Bastards.
Sarah finished her business in the bathroom and lumbered back to the cot and lay down. She then heard a familiar knock on the door. Eli again. The key turned in the lock and the door opened. She didn’t look at him but felt his presence as he stood over her.
“You want anything to eat yet?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Come on, Sarah. You better eat something. You’re . . . you’re going to need your strength.”
Sarah refused to acknowledge him.
“Look, Sarah, we’ve had new orders come through. Vlad and Yuri—they’ve been given the go-ahead to be more, um, aggressive. This is your last chance. You have to tell us what we want to know. Where is your father? How do we get a message to him?”
Her silence finally got to him. Eli grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head up. She shrieked and he shouted, “Goddamn it, Sarah! Talk to me! I can’t be responsible for what they’re going to do!”
The tears welled in her eyes, so she closed them. That way she wouldn’t have to look at him.
He let go of her and she burrowed herself into the blankets and pillow, sobbing.
“Sarah,” he said, a little softer. “Vlad and Yuri . . . they’re going to come in here and make you talk. I promise you, they will make you. So please. Tell us what we want to know.”
She mumbled something.
“What?” he asked.
She lifted her head and said evenly, “Go to hell.”
Eli sighed, moved toward the door, and said, “I’m sorry, Sarah.” And then he left.
Now Sarah was really frightened. What were those two men going to do to her? Please God, don’t let it be rape. Anything but that.
She felt movement in the room and heard the door slam shut. Sarah looked up and saw them—Vlad and Yuri—standing near the cot. Vlad had a coil of rope. Yuri carried a tool kit.
“Hello, Princess,” Vlad said. “Are you ready to have some fun with us?”
Adrenaline pumped through Sarah’s body as she leaped from the cot and ran toward the bathroom. Vlad caught her around the waist and swung her back to the cot. She fell on it hard, collapsing it.
Vlad uncoiled the rope.
CARLY
St. John finally had a good night’s sleep after spending two days straight on hacking Tarighian’s and Zdrok’s bank accounts. Now she had a new assignment and it was just as urgent. Lambert had given her digital files of phone conversations that Sam Fisher had recorded in Turkey, and he wanted a splice job. This meant she had to take pieces of the conversation, cut them up, and put them back together so the speakers were saying something very different from the original.
The subjects were Nasir Tarighian, aka Namik Basaran, and an unknown subordinate. They spoke in Farsi, not Turkish. After Third Echelon’s crack interpreter translated the dialogue into English, Carly heard the original conversation like this—
MAN: “But surely the Shop can see that it wasn’t us?”
TARIGHIAN: “No, the Shop can’t see, Zdrok is blind to everything but his own little world.”
MAN: “Let me get this straight. The diaper factory was attacked by someone—”
TARIGHIAN: “An Arab.”
MAN: “—and he blew up the building.”
TARIGHIAN: “And left Tirma material all over the place.”
MAN: “So obviously someone wants to create a rift between you and the Shop.”
TARIGHIAN: “The rift was already there. They just made it wider.”
MAN: “So I suggest you tell him that you’re convinced it was an outside job. Someone is setting you up.”
TARIGHIAN: “I told him that, but he didn’t listen. Now he doesn’t take my calls. Damn it, doesn’t he know who I am?”
MAN: “Has Hani found out what happened to the money transfer?”
TARIGHIAN: “
No
. We sent the money. According to Hani’s records the transfer made it safely into Zdrok’s Swiss bank account. However, Zdrok claims he never got it.”
MAN: “You did give the order for the transfer, didn’t you?”
TARIGHIAN: “Of course!”
MAN: “Then why would he lie?”
TARIGHIAN: “He’s angry that the first shipment of arms was confiscated in Iraq. The Iraqi police arrested the men red-handed. Ahmed and his men tried to mount an operation to retrieve it, but that failed. We had to bite the bullet and pay for a completely new shipment. So far Zdrok says he hasn’t been paid.”
MAN: “He delivered it without us paying up front, right?”
TARIGHIAN: “Yes. His one Good Samaritan act. Now he wants his damned money yesterday.”
MAN: “So he probably thinks you’re trying to put him out of business.”
