Текст книги "Splinter Cell (2004)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

"Gerard Bull?" I'm surprised. I haven't heard that name in many years. Gerard Bull was a Canadian arms designer and dealer who was active in the sixties, seventies, and eighties. He worked for our government for a while until there was a falling out. He served some prison time for illegal arms dealing. After he got out of prison, he worked extensively out of Europe. During the eighties he had close ties with Saddam Hussein and spent a lot of time designing and building high-tech arms for Iraq. His most famous "creation" was the design for what he called a "supergun." He called it the "Babylon." It was supposed to be a giant cannon-like weapon that could fire a payload an incredibly long distance. Alternatively, with the aid of boosters, a payload could be launched into space without the need of rockets. Bull never finished the project, but he did build a small prototype called the "Baby Babylon." It was dismantled and destroyed during the Gulf War. Bull was assassinated in 1990–in Brussels, to be exact. It is widely believed that the Mossad was responsible for the killing.

"So what's that all about?" I ask.

"I don't know," Lambert replies. "Belgian intelligence confirmed that Verbaken had recently added material to the file because he believed that someone previously associated with Bull was continuing the physicist's work for terrorists in the Middle East. Unfortunately, Verbaken hadn't completed his investigation and had not filed any detailed reports. He died without leaving anyone a clue as to where his notes are. They were probably inthe file. And it's gone."

"Except for the one page recovered from the OPSAT."

"Right."

"Did the killers take the file?"

"We assume so. I wonder if they were after the file to begin with, or were the targets either Verbaken or Benton and the file was just gravy?"

"Or after both guys andthe file," I suggest.

"There's that possibility, too."

We're quiet for a moment as we let these thoughts sink in. I finish my pizza and ask, "You heard the news about London?"

Lambert nods grimly. "That's another thing I wanted to talk with you about. As you can imagine, we're all very concerned about it."

"The news report was very vague. What happened?"

"I was in my car when it happened," Lambert says. "I got on to the Pentagon immediately, and what they could gather in the few minutes after it occurred was that some suicide bombers were masquerading as actors or something. It happened by the National Theatre. A big truck packed with explosives blew up. Part of Waterloo Bridge crumbled. It's a big mess."

"Anyone claiming responsibility?"

"Not yet," Lambert answers. "But the modus operandi suggests the Shadows, don't you think?"

The Shadows. They're a bunch of shady characters who've grabbed some headlines lately. A relatively new barrel of terrorists, the Shadows operate all over the world but are believed to be headquartered somewhere in the Middle East. (Where else?) I can't remember who coined the name, but it wasn't them. I think it was a newspaper from the region–maybe Turkey–that referred to them as the Shadows and it stuck. From then on messages from the group were signed "the Shadows." I think they were flattered.

Third Echelon's been trying its best to collect data on the Shadows. Because they're so new it's been pretty difficult. No one knows if they represent a particular country. They're a lot like al Qaeda and other nomadic, independent terrorist factions. They've probably got a sugar daddy somewhere who provides all the cash. What we do know is that they've claimed responsibility for a rash of bombings over the last year. There was a really bad one in Nice, France, just a couple of weeks ago. Same kind of thing–a truck pulls up in some public place and blows up. Goddamned bastards. It's a shitty, evil thing to do.

"It's too early, isn't it?" I ask. "For them to issue a claim of responsibility, I mean?"

"Yeah. It'll be tomorrow. But I'll give you ten to one it's them."

I nod. "You're probably right."

"The interesting thing about all this is that there's a connection."

"How so?"

"That sheet of paper from the Gerard Bull file–the one from the copier?"

"Yeah?"

"It also mentions the Shadows."

"Really."

"The implication in the wording is that they're the Shop's biggest customers right now and possibly the group behind whatever it was that Benton was chasing in Belgium."

I sit back in my chair. "If we could establish a connection between the two groups–and identify the major players in each–"

Lambert smiles. "You catch on quick."

"So you want me to go to Belgium?"

"No. I want you to go to Iraq."

Iraq. Shit.

Lambert continues. "I want you to pick up Benton's trail there. Find out what he was investigating. He was sure suspicious about something, and damn it, he died before he could tell us what it was. You'll be drop-shipped to Baghdad." Lambert reaches into a briefcase and pulls out a manila envelope. He slides it across the table to me. "Everything you need to know is in there. Be ready to leave by army transport tonight at twenty-two hundred hours from Dulles. That should give you enough time to get home, make your preparations, and be back at the airport by twenty-one hundred."

