Текст книги "Splinter Cell (2004)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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"Do you have an appointment?" he asks in heavily accented English.

"No, I'm afraid not," I say. "I'm sorry, but I had no time to arrange it. I just entered the country. If Mr. Basaran is busy I can come back later . . . ?"

"Wait here." The guard went into the checkpoint booth and made a call. I could see him reading from Reza's letter, nodding his head, and glancing at me. Finally he came back and said, "If you don't mind waiting a little while, Mr. Basaran will see you when he gets out of a meeting." He gave me a map of the complex, pointed to the group of small buildings by the lake, and told me to drive there and park in the accompanying lot. He gave me a visitor's pass and admonished me not to drive anywhere else on the property.

Over by the lake the view is spectacular. It's a clear day and the water stretches out to the horizon, much like Lake Michigan does at the edge of Chicago. The buildings here are modern constructions and apparently house the administrative offices, an employees' facility that includes lockers, dressing rooms, a gym, a cafeteria, and vending, and the Tirma charity organization headquarters. By the way, Carly back at Third Echelon pointed out that the word tirmameans "silk" in Farsi. My question is, why Farsi? Why not Turkish?

The waiting room in the main administrative building is modern and comfortable. It contains pretty much the kind of furniture you'd expect in a reception area–and I note the surveillance camera in the corner keeping a record of who goes in and out. A pretty Turkish receptionist sits behind the glass window and glances at me every now and then. It's refreshing to be in a predominantly Muslim country where the rules are relaxed enough that women can reveal their hair and the skin on the arms and legs.

I wait approximately twenty minutes and another lovely Turkish–or maybe Kurdish–woman fetches me and leads me to a door to the right of the receptionist that requires keypad code access. Part of my training with Third Echelon was to try to memorize codes by watching someone press the keys. Depending on how fast the person was, I eventually achieved an eighty-eight-percentile success rating. I stand beside the woman and fake a cough just as she begins the sequence–this creates the illusion that I'm not watching. Her fingers quickly zip over the pad, but I'm able to catch it–8, 6, 0, 2, 5.

The door opens and she leads me through a hallway adorned with Middle Eastern artwork. As we walk I quickly enter the code sequence into my OPSAT so I won't forget it. We turn a corner and I notice another surveillance camera on the ceiling, and then we enter the head man's spacious, and very Western, office. In fact, there's a Picasso hanging on the wall. In one corner of the room stands a table displaying a scale model of a fancy modern building.

Namik Basaran greets me at the door, grins broadly, and holds out his hand as I'm ushered into the room. A very large guy, wearing a suit and a turban, stands to the side and eyes me closely.

"Mr. Fisher, welcome to Turkey," he says in good English. I shake his hand and thank him. I notice that he's squeezing a rubber ball in his other hand. He chuckles and says, "It's for tendonitis. It's also a nervous habit!" He walks over to his desk and drops the ball into a drawer. He turns to the big guy and says, "You may leave us, Farid, thank you."

The big guy nods, glares at me once more, and leaves the room.

"My bodyguard," Basaran explains. "And driver. And assistant. A man in my position can't be too careful. Poor Farid, I took him into the organization from the street. He's an Iranian, a victim of Saddam Hussein's regime. Farid doesn't speak–his tongue was cut out while he was a prisoner in Abu Ghraib Prison during the Iran-Iraq war. Now, would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"

I shrug and say that I'll have whatever he has.

"Well, personally at this time of day I prefer a small cup of cay. Is that suitable?"

I groan inwardly but smile and reply, "That would be fine."

Cayis Turkish tea that comes from the Black Sea area and is usually served with tremendous amounts of sugar. It's a bit on the strong side, but I can grin and bear it when I have to. Basaran walks to his wet bar, pours the tea into tiny tulip-shaped glasses, and brings them over. We sit on black leather chairs at a low table beneath the Picasso. A wall-sized window to our left overlooks the lake.

It's difficult to determine how old Basaran is, but I'd guess early fifties. He's medium-height, and, as in the photograph, there's a noticeable skin condition on his face and hands. I'm not sure what it is. It's not as bad as skin grafting, but it doesn't look as if it's due to some disease, either.

"Very impressive place you have here, Mr. Basaran," I say.

"Thank you. It's very gratifying to achieve the success one yearns for in one's youth and then still be alive to enjoy it."

"I'm particularly impressed with your airstrip. How do you use it?"

