Текст книги "Splinter Cell (2004)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

But since I'm on a Third Echelon assignment, I can't very well get a visa and enter the country by the normal channels. Even my Interpol cover won't fly in Iran, and I certainly wouldn't get anywhere telling the Immigration authorities that I'm with the NSA. So, even more than in Iraq, I have to be invisible.

The worst part about it is that I have to abandon the Toyota Land Cruiser in Iraq and make my way across the border on foot. Once I'm in Iran, I have to find transportation to Tabriz. Walking isn't an option.

I drive east before dawn, through Rawanduz, until I'm a mile away from the border checkpoint. I pull off the highway at the first dirt road I see, drive a ways, and stop. I make sure I have all my belongings, and then I leave the keys in the car. Some lucky son of a bitch is going to find himself a free SUV! I get out and walk across the rugged terrain, avoiding the highway, until I see the checkpoint in the distance. I'm on a hill overlooking the highway. I count three armed guards stopping vehicles traveling in both directions. On the other side of the border is another checkpoint run by the Iranians. The sun hasn't risen yet, but I have only an hour or so before daylight destroys my chances of getting across today.

I strip down to my uniform, stuff my outer clothes in the Osprey, and make my way down the hill. I dart from one large bush or tree or boulder to another, pausing at each step to make sure I haven't been seen. It's unlikely. My uniform is dark and there are no lights on the hill. The guards' attention is focused on the vehicles entering and leaving the country.

In fifteen minutes I'm at ground level, lying on the slope of a ditch, my head barely peeking over the top so I can see the checkpoint. They don't expect anyone on foot to try and cross over. If I stay down and move laterally east, I should make it. I wait until a car approaches the checkpoint and one of the guards talks to the driver.

Employing a crablike maneuver on all fours, I traverse the ditch. I'm parallel with the checkpoint when one of the agents steps out to smoke a cigarette. He walks to the side of the building that faces me and gazes at the night sky. I can't take a chance of him seeing me, so I lie perfectly still.

Shit, he's starting to walk toward the ditch. He's lost in thought, tugging on the cigarette, probably wondering what he'll have for breakfast when he gets off his shift. However, I'm close enough that he could possibly spot me if I move.

Then one of his associates calls for him. The guard acknowledges the summons, takes one last drag on the cigarette, and then tosses the butt toward me. It lands a foot away from my face and it's still burning. Luckily he doesn't bother to look where the butt fell–he's forgotten all about it as he walks back to the building.

I take the opportunity to pick up the butt and rub it out in the dirt.

Once again I apply the crab walk to move farther east. Now I have two checkpoints to watch. At this time in the early morning there is very little traffic. I'm fortunate that there were one or two cars going through to mask my transit thus far. Now, though, there's nothing. The road is deadly quiet. The Iraqi border guards retreat into their checkpoint building, but there's a lone Iranian outside of his. He's standing there, looking west, as if a parade of cars is on the way and he's preparing himself to inspect them. What's he doing?

The guy calls out to the Iraqi checkpoint. He waits a few seconds, then calls again. Someone's name. In a moment the cigarette-smoking Iraqi I saw earlier comes out of his building. He shouts back to the Iranian. I don't understand what the Iranian says, it's in Farsi, a language I can't speak. I have an easier time readingFarsi than speaking it, because written Farsi is very similar to Arabic. The Iraqi nods and the two men walk toward each other. Shit, what's going on? They meet halfway between the two checkpoints, and I realize I have nothing to worry about. The Iraqi pulls out his cigarette pack and offers one to the Iranian. They share a joke, I think, for they talk and laugh, and after five minutes they separate and stroll back to their respective positions.

All clear. I literally crawl into Iran.

I continue to walk in the darkness, remaining off the highway. The sky is beginning to turn deep orange and red. The sun will be up within minutes. I have to find a place to stay put through the day, and I think I see a good possibility about a mile ahead, where the highway crosses a bridge.

Ten minutes later I'm at the bridge just as the sun peeks over the hills directly in front of me. The bridge spreads across a ravine that appears to be a good two hundred feet deep. This is very hilly country–these foothills eventually become the volcanic Sabalan and Talesh mountain ranges.

Bridges are among my most frequented hotels. The accommodations are not always of the four– or five-star variety, but they usually offer me what I need the most–privacy.