Yeah, just barely enough time.

I nod and tap my fingers on the envelope without opening it. That can wait until I get back to Towson.

"Okay," I say. I have nothing else on the calendar.

6

I never pack much when I'm going OCONUS on assignment. An important component of my uniform is a slim custom-made Osprey backpack that fulfills a zillion functions. I can fit two or three changes of clothing inside, plus an assortment of Third Echelon equipment that I can pull out at a moment's notice. I have a medical kit that contains painkillers, bandages, antiseptic, and atropine injections to combat exposure to a chemical attack. I have a limited supply of flares–both chemical and emergency–for various uses. Chemical flares glow in the dark when you crack the inner containers. They're useful for attracting and distracting enemies. Emergency flares are standard road flares that emit heat, which can distract sensors like the ones found on automated turrets. I also keep a few frag grenades handy. These 14-ounce M67 babies consist of 2.5-inch steel spheres surrounding 6.5 ounces of high explosive. When these things go off, you don't want to be close, believe me. The high-velocity shrapnel will rip you to shreds. In addition to the grenades I usually carry at least one wall mine. This is a motion-sensitive explosive device that can be attached to almost any surface. I'm able to improvise in the field, too–I've found that I'm pretty good at deactivating enemy mines and adding them to my inventory if I need more.

Other tools of the trade include a standard set of lock picks, wrenches, and probes for bypassing basic cylinder locks. For more difficult enclosures, such as safes, I use what we call disposable picks that can be adjusted to different strengths, depending on what it is you want to open. They contain microexplosive charges that deliver a quick impact to any standard lock cylinder, shattering the pins. The downside of these things is that they're sometimes a little noisy. I've also got a nifty little camera jammer that emits microwave pulses. This is useful for disrupting the characteristic signals used in the microcircuitry of surveillance cameras. The only problem with the jammer is that it operates off a capacitor that you have to recharge. Then there's the optic cable–kind of like those things doctors use to stick up your ass to look around with when you're a lucky colonoscopy patient. It's very flexible and I can slip it under doors and through holes to see what's on the other side. There's even a night-vision enhancement.

My standard issue weapon is a Five-seveN tactical handgun with a single-action trigger. The twenty-round magazine comes equipped with a silencer and flash suppressor. I've already told you a little bit about the gun, but I don't think I mentioned that it has a T.A.K. integrated inside it. The Tactical Audio Kit is a laser-operated microphone that enables me to read the vibration off certain surfaces, mainly glass windows. The laser mic provides a zoomed camera-like field that can be aimed at different objects. It's great for listening to conversations, but I have to be careful to make sure I use it only when I'm concealed. The damn thing lights up red when it's on.

My uniform, which I've already described, folds up neatly and fits in a special pouch in the Osprey. My goggles are a lifesaver. They have two modes of operation–night vision and thermal vision. Night vision, of course, allows me to pick up illumination at the lower end of the infrared spectrum. This is great for exploring in the dark–the only drag is that the image is slightly grainy, so fine details are difficult to see. Thermal vision is an essential tool in darkness as well, for it captures the upper level of the infrared spectrum, which is emitted as heat rather than reflected light. This allows me to discern warm bodies through visual obstacles such as smoke and gas. One cool thing it does is that if I happen to examine a computer keyboard or keypad immediately after someone has touched it, the keys that were pressed will have a faint heat signature still on them. No well-equipped spy should be without thermal vision. A special fluorescent mode allows me to see fingerprints, stains, and dust disturbance that is normally invisible to the naked eye. This is useful when I'm searching for secret compartments.