He shrugs. "We ship materials all over. Currently I'm in the process of building an elaborate indoor shopping mall in Northern Cyprus. That's a model of it over there on the table. Beautiful, isn't it? We ship materials daily to the island. As you can guess, I'm a firm supporter of Turkey's right to claim Cyprus. I'm helping the cause by building up the north, giving the people more modern facilities and attractions. This mall will be the largest shopping center of its type in the Middle East." He shakes his head and sips his tea. "The ongoing struggle with the Greek Cypriots there is tragic. Why can't they just accept us and be done with it? But that's a whole other conversation. Now. Tell me what brings you to Van, Mr. Fisher. I read your letter of introduction from Mr. Hamadan, and I see that you work for Interpol. How can I assist you?"

I give him my spiel on how I'm compiling an extensive report on terrorists in the region. Interpol will publish the report and send it to law enforcement agencies all over the world, but most important, it will help in combating terrorism here in the Middle East. "Mr. Hamadan suggested that I speak to you, as I hear you're an expert on terrorism here in Eastern Turkey," I say. A little flattery usually goes a long way.

"You give me too much credit," Basaran says, but he smiles and enjoys the compliment. "I wouldn't call myself an expert. That's ridiculous. But I do know some things. I've followed the various groups in this area for many years and even met some of the leaders. That is not to say that I'm friendly with any of them. As a Turkish entrepreneur–and a successful one–they probably hate me as much as they hate anyone else in Turkey who favors a Westernized lifestyle. I could probably talk for hours about terrorism, Mr. Fisher, so unless you have specific questions, we might need to postpone our meeting for another time. I am very busy today."

I decide to drop another name. "I see. Rick Benton also said you'd be very helpful."

I notice a flicker in his eyes. "You know Mr. Benton?" he asks.

"Only by his work," I say. "I never met the late Mr. Benton."

Basaran's mouth drops slightly. "The lateMr. Benton? Is he . . . ?"

"Yes," I reply. "He was murdered in Brussels just last week."

"That istragic. I'm sorry to hear it. Do they know who did it?"

"No, it's a mystery."

Basaran takes a sip of tea. "I met him one time. He asked me questions about some of the terrorist groups operating in this part of the country, just as you have asked. I assure you, I am compelled to speak out against terrorism whenever I have a public forum. It is important to me and to my family."

I'd like to find out more about his family but decide that now's not the best time.

"You do know about my charity organization, Tirma?" he asks.

"Yes, that's one reason why I wanted to meet you."

"Tirma is a personal project for me. I've pledged much of my income to help fight terrorism, and Tirma allows me to make a difference–if only a small one."

"It's not-for-profit, I take it?"

"Certainly. With an all-volunteer staff, I might add. If you'd care to quit Interpol and work for us for free, we would be more than happy to have you!" He laughed boisterously.

I laugh, too, but quickly swing the conversation back to the topic at hand. "Well, since you're pressed for time, I do have a couple of specific questions."

"Fire away."

"What do you know about the Shop and what do you know about the Shadows?"

Basaran nodded, as if he was expecting the question. "Mr. Benton asked me the same thing. Those two groups are becoming the hot topics on everyone's list. As far as the Shadows are concerned, our friend Tarighian has certainly taken the word mystiqueto a new level."

"Tarighian?" I feign ignorance.

"Nasir Tarighian," Basaran says. "He's the money behind the Shadows. Didn't you know?"

"I thought Nasir Tarighian died in the 1980s."

"That's what he wants everyone to believe. But he's alive and well, and financing and directing the Shadows' operations with a firm hand. I'm afraid that no one knows where he is, though. Or much about his personal life, either. He's a very mysterious man, just like his organization. It is said that Tarighian lives like a nomad, much like Osama Bin-Laden. He and his band of merry terrorists travel from one place to another so they can't be caught. I imagine they live in caves in the mountains somewhere."

"Any guesses as to what country they stay in the most?"

"I think it's Armenia, Georgia, or Azerbaijan. It's safer for them there. If they were in Turkey, they'd probably be caught. If they were in Iran, they'd probably be caught. If they were in Iraq, they'd most certainlybe caught. But I really don't know. Perhaps they move from country to country periodically."

"Do you know an Ahmed Mohammed?" I ask.

