Splinter Cell

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 maître 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.

Basaran orders a dry red wine made in the region along with raki, an aniseed drink a lot like Greek ouzo or Arab arak — it burns wonderfully on the way down. We start with appetizers, or mezeler, consisting of finely chopped salad, roasted pureed eggplant, and pepper and turnip pickles. A lentil-and-mint soup enriched with an abundance of paprika follows. The main course is a lamb casserole, filled with cubed roasted meat, green beans, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini, peppers, and a lot of garlic. A good adjective to describe Turkish meals is hearty.

Basaran begins the conversation by saying, “I just heard on the news that there was another terrorist bombing attributed to the Shadows.”

“Oh?” I hadn’t heard anything.

“In Iraq again. A motorcade carrying two members of the Iraqi government was targeted. They were both killed.”

I shook my head. “That’s precisely why the nations of the world have to get together on this.”

He looks at me skeptically. “But Mr. Fisher, you are from Switzerland, right? Are not the Swiss notoriously neutral when it comes to the problems of the world?”

“That’s a misconception, I’m afraid,” I answer. “Just because we don’t participate in wars doesn’t mean we don’t care.”

“What do you think of the United States’ policies in the Middle East?”

Yikes. I have to be careful here. I don’t want him to suspect that I’m not really from Switzerland.

“I suppose I’d have to say that it’s… disappointing,” I reply. I don’t like admitting it to myself — I actually believe that.

“Ha!” he says loudly. “Disappointing is an understatement. Look, I was no admirer of Saddam Hussein and I sympathized with Iran during the Iran-Iraq war, but what the United States did in Iraq was monstrous. How stable is that country going to be from now on? There will always be insurgents wanting to take it down again, simply for the purpose of showing the world that America made a big mistake. Sometimes a country’s culture requires that the people be told what to do. Democracy doesn’t work everywhere.”

“I think America must have learned that lesson from Vietnam, don’t you think?” I suggest.

“Bah. They learned nothing. Or if they did, they forgot it. Don’t you agree that American policy in the Middle East has turned many of their former friends against them? The Arabs hate them. The Turks, well, I can say many of them hate America. Not all. But overall, Muslims have been given the impression that the U.S. is out to stamp out their religion.”

“We both know that’s not true,” I say. My hackles are starting to rise.

“We do? Oh, I see, then it’s really about oil! Am I right?”

I have to keep my thoughts close to my chest. “Oil is a very valuable commodity, not only in the U.S. but all over the world. Keeping a stable Middle East is important for everyone, not just Americans with their freeways and sports cars.”

Basaran shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I fear that Arab opinion of America has been so badly damaged that recovery may be impossible.”

I tend to agree with that statement, but I think it’s best to change the subject. “So, tell me, how did you get so interested in fighting terrorism? Or rather, providing relief for terrorist victims?”

“Everyone has a passion, don’t they? Mine is helping victims of evil doers. I have seen first hand the tragedy that befalls families when their loved ones are killed by a suicide bomber or by a land mine or by a hijacked airplane that is flown into a building.”

“Forgive me if I’m being too outspoken here, but I sense that terrorism has affected you personally.”

Basaran’s eyes cloud over for a second. I hit a nerve, I know I did. “Doesn’t terrorism affect everyone personally?” he asks, avoiding the question.

“The thing is, terrorism is a means to an end that really doesn’t accomplish what the terrorists hope to achieve,” I answer.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Governments don’t usually change their policies because of terrorism.”

“That’s not entirely true,” he says. “Look what happened in Spain when the Madrid train was bombed. The people voted out the existing government. Make no mistake — terrorism makes its point in a number of ways. People today are more frightened of terrorism than of anything else. Look what’s happening in Iraq. That can’t go on forever. Pretty soon something will break and the terrorists will win there.”

“Do you really believe that?” I ask.

Basaran suddenly slams his fist on the table, startling other diners around us and surprising me. “Iraq will fall again! I know it will. Iraq will fall and American interests in the region will be in jeopardy. You just wait and see!” He quickly gains composure and says, “Forgive me. I get carried away sometimes.”

The outburst seems to have come from nowhere. Does Namik Basaran have something against Iraq? It’s obvious he’s not fond of American foreign policy, but there’s something else at work here. I decide to steer the conversation in yet another direction.

“Mr. Basaran, we were talking earlier about the Shadows, and we didn’t get around to discussing the Shop. Can you tell me anything about them?”

Basaran appears embarrassed by his show of emotion. He sits for a few seconds and sips his raki as if he’s considering what information he should reveal.

“The Shop,” he begins, weighing his words, “are despicable. From what I can gather, they are interested only in making money. They do not care whom they harm in the process. They don’t give a damn about political, religious, or sociological issues. They provide a service and they’re very good at it. There have been many clandestine arms dealers in the world but none as nefarious and well organized as the Shop.”

“Who are they? What’s their chain of command?” I ask.