I make my way down the hill to the edge of the highway, then inch down the steep slope next to the bridge. I grab the steel supports and climb up and around to the inside. It's an easy ascent to the underside of the highway, where a hollow section–a ledge–runs the complete length of the bridge. It's about four feet wide, with headspace of a couple of feet. It's perfect for me to lie in, as long as I don't roll over in my sleep and fall off. It's never happened before.

Before retiring for the day, I send a text message to Lambert via my OPSAT, telling him I'm in Iran and on my way to Tabriz. I then eat a very satisfying pack of rations. It's not a gourmet meal by any means, but it reduces the hunger pangs and lulls me into the disposition to get some shut-eye.

And that's where I sleep most of the daylight hours–underneath a bridge, the highway into Iran directly over my prone body.

MYOPSAT wakes me at nine o'clock that night, after the sun has set. The constant rumbling of vehicles passing over the bridge hasn't kept me awake–on the contrary, there's something akin to white noise about it. I slept like a log.

I carefully slip out from my crawl space under the bridge, grasp the support, and climb down to the ground. I move away from the road and into the brush, where my presence will go unnoticed. I sit behind a tree and check my OPSAT. Lambert has left a message–

CONTACT REZA HAMADAN IN TABRIZ BAZAAR "TABRIZ CARPET COMPANY" HE IS ON CIA PAYROLL AND EXPECTS YOU

Okay. Now the trick is finding a ride to Tabriz. Hitch-hiking isn't an option, so I start the long walk to the next town, which is Mahabad–about thirty miles away. I estimate I can make it in seven or eight hours. The drawback is the up-and-down terrain, which contributes to the wear and tear on my legs and feet. I silently thank Katia Loenstern for all the leg exercises she had us do in Krav Maga class. It's tough going and I have to stop and rest several times, which makes me realize it's going to take a lot longer than I initially thought. What the hell, I've had to rough it many times in my career, though, and this is a relatively tame sojourn compared to some.

Along the way I pass through a couple of seemingly deserted whistle-stop villages. While Iran is a very modern country, the rural parts still contain vestiges of the past. You'll see shepherds dressed in the same type of clothing that was worn hundreds of years ago. Not everyone drives cars. If I happen to get hurt or ill, I'm on my own. There aren't going to be any emergency clinics on the road. This thought flits through my mind when I hear wolves howling in the deep woods to my left.

It's nearly morning when I finally reach Mahabad. Not a large town, but bigger than a village, it's a rural community that is just beginning to rouse from slumber. I hear the musical intonations of Islamic morning prayers drifting through the air–something I have to admit I find very soothing. Besides the dominant Persian population of Iran, the region where I'm headed is full of Kurds and Azerbaijanis. Persians are direct descendents of the Aryans that first inhabited the land about four thousand years ago, and they make up over half the total population in the country. Nearly everyone in Iran is a Shiite Muslim, the Islamic branch that dictates the cultural, religious, and political direction of the country. Sunni Muslims make up a small ten percent or so. It's interesting to note that in the rest of the world, almost all Muslims are of the Sunni variety–but in Iran, and most of Iraq, the majority is Shiite.

I wander into town, now dressed in casual clothing with my uniform underneath. It's not as hot here in the mountain region, so I'm fairly comfortable. Most Persians are light-skinned and can pass for a Westerner if they have to. I blend right in, even with my darker complexion. I probably look as if I've just come off the bus from Tehran. No one looks twice at me. As long as I don't have to talk I'll be fine.

Most of the men are wearing the traditional jeballa, a full-length robe, and many wear turbans. In the bigger cities you'll see men wear Western clothing–suits, casual trousers, and shirts. The women, however, are almost always covered in the hejab, the modest dress. This is usually represented by the chador, a tentlike cloak that is draped loosely over the head, legs, and arms. Nothing that suggests the shape of the body can be worn. All bits of skin except for the hands, feet, and face above the neckline and below the hairline must be covered. In the cities women can get away with wearing a full-length skirt or even trousers worn beneath a long dark coat known as a roupush. The hair is covered by a simple headscarf. Here, though, everything's more traditional, more old-fashioned.

I find what I'm looking for at the edge of town. It's a sort of minor truck stop for commercial vehicles traveling to the north. I walk around to the back of the place where I can't be seen and sit down to wait for my ride. Thirty minutes later it arrives.