"Yes, indeed. He's the more visible leader of the Shadows. Perhaps leaderis not the right word. He receives instructions and money from Tarighian and then sees that things get done. He's very much a wanted terrorist, and I'm surehe is always on the run. He is a snake, that man."

"No idea where he is?"

"None. Anywhere and everywhere. Like Tarighian."

There's a knock at the door.

"Excuse me a moment," Basaran says. "Come in!"

A thin man with unkempt blond hair enters the room. He is a Caucasian and appears to be in his late forties or early fifties. "May I speak to you for a moment?" he asks Basaran. I can't place the accent, but it's European.

Basaran stands and says, "Professor, how many times a day must you interrupt me?" He winks at me and says, "The professor is a stickler for details. Please excuse me a moment. I'll be right back."

As soon as they are gone, I quickly stand, reach into my jacket pocket, and remove three miniature sticky bugs. They're a lot like the sticky cameras I use except that they're audio-only. I move to Basaran's desk and quickly stick one bug underneath, attaching it to one of the legs up high where it won't be noticed. I hurry over to the scale model and place another bug on the underside of the table. Finally I attach the third bug underneath the small table where we're currently sitting. I resume my place, pick up my teacup, and am mid-sip when Basaran returns.

"I'm sorry, please accept my apologies for the interruption," he says. "I'm afraid I must cut short our talk. Something has come up that requires my attention. However, if you are free for dinner tonight, I would be more than happy to meet you and we can continue our discussion."

I stand and say, "Why, I'd be delighted. Just tell me where and what time."

He gives me the address of a restaurant in the harbor area, and we arrange to meet at eight o'clock that evening. We shake hands and I'm escorted out of the building.

Idrive out of the Akdabar complex and park on the hill where I was earlier, turn on my OPSAT, and tune in to the little bugs I left in Basaran's office. Reception is very good, but I know the farther away I am, the less quality I'll get. I recognize Basaran's voice. He's talking in English with another man. It doesn't sound like the professor fellow I saw briefly.

BASARAN: "And what is their answer?"

OTHER GUY: "The suppliers refuse to refund our money for the first shipment. The goods were confiscated in Iraq and were under our control at the time. The suppliers say it's not their responsibility."

BASARAN: "Damn them to hell. What happened to the shipment was not our fault and they know it. Bastards."

OTHER GUY: "Not only that, but the payment for the replacement is due in two days."

BASARAN: "It's highway robbery, that's what it is. Damn Zdrok! Fine, do what you have to do. Proceed with the payment. And tell Professor Mertens to expect me in his lab in twenty minutes."

Mertens? I recall the name scrawled on Rick Benton's chart. Was that the "professor" I saw in Basaran's office?

I hear the door open and close. There is silence for a moment, and then I hear Basaran mutter again, "Damn Zdrok." After that the door opens and shuts once more and the room is quiet.

Tarighian. Mertens. Zdrok. It's all trying to come together.

19

LIEUTENANTColonel Petlow knew that the confiscated arms would be excellent bait for the Shadows.

After he had received Sam Fisher's report from Arbil, the U.S. Army took the initiative to secure the arms shipment that was held in the police headquarters and move it to an unspecified location. The Shadows had shown they were keen to get it back, so a plan was instigated to draw the terrorists out. The Iraqi police were also under pressure to find those responsible for murdering the members of their force, as well as make up for the botched arrest raid that occurred outside the Arbil police headquarters. The debacle was more an embarrassment for the Iraqi police than the U.S. Army. In fact, the Pentagon blamed the Iraqi government's lack of adequate police training for the deaths of the four American soldiers, who were officially along on the arrest raid only as observers. So in a unique instance of military and civilian police cooperation, the two organizations worked together to formulate a plan to draw in the escaped terrorists.

One of the more positive developments to come out of Iraq gaining its own government in the summer of 2004 was that informers were more willing to cooperate with Iraqi police, intelligence officers, and the military. These people, most often civilians but sometimes men who had served in various Iraqi militias, were interested in not only receiving monetary compensation for their efforts but also in developing a favorable relationship with those in power. Sometimes a reliable informer would be granted special status with employment or tangible means such as property. In a country like Iraq, which was still finding its way back to the level of economic existence it held before the war, many people jumped at the chance to get ahead.

Thus, informers were paid to spread the word around Arbil that the arms confiscated from the Shadows were being kept in a cave that was in control of a Kurdish army platoon. Furthermore, the Kurds were reportedly green and undisciplined.

