cursed in a language that Petlow didn't understand. It wasn't Arabic. Maybe Farsi? The interpreter left the prisoner's words to Petlow's imagination.

"But, Mr. Al-Sheyab, we've saved your life. You would have died. You had pneumonia. You'd been shot. Aren't you comfortable now?"

No-Tooth shrugged.

"I suppose then, if you're feeling fine, that we can move you back to the prisoners' holding area," Petlow said.

No-Tooth's eyes widened and he shook his head.

"Why not? You seem to be doing better. I think I'll have the doctor release you so we can interrogate you properly."

"No," the prisoner said. "What is it you want? Please, I feel terrible and I am in a lot of pain. Don't move me."

Petlow almost smiled. "All right. I want you to look at some photographs. I'm going to ask you if you can pick out a certain person, would you do that?"

The prisoner stared at Petlow and almost snarled. But he didn't say no.

Petlow plowed ahead. He opened a folder containing several black-and-white photos of various Middle Eastern men. "Does the name Ahmed Mohammed mean anything to you?"

Again, No-Tooth grinned.

"I understand that Ahmed Mohammed is one of the leaders of your organization, is this correct?"

No-Tooth shrugged, but he did it coyly. Petlow took that as a yes.

"How about Nasir Tarighian?" Petlow asked. "Do you know Nasir Tarighian?"

This time No-Tooth's eyes widened and he stopped smiling. He shook his head.

"Is it true that Nasir Tarighian is the man who provides the money behind the Shadows?"

No-Tooth refused to respond.

"You doknow him, don't you? Nasir Tarighian? Well, we knowthat Tarighian is the financial leader of your group, which calls itself the Shadows. I understand that you confessed to being a member of the Shadows when you were arrested."

No-Tooth spoke in a monotone. "I am proud to be a Shadow. We will liberate the Middle East from Western oppression and return it to its Islamic roots." He said it as if he was repeating a mantra.

"Mr. Al-Sheyab, I don't believe you are a Shadow," Petlow said.

No-Tooth's eyes became fierce. He didn't like being called a liar. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I'm saying you don't know if Tarighian is your leader or not. You can't be a Shadow."

"I am a Shadow! I am proud to be a Shadow! We will liberate the Middle East from Western oppression and return it to its Islamic roots!"

Petlow showed the prisoner the first photo. "You can't say that this man is Nasir Tarighian, can you?"

No-Tooth scowled at the photo and said, "That's not him! You don't know what you're talking about."

Petlow switched to the next photo. "We think this is Tarighian. Do you?"

"No! You stupid Americans don't know a great man when you see one. That is Ahmed Mohammed." Petlow knew that. Mohammed's face had been well known to the authorities for some time.

Next picture. "Then I guess this can't be Tarighian, either."

"That's not him."

They went through seven photographs with negative results. On the eighth shot Petlow asked, "Well, we knowthis isn't him."

No-Tooth held up a hand. A visible change came over the prisoner's facial expression, as if he had just looked upon his Lord and Savior.

"Nasir Tarighian," he whispered reverently.

Petlow nodded and marked the back of the photo.

"Thank you, Mr. Al-Sheyab. Get some rest now, all right?" Petlow said.

No-Tooth looked at Petlow with confusion. He knew he had somehow been tricked into revealing something and his foggy mind allowed it to happen. He cursed once again at Petlow and the interpreter as the two men got up and left. The prisoner shouted at them, "I am a Shadow! I am proud to be a Shadow! We will liberate the Middle East from Western oppression and return it to its Islamic roots!"

Petlow hurried out of the hospital and ran toward his quarters. He had to get this information to Washington as soon as possible.

SARAH'Sstomach growled for the sixth time since she began clocking the noises. She didn't care, though. She was determined to see her hunger strike through. No matter how starved and weak she became, Sarah resolved not to eat the food they brought her. They hadbeen consistent. One of them had brought her a separate meal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but until they let her go, she wasn't eating. To hell with them. If they considered her a valuable hostage, she wouldn't be worth much dead.

