Текст книги "Splinter Cell (2004)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

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."

THEfive 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 and 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.

"I am going to destroy Baghdad," Tarighian said softly. "And the destruction will be such that the city will be unrecognizable. Iran's revenge on Iraq will be swift and complete."

Nadir Omar cleared his throat. "Sir, with all due respect . . . ?"

"Yes, Nadir?" Tarighian faced his lieutenant.

"What will this accomplish for us?"

"Don't you see?" Tarighian held out his arms. "The resulting disorder in Iraq, and in the Middle East as a whole, will set the entire region against the West–in particular, against America, for not 'protecting' Iraq from terrorism. Iraq's government is made up of puppets, we all know that. The entire worldknows that. America continues to monitor the country and influence the decisions made by the Iraqi leadership. This must end, once and for all. With such a disaster occurring in Iraq under America's watch, the entire Muslim world will react. America will be driven out of Iraq and perhaps even the rest of the Middle East. And then . . . with that opening, Iran will take America's place."

Two committee heads eyed each other.

"And Iran's government knows this?" asked Ahmed Mohammed.

"Not yet, but once the deed is done, then I will reveal myself to the world. Can you see the headlines in Tehran? 'Nasir Tarighian is still alive!' My followers in Iran will most assuredly back me. They will pressure the government to do what Iran has wanted to do but hasn't dared to do for nearly two decades. Iran will invade and conquer Iraq because Iraq is weak and under Western management! The West has tried to make Iraq a democracy in the image of a Western country, but it won't and will never work. Muslims should be the caretakers of the Muslim world. My loyal armies in Iran and neighboring countries are waiting for this showdown, and the Shadows will lead them into Iraq. And we will be victorious!"

Mertens nudged Eisler under the table.

Ahmed Mohammed cleared his throat and said, "Sir, if I may be so bold as to venture an opinion?"

"Yes, Ahmed?" Tarighian acknowledged.

"I do not believe the men who have claimed to be serving Islam in the Shadows will agree to destroying a city in what is essentially a Muslim country. I herewith express my disapproval for the whole thing."

Tarighian folded his arms in front of him. There was a tense moment as he glanced at Farid, who appeared ready to do something about the insurgent. Finally Tarighian merely smiled and said, "I appreciate your candor, Ahmed. Your objection is noted. Now I would like to meet with Ahmed and Nadir to discuss the next steps. The rest of you please stay and enjoy my hospitality. I'm sure Professor Mertens will be happy to show you the completed Phoenix." With that, Farid opened the conference room door with his one good hand and made a gesture indicating that the meeting was over.

Tarighian didn't notice that Mertens and Ahmed Mohammed exchanged a look that only they understood.

THREEhours later Nasir Tarighian shut himself in his private office and stared into the mirror on the wall. He normally hated mirrors, but ever since he had resolved to proceed with the project to bring Iraq to her knees, he wanted a daily reminder of why he was doing it.

He had never forgotten that fateful day when the bombs fell in Tehran. The air-raid sirens were loud and always frightened his daughters. On that morning school had been called off and the children were at home with their mother. Tarighian was busy at a political rally protesting the war and the current government's strict religious rules. When the bombing began he left and went straight home, running the six miles to be with his family. He imagined the face of his wife and how happy she would be to see him as he walked through the front door of their lovely, two-story home. He had worked hard to give his family such a house. Nasir Tarighian had been one of the fortunate Iranians who had shared in the former Shah's wealth by advising him on a number of policies. Needless to say, Tarighian was not a fan of the Islamic Revolution and Iran's newfound religious fervor. Nevertheless he was a loyal Iranian and he hated the Iraqis for what was happening to his country.

As he ran, Tarighian remembered the night before, when he embraced his wife and children and told them not to worry. Allah would protect them. The bombs would not strike their house. They would be safe.

But he was wrong.

The bomb hit the house just before he made it home. He recollected a wave of intense heat and a deafening noise that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. He recalled flames and smoke, flying debris, and screams.