In reality the arms were nowhere near the cave. The U.S. Army positioned two platoons at the site with orders that if the Shadows didn't try to retake the arms within two weeks, then the soldiers would be reassigned. Petlow figured it was worth the time and expense to deploy the troops in this way.

It was a dependable informant named Ali Bazan who came through with the goods. He had at one time been a top lieutenant to the militant Shiite cleric who waged a guerilla war against the U.S. in the spring of 2004. Now working for the young Iraqi government and police force, Bazan made contact with the alleged terrorists who were itching to find and take back the arms taken from them. Bazan duped them into believing he was on their side and was helping them achieve their goal. They foolishly shared with him their plans to attack the Kurdish platoon at the cave on a given morning.

Sure enough, in the early hours of the same day that Sam Fisher drove to Turkey from Iran, a group of twenty militants laid siege to the cave. They were armed with AK-47s and handguns of various makes and models. The U.S. platoons were armed with standard issue M16A2s, M4A1s, M203 grenade launchers, M67 fragmentation grenades, and M84 stun grenades. There was no contest.

The terrorists struck first with six men storming the cave opening, guns blazing. As they engaged the men inside, the Shadows quickly realized they weren't fighting Kurds. The American firepower overwhelmed the attackers and the six men were killed. This brought forward the remainder of the terrorists, who found themselves surprised by the sudden appearance of the U.S. army at their right and left flanks. The Americans had hidden in dugouts covered by trapdoors camouflaged with dirt, rocks, and vegetation.

The gun battle lasted twenty-two minutes. Thirteen of the terrorists were dead and the rest were captured. The U.S. lost two men. The seven prisoners were brought to a temporary base outside of Arbil and lined up outside of Petlow's quarters.

Sam Fisher had made copies of the relevant file photos he found in Arbil and forwarded them to Petlow. The lieutenant colonel, along with a representative from the Iraqi police force, had a chance to take a look at the dead militants first but didn't recognize any of them as being the men that Fisher had seen that night. Petlow then confronted the seven prisoners, one by one. They were a mangy bunch, men who had lived in the brush and avoided the law for months at a time.

None of them looked familiar. As he briefly interrogated each man with the Iraqi policeman serving as interpreter, Petlow had a sinking feeling they had failed to catch the men they were looking for. But as he spoke to the fourth man in line, something sparked his memory.

"Open your mouth," Petlow ordered the prisoner. When the man did so, Petlow saw he was missing some teeth. He was the man Fisher called "No-Tooth." The man responsible for the deaths of the four U.S. soldiers.

Petlow gave the order for the Iraqi policeman to interpret. "They're all under arrest, of course, but this one is to be charged with the murder of the Arbil police officers and our soldiers. We'll start serious interrogation this afternoon. In the meantime, tell this guy that he's in some serious shit."

SARAHhad slept for nearly sixteen hours. When she awoke she was understandably confused and disoriented. She had no idea where she was. She sat up too quickly, bringing on a wave of nausea. A hot flash immediately surged through her body and she broke out into a sweat. Sarah knew she was about to be sick and started to panic. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the door to the bathroom and bolted for it. She made it to the toilet just in time.

When she was done, Sarah sat on the dirty floor beside the toilet for a few moments before attempting to stand.

Where the hell was she? What wasthis place? And more important, where was Eli? And Rivka?

She stood slowly, using the toilet seat as leverage. A stained, cracked mirror over the sink reflected a pale, frightened girl of twenty. She looked terrible.

A washcloth and towel sat on the edge of the sink. She turned on the cold water and let it run. At least it wasn't brown, like in Eli's apartment, so she splashed her face and let the water run down her neck. It felt good. She realized she was terribly thirsty, but she didn't want to drink the tap water.

She carefully went back into the other room and saw nothing in there but the cot she had slept on and her purse on the floor next to it. She went to the door and turned the knob, only to find it locked.

"Hello?" she called. "Eli?" It was eerily quiet on the other side of the door. "Rivka? Somebody?" She felt the panic build again as she knocked loudly.

When she heard footsteps on the other side, Sarah backed away, ready to let Eli have it.

The man who unlocked the door and peeked inside was not Eli. He had a cold, cruel look about him, and he grinned lecherously at her.

"Good morning, Princess," he said. "You slept a long time. How are you feeling?"

