Splinter Cell

25

Third Echelon’s headquarters is nowhere near the National Security Agency, which is housed on Savage Road in Fort Meade, Maryland. The NSA is halfway between Baltimore and Washington, D.C., but Third Echelon resides in a small, nondescript building in the nation’s capital, not far from the White House. The reason for this separation is because technically Third Echelon doesn’t exist. Most NSA employees will have never heard of Third Echelon. As one of the most classified, top-secret organizations in the government, only those on a “need to know” basis are aware of the faction.

Third Echelon’s mission is to activate individual operatives — the Splinter Cells — in targeted locations to assess and access information vital to the security of the United States. Third Echelon is not the CIA or the FBI. While men such as Sam Fisher have a license to kill in the line of duty, it is never an objective. Thus it is important that Third Echelon’s support team in Washington provide the most accurate and up-to-date information to the Splinter Cells. It could mean the difference between successful missions with or without bloodshed.

Colonel Irving Lambert and his team had pulled an allnighter reviewing NSA satellite photographs of the Middle East and evaluating various reports pertaining to Fisher’s assignment. After Lambert studied the revelations concerning Namik Basaran and the possibility that he may not be what he seemed, he directed the team to have a close look at Akdabar Enterprises’ construction site in Northern Cyprus.

Carl Bruford, Third Echelon’s director of research analysis, sat with Lambert at the light table examining the photos with a magnifier. Bruford, a thirty-one-year-old man from Illinois, was considered an expert on reading between the lines of intelligence reports and deciphering cryptic messages.

“I’ll be damned if I can see anything weird,” Bruford said. “The site looks like what Basaran says it is — a shopping mall. It’s finished, too, from the looks of it. I don’t think it’s open to the public yet. There are still a lot of construction vehicles going in and out of the site, but the parking lot is empty.”

Lambert rubbed the top of his head and frowned. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Keep looking. But I’ll send this info to Sam anyway.”

“Right. Oh, Chief, I had a thought that, I don’t know, you might want to consider.”

“What’s that, Carl?”

“Doesn’t Fisher have a daughter?”

“Yes, he does. She’s a college student in Illinois.”

“Northwestern, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I don’t know. Just a feeling, but shouldn’t we check up on her? I mean, since Fisher’s out of the country and all. And, you know, since three of our Splinter Cells are dead.”

Lambert made a face and rubbed his head again. “You think we’re losing Splinter Cells due to a hit list?”

“I do, Colonel.”

“And you think Sam’s probably on it?”

“Don’t you?”

Lambert looked away and Bruford thought he could see the wheels turning in the man’s head. The colonel turned back to Bruford and said, “Yeah, go ahead. Be discreet, though. We don’t want to alarm her.”

“Will do.”

The colonel went into the next room, where Carly St. John was busy working on hacking into Basaran’s server. Probably Third Echelon’s Most Valuable Player, St. John was a computer programmer extraordinaire, a woman who had the ability to dismantle the most complex code and put it back together the way she wanted. At twenty-eight St. John was the youngest member of the team yet one of the most senior — she held the position of technical director. And while she didn’t consider herself attractive, men who met her fell in love at first sight. She was petite — five feet, one inch tall — and had a brunette bob-cut and sparkling blue eyes. She had heard the description “pixie” far too many times.

“How’s it coming?” Lambert asked her.

“Well, I’m getting closer,” she replied. “It’s pretty tough encryption, but I think I have a handle on it. I’ve got Basaran’s bank account hacked, now I just have to work on the Swiss account.”

“Sam says that Basaran is supposed to transfer the money tomorrow. I’d really like to sabotage that wire transfer.”

“I know, Chief,” St. John said. “Give me the rest of the day, okay?”

Lambert squeezed her shoulder and left her alone. He went back into the Operations Room and saw Bruford hanging up the phone.

“No answer at Sarah Burns’s apartment in Evanston, Chief,” Bruford announced.

“I thought she lived in a dorm.”

“That was last year. She’s a junior now and lives in her own apartment.”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “Sheesh, time flies. Keep trying, but you might contact our man in Chicago to have a look-see. He probably has nothing to do.”

Bruford chuckled and picked up the phone again. “Right.”

Lambert went into his private office, a small space that allowed him to get away from the hustle and bustle for a few minutes at a time. He sat in his swivel chair, scanned his e-mail inbox, and took a sip of the now-cold coffee. He made a face, thought about going to get a fresh cup, but decided he’d rather shut his eyes for a bit. He was dead tired. All-nighters were for college kids.

But as soon as he closed his eyes the fax machine began to beep. He glanced at the cover page and saw that it was from Lieutenant Colonel Petlow in Baghdad. Lambert figured that perhaps he should go ahead and get a fresh cup of hot coffee — by the time he returned, the fax would be finished. Four minutes later he was back in the office, java in hand, ready to examine Petlow’s fax.

Lambert turned to the photo. His heart rate increased as he realized that his and Sam Fisher’s instincts were correct.

The man in the picture was Namik Basaran. There was no question about it. Here, though, he was dressed in an Arabic robe and a turban. The shot was taken outdoors circa 1984.

Lambert opened his file and studied the more recent photo of Basaran with Andrei Zdrok. Yes, it was the same man. Basaran had apparently undergone some skin grafting and plastic surgery, which was what made his face look as if he had a dermatological condition.

Now it was clear. Nasir Tarighian had reinvented himself as Namik Basaran, obtained Turkish citizenship, and used his already-amassed wealth to establish Akdabar Enterprises in Turkey. No wonder Basaran had no history prior to the 1990s! By using the front of Akdabar, and especially the “charity” organization Tirma, Basaran/Tarighian had been funding and giving strategic direction to the Shadows for years. He may not be personally running the Shadows, but he was certainly providing them with what mattered — money.

Lambert suddenly felt wide-awake.