Mazur figured he was done. He still had two more missiles, but the compound was covered in black smoke. He couldn’t see more targets if he tried. Mazur contacted the base and declared his mission accomplished.
Before he could turn and head north, the passive radar beeped a warning—something was in the air with him. According to the screen, four aircraft were approaching the site from the west.
What the hell?
Mazur banked over the lake again, turning so he could see what he was up against.
F-16C fighters from the Turkish Air Force—the Taktik Hava Kuweti Komutabligi—were zooming directly toward him. The 2nd TAF HQ in Diyarbakir had received word that an enemy aircraft with hostile intentions would be in Turkish airspace near Van. Unfortunately, the air force base at Mount Ararat housed only helicopters, so the fighters had to come from the next nearest base. By the time the orders were received and the fighters made ready, they were minutes too late—but not too late to stop the enemy from escaping.
Mazur gasped and pulled up, anxious to get away from them. He soared high and shot north over the lake, but the fighters stayed on his tail. The pilot hadn’t prepared for a situation like this. He felt fear for the first time in his life.
Two warning alarms went off at once. The fighters had launched two AIM-9X Sidewinders.
Evasive action! Evasive action! Mazur struggled to keep calm and remember what he was supposed to do in an emergency, but the alarms were too loud. He couldn’t concentrate. Panic overtook him as he forced the plane into a dive, hoping he could outmaneuver the missiles and lure them into the lake. The Su-47 dipped dangerously low, maybe 1,000 feet from the surface, before Mazur pulled up and leveled out. The Sidewinders attempted to correct their trajectories but failed. They hit the lake like meteors, exploding on contact. Two massive geyser-like splashes filled the sky, but ultimately produced no harm on the fighters’ enemy.
Mazur ascended once again. Now it was simply a matter of outrunning the fighters. Before he could throttle the engines and shoot forward, the warning alarms sounded again. This time two more AIM-9Xs sliced through the air on a collision course with the plane. Mazur swerved and managed to dodge the first missile, but in doing so, he flew right in line with the second.
Unfortunately for Mazur, the Su-47 was a work-in-progress prototype and the heat exhaust suppression had not yet been perfected. A stealth plane with such a capability could have fooled a heat-seeking missile. The new AIM- 9X, however, expanded the capabilities of older AIM-9 models by developing a new seeker imaging infrared focal plane array, a high performance airframe, and a new signal processor for the seeker/sensor. The Su-47 was a goner.
The impact jolted Mazur hard and he heard the explosion deep within his inner ears. He felt the aircraft drop in altitude dramatically, and the sky outside his windscreen was a blur. Warning alarms shrieked and lights flashed all around him, telling him that the plane was a goner.
Eject! Must eject! Mazur blindly grappled for the controls, unlocked the release switch, and pushed the eject button.
Nothing happened.
He struggled with the mechanism, cursing and crying. Was it a malfunction? Surely it couldn’t be . . . sabotage?
Mazur didn’t realize another Sidewinder was launched at the aircraft as it dived recklessly toward Lake Van. In one gigantic powerhouse of impact, the Su-47 and its pilot became a hundred thousand burning particles that flittered slowly down to the water.
TARIGHIAN had been away from his office for the last three hours, overseeing the installation of some replacement parts in the Phoenix. Albert Mertens had tested the targeting system that morning and found the weapon’s accuracy was off by 6 degrees. That was unacceptable. Mertens swore he could correct the problem in six hours. When Tarighian entered his private office where he could fret and curse alone, he meant to try and relax. It had been a stressful week. He had a bad feeling about Mertens and didn’t look forward to making good on the threat he had made. Tarighian had decided that the best thing would be to eliminate Mertens after the Phoenix had performed its function.
He sat at his desk and looked at his computer screen. An icon indicated that he had a dozen unread e-mails since yesterday. He checked the in-box and saw that the messages were mostly from his various committee heads. Not many other people knew his e-mail address.
One e-mail stood out, however. It was from “A Friend.” Tarighian opened it, expecting a piece of spam advertising how to get a bigger penis or the latest deal in obtaining prescription drugs. What he saw instead took his mind off his worries about the Phoenix. A conversation he would find “interesting”? What could that possible be? He opened the attached file and listened to the recording. He immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Andrei Zdrok.
“General, where the hell are you? I see. Where’s the plane? Yes, our plane, what did you think I—? Yes. I see. Listen, this is what I want you to do. I want to order an air strike on Akdabar Enterprises in Van, Turkey. Yes, I know what I’m doing. I have proof that the Shadows are double-crossing us. They never sent that money and have no intention to do so. And I know now they are responsible for what happened at the hangar in Baku. Yes. I just sent you an e-mail, did you get it? Well, check it, damn it! I’ll wait.”
There was a pause, after which the voice continued. “I’m still here. You have it? Listen to the file. I’ll wait.” Another pause and a cough. Then—“Well? You see? No, no, I just want to—General, this is not negotiable. These are my orders. Send the plane to Turkey and bomb the shit out of that facility. I want it done today. Right. Keep me informed. Thank you, General.”