He remembered finding the charred bodies of his family in the rubble.

Tarighian looked in the mirror at his own scarred face and prayed to Allah. He admitted to his god that he knew he had not been a good Muslim. He didn't pray five times a day. He had never made the pilgrimage to Mecca. He had to forgo the more orthodox rituals of Islam in order to perpetuate the pretension of being a Turk. He had lived a lie for twenty years, and he promised to prostrate himself, confess his many sins to Allah, and reap his punishment–after he obtained his revenge.

He had seen the faces of his most trusted men in the meeting today. They thought he was crazy. They thought he was embarking on a disastrous journey. He smelled the insurgency within his ranks. But didn't this happen to all leaders at some point in their tenures?

It didn't help that an intruder had infiltrated Akdabar Enterprises in Van. Farid said it was only one man, but no one saw his face. It was unclear where in the complex other than the steel mill the intruder had been. The surveillance cameras picked up nothing out of the ordinary, although there was the odd appearance of Tarighian's exercise rubber ball in the hallway outside his office. Was that supposed to be the intruder's idea of a joke? Could he have been the American that had posed as a Swiss Interpol policeman? Surely the man calling himself Sam Fisher was dead. The men had assured him the American never came out of Lake Van.

Enough of that, Tarighian told himself. Think of the matters at hand. Should he do something about the negativity within his organization? What could he do at this point other than continue on the course he was on? No, he shouldn't worry about his own men. They would continue to obey him, he knew that. They would remain loyal. He had instilled devotion in them. After all, he was the source of the Shadows' funding; he was their lifeblood. He was Nasir Tarighian and they viewed him as a prophet. It was he who would lead the Islamic nation out of the depths of misery and to a superior position in the world arena.

This was his destiny.

MERTENSand Eisler finished leading the tour around the facility and watched as the committee heads immediately got on cell phones to their lieutenants back at their respective bases. Mertens pulled Eisler to the side and said, "I told you. He's quite mad."

"I didn't believe it until now," Eisler said. "What are we going to do?"

Mertens shook his head. "I don't begrudge Tarighian his desire to seek revenge on Iraq. But it's a personal vendetta. He wants to avenge the deaths of his wife and children. It has nothing to do with Iran. He's delusional to think that Iran is going to back him on this. He was exiled from his country a long time ago. What makes him think he'll gather support now? Just because he's a cult hero, a mythological warrior? He's insane."

"Do you have a plan?"

Mertens put his hand on Eisler's shoulder and said, "Yes. I do. And so does Ahmed Mohammed."

27

ARMEDwith Third Echelon's revelations about Namik Basaran, I head out of Baku in the Pazhan to the address I found in Zdrok's safe. The built-in GPS in the OPSAT leads me to a heavy industrial area south of the city on the Abseron Peninsula, probably the most polluted part of Azerbaijan due to the predominance of petrochemical plants and oil refineries. The land itself is semidesert, the earth is scorched by oil, and derelict derricks stand like forgotten sentinels amidst a panorama of desolation. The images invoke a bizarre postapocalyptic hell on earth.

The sun is setting as I reach my destination. I'm surprised to see that the building is a diaperfactory and warehouse. Who are they kidding? I've heard of deadly weapons of mass destruction, but this is ridiculous.

I wait until it's completely dark, but the night sky tends to glow from the fires of the surrounding refineries. There's not much I can do about it, so I hope for the best and leave the Pazhan dressed in my uniform. I make my way around to the back of the building, where I find a loading dock with a long ramp inclining toward it, a large folding steel door, and an employees' entrance. A vast, flat field stretches three hundred feet or more behind the building and I'm perplexed as to why nothing is built there. No time to wonder about that now.

The lock picks work easily on the employee door and there are no burglar alarms. Too simple. I utilize the corner periscope to peek through the door before opening it wider. This part of the building is a warehouse, of course, full of boxes and crates with the diaper company logo on them. Work lights illuminate the place much too brightly for my taste. I scan the ceiling and corners and see in the mirror a lone surveillance camera trained at the door. Damn. There's no way I can get inside without it seeing me, even if I blast it with the Five-seveN. I have to figure out something else.