"Who are you?" she demanded. "Where am I?" She was suddenly so frightened and confused that she felt light-headed again. She staggered and her knees buckled. The man rushed into the room to catch her and help her to the cot.

"Whoa, miss, sit down. There, there."

She reclined on the pillow and then asked again, more softly, "Who are you?"

"My name is Vlad. I think you need some more sleep."

"Where am I?"

"Just sleep," he said and turned to walk out.

"Wait!"

But he was out the door and she heard it lock.

What the hellwas going on? Who was he? Where were her friends?

She heard an airplane overhead. Was she near an airport? Come to think of it, she had dreamed of airplanes, or so she thought. She remembered an unpleasant state of consciousness that she wasn't sure was real or part of her sleep. She thought she might have been carried someplace by men who gripped her ankles and wrists too tightly. Even now, as she touched her arms, they felt bruised. She also recalled a feverish tossing and turning, which may or may not have occurred there on the cot, and hearing the occasional roar of overhead planes.

Surely Eli would show up soon and explain what was going on. Right now she felt too dazed and confused to care very much. Perhaps she should try to sleep more. If this was what a hangover felt like, she never wanted to take another drink.

She admonished herself that she hadn't been the most model twenty-year-old girl while on her trip to Israel. She had had sex several times, had drunk alcohol, had stayed at a boy's house overnight . . . what would her father think?

Her father!She could call him! There was that special number she could dial on her cell phone and send a message to him. She didn't know where he was, but he was sure to get it. Sarah reached for her purse on the floor and frantically looked inside it for her phone.

It wasn't there, of course. Nor was her address book. Damn, she thought. What now?

A key rattled in the lock again. This time the door opened to reveal Eli.

"Eli! My God, what the . . . where are we?"

He closed the door behind him, set a bottle of water on the floor, and stood in front of her. The expression on his face disturbed her.

"What's wrong? Eli? What is this place?"

"Sarah, as long as you cooperate they won't hurt you," he said.

She wasn't sure that she'd heard him correctly. "What? Where am I? Where's Rivka?"

"Shut up," he spat. "Listen to me. You're a hostage. You're all alone. You can't escape, so don't try. Don't try to scream for help, because no one will hear you. We're miles and miles from anyone."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "What? Eli?"

"I'm sorry, Sarah. That's just the way it is."

"Are you . . . who was that guy who came in? He said his name was Vlad."

"You're not listening to me, Sarah," Eli said. "You are a fucking hostage!"

She gasped. He really meant it. This wasn't a joke. The look on his face was something she had never seen before. This wasn't the Eli she knew. This wasn't the funny, tender Eli who had once made love to her. This was someone who scared her.

"What's going on, Eli? Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"We want to know where your father is."

The enormity of what he said nearly made her faint. She took a deep breath and said, "So that's what this is about. My father." She shook her head and turned from him.

"Tell us where he is and you'll be all right. If you won't, then . . . I can't be responsible for what Vlad and Yuri will do to you."

"Vlad and Yuri? What about what you'vealready done to me, Eli! Fuck you, Eli!"

Eli stood there unfazed. There was a knock on the door and Eli said, "Come in."

It was Noel.

"Noel!" Sarah said. "What the hell is going on? Where's Rivka?"

Noel looked at Eli, who shook his head.

"Noel? Where'sRivka?" Sarah asked again.

Noel shrugged at her. He looked at Eli again and then walked out of the room.

My God! she thought. Something badhad happened to her friend. She knew it. She felt it in her gut.

Eli turned to follow Noel and said to her, "Your father is an American government Splinter Cell, and you're going to help us find him. We have your cell phone and your address book. After we finish examining these items, if we haven't found the means to contact him, then we will come back to you. If you know how to get in touch with him, then you had better tell us. I wouldn't want to see you . . . hurt."

She stared at the young man she thought would someday be her fiance.

"Think about it," he said. "I'll be back in a while. There's some water for you. I'll bring you some food, too. But this isn't a hotel, Sarah, so don't expect room service whenever you want it."

He opened the door and left. The sound of the door slamming and locking reverberated in the small room.

Her private cell.

GENERALProkofiev couldn't make the meeting. He had business in Moscow and would be returning with an important piece of equipment for exclusive use by the Shop. As one of the top officers in the Russian military, Prokofiev had access and clearance to an unbelievable amount of material. If something was lost or diverted, the buck stopped with him–and he was certainly not going to tell his superiors about it. It was one method by which the Shop obtained much of their product.