Tarighian felt as if his blood was boiling. Just to be certain that he wasn’t dreaming, he played the file again.
As if on cue, the phone rang. He heard his voice shake when he spoke and he couldn’t help it.
“Hello.”
“It’s me.” Nadir Omar, his Military Committee head.
“Nadir, I’m so glad you called. I just had the strangest—”
“Are you sitting down?” Omar normally never interrupted Tarighian.
“Yes.”
“Akdabar Enterprises has been destroyed.”
Omar’s words were worse than the recorded conversation. Tarighian felt the blood rush from his head.
“Are you there?” Omar asked.
Tarighian cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. I . . . I know. I just heard about it.”
“We don’t know who did it. Or why. But the Turkish Air Force—”
“It was the Shop, Nadir. I have proof.”
“What?”
“The Shop. They did it.”
“No. I don’t believe it.”
Tarighian created a new e-mail, addressed it to Omar, attached the conversation file, and clicked Send. “I just sent you an e-mail. Listen to the attachment. Then forward it to the rest of the committees. I . . . I’m hanging up now. I need a few minutes to myself.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Talk to me later.” Tarighian hung up the phone and sat in his chair, stunned.
Twenty years of his life . . . up in smoke. The lives of his employees—how many were lost? It was too early to tell. Millions upon millions of dollars’ worth of equipment and goods—gone in an instant.
Tarighian clenched his fists and cursed.
The Shop had done it. Zdrok had made good on his threats. The filthy Russian had started a war with his most influential customer. The Shadows would make him pay. For the sake of Allah and the future of Islam, the Shop would pay for this.
Tarighian was perfectly willing to use the Phoenix to exact revenge. The problem was that he had no idea where to aim. The Shop had many bases. He knew about the one in Baku, of course, and he knew that Zdrok owned a bank in Zurich. But how could he possibly damage the Shop with such a big weapon? It would be like hitting a tiny ant with a ten-ton weight. He had to think of something else.
Get hold of yourself! Think rationally!
Tarighian knew he had a job to do. He had to stay focused. Stay the course. Complete the goal that was originally set and then go after the Shop. No matter how traitorous the Shop had been, the true enemy was still the West. The Puppet Iraq and its overseer, the United States, must fall. The Shop could wait. They were peanuts. He wasn’t about to waste the Phoenix on the Shop.
There was one problem, though. The Turkish authorities would wonder why Akdabar Enterprises had been destroyed. They would investigate possible motives for such an attack and look more closely into Namik Basaran’s background. His true identity could be uncovered. The intelligence forces of the entire world would then focus on Basaran, aka Tarighian, and eventually trace him to Northern Cyprus.
For the sake of Allah, they had to hurry! The United Nations could come sweeping down on them within hours.
He picked up the intercom and punched in the code for Mertens. When the physicist answered, Tarighian said, “The Phoenix will rise in twelve hours. Sooner if possible. That’s an order. Make it happen or you will face a firing squad.”
32
LIEUTENANT Colonel Irving Lambert wiped the sweat from his brow as he hurried from the Operations Room to the conference room where his team was assembled. Like the others in Third Echelon’s Washington, D.C., office, he had been up all night. None of them had received much sleep the past couple of days. Sometimes it got to be like that.
For an hour he had been on the phone with the secretary of defense, who had coordinated the attack on the stealth plane with Turkey. The fact that the fighters had been minutes too late to stop the destruction of Akdabar Enterprises was a political wrinkle that would be smoothed over as soon as the truth about Namik Basaran was confirmed. At any rate, the Turkish government was understandably skeptical about the NSA’s claims. Furthermore, Turkey wanted to involve the United Nations in any further actions against Basaran if indeed he was really the terrorist supporter Nasir Tarighian. That was going to take time.
But Lambert was convinced that Tarighian was in possession of some kind of large weapon in Cyprus. He didn’t know what it was, but the presence of Albert Mertens, the physicist who had been Gerard Bull’s right-hand man, indicated that it was a weapon of mass destruction.
Third Echelon had to act alone for now.
He looked at his watch as he entered the conference room. Since it was early morning in Washington, it would be late afternoon for Fisher. He’d be arriving at the Dhekelia garrison in the Republic of Cyprus—the southern portion—about now. Lambert knew he shouldn’t let personal feelings interfere with the job at hand, but he couldn’t help worrying about his best Splinter Cell. As the team in Washington was able to monitor all incoming and outgoing communications on Fisher’s OPSAT, they were aware of Sarah Burns’s situation as soon as Sam was. Lambert considered pulling Sam out. He had spoken to Fisher and assured him they would work around the clock to try and locate Sarah, but Sam had a job to do. Fisher was beside himself, insisting that he needed to be in Israel to find her, but Lambert was forced to order him to stick with the mission. Tarighian would be a desperate man at this point and was liable to do anything with whatever weapon he had in his hands. Fisher reluctantly obeyed, but it might have been at the cost of the friendly relationship with his boss.