I move to the side of the building and get lucky. Two hinged slat windows are ajar approximately fifteen feet above the ground. I look around for something to stand on and remember seeing an empty oil drum by the loading dock. I go back to retrieve it and roll the thing until it's in position. I climb onto the top, pull myself through the window, and jump to the floor inside.

I'm still in the warehouse portion of the building. I see several sealed barrels near the loading door–presumably full of gasoline for the truck that sits in a bay next to the dock. I've never seen so many boxes of diapers in my life, if indeed that's what they are. There's also a large open space on the floor, probably where more diapers sat until they were shipped, but it's huge–maybe a hundred by a hundred feet.

Before moving, though, I look for more cameras and find none. The only one in the warehouse is aimed at the employee's entrance. Good. I dart to the nearest crate and pry it open with my knife. Inside I find . . . diapers. I move to the next crate and repeat the process. More diapers.

I take a look at the truck, a twenty-four footer–that can hold a lot of diapers. The lock picks open the padlock in the back, and I find the vehicle completely empty.

A folding vertical steel door separates the warehouse portion of the building with the diaper-making half. I figure they raise the door and use forklifts to bring boxes of diapers from one side to the other. I take a peek into the factory area and see the heavy machinery that's employed to make the diapers. Before I check out that space, I want to see the rest of the building.

I go to the front of the warehouse, locate a door to the rest of the building, and open it carefully. The hallway beyond is dark and empty. I flip on the night-vision goggles and go through. As expected, there are a couple of offices, an employee room with vending machines, a broom closet, and an electrical room. I take a look at the latter and study the circuit panel. I find switches for the warehouse and front-area spaces, but that leaves a series of additional switches that have no labels. What are these circuits for?

I make my way back to the warehouse and stand in the square open space, trying to figure out what I'm missing. There's got to be something here and it can't just be diapers. Directly in front of me is the huge vertical folding door that opens when the loading dock ramp is in use. It suddenly hits me that the boxes and crates are stacked evenly and in straight lines on three sides around me. It's almost as if there was an imaginary square drawn on the floor and the rules state that no crates or boxes can be stacked within the square. Could it be that they leave this space free for a reason?

Using the fluorescent mode on the goggles, I look at the floor and finally notice an honest-to-God faint outline of a square. Then I see a pair of tire-tread tracks leading from the door to the edge of the outline.

Could it be . . . ?

I jump up and land with force. The echo below me indicates that the floor is hollow. I'll be damned–it's a trapdoor. There's a whole other level beneath the warehouse. So that's what the extra circuit breakers are for.

Without moving in front of the surveillance camera, I go into the small foreman's office near the employees' entrance. I examine the desk and walls, and sure enough, there's a locked compartment on one wall that appears to be a telephone access box. I quickly try the lock picks but it's a more complicated obstacle and might take too long with the conventional tools. I pull out a disposable pick, set the charge, and blast a hole in the box. Now it opens and there's a thick heavy switch inside. I throw caution to the wind and flip it up.

The big empty space in the warehouse begins to lower, like an elevator.

I leave the little office and approach the opening in the floor. There are lights on below and I hear movement. I whip the SC-20K off my shoulder, check that it's loaded with bullets, and wait.

As soon as the platform is completely lowered to the bottom level, two men dressed in jeballasand turbans walk onto it. They're carrying AK-47s around their shoulders but are at ease. Apparently they believe whoever's up here is a friend.

One of them calls to me in Arabic and then realizes I'm not who he thinks I am. The other man shouts something in alarm, and both of them swing the guns into their arms. I let off two rounds, hitting them both squarely in the chests. The guards drop the weapons and fall to the platform, their blood spreading across the robes.

I listen carefully for more signs of occupancy. The silence tells me it's safe. It's a good forty feet to the bottom, so I use the rope and grappling hook/cigar holder to fashion a vertical passage down. I slither to the lower level.