“No one knows. It’s run like a mafia family, though. There’s a boss and his trusted lieutenants, and then each lieutenant has an order of battle beneath him that spreads like a genealogical chart. They have their fingers everywhere, not just in the Middle East. I imagine they have a branch in Switzerland, my friend.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“As for the leadership? It is rumored that the Shop is led by a small group of wealthy bankers, former military officers, and corporate presidents from Russia and the former Soviet satellites.”

“Russia. That’s what I’ve always thought. Any idea of who the big boss is?”

Basaran looks around to make sure no one is listening. He leans forward and whispers. “I’ve heard a name. I don’t know how accurate it is. Have you ever come across the name Zdrok?”

Interesting. It’s the name Rick Benton had written on his chart. It’s also the name of a man I heard Basaran curse earlier today.

“I may have heard that name before,” I say. “Who is he?”

“Andrei Zdrok. He’s from Georgia, I believe. Very wealthy financier. If he is not the head of the Shop, then he’s very high in its bureaucracy.”

“Have you ever met him?”

Basaran shakes his head. “Of course not. As I said, I don’t know if he exists. It’s just a name that has come up. It may mean nothing.”

I doubt it. I sit back and reflect on this. Basaran has just lied to me. He wouldn’t curse a man that didn’t exist. I now know I can’t trust Namik Basaran any more than I can trust the terrorist I called No-Tooth. I’m going to have to take a closer look at Akdabar Enterprises after the sun goes down.

We are served strong coffee—kahve—and baklava for dessert. Finally Basaran offers me a Turkish cigar, and we sit for a few minutes gazing out the window at the dark lake. Turkish tobacco is pungent and produces thick smoke. I make a show of smoking it but try not to inhale.

“I love it here,” Basaran says. “The sunsets on the lake are particularly rewarding.”

“Are you from here originally?” I ask.

“Actually I’m from a small village at the foot of Mount Ararat called Dogubayazit. Do you know it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Drab little place. I was happy to leave when I was old enough.”

“You’ve managed to build yourself a very successful life.”

Basaran waves his cigar. “Luck. A little luck and making some smart investments. That’s all. I’m not qualified to really do anything. I’m good at running my company. It helps to have vision, I suppose. It took vision to imagine the shopping mall in Northern Cyprus. That’s a project that comes from the heart.”

“When do you foresee the mall being finished?”

“It almost is! It’s been under construction for three years. I expect to open the doors within weeks, but I hope to have a completion ceremony in the coming days.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“And what does the Republic of Cyprus have to say about it?”

He waves his cigar again. “Those damned Greek Cypriots can go hang themselves. They’ll be in a bother for a while and then settle down. That’s the way things are in Cyprus. It heats up for a period, then cools down. It keeps everyone on his toes. What’s important is that the opening of the shopping mall will show the world that the Turks are in Cyprus to stay.”

I wonder if the south will be that easily conciliated. For a guy who spends a lot of money, time, and energy supposedly fighting terrorism, Basaran sure is opinionated about politics. Reza warned me as such.

When the waiter brings the bill, Basaran snatches it up and waves his cigar again. “Do not protest. This is my pleasure.” He looks at his watch and says, “Alas, I must call an end to our very pleasant evening together. I do wish you luck with your Interpol report, Mr. Fisher. I hope to have a copy of it when it is published.”

“Certainly. Thank you very much for the dinner.”

“Not at all.”

We stand after he leaves a stack of bills on the table. We say good night to the maître d’ and step outside into the brisk night air. The big bodyguard appears from the shadows to stand beside his master. Basaran holds out his hand and I shake it. “Good night, Mr. Fisher. Pleasant journeys.”

“Thank you. You, too.”

I have to cross the surprisingly busy main street that cuts through the square. I wait as five cars rumble by and casually look back to the restaurant and see Basaran and the bodyguard still standing there, watching me. I give them a little wave and Basaran does the same. I turn back to the road and see the approaching headlights of a sixth car some distance away. I figure I can make it across the square before it gets here. As I step off the pavement, the car’s wheels screech and the vehicle speeds toward me.

For the first time in my life I freeze. Even as it’s happening I realize I’m unable to move and I don’t know why. Normally I would have reacted by instinct and leaped to the side, but for some reason that I cannot fathom I don’t know what to do. I’m a deer on the road, caught in the beams.

Something prompts me to look back at Basaran. He, too, seems to be frozen in place, his eyes glued to me. Why isn’t he moving? Shouldn’t he be shouting “Mr. Fisher, look out!” or something like that?

And that’s what jars my senses. It’s his reaction to what’s happening that causes me to break out of my immobility. The headlights are a mere couple of car lengths away, propelling toward me at ninety miles an hour. I leap away, fall on my hands, and roll backward just as the car roars past. It’s an old Citroën. I turn my head to watch them, and the car screeches to a halt, half a block down. I see the silhouettes of three men inside. Namik Basaran and the bodyguard are still behind me in front of the restaurant and haven’t moved.