My favorite weapon and tool has to be the standard issue SC-20K, a modular assault weapon system. This is something I can't carry with me when I travel. It usually needs to be drop-shipped by the NSA–along with my toy-filled Osprey–and left someplace where I can pick them up. Sometimes that can be a tricky maneuver in a country where we have no embassy. The SC-20K looks like a stocky rifle, but it's much more than that. The Bull Pup configuration makes it light and compact without sacrificing firepower (it uses 5.56x45mm ss109, 30 rounds, and it can be fired in semiautomatic or full automatic modes). There's a flash/sound suppressor combined with a multipurpose launcher that makes it an ideal appliance in the field, and for long-distance shots I can use the scope. The launcher is beneath the main barrel and it utilizes a number of different devices. I can shoot off a ring airfoil projectile, which incapacitates an enemy rather than kills him. A good head shot will knock a guy out, or if I hit someone in the torso, it'll stun him. I can launch sticky cameras that attach themselves to surfaces I can't climb to. These miniature cameras have full pan and zoom functionality plus night and thermal vision modes. The images are fed directly to my OPSAT. An adaptation of the sticky camera is the diversion camera. This honey has had its zoom motor as well as its vision enhancement apparatus replaced with a noisemaker and a CS gas canister. I can trigger it with my OPSAT from a distance, attracting enemies with sound and then dispensing the gas to stop them in their tracks. Similar to the sticky cameras are the sticky shockers, high-voltage discharge devices coated in adhesive resin. They stick to enemies and give them an incapacitating shock. Smoke grenades come in useful as well. These are standard CS gas canisters that stop groups of enemies cold. I like to treat them like bowling balls and aim for strikes. I have additional smoke grenades without CS that just produce black smoke to cover my tracks.

Finally, I need to activate my subdermal implants. These are transmitter/receivers that Third Echelon put in my neck next to my vocal cords and in my inner ear. When the devices are activated, I can receive voice messages from Lambert via satellite that only I can hear. It works best outdoors, naturally, but in most buildings it works pretty well. If I'm underground, it's not worth crap. By the same token, the PTT–Push To Talk–transmitter translates data for use with a voice synthesizer located at Third Echelon. All I have to do is press the area of my neck near my Adam's apple and talk, or whisper, and what I say is sent to the synthesizer. Therefore, I can communicate with Third Echelon from just about anywhere. Pretty cool. The only drawback is that the signals can be picked up by the enemy pretty easily, so Lambert and I have an understanding that we communicate with text messages via the OPSAT first and use the implants only for urgent contact.

Once I'm packed, I make arrangements for my bills to be paid automatically for as long as I'm away. I confirm that I have plenty of cash in various accounts I can access just about anywhere in the world. I also make a phone call to the Krav Maga Studio and leave a message on Katia's answering machine, explaining that I was called away once again. She'll probably think I'm some kind of a nut. Alas.

I'll leave the Grand Cherokee at home. Lambert arranged for a car to pick me up and take me to Dulles. I wouldn't be comfortable with the idea of leaving my beloved Jeep in a long-term airport parking lot for what could very well be months.

There isn't much left to do when the house phone rings.

"Dad?" It's the sweet voice of my not-so-little-anymore girl.

"Hey, Sarah, I'm glad you called!" I say. I'm very happy to hear from her so I do my best to control my feelings about her going abroad against my wishes. Our last conversation wasn't a pleasant one. "Are you in Israel?"

"Uh-huh. It's the middle of the night, but we can't sleep. Rivka and I are still on Chicago time."

"How was the flight over?"

"Long, so I was glad that Rivka was with me. That made it more interesting. Hey, Dad?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry about the misunderstanding. You know, about me going."

Misunderstanding? In my mind there was no misunderstanding. She disobeyed my wishes but it was too late now.

"I'm sorry, too, honey."

"Dad, we had the most beautiful sunset tonight. It was all orange and red, and from Rivka's rooftop it looked like something out of a movie. It's beautiful here."

"And her parents are there with you?"

"Uh-huh. Her mom and dad are real nice."

"That's great to hear. Listen, honey, I have to go out of the country tonight, too. It's for work."

"Again? Didn't you just get back?"

I sigh. "Yeah. But you know how it is."

There was a bit of the old frustration in her voice. "No, I don't know how it is. You're so secretive about what you do. Where are you going this time?"

"I'm . . . I'm going to the Middle East, too. But don't worry, I won't be anywhere near you."

I hear Sarah talk to someone in the background and I distinctly hear a male laugh.

"Sarah, who's that with you?" I ask.

"Huh? Oh, that's Rivka."

"I thought I heard a boy."

"Oh, that's Noel, Rivka's boyfriend. He and Eli came over since we couldn't sleep. They're helping us party. You remember me telling you about Eli?"

"Is he that music student you were dating at college?" I ask.