TARIGHIAN: “Yes, that’s probably what he thinks.”
MAN: “Surely the Azeri police will catch someone for the crime.”
TARIGHIAN: “Not likely, you fool. The media’s already blaming the Shadows for it. Ali put out a statement denying responsibility but you know how far that goes.”
MAN: “So what now?”
TARIGHIAN: “The man better apologize for his behavior and exonerate us of this crime. And he should not charge us for the new shipment. The man’s a billionaire, he can write it off.”
Carly heard the sound of a knock.
TARIGHIAN: “Come in.”
ANOTHER MAN: “You’re wanted in the control room.”
TARIGHIAN: “I’ll be right there.”
And that was the end of it. A second file contained the following short exchange between Tarighian and the same man.
TARIGHIAN: “The Filipinos behave as if they’re in the West. They are a godless bunch.”
MAN: “The Shadows’ influence on them will change things.”
TARIGHIAN: “The authorities can’t deny that Islam is growing in the Far East. Our cells in the Philippines and Indonesia will soon make strikes but not until—” (garbled).
MAN: (garbled) “—and the United States will then relent.”
TARIGHIAN: “All they care about is money. I’ve hit them where it hurts and I’ll continue to do so. Come on, let’s worry about the Far East after the Phoenix project is completed.”
And that file was over.
Her intercom beeped. She pressed the Talk button and said, “Yeah?”
“What do you think?” It was Lambert.
“It doesn’t seem too difficult,” she answered. “I’ve got plenty to work with.”
“It has to sound convincing. I can tell Sam we need more material if you can’t put something together that will—”
“Don’t worry, Chief, I can do it. Is that pizza here yet?”
Lambert laughed. “For such a small person you sure eat a lot.”
“My brain cells need feeding—they soak up all the nutrition.”
“The delivery should be here in another five minutes or so.”
“Let me know, I’m starving.”
Carly released the intercom and went back to her computer. Sometimes the work was like this and she never went home. Here she was with a bedroll in her office. There were periods of time when she felt as if she were back in the dormitory at Harvard. She could remember all-nighters when she’d catch a nap for an hour or two and then hit the books again. During finals she never left her room.
Her mother always complained that she wasn’t married and didn’t date. If her mother only knew that Carly was busy saving the country and didn’t have the time or the will to see anyone, perhaps the woman would leave her alone. Of course, knowing her mom, she’d probably say that “settling down and raising a family” was more important. No, thanks. Carly was content to live a celibate lifestyle and drown herself in work. If human desire ever raised its ugly head, she wasn’t beyond picking up some hunk for a one-night stand. Commitment, for her, was a four-letter word.
When the pizza arrived, she took a plate-full of slices back to her office. She never sat with the other employees in the break room. She was aware of her reputation as aloof, but she didn’t care. Lambert knew better, and that’s all that counted.
Carly began the work by cutting all the lines of speech into individual phrases. If a word or phrase needed repeating, she copied it and created a new file. It wasn’t long before she had all the puzzle pieces needed to create the picture.
Four hours later she called Lambert into her office. He came in, sat, and rubbed the top of his head.
“Listen to this,” she said. She manipulated the mouse and clicked something on her computer.
TARIGHIAN: “Zdrok is blind to everything but his own little world. He’s angry that the first shipment of arms was confiscated in Iraq. The Iraqi police arrested the men who had it. Ahmed and his men tried to mount an operation to retrieve it, but that failed. We had to bite the bullet and pay for a completely new shipment. So far, Zdrok says he hasn’t been paid.”
MAN: “So he probably thinks you’re trying to put him out of business.”
TARIGHIAN: “Yes, that’s probably what he thinks.”
MAN: “You did give the order for the transfer, didn’t you?”
TARIGHIAN: “Not likely, you fool.”
MAN: “The Shadows’ influence on them will change things.”
TARIGHIAN: “The Shop behave as if they’re in the West. They are a godless bunch. All they care about is money. I’ve hit them where it hurts and I’ll continue to do so.”
MAN: “Let me get this straight. The diaper factory was attacked—”
TARIGHIAN: “The rift was already there. We just made it wider.”