Most of the time it was one of those creepy Russians who came in. They said their names were Vlad and Yuri, which were probably fake–or else why would they tell her their names? Unless they really planned to kill her all along once they got what they wanted. This was the reasoning that motivated Sarah to go on a hunger strike.

She had been in the little room for two nights and was beginning her third day. Once she asked if she could go outside just to get some fresh air. They wouldn't let her. Now the room smelled of her sweat. The bathroom stank due to bad plumbing. She showered daily just to feel better, but the last half-day hadn't been easy. She was beginning to feel the effects of not eating. All she wanted to do was lie on the cot and sleep.

Sarah was dozing, daydreaming about an Asian barbecue restaurant in Evanston that she and Rivka liked to frequent, and her mouth started watering. Her stomach growled again and she willed herself not to think about it. It was hard. She missed her home. She wanted to leave Israel more than anything.

The sound of the key in the door startled her. It always did. The place was usually deathly quiet until that damned key rattled.

The door opened and she saw Vlad's cold face peek inside.

"Go away," she said.

"I brought your breakfast," he said. He came in with a tray. The dish was covered, so she couldn't see what it was. It smelled cooked, though, and that went a long way toward breaking down her defenses.

Vlad set the tray on the floor by the cot and then sat in the chair. "You'd better eat, Princess. We are becoming very tired of your behavior."

"Go to hell," she murmured.

Vlad chuckled. "You still have spirit, eh, Princess? Even after not eating for so many hours? What is it now, two days? That's nothing. Do you know how you'll feel in a week? Me and Yuri, we made a bet to see how long you will keep this up. He says you'll eat tomorrow. Me, I think you have more willpower and will last another two days. What do you think? Is Yuri going to win, or am I going to win?"

"Take the tray and go. I'm not going to eat it," she said.

"You know, Princess, I think what you need is a little more encouragement," Vlad said. He scooted the chair closer to the cot. She looked at him with alarm and recoiled.

"Now, now," he said. "Don't be afraid of Vlad. I won't hurt you. I make you feel real good. I have a way with the ladies. They all say so." He reached out and stroked her hair.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" she spat as she jerked up and away from him.

This angered Vlad. "You little bitch!" he shouted. He grabbed hold of her shoulders and threw her back onto the cot. She struggled with him, but he moved his heavy body on top of her. She felt his scratchy, unshaven face against her cheek as he nuzzled her neck. Sarah attempted to fight him off, but she was no match for his weight and girth. When she felt his wet tongue on her ear, she lost control.

"No!" she screamed. "Help!"

Vlad covered her mouth with one thick hand. "Shut up!" he commanded. "It's time you learn to obey your masters!"

She felt his other hand grope between her legs, and she tried in vain to kick him away.

Oh, my God, she thought to herself. Thisis what it's going to be. It all comes down to this. She closed her eyes tightly and prepared herself for the ordeal that was surely coming.

"What the fuckare you doing?" It was an angry voice at the door.

Suddenly the horrible, heavy weight came off and she could breathe again. She was aware of a struggle in the room.

It was Eli. He had come in and pulled Vlad away. The older man stepped on the breakfast tray, causing it to spill its contents over the floor. Now the two of them were fighting. Vlad swung at Eli, but the young man was faster and more agile. He dodged the blow and sneaked in one of his own, hitting Vlad on the nose.

"You goddamned bastard!" Vlad said. He wiped his face and smeared blood over his upper lip. "I'm going to kill you!"

The door opened again and Yuri entered.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Stop it right now!" He pulled his Heckler & Koch pistol and pointed it at Vlad. "Move back, Vlad! Now!"

Eli and Vlad halted and lowered their fists. Both of them had traces of oatmeal on their clothes. The floor was a mess.