"Yeah, that's him. He's back home in Israel this semester. So is Noel. He used to date Rivka. That's how Eli and I met, remember?"

I seem to recall hearing something about it last year. During Sarah's sophomore year she dated a foreign student from Israel. Rivka, a foreign student herself, knew a whole group of them.

"What's Eli's last name, hon?" I ask.

"Horowitz. Eli Horowitz. He says he wants to meet you someday." I hear a male laugh again in the background and Sarah giggles.

"Well, I'd like to meet him, too," I say. I try not to sound too much like a father. "Why isn't Eli at school this year?"

"Oh, his student visa expired and he didn't renew it," Sarah answers. "Same with Noel. There was some kind of stupid technicality with them."

I don't know why, but I suddenly hear alarm bells in my head. Perhaps it's because of all the circumspection that foreign students have been receiving since 9/11. Immigration has cracked down on student visas since then and is ferreting out undesirables.

"Sarah, how much older is he than you?" I ask.

"Dad, please. He's just a couple of years older. Um, three." She sounds annoyed.

"Do his parents live there in Jerusalem?"

"Dad, what is this? What's with the third degree?"

"Honey, it's not a third degree," I say, trying not to sound exasperated. "I just want to know who you're hanging out with in a foreign country, that's all. And Israel can be a dangerous place sometimes. You can't be too careful. I'm your father, after all."

"But I'm also an adult, Dad."

"You're not drinking age yet," I counter.

"Oh, gee, like I have seven more months to wait," she says sarcastically.

I almost point out that that is nearly a year, but I let it go. I don't want the call to turn into one of our teenager vs. parent battles. Sarah and I went through some real knockdown drag-outs when she was in high school.

"All I'm saying is that you should find out a little more about him and his family before you get more involved, that's all," I say. I know it sounds lame.

"Dad, please. We dated for three months last year, but I guess you don't remember that. I know him pretty well already."

"All right, all right, I'll stop being a dad. Do you have plenty of money?"

"Sure, Dad. Thanks."

"And you remember the phone number in case you need to reach me?"

"I've got it memorized," she answers. This is a special toll-free number that she can call from anywhere in the world whenever I'm on assignment. It actually goes to Third Echelon and is then transmitted as a text message to my OPSAT, wherever I happen to be. No one but Sarah and I know the number. I instructed her long ago on how to use it, but only if it's an emergency situation. Anything trivial can wait until my return to Maryland.

"So, when do you fly back to Chicago?" I ask.

"Next Saturday. Just when I'm about to get over the jet lag I have to turn around and go back," she says.

"Yeah, that's the way it usually is."

"Look, Dad, I gotta go now. It's great to talk to you."

"Sarah, honey, you be careful, okay?"

"I will. You, too, with whatever it is you do." There's that touch of sarcasm again. She doesn't like that she knows nothing about my work and has said so on several occasions.

"Okay. Have fun. I love you."

"Love you, too."

She hangs up.

I begin to wonder if my uneasiness about her boyfriend is simply the normal reaction a father might have to his twenty-year-old daughter becoming intimate with an older boy, or is it something else? I probably shouldn't worry. Eli Horowitz lives with his parents. They're probably wealthy, too, in order to afford to send him to America to study. I wonder what really happened with his student visa? I might have to make an inquiry about it.

There's not a lot I can do about it now, I decide. I need to focus on the assignment at hand and study the documents that Lambert gave me this afternoon. They will reveal who my contact in Iraq will be and where I can pick up transportation, my SC-20K, the Osprey, and other equipment I may need. I imagine it'll be through the army. Someone at the top of the food chain there will have been briefed.

As I finish preparing for the trip, I glance at the photo of my daughter on the bedroom nightstand. I feel a sudden urge to hug her and give her a kiss. Instead, I lightly touch my lips to my index finger and then touch the portrait.

That'll have to do for now.

7

MESOPOTAMIA. That's what Iraq once was. The name "Iraq" didn't emerge until sometime in the seventh century. Mesopotamia was the location of Babylon and its legendary hanging gardens, regarded as the seventh wonder of the ancient world. The mythical Tower of Babel once stood in the land, and the area around Qurnah might have been the site of the biblical Garden of Eden. In the middle of the first century A.D., Islam swarmed over the region and Mesopotamia became the cultural center of the Arabic universe. Many believe that writing began in the region. The tales of the thousand and one nights originated in Iraq. Magnificent mosques and palaces dominated the cities, built by powerful rulers who insisted on displaying the country's riches in tangible forms. Arabian Nights, magic carpets, sultans of swing . . .