MAN: “An Arab—”
TARIGHIAN: “I sent him—” (garbled) “—and left Tirma material all over the place.”
The recording stopped. Carly looked at Lambert and raised her eyebrows. “Well?”
Lambert smiled. “I think it’ll work. Send the file to Sam.”
30
I receive Carly’s file of the doctored conversation between Tarighian and one of his henchmen and it’s great. Carly also sends me a second file with the English translation. The folks at Third Echelon really know their stuff. It must have been extremely difficult reconstructing a conversation without speaking the language, but then Carly St. John is brilliant. I have to admit I find her attractive. She’s a tiny little thing and smart as a whip. I’ve never made any moves toward her, though. For all my skittish tendencies toward women, you’d think that seeing someone in the same agency would be all right. At least she’d understand my line of work, and I wouldn’t be putting her at risk simply by knowing me.
I’ll have to think about that one.
For now, though, I need to send Andrei Zdrok my little present. I’m surprised to find a bagel shop in Baku right across the street from his bank and decide that’s as good a place as any from which to keep a surveillance going. I position myself at a corner table, have some breakfast, and read the newspaper, poised where I can look through the window at the street. The proprietors don’t seem to mind that I’m loitering as long as I keep filling the coffee cup. Finally, at a little after ten o’clock, I see him get out of a Mercedes in front of the bank. He’s dressed as sharply as always. When the Mercedes drives off, though, Zdrok doesn’t enter the building. Instead he turns, looks in my direction, and crosses the street toward the bagel shop. Shit. It’s quite possible Zdrok knows what I look like. Tarighian’s cameras had surely captured my mug when I first visited his office. The guy could have sent my picture to Zdrok.
I stand and walk toward the washroom. Zdrok enters the shop just as I go through the door. I enter the stall and wait a few minutes until I’m fairly certain that he’s made his purchase and left. I move to the door and open it slightly.
Damn, he’s heading this way! There’s nothing I can do about it so I turn to the sink and start washing my hands. The door swings open and Zdrok walks in. I see that he has a sticky pastry in one hand and he’s wolfing it down. He stands beside me, obviously waiting for me to finish with the sink so he can wash the goo off his hands.
I don’t look him in the eyes, but I nod, smile, and move away from the sink. I grab a couple of paper towels as he rubs his hands in the running water. I feel him looking at me in the mirror—in fact, he’s
staring
at me. I have to get out of here, fast. I finish drying my hands and walk toward the washroom door.
“Do I know you?” he asks in Russian.
I stop. My Russian isn’t perfect, but I can get by. “Excuse me?” I say.
“Were you in my bank the other day?” he asks.
What does he mean? “I beg your pardon?”
“Didn’t I see you in the bank? The one across the street. You were there the other day, at the information table.”
Whew. So that’s what this is about. “Um, yes, I was.”
Zdrok smiled. “I’m Andrei Zdrok, the bank manager. If there’s anything I can help you with, please let me know.”
I nod and say, “Thank you,” and then leave as if I’m embarrassed. I walk straight through the bagel shop and out the front door. I turn left and stride purposefully away from the bank and hope that Zdrok doesn’t follow me. It’s unlikely, but I don’t want to take any chances.
I stop at a newsstand and pretend to browse the magazines, keeping an eye on the bagel shop. After a moment I see Zdrok exit and cross the street to the bank. He doesn’t look my way. He’s probably forgotten all about the encounter. I’m counting on it, anyway.
Once he’s inside the building I move back down the street and enter an old-fashioned phone booth. These relics are pretty much a thing of the past in America, but you’ll still find them in Europe.
I cradle the phone between my head and shoulder and activate the OPSAT. I’m able to send an e-mail anywhere in the world with the thing as long as I have an unhindered signal to the satellite. It works best when I’m outdoors, but it’ll do all right in some buildings. For this, though, I don’t take any chances. I want Zdrok to get
this
e-mail.
His address is stored in the OPSAT so it’s a simple procedure to send Carly’s file. For a message, I type in Russian, “I thought you’d find the attached conversation interesting.” I sign it “A Friend” and send it.