It's a ten-wheeler truck–perfect for my needs–with the words "Tabriz Moving Company" painted in Farsi on the side. I wait until the right moment, when the driver is inside the station using the washroom, then I run to the back of the rig, crouch, and crawl beneath the hot flatbed. I turn my belt all the way around so that the buckle is on my back and pull out the hook. I then lodge my body up above the axles, facedown, and position myself so I can hold on to and rest my legs on parts of the chassis with the hook securing me in place. It's not the most comfortable way to ride a hundred miles, but I've done it many times, and it really isn't so bad as long as you keep your wits about you, don't fall asleep, and never let go.

Five minutes pass and the driver gets back in the cab. The engine fires up and we're off. For the next three hours I have a lovely view of a speeding blur of highway, four feet below my face.

TABRIZis the largest city in northern Iran and is occupied primarily by Azerbaijanis. It seems to be an unsightly spread of high-rise apartment buildings, but the areas in the old town center are more representative of traditional Iran. After slipping out from under the truck, I make my way to the bazaar, just south of the Mehran River. It's the oldest and largest bazaar in all of Iran and is typical of the maze-like medinas of most Middle Eastern countries. I arrive midday, just as business is bustling. The teahouses are full, lined with men smoking water pipes or having lively conversations over Persian tea. The hawkers are out in force, soliciting every person that walks by to come into a particular shop and buy something. The atmosphere is much more relaxed and pleasant than it was in Iraq–understandably so.

I wander around like a tourist until I find the Tabriz Carpet Company, an unusually large shop that specializes not only in Persian carpets but also in silk and spices. A woman greets me when I enter and nods enthusiastically when I ask for Reza Hamadan. She goes through drapes to a back room while I examine the intricate work of the carpets on display. I'm always amazed by the craftsmanship that goes into these things. Carpets are not made just to cover your floor–in this part of the world a carpet is a symbol of wealth or an integral part of a religious or cultural festival. From what I can see here, Reza Hamadan is a master carpet maker.

He comes out of the shop, dressed in a loose-fitting white shirt with baggy sleeves, dark trousers, and sandals. He appears to be in his fifties, clean-shaven except for a small, Chaplin-esque mustache. His deep blue eyes sparkle and exhibit warmth.

"I am Reza Hamadan," he says, extending his hand.

I shake it. "Sam Fisher."

"I have been expecting you, Mr. Fisher. Welcome to Tabriz," he says. His English is very good.

"Thank you."

"Come with me to a more comfortable place. My wife will mind the store." He calls to the woman I saw earlier. She enters the shop, smiles, nods her head at me, and allows us to go through the drapes and into the back room. Hamadan leads me to what appears to be his office. The walls and floor are covered in magnificent carpets, a mahogany desk that looks English sits in a corner, and large pillows occupy the middle of the room.

"Please sit. Would you like some tea?" he asks.

"I would love some."

"Please," he says again, gesturing to the pillows. I sit cross-legged and then find it's better to lounge sideways. It feels really good to be off my feet. Hamadan leaves the room and returns a few moments later with a tray. "Normally my wife would serve us, but she has a customer."

It's what I expect– chay, the unofficial national drink. It's a strong tea, served hot and black in a small glass cup. I'm not a huge fan of the stuff, but at the moment it tastes like heaven. The highway dust of the trip from Mahabad has infiltrated my throat, and the tea works wonders in clearing the air passages.

"How was your journey, Mr. Fisher?" Hamadan asks.

"As pleasant as it could be," I say tactfully.

"I'm glad to hear it. Now that you are here, I am authorized to lend you a car. It's my son-in-law's and he is away on business for an extended period of time. Feel free to use it as long as you need it. You can take it anywhere except into Iraq."

"That's quite kind, thank you."

"I suppose you have questions for me?"

"I do, but before we get to business, I'd like to ask you something personal."

"By all means."

"How did you get to be a CIA mole?"

Hamadan grins, revealing a wide set of sparkling white teeth. "I spent my early twenties in the United States, during the 1970s, before the fall of the Shah. I went to a small college in West Texas, where other Iranian students attended. The school had an exchange program with Iran at the time. I studied political science and English. During that period, men from your government came to talk to us. It was quite blatant–they wanted to recruit young men to help the U.S. spy on Iran. The money was good. I was young and didn't know better, so I accepted. I've been earning extra income from the CIA ever since. I have no complaints."