It all sounds quite exotic and beautiful, doesn't it? It's too bad that our image of Iraq today isn't what it used to be. Now we think of Iraq as a very dangerous, unstable country–war torn, shadowy, and unfriendly. I'm not going to speculate on whether we were right or wrong to invade Iraq in 2003. There's no question that Saddam Hussein was bad news. His regime was cruel and merciless. But are the Iraqi people better off now? Who the fuck knows?

Today it's difficult to believe that the Middle East, and in particular Iraq, was once the "cradle of civilization." At least, that's what the historians claim. It's my business to know a lot about the Middle East, and I've extensively studied Iraq and the other countries in the region. That doesn't mean I fully understand any of them. The Middle East is truly a very different world from our existence in the United States, and the sad thing is that many Americans and the U.S. government refuse to acknowledge that the Middle East will never be like the West. But it's not my job to preach politics. I keep abreast of politics, but I try not to get too involved in them. I just do my job.

So many catastrophic events resculpted the world in the twentieth century. Prior to World War I, Iraq was part of the Ottoman Empire governed from Istanbul. The British mandate controlled the region after the war, and in 1932 the country was formally admitted to the League of Nations as an independent state–the first one in the Middle East. But the monarchy that had been installed by the British was overthrown in 1958 by nationalist Free Officers. In 1963 the Baathists took power, were overthrown, and succeeded in gaining control again in 1968. Until we toppled the Baath government in 2003, that's the way things stood in Iraq. During those thirty-five years, Iraq engaged in a war with Iran, a war with Kuwait, a war with the United Nations forces led by the USA, and a war with its own people in the northern, Kurd-populated region.

Ah, the twentieth century. Such a happy time.

These were the thoughts that swam through my head as the U.S. Army transport touched down at the Third Army base outside of Baghdad. The plane stopped once in Germany. My ability to sleep anywhere at any time helped make the trip flash by in an instant. I was awake long enough to get off the aircraft in Germany, stretch my legs, and have a bite to eat. I slept through the second leg and woke up when the plane landed.

In between naps I thoroughly briefed myself on the current situation in Iraq. Even though an Iraqi government is in place, the U.S. still maintains a strong presence. The locals simply don't have it together to adequately police the country. The United Nations is committed to helping the country get on its feet again, but guess who's bearing the brunt of the work? The good ol' US of A, of course. And no one over here appreciates it. We deliver them from the evils of Hussein, and then they proceed to stab us in the back. Go figure.

Terrorist attacks continue to plague the country. You never know when a suicide bomber is going to drive his truck into yours. Every government officer and politician is a target because they're seen as puppets of the corrupt Satan–America, that is. These terrorists are anywhere and everywhere. Iraq is a big country. There are tons of hiding places. Look how long it took to find Hussein. He was caught hiding in a hole in the ground. There are a few million holes in the ground in Iraq.

The attacks are blamed on the usual nebulous "insurgents" and anti-American rebels. The name al Qaeda is still bandied about as being one of the primary instigators of unrest, along with other smaller terrorist factions that seem to pop up every day. Lately, though, it's the Shadows that provoke the most fear. Like al Qaeda, they don't mind patting themselves on the back in public after a particularly nasty attack. They're more publicity-minded than al Qaeda ever was. They send audiotapes, videotapes, letters, faxes, and e-mails to the various news organizations . . . signing them "the Shadows." Of course, many of these missives could be pranks and copycat attempts, but our people take each and every one seriously. It's what we must do.

Although the army base is on the outskirts of Baghdad, I notice the presence of many construction cranes in the distance, no doubt rebuilding the once great city. The 2003 war inflicted a great deal of damage. The 1991 Gulf War had also destroyed a significant portion of Baghdad, including schools, bridges, and hospitals. These were rebuilt over the next decade, only to be leveled once again. Baghdad has probably been demolished and rebuilt so many times throughout history that it's a wonder that the city still exists. Nevertheless, it's a very modern metropolis. There are portions of Baghdad that resemble the downtown areas of any major city in the West. On the other hand, Islamic architecture abounds in many areas, with pedestrian labyrinths of tight alleyways and court-yards. The mosques are spectacular, covered in intricate patterns of colored stones. Some neighborhoods of traditional housing still remain. Elaborate overhanging balconies– shenashil–that are really upper rooms distinguish narrow streets of traditional quarters. Handsomely decorated doorways front onto the street. One can get lost wandering through the maze-like paths of the older sections that are full of character and charm. I had been to Baghdad previously, before the war, and remember being struck then by the beauty of the place, hidden behind a facade of pain, hardship, and despair. Today, I'm sure, it's no different.