Vlad looked at his partner as if Yuri had betrayed him. "I was just going to have some fun. I'm going crazy here. This isn't what we usually do–guard hostages. You know that."

Yuri kept the gun pointed at him and said, "We do what we're told because we're well paid. Don't forget that." He looked at Eli. "And you, don't you ever attack him again. If he acts up, as he sometimes does, you come and get me."

Eli stood his ground, breathing heavily. "Keep him away from her," he said.

Yuri took the gun off Vlad and pointed it at Eli. The VP70 appeared huge in his hand. "You don't give me orders," he said. "Never."

"Fine," Eli said.

The two stared at each other for a moment and then Yuri said, "Stay and clean up this mess. Let's go, Vlad. Out of here." Vlad grunted and left the room. Yuri kept his eyes trained on Eli and followed his associate out. The door slammed shut.

Eli turned to Sarah, moved to the cot, and sat down beside her. "I'm sorry for that," he said.

Sarah whirled around and slapped his face. "Get out of here and take that tray with you," she said.

Eli stood, rubbing his face. "I guess I deserved that. I have to clean this up."

"Leave it, I don't give a shit if my room's a pigsty. It was a pigsty before it was covered in breakfast," she said.

"Look, Sarah," Eli said. "You're just making this worse for yourself. I don't have to be nice to you, you know."

"Oh, really? You don't have to be nice? You didn't have to kidnapme, either!"

"Goddamn it, Sarah, all we want to know is how to reach your father. I know you have a way to get hold of him. If you don't tell us, you're going to suffer. I can't stop that. Vlad will have his way with you. I guarantee I won't be able to prevent it. And Yuri, if he gets started on you, it's all about pain. Those guys are experts, Sarah. So far they haven't been given the orders to hurt you, but if the orders come, they won't hesitate to do it. Now, tell me, is your father here in the Middle East?"

Sarah folded her arms in front of her, still shaken by what had just occurred. Eli's words frightened her, and she wasn't sure what to do.

"Sarah. Talk to me. Is he in the Middle East? We have reason to believe he might be in Turkey at this moment."

Sarah brought her knees up to her chin and buried her face. The tears came freely.

"I see," Eli said. "Stubborn to the end. Fine. Well, you just think about it some more, then. Oh, and by the way, I

brought you something to read. Maybe it will help you make up your mind." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper. He tossed it on the cot beside her, picked up the tray and dishes, left the spilled oatmeal on the floor, and went out of the room.

After she heard the door lock, Sarah looked at the newspaper and saw that it was in English–and a picture of Rivka was on the front page. Sarah picked up the paper and stared at the front-page headline, her heart racing in terror.

ISRAELI WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN EAST JERUSALEM

The story related how a twenty-year-old woman was found strangled to death, her body lying in a trash heap in an alley. Police suspected Palestinian militants for the slaying, but an investigation was under way.

At the bottom of the page was a photo of both Rivka and Sarah. Sarah recognized it as one that Rivka's parents had taken earlier in the week. The caption read:

MISSING AMERICAN WOMAN LAST SEEN WITH SLAIN ISRAELI

23

THECaucasus Mountains. Would you believe that the Soviet elite thought of these small republics–Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan–as a holiday paradise? They have everything: sunny beaches, snowy mountains, luxurious orchards, and some of the best wine in Eastern Europe. Or is it Asia? It's hard to say. The region seems to connect Asia with Europe, and it's a mixture of cultural elements from both continents. Now that the Soviet Union is no more and these countries are more or less independent, all we hear about are the ethnic conflicts that plague the area. But I've never had any problems here. In fact, I kind of like it.

I drive out of Turkey in the Pazhan, which is beginning to worry me. The engine's starting to make a cough-coughnoise every now and then. I just hope it makes it to Baku. The mountain roads are tough on even the sturdiest of vehicles.