The Citroën’s driver throws the car into reverse and begins rolling back at a high speed. A guy in the passenger seat thrusts his upper body out the window and leans over the hood — and he’s holding an AK-47. I jump to my feet and run for cover, but there’s nothing but the storefronts behind me. The shooter fires and the street becomes a crashing war zone. I slam forward and hit the ground as bullets rip over my head. The windows of the travel agency behind me shatter, and someone inside shouts. The Citroën squeals to a halt again, ready to move forward for another volley. I’m aware of other civilians, alerted by the noise, looking out of restaurants and shops.

When the gunfire begins again, the bystanders scream and run. I realize I have to lead the killers away from the pedestrians, so I do what might be considered a foolhardy thing and jump to my feet. I run into the middle of the road and stand behind the Citroën as it moves along the street. They seem to have lost sight of me. Should I run for my car? It’s about fifty yards away in a small lot on the opposite side of the square. No, it’s too risky. By the time I got there, they’d be on top of me. The Pazhan could never withstand a round of fire from an AK-47.

The shooter points and says something to the driver. They’ve spotted me. The Citroën performs a wild U-turn and accelerates in my direction. I run to the opposite side of the square, the side next to the water. A short brick wall separates the road from the marina and a small lot where seven or eight cars are parked. I sail over the wall just as the bullets begin to fly again. Chips from the stones in the wall scatter like shrapnel, so I hug the ground. I hear the car zoom past, shriek to a stop, and back up, swerving closer to the edge of the road.

This time my instincts don’t fail me. I roll like a log toward the parked cars and then squirm between a Chevrolet pickup and a Volkswagen. The passenger sprays the side of the street, perforating the two vehicles with dozens of bullets. Windshields and headlights explode and tires are blown. I snake beneath the pickup as the rounds ricochet within inches of my body. The noise is deafening and must surely be attracting the local police. I hope it’s attracting the local police!

I crawl on my belly out from under the front of the pickup, putting the truck between them and me. I keep low and rally toward the dock where dozens of small boats are moored. The guy stops shooting, but I hear the Citroën’s door open and slam shut. Now they’re on foot.

I run to the edge of the dock and weigh my options. I could jump into the water and swim. Or I could jump into one of the sailboats to my left or right, but by the time I untie one and push it off, they’d be in the boat with me. The last recourse would be to draw my Five-seveN from the holster I wear at the small of my back and fight back. That could cause problems with the local authorities, though, and my mission is too sensitive to get involved in foreign legal problems. I don’t fancy spending the rest of my life in a Turkish prison.

The shooter appears at the other end of the dock. He raises the AK-47 and fires. The wood splinters in a million places at my feet as I turn and dive into the cold, murky water.

It’s a shock. Thank heavens I’m wearing my uniform; otherwise I’d be freezing. It’s dark as hell, but I don’t risk using the LED on my OPSAT for illumination. They might be able to see me from the surface.

As I swim away from the shore, bullets chop through the water, producing that otherworldly slow-motion effect you get when you fire a gun into water. Even in the pitch black I can see the trails of the rounds cutting lines on all sides of me. One comes dangerously close to my ear, and I feel the heat emanating from it as it groans past. I quickly reverse direction and swim back toward the dock and hope they can’t see me. I’m pretty good at holding my breath. That’s another thing that Krav Maga classes teach you — stamina and resistance to pain. My lungs are strong — the last time I timed myself holding my breath, I clocked a little less than four minutes. It was Katia Loenstern that pushed me to achieve a score past three minutes. I’ll have to remind myself to be nicer to her when I get back to Baltimore.

I make my way to the line of sailboats on one side of the dock. I feel the hull of the first one and swim on, past the second and third. I figure it’s been at least two minutes since I submerged because my lungs are burning. When I can’t take it anymore, I dare to surface between the boats so I can catch a breath. As I hold on to the side of one of the rocking crafts, I hear two men talking on the dock above me. They’re down at the end, maybe thirty feet away. It sounds as if they’re arguing. I can’t understand the language, but I know it’s not Turkish. Actually it sounds like Farsi, but I’m not positive.

The man with the gun suddenly lets loose with another barrage of gunfire into the water, and the other one shouts at him to stop. More arguing. Then I hear the men walk toward the shore, their boots clomping on the wood above me. I dunk my head and position myself directly beneath the sailboat and wait. More gunfire darts the water between the boats, but I’m safely out of the way.

Where the hell are the police in this town? This is one time when I wouldn’t mind some interference.

Another minute passes and I feel the pressure in my chest. The gunfire stops and I need to suck some air, but I’m not moving yet. I wait at least another thirty seconds — when I know I can’t take it anymore — before coming back up. When I do, I gasp for oxygen as quietly as possible and listen. I hear nothing. They’re gone. Maybe they think I’m dead.

I wait another three minutes before pulling myself up and onto the dock. I walk back to the square and hear a police siren approaching from the distance. The Citroën is gone and the street is deserted. I run to the Pazhan and get in, even though I’m soaking wet. I start the car, back out, and head out of town before the cops arrive.

I do notice that Namik Basaran and his goon are no longer standing in front of the restaurant.