"Fascinating," I said. "It's a small world, isn't it?"

"It grows smaller daily. Now then, to the business at hand." He sets down his teacup and looks me in the eyes. "Mr. Fisher, I have many connections in the underworld and in law enforcement in this country and surrounding areas. Before your government contacted me and said to expect you here, I had heard your name mentioned in . . . other places."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Fisher, there is a price on your head. You are a marked man."

14

" WELL, that's nothing new," I say.

Hamadan looks at me as if he's sizing me up. "I detect that you are either a very brave man, Mr. Fisher, or a very foolish one."

"Call me Sam, please."

"Very well, but you must call me Reza."

"All right, Reza. What exactly do you mean?"

"You appear not to take what I say seriously."

"Of course I do. I take all death threats seriously."

"Forgive me, then. Perhaps I mistook your self-confidence for indifference."

"Reza, I've been in this business for a long time. It takes a lot to shake me up. Now, why don't you tell me what it is you know?"

He nods and smiles. "I like you already, Sam. You have . . . what's the word? Aplomb." He takes a sip of tea and continues. "I assume you knew Mr. Benton?"

"Not personally. Rick Benton worked for the same organization as I."

"I had dealings with Mr. Benton. I was one of his informers. I liked him as well. I find it difficult to believe he was killed. He was also a man with great self-confidence."

"Go on."

"You must know that Mr. Benton was trying to track down the Shop. He wanted to know where they were based, who was in charge, how they worked. For the last two years this had become his obsession. I helped him the best I could. I found out things for him, guided him in certain directions. I believe he may have shown his hand too soon, though. The Shop became aware of him. Mr. Benton told me as such right after your man in the Far East was killed. Mr. Lee?"

"Yes. Dan Lee. In Macau."

"Right. After that happened, Mr. Benton told me that he thought the Shop had a list of names. Names of possible agents with the National Security Agency. He was afraid the Shop had begun a campaign to eliminate everyone on the list."

I consider this. "I don't question Rick's suspicions, but I think you both give the Shop too much credit. If the Shop really does have a list of names, then I can't imagine how they got it."

"That is exactly what Mr. Benton said. Very mysterious."

"I tell you, Reza, I'm not going to worry about it," I say. I mean it, too. I have more important things to think about. I spend a great deal of energy watching my back when I'm on an assignment. It's routine. "Now, what can you tell me about Rick's investigations?"

"Mr. Benton was working on tracing an arms supply line coming into Iraq. He believed the arms come from Azerbaijan, but he wasn't completely sure. I tend to agree with him. If this is true, then there are two routes the arms could take–one through Iran, and one through Armenia and Turkey. I'll tell you what I think. I don't believe they're coming through Iran, although maybe the Shop wants to give us that impression. There are arms that do come into Iran, but they do not originatein my country. I know for a fact that our government is working very hard to keep illegal arms out of Iran. They do not want to be perceived as a contributor to international terrorism, despite how the world arena has portrayed us. Our government is particularly concerned about radical terrorist groups that may have Iranian connections."

"Like the Shadows, for instance?"

Hamadan smiles again. "You are very perceptive, Sam."

"They are quickly becoming a priority for us," I explain.

"Yes, well, as they should. There have been some suspicions in the media and in our government that the Shadows are based in Iran. I hope it's not true. I don't believe it."

"Reza, whatever enlightenment you can provide would be appreciated."

"I don't know much, either. Only that the group is taking credit for a lot of attacks lately. Are we even sure that the Shadows really exist? Could they be al Qaeda or another one of the established groups merely trying to confuse us?"

"No, I don't think so. Their methods are slightly different. Results are the same, though. I actually think I met some Shadows in Arbil the other day."

"Really?"

"Yes. That reminds me. What do you know about the Tabriz Container Company?"

Hamadan wrinkles his brow. "Why?"

"There was a shipment of arms confiscated in Arbil. The stuff was in crates made by the Tabriz Container Company."

Hamadan shrugs. "It's a large company here that makes boxes, crates, containers. . . . Their warehouse is located outside the city."

"I'm going to check them out."

"It can't hurt, but I can't imagine that this company is involved in anything illegal. They sell their products to all kinds of clients. The Shop might be buying the containers through a middleman or a front."