I travel north and enter Armenia just west of Yerevan. I have no trouble at the border. My Interpol credentials get me through, and it helps that these places are far less suspicious than the other countries I've visited on this assignment. I have to cross over the mountains, north of Lake Sevan, to access the straighter, more level road heading east into Azerbaijan. The distance in miles really isn't that much, but the up-and-down nature of the trip stretches the time frame. I just try to relax and enjoy the gorgeous scenery.

I reach my destination after nightfall. Baku, or Baki–depending on whom you talk to–is the largest city in the Caucasus. In America they say that Chicago is the "windy city," but it has nothing over Baku. Baku's name, in fact, comes from Persian words that mean "city of winds." Perched on the shore of the Caspian Sea, Baku is bombarded by strong gales on a frequent basis. Another distinctive aspect of Baku is that it's surrounded by gaseous and flammable oil fields. Since oil is the country's main commodity, most of Baku is an industrial city that works to refine the huge amounts of petroleum. What's amazing is there are areas of earth that literally flame up because gas is coming out of the ground. So Baku is sometimes called the "land of fire," as well. Back in the times of the Greeks, many of the myths grew out of this area because of its unusual natural characteristics.

It's not a very attractive city. I find it very polluted, especially on the outskirts, but I believe this is a legacy of former Soviet rule. The inner city and the harbor area have lately been built up to attract more tourists. It's trying to be downright cosmopolitan, albeit a little more conservative than, say, Istanbul.

If I wanted to I could stay at a four-star hotel, but that's not my style. I prefer budget places where no one pays much attention to the guests. I find such an establishment located on board a former Caspian Sea ferry that sits on a permanent mooring beside the Port Office in the area known as Boom Town. The place is a dump but the cabins have hot water and privacy. I don't plan to stay long.

After a welcome night's sleep I greet the morning refreshed and ready to work. I have a breakfast of bread and honey with yogurt at the teahouse near my so-called hotel, and then I walk through Boom Town to the address I found on the shipping manifest in the Akdabar storeroom. Those weapons were definitely shipped from Azerbaijan, and whatever business occupies the address had something to do with it.

It turns out to be a bank just off Fountain Square, the center for people watching in Baku. The fountains happen to be working today, so the cafe terraces are busy and lively. Since I'm wearing my civilian sports jacket and trousers, I blend in easily. No one notices the casually dressed businessman enter the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank except the security guard at the front door. He's standing outside as if he were actually a hotel concierge waiting to hail a taxi for a guest. I notice there's a retinal scanner by the door–which will make my entry during off-hours all the more difficult. I'll have to think about that one.

As I open the door, the guard nods at me and asks me something in Azeri. I simply smile, point to the information desk, and go inside. It's a fairly small bank lobby with two teller windows and two executive desks on the floor. A barred gate leads to an area behind a wall, which I presume are back offices, the vault, and maybe safe-deposit boxes. I go to the table that holds bank literature, pick up a pamphlet, and pretend to study it as I case the place. There are two surveillance cameras up in the corners and appear to cover the entire lobby. I glance through the teller windows–only one is occupied–and see a pretty Azeri woman in her thirties counting manat, the official currency. There's not much room back there, so I figure all the good stuff in the bank is through the barred gate.

While I'm studying the place, a man enters from the street, stands and speaks quietly to the guard, and then walks over to the teller window. I recognize him as the man with Namik Basaran in the photo that was in Rick Benton's folder. He's dressed impeccably in an expensive suit and has the demeanor of a king. I make him out to be perhaps the bank manager.

He speaks to the teller for a moment and then moves to the barred gate. He unlocks it with his own set of keys, enters, closes and locks the gate behind him, and disappears. He didn't look at me once.

It's funny how all the little pieces start falling into place. Whoever this guy is, he's obviously pretty chummy with Basaran. In the photo they look like old pals who have enjoyed a longtime business relationship. Of course, the guy could simply be Basaran's banker. Much remains to be seen.