Splinter Cell

37

Nasir Tarighian wiped the sweat from his brow and looked at his watch. The sun had completely risen, and he felt that time was running out. If the American had contacted his people during the night, it was only a matter of hours — maybe minutes — before the forces arrived to stop his plan to punish Iraq.

His advisers had been telling him for months that the plan was folly. Albert Mertens and his team were against targeting Baghdad, and his committee heads strongly protested the choosing of Iraq. Tarighian knew fully well that he might be sacrificing the Shadows as an entity to satisfy his lust for revenge. He didn’t care. His most trusted colleague, Ahmed Mohammed, had said that this was a plan of “madness.” But Tarighian knew he wasn’t mad, at least not in the “crazy” sense. He was simply intent on allowing his wife and children to rest peacefully. If it meant that he had to die a martyr, then so be it. Many others had done the same.

He looked out the control room window and up at the magnificent creature that was his to command. The Babylon Phoenix was primed and ready, calibrated to fire the MOAB at Baghdad. He was awaiting last-minute preparations that Mertens assured him would take no longer than a half hour. That was forty minutes ago.

“Mertens!” he called across the room. “What the hell is going on?”

Mertens exchanged glances with Eisler, and Tarighian didn’t like it. He had seen too many furtive looks between those two.

“Yes, sir?” Mertens asked calmly.

“Are we ready yet?”

“Not quite. There seems to be a problem in the engine room. I would like you to come with me to check it out. I want you to see with your own eyes the problems we are having. This rushing to fire the weapon on such short notice is having a domino effect.”

“What kind of problem is it?”

“I’m not sure. The engineers want us down there in person. I suggest that you come with me.”

“Damn,” Tarighian muttered. “All right, lead the way.” Farid started for the door and Tarighian said, “Yes, Farid, you come with us.” The mute strongman grunted and held the door open. Once again Mertens and Eisler exchanged looks, and both men rose to head out of the control room. They followed Tarighian and Farid down the short flight of steps and walked across the platform to the bloated hydraulics base that was supporting the Babylon Phoenix on ground level. Several of Tarighian’s more loyal armed soldiers stood nearby. They watched as Mertens opened the heavy iron door that led to the bowels of the mechanism, which were enclosed deep within.

Mertens gestured inside. “After you, sir.”

Tarighian ducked his head and clambered down the steel steps into the engine room. Although illuminated by work lights, the place was darker than other areas of the compound. The monstrous engines that manipulated the hydraulics dominated the room, which pounded noisily with life. Several men were busy at control panels while two worked feverishly on one of the hydraulics.

Once the four men had entered the room and shut the door, another man wearing a jeballa and turban turned from the control panel and faced Tarighian.

“Ahmed!” Tarighian said. “What are you doing here?”

Ahmed Mohammed gave Tarighian a slight bow. “I have been in the complex since last night. You were too busy to notice.”

“Why, I’m sorry. You should have—”

“I was concerned about your plans, Nasir. That’s why I am here.”

Tarighian put an arm around his Political Committee head and said, “I am happy that you are. You are just in time! This morning we shall fire the Babylon Phoenix and finally show the West that Islam will not let America and its allies control Iraq or the Middle East. In a few minutes there will no longer be a Baghdad. What do you think of that, Ahmed?”

Mohammed shook his head. “Nasir, my friend, I must tell you that we all feel you have strayed too far from the path. This insane notion you have of destroying Baghdad is nonsense. Baghdad is a Muslim city. Iraq is a Muslim country. You are blinded by your thirst for revenge. Your goals are misplaced and inappropriate. The decision has been made to relieve you of your leadership.”

Tarighian blinked. He wasn’t sure he had heard the man correctly. “What did you say? I don’t think you understand, Ahmed. We are ready to fire the gun now. We will soon be the masters of the Middle East, and we will kick out the Western dogs.”

“No, Nasir, it is you who does not understand. You were once a great warrior and leader. You brought the Shadows to unprecedented glory. But you veered from the path of true Islamic spirituality. You live like a Westerner. You do business with Westerners. You have friends that are Westerners. You constantly seek publicity and you crave money. In the eyes of Allah you have sinned a great deal.”

Tarighian took a step back. “What are you saying? You can’t take the Shadows away from me! You can’t take me away from the Shadows!”

Mohammed had a sad, cold expression on his face. “Yes, Nasir, we can.”

Tarighian didn’t expect Albert Mertens to lift a Glock, suddenly point it at the side of Tarighian’s head, and squeeze the trigger. Nasir Tarighian’s skull exploded, spraying a mass of blood and gray matter onto the wall beside them. His body collapsed to the floor.

This was Eisler’s cue to act. In a swift, unexpected maneuver, Eisler drew his Swamp Monster knife, grabbed Farid’s hair through the turban, pulled the man’s head back, and sliced the exposed throat from ear to ear. Farid’s reflexes were abrupt and forceful — he swung around and slammed his free arm into Eisler, knocking him back onto a desk. The big man wanted his assailant’s hide, but it was too late. Blood gushed from the open wound below his chin as if it was a spigot. Farid’s grunts became gurgles as he clutched his neck in a helpless attempt to close the lesion. Then, in a rage, he tried to grab hold of Eisler’s leg but clumsily knocked over a computer monitor instead. Eisler scrambled to the floor on the other side of the desk and backed away from the man-monster bellowing in front of him.

Farid threw himself forward, trying to go around the desk, but he stumbled and fell to the floor. Emitting a sickening, choking noise, Tarighian’s bodyguard thrashed violently for nearly a minute until he began to lose steam. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Farid lay dead.

The others in the room stared at the carnage in disbelief but looked up at Ahmed Mohammed, Albert Mertens, and Heinrich Eisler with newfound respect.

Mohammed looked at Mertens and said, “As leader of the Shadows, I now give you the authority to recalibrate the Babylon Phoenix and point it at the target we spoke about.”

Mertens put away his gun and nodded. “Thank you, sir. This is really the best decision.” He turned to the workers and said, “Take these bodies and put them inside the engine.” Four of the men came forward, picked up Tarighian’s corpse, opened the engine doors, and shoved the lifeless form inside. There the hydraulics would mash it to a pulp. Then they did the same with Farid.

Mertens, Eisler, and Mohammed left the engine room and stood against the closed door. Tarighian’s armed men watched them with curiosity. Where was their leader?

Before anyone could register what was happening, two dozen men leaned over the circular balcony rail and fired AK-47s on Tarighian’s loyalists. The sudden burst of noise reverberated through the complex, frightening the rest of the workers to a standstill. It was as if hell had rained down from the heavens, chopping up any living thing that dared to be in the way of the ammunition. The loyalists never had a chance to aim their weapons for a return volley. After twenty seconds Tarighian’s loyalists lay in pools of their own blood. The men faithful to Mohammed ran down the ramp from the upper balcony and stood at attention, awaiting further orders.

Ahmed Mohammed shouted to everyone. “Sons of Allah! Hear me!” Every worker in the complex turned to look at him. “Nasir Tarighian is dead! I will be assuming leadership of the Shadows from now on. Continue your good work and Allah will reward you.”

Some of the workers cheered. Others were confused. Only a few were disappointed.

Mertens looked at Mohammed and explained, “As you can hear, Tarighian’s objectives were not very popular.”

“No, they weren’t,” Mohammed said.

As they returned to the control room, Mertens asked Eisler, “Are you all right?”

“I am fine.” He wiped his knife clean on his trouser leg and sheathed it.

Mertens nodded and said, “Recalibrate the weapon for a new target.”

“Yes, sir,” Eisler said. “And what is the new target?”

“Jerusalem.”