"Could be. Here's another question for you. Have you ever heard of anyone named Tarighian?"

"Tarighian?" Hamadan looks surprised. " NasirTarighian?"

"I don't know his first name."

"If you're talking about Nasir Tarighian, you're talking about an Iranian war hero. He was a hero during the Iran-Iraq War."

"Tell me about him."

"He was very wealthy, owned several businesses, and was very active politically. He got into a little trouble in the early 1980s by speaking out against the Islamic Revolution. When the war started he underwent a tragedy–his home was destroyed and he lost some relatives, killed by Iraqi bombs. After that incident he swore revenge against Iraq. He formed an anti-Iraqi militia–a terrorist group, really. They made frequent raids across the border. They were merciless–they killed innocent civilians and destroyed a lot of property. Tarighian became something of a cult hero here in Iran, but the government didn't approve of his actions. They were going to step in and stop him, but before they could, the Iraqi army ambushed Tarighian and his little band of soldiers. Tarighian was killed and the militia was wiped out."

"Tarighian's dead?"

"That's the general consensus. He hasn't been heard from since. No bodies were recovered from the battle, I might add."

"Hmm. I heard a member of the Shadows mention that name in Arbil."

"I shall make inquiries," Hamadan says. "However, the one name I have heard associated with the Shadows' leadership is a man named Ahmed Mohammed. Have you heard of him?"

"Yes, I heard his name in Arbil as well and I remember his name coming up in reports," I answer. "I'm sure he's on the FBI wanted terrorist list."

"Mohammed is an Iranian, a known terrorist who is wanted by our government for a number of crimes. My sources tell me that he is a major player in the Shadows. He may not be the supreme boss, but he most likely plans operations and has them carried out."

"Well then, I'll be sure to watch out for him."

Hamadan stands and goes to his desk. He opens a drawer and removes an accordion folder. He brings it back to me. "This is Mr. Benton's. He sometimes stayed in a room we have above our shop. In fact, he was here just before he went to Belgium. He left that material here and I found it in the room. Perhaps the material will be useful. You are also welcome to stay here in the room if you wish, Sam."

"Thanks." I open the file and find several papers and some photos. I remove the first photo and have a look. There are two men in the picture. One of them looks vaguely familiar to me. He's obviously Middle Eastern, is in his fifties, and appears to have a skin condition. The other guy I don't know.

"Ah, yes, that's something else," Hamadan says. "Mr. Benton had made contact with that man." He points to the guy who looks familiar. "His name is Namik Basaran. He's a Turk. Mr. Benton believed that Mr. Basaran has inside information about the Shadows."

"Namik Basaran. I think I've heard of him."

"You might have seen him on television. He's an entrepreneur who owns a huge conglomerate in Van, Turkey. It's called Akdabar Enterprises. Do you know it?"

"No."

"They deal mostly with construction, oil production, and steel. Besides that, Basaran runs a charity organization called Tirma, the mission of which is to provide relief for terrorist victims around the world. He founded Tirma with his own money. Namik Basaran is a publicity hound, so he always goes on the news to speak out against terrorism whenever there is an attack. He has been known to help the Turkish police in their search for terrorists, and he seems to have connections in all the surrounding countries."

This charity organization rings a bell. Perhaps I have heard of this guy. "Have you met him?" I ask.

"Never, but we have done business together. I sold him some carpets to decorate his offices. I hope to meet him someday. He's a very generous man, but I must say I believe he's more interested in getting his face on TV than in anything else. But at least he puts his money where his mouth is."

"Who's the other man in the photograph?" He appears to be Eastern European, not Arabic or Persian. Another guy in his late fifties or maybe early sixties.

"I don't know. Neither did Mr. Benton."

"Where did Rick get the photo?"

"I don't know."

I return the photo to the folder and nod. "Well. It looks like I have some homework. If you don't mind, I'm going to take you up on your offer for that room, get some rest, and then check out the container warehouse tonight."

"Very good. I will show you to the room."

I follow Hamadan out of the office and up a flight of stairs. It's a small but very homey bedroom with a futon and dozens of pillows. There's an attached bathroom as well. As far as I'm concerned, it's pure luxury. I thank Hamadan and tell him I'll see him at dinner. Then I settle down to relax. Before I go to sleep I check the OPSAT for messages. There's one from Lambert that says, simply, "Talk to me."