I debark and present my special NSA papers identifying me as an Interpol police detective from Switzerland. I use my own name, but this cover story will go much further in Iraq than if I went around saying I'm an espionage agent with the NSA. As far as my business in Iraq is concerned, I am researching a report that Interpol will publish on the current state of terrorism in the Middle East. Once I'm cleared to enter the base, a sergeant leads me to an office in the bustling command center. The sergeant never says a word, but he eyes me curiously. I must look like one strange civilian to him, especially since I have NSA clearance. The sergeant leaves me in the hands of my contact, Lieutenant Colonel Dan Petlow, who greets me in a businesslike fashion. When we're alone in his office, he tells me that he's the only army officer in Iraq who's aware of my mission. It turns out that he knows Colonel Lambert and has been in on the doings of Third Echelon for a long time.

"I was Rick Benton's contact as well," Petlow says before I can ask.

Petlow is about my age. I ask him how long he's been in the country, and he replies that he's lost track of the time.

"Not really, I'm just being facetious," he says. "I've been here sixteen months now. This country tends to sour you."

He offers me a soft drink and I take it. We sit under an electric fan because the AC in the building is being repaired. It feels like Phoenix, Arizona, outside, and it's an oven in the office.

"Tell me about Benton," I begin.

"He seemed capable but a bit reckless," Petlow says. "I met with him face-to-face only twice. Didn't know him well at all. He knew his stuff, though. He was an expert on all things Middle East."

"What do you know about his recent investigation?"

"The arms dealing? Not much. Benton kept that stuff close to his chest. He kept saying he was working on uncovering a Shop pipeline coming from the north into Iraq. He said the arms have been pouring into Mosul. That means they're coming from Iran and then through Rawanduz to get to Mosul, or they're coming from Turkey through the town of Amadiyah. Both of those villages are in KDP-controlled territory."

Mosul is perhaps the biggest city in northern Iraq. It's just out of the region controlled by the officially sanctioned Kurdistan Regional Government and the site of a lot of unrest, mainly between different Kurdish factions. Rawanduz is a village between Mosul and the Iranian border. Likewise, Amadiyah is a village north of Mosul, near the Turkish border. Two Kurdish political parties influence everything that happens in northern Iraq. In 1946 a recognized Kurdish hero named Mulla Mustafa Barzani formed the oldest one, the Kurdistan Democratic Party–the KDP–which has cultural ties to Iran. The second party, the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan–the PUK–formed in 1976 as a rival to the KDP. There are other, smaller Kurdish parties, but the KDP and PUK are the big daddies. In theory they share governmental responsibilities of Kurdish Iraq, but the KDP seems to have more power. In recent years the two parties have grudgingly cooperated with each other on many issues such as in the education and health sectors. But don't expect one to invite the other to a dinner party.

"What do you think?" I ask Petlow.

"I doubt the Turkish route theory. It doesn't make a lot of sense. For one thing, Turkey is supposedly one of our allies and they're just as concerned about illegal arms traffic as we are. Another thing is that the route would be more difficult. Benton always thought that the arms originated in one of the former Soviet satellites. Maybe Azerbaijan. In order to get to Iraq from there, they'd have to go through Armenia and then Turkey. It's a straighter shoot out of Azerbaijan through Iran and into Iraq."

"So you're saying that I should look into the Rawanduz connection first?" I ask.

Petlow shrugs. "It's just an opinion. Doesn't mean I'm right."

I mull this over and say, "Southeast Turkey is a Kurdish region, too. There could be some cooperation going on between the tribes. There's also a lot of terrorist activity in that part of Turkey."

"That's true, too. Look, I'll be honest with you, Fisher. You don't have a lot to go on. What are you going to do when you get up there? Knock on doors? Benton didn't leave you anything to give you some direction, did he?"