Andrei Zdrok spent twenty minutes going over the sales of the last month and outlining the Shop's profit margin. He also detailed the company's losses and what it meant for them.

"If we don't reestablish our position in the Far East within the next two months the Shop will lose six point three million dollars," he said. "Gentlemen, I do not want to give up my chateau on Lake Zurich. If we have to recruit another partner, then we will. Jon Ming has expressed interest on numerous occasions. What do you think of the notion of bringing on a Chinese partner?"

Herzog shrugged. "If we have to in order to save the company, then fine. But let's try to repair the Far East damage ourselves first."

Antipov said, "Never. I hate the Chinese."

Zdrok almost smiled at his associate's bigotry. "At least you're honest, Anton." He then moved on to another important topic and announced, "I'm happy to report that we have the identity of the next Splinter Cell on the list. His name is Sam Fisher. He lives in Baltimore, USA, and is not assigned to any particular territory. The NSA sends him out to do specialized missions–the difficultassignments. We believe he was responsible for Kim Wei Lo's death in Macau and for the damage done to our interests there. His identification has given us an opportunity to dispose of him. Someone close to him is now in our control, and hopefully she will lead us to Mr. Fisher . . . or lead him to us, more likely."

Antipov and Herzog nodded.

"Mr. Fisher will not be an ordinary enemy. He is probably the best trained and formidable opponent we have faced. The other Splinter Cells were mere children compared to Fisher."

"What would you like us to do?" Antipov asked.

"Nothing," Zdrok answered. "I have assigned our enforcers to the task."

More nods. Antipov and Herzog had no problem with that.

Zdrok turned to Antipov. "Anton, I want you to handle this situation with the Shadows. It's turned into a mess."

"How do you want me to handle it, Andrei?" the former KGB officer asked. "Do everything I can to patch things up, or do everything I can to insist on implementing our policies?"

Zdrok said, "Let me put it this way. If their management doesn't see eye to eye with us, then fuck them. We don't need them. I don't care who the hell they are. I have a feeling that they're treading down a road that will bring them serious consequences. This new project of theirs makes no sense to me. But then again, I'm not a fundamentalist Muslim."

Antipov asked, "Then I should . . . ?"

"Cut them off," Zdrok said. "If they give us any more trouble about money or refunds or credit or shit, just cut them off."

Antipov nodded, but it was clear that he wasn't sure if he agreed with the boss.

Zdrok ignored him. He knew that Antipov would do his job and perform it mercilessly. Zdrok took a breath and then had another idea.

"On second thought, we might look to Mr. Mohammed for a solution," he said.

"Ahmed Mohammed?" Antipov asked.

"Yes. He's the one who really does all the work for the Shadows, isn't he? Why not get word to Mohammed that should leadershipin the Shadows suddenly become questionable, then the Shop will continue to support him."

"I think that's an excellent idea," Antipov said. Herzog nodded as well.

"Good. I'm off to Baku," Zdrok said. "I'll be in touch. If you need me, you know how to find me."

With that, he stood and left the room. Antipov and Herzog looked at each other, shrugged, and got up from the table.

The Shop had a unique four-man leadership. They each had specific jobs and duties. Each man commanded a legion of underlings. Each of the four partners had tremendous wealth and power.

But there was never any question as to who was in charge.

20

I go to my dinner appointment with Namik Basaran and arrive at the restaurant on time. It's a little place overlooking Lake Van in a tourist-oriented square and marina. There are a couple of chartered boat services, a travel agency, gift shops, two hotels, and several restaurants. It's not far from Akdabar Enterprises.

Basaran and his bodyguard are waiting for me inside the restaurant. The big man glares at me again but departs as soon as his employer gives him a nod. Basaran is wearing the same suit he was wearing when I saw him earlier. I've put on a different tie but have on the same sports jacket. My Osprey can fit only so much civilian clothing. I'm wearing my uniform underneath, not just for practical purposes but also because the night air is cool up in the mountains. A breeze wafts in from the lake and produces quite a chill.

The maitre d' greets Basaran warmly, calling him by name. Basaran asks for a table by the window and then leads the way. I happen to enjoy Turkish food. Like the people in many European and Asian countries, the Turks make an event out of dinner, and it can sometimes last for hours. I get the feeling that tonight will not be one of those occasions, as Basaran is a busy man.