The place smells like fuel–aircraft fuel.

I notice that the perimeter of the moving platform is lined with built-in lights, flush on top. Off to the side are sets of wheel chocks, the things they use at airports to block wheels to keep aircraft from rolling. There's a fuel tank with an extra-long hose attached–just the kind that's used to fill up an airplane. A fire extinguisher sits nearby.

I'm in a fully functional but empty hangar. The flat field behind the building serves as a runway. The plane rolls up the ramp, onto the loading dock, and into the warehouse, where it is lowered to the underground hangar. I'll bet the platform turns so they can point the plane in the proper direction for its next liftoff.

Leave it to the Shop to keep a secret airplane hangar underneath a diaper warehouse. But where's the airplane?

Without warning I hear a gunshot and feel the heat of a bullet whiz past my face. I drop to the platform instinctively and roll toward one of the corpses. The maneuver sends a bolt of pain through my injured shoulder, but I grit my teeth and ignore it. The shot came from the portion of the lower level directly beneath the factory area. Using the dead man as cover, I glance over the body and see more crates and boxes–many of them stamped with the familiar Tabriz Container Company logo. Then I spot movement behind one of the crates. How many guys are there?

More shots. They hit the dead Arab, but I'm concerned the rounds might go through him and strike me. I take the risk of swinging the SC-20K off my shoulder, which puts me in the line of fire for a couple of seconds, and then I drop facedown. I lower the goggles and aim the rifle in the direction of the sniper, but one of his bullets strikes the platform directly in front of my face. Shards of concrete perforate my cheeks and mouth and it burns like hell. Thank heavenfor the goggles, which are made of a highly concentrated Plexiglass that's nearly impossible to shatter. The shards would have blinded me for sure.

I take a moment to wipe my face on my right sleeve. There's a lot of blood, but I imagine that the wounds are small. Hopefully they'll be like shaving nicks–bleed a while, and then coagulate. I overlook the pain and concentrate on finding my prey. Then I see him. It's another Arab and he's the only one back there. He must have seen his buddies get killed and then decided to hide until I came down. I take aim and squeeze the trigger. I miss–he's covered well, but I watch him move to cover behind a crate.

I've got him now. My bullet will go right through the crate, depending on what's inside it.

I fire and– holy shit!–there's a massive explosion on his side of the floor! I don't know what I hit, but it sure was nasty. The space fills with thick black smoke–something I didn't want to happen because I'm not finished down here.

I jump up, grab the fire extinguisher I saw earlier, and run to the fire, which luckily is contained within a small space. I aim the extinguisher and let her rip.

It takes about a minute to put out the fire. As the smoke clears I see the charred remains of the sniper. The guy's in a few pieces and it's not pretty. The crate he was crouching behind is obliterated, but I was successful in keeping the rest of the cache safe from harm.

The draft from the platform opening in the ceiling sucks out the smoke pretty quickly, so I move to the other boxes and crates. I know what I'm going to find in there, but I open a crate just so I can say "I told you so" to myself.

Guns. Explosives. Military gear. Stingers. Uniforms. Surveillance stuff. Damn, it's a Terrorist Kmart. I've just found one of the Shop's main storehouses. When orders come in through the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank, product is shipped from here. Maybe they use the airplane to deliver goods. Perhaps it's out calling on customers at this moment.

I snap a few pictures of the place with the OPSAT and wonder what I should do. I could leave it to the military to bomb the shit out of the place, or I could take peremptory action and do something myself. Glancing over at the first two dead Arab guards, I get an idea. I go back to the cache of goods and look in the boxes where I found the uniforms. There are flaksuits, camouflage wear, and traditional Arabic dress such as jeballasand turbans. I take a jeballa, but I'll be damned if I know how to wrap a turban. Instead, I go over to one of my dead friends and steal his headgear. I try it on without unraveling it and find that it's a perfect fit.

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'splace–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 jeballaand 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

THERussian 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.