I press the implanted transmitter in my throat. "Colonel? Are you there?"

After a moment I hear Lambert's voice in my ear. "Sam? Where are you?"

"In Tabriz. At Reza Hamadan's place."

"Good, you made it. Listen, I have some nasty news. Another one of our Splinter Cells was murdered yesterday. Marcus Blaine."

Blaine. Again, I didn't know him personally, but I know who he was. He was Third Echelon's man stationed in Israel.

"How did it happen?" I ask.

"We don't know yet. Details are very sketchy, but the preliminary report indicates that it may be the same killer or killers who got to Rick Benton and Dan Lee."

That's when I begin to take what Hamadan said about the Shop having a list of names a bit more seriously.

15

ANDREIZdrok sat in his office in the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank, gazing out the window at the streets of Zurich's financial district. This had been his home for several years and he loved it. Zurich was a very expensive place to reside, but he had the means to take advantage of everything the city had to offer. His chateau on the shore of Lake Zurich was his pride and joy, and the only time he ever left the home was to come into the bank. When he wasn't working, he indulged himself in expensive hobbies. Zdrok owned six automobiles that were considered collector's items, including a 1933 Rolls-Royce that Paul von Hindenberg once owned. His most prized possession, however, was the Swan 46 yacht that he had recently purchased. He liked to sail it leisurely along the length of the lake and sometimes slept on it. Zdrok considered it a small slice of heaven on earth.

The Shop had done well. The enterprise had begun modestly, operating at the beginning out of Georgia. He and Antipov had made the first arms sale, and then they recruited Prokofiev and Herzog to join the team. The Shop grew in size and influence, supplying arms of all kinds to whoever was able to pay for them. Zdrok had no political aspirations or loyalties. The almighty dollar was his only motivation.

The business really blossomed during the Bosnian conflict. Zdrok moved the base of operations to Baku, Azerbaijan, for security reasons and opened the first Swiss-Russian bank in Zurich. A second branch was built in Baku two years later. By using the front of the two banks, Zdrok was able to assemble a discreet machine that handled marketing, acquisition, delivery, and profit laundering. Finding the right employees to do the grunt work had been time-consuming–he had to be sure that his men would remain loyal. He paid them well, which went a long way toward insuring their devotion. At any rate, the common soldiers of the organization didn't know a lot about the operation. Thankfully, to date no one with any real knowledge of the Shop had ever been caught by the law.

Andrei Zdrok felt justified in enjoying his life in Zurich.

The biggest problem they now faced was rebuilding the Far East pipelines. The business had been hurt badly but not irreparably. The Shop had intelligence of its own, and Zdrok was certain that the Americans' National Security Agency was responsible for the damage. Operation Sweep, the initiative he created to hunt down and eliminate Western spies, was already in place and active when the events in Macau occurred. Now the operation had become a priority.

Zdrok thought about the Far East situation and how it could be repaired in a timely and efficient manner. It was possible to bring in another partner, the leader of a Chinese Triad called the Lucky Dragons with whom the Shop had done a lot of business. His name was Jon Ming and he was quite possibly the most powerful gangster in China. He resided in Hong Kong, his Triad's home for decades. Even when the handover occurred and other Triad clans moved out of the former British colony, Ming and the Lucky Dragons stayed. He had a special relationship with the Chinese government. He had the ability to pull strings and keep lawmakers in his pocket. Yes, Ming might be the answer to the Shop's problems, but Zdrok wasn't sure how the other partners would feel about bringing the man aboard.

There was also an American he knew in the Far East who might be able to help. Zdrok's partners would most certainly be opposed to working with him, but Zdrok thought it might be advantageous. After all, the man was known to and trusted by the U.S. intelligence agencies. Zdrok decided to put that thought on hold and wrestle with it later. There was time.

The phone rang. He picked it up and said, "Zdrok." He listened to the short message from the caller and replied, "Thank you." He hung up the phone, swiveled his chair to face the computer, and logged on.

His technical director had assured him that sensitive Shop files used a complex encryption that could never be hacked into. Even if auditors came to the bank and insisted on confiscating the hard drive, they would never be able to access the information. Therefore, Zdrok kept all of the Shop's records, plans, and operations on his office computer.