“Morning, Chief,” Carl Bruford said.
“Morning, everyone,” Lambert replied. Along with Bruford, the team included Carly St. John, Research Analyst Mike Chan, and Chip Driggers, who had the catchall title of logistics coordinator. Mike Chan was roughly the same age as Bruford and specialized in cryptography. Driggers was in his forties, an army buddy of Lambert’s who had been recruited for his painstakingly compulsive eye for detail.
Lambert sat and looked at Bruford. “What have you got?”
Bruford cleared his throat and said, “Our man in Chicago went to Sarah Burns’s apartment in Evanston. It’s on Foster Street, not far from the university. He got the super to let him in. The first thing he did was to take a look at her computer. He found several e-mails to and from a boy named Eli Horowitz, who lives in Jerusalem. From what we gather, this guy’s a former boyfriend or maybe he still is one. That’s not certain. At any rate, they made plans to meet up in Jerusalem. We know she went to Israel with her friend Rivka Cohen, whose parents haven’t seen Sarah since . . . well, last Thursday.”
Lambert and the rest of the team were fully aware of what had happened to Sarah’s friend.
“Go on,” Lambert said.
“Okay, we started looking into this Eli Horowitz. He’s twenty-three years old and is an Israeli citizen. He was a student at Northwestern University last year, and we assume that’s how he met Sarah. He was enrolled as a music major, but his grades sucked. Immigration came after him in late spring last year because his student visa had expired . . . and get this—he’s on a terrorist watch list with the Department of Homeland Security.”
“Shit,” Lambert said.
“Anyway, with those two strikes—expired visa and his name on a list—he was immediately deported.”
“Known associates?” Lambert asked.
“A Noel Brooks was at Northwestern the same year and the two were roommates. Brooks is also Israeli and was deported at the same time as Horowitz. He wasn’t on the terrorist watch list, but his visa had expired. Other than him, we have no other information on known associates.”
“Is there any mention in the e-mails of where this guy lives?”
“No. Only that he lives in Jerusalem and that he was going to show Sarah the sights when she got there. I think she’s pretty intimate with the guy. Some of those e-mails were . . . suggestive.”
Lambert sighed. “Okay, it’s a start. Get onto tracing Horowitz’s movements after his deportation. We have to find out where he lives today and get the Israeli National Police to bring him in for questioning. Or should we ask the Security Police to be involved?”
“I’ll find out.”
“Get on it. It’s tedious, I know, but it’s the only lead we’ve got.” Lambert looked at Chip Driggers and asked, “Have you heard from Fisher?”
“Not since he left Tel Aviv. I expect him in Cyprus any minute,” Driggers said. “I’ve arranged with the British military there to supply him with diving equipment and anything else he might need. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“And what about our friends in Zurich and Baku?”
“We’ve alerted the Azerbaijan and Swiss authorities as well as Interpol and our own FBI. The local law enforcement agencies are preparing raids as we speak. We should know something by lunchtime. I’m afraid, though, that the Turkish air strike on the Shop’s stealth plane most likely tipped them off that the jig was up. They could be long gone by now.”
“Yeah, I know, it was a risk,” Lambert said. “I hope the Azeris and Swiss understand the gravity of the situation and realize who these people are.”
“I believe they do, Colonel.”
Lambert nodded and then looked at Carly. “And what have you got for me?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’m just trying to find out everything I can about that shopping mall in Cyprus. I’m mapping routes to the place from Famagusta, pinpointing the best spot for Sam to go ashore, that kind of thing. I want to have everything he’ll need ready to go in an hour or two.”
“Good. Well, we have work to do, people. Let’s get it done.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Carly?”
“What about the fallout with the Turks? Hasn’t our government been able to convince them that Namik Basaran is really Nasir Tarighian?”
“No. That’s why we can’t go to the police in northern Cyprus to help us. If they knew we were planning to possibly muck up their new shopping mall, they’d probably fight on Basaran’s side even if they know the truth about him. I’m afraid the secretary of defense—and the president—have ruled out letting the Turks in on what we want to do. They’re not happy about what happened to Akdaba
r Enterprises in Van. In hindsight I guess it wasn’t a good move on our part.”
“Hell, we got the Shop’s stealth plane,” Bruford said. “That counts for something.”
“True, but now they see Tarighian—or rather, Basaran—as a victim. One of their respected businessmen and philanthropists was irrationally attacked by a Russian terrorist organization. That’s how they see it.”
“I’ll try to put together a convincing presentation you can give to them,” Carly said.
“That might help, Carly. Thanks.”
With that, the meeting adjourned. Lambert went back to his office, eyed the large electronic map on the wall, and focused on the current trouble spots lit in red—outside of Famagusta in Cyprus, Jerusalem, Baku, and Zurich.
He hoped he could diminish the priority of these four places by the end of the day.
ANDREI Zdrok hadn’t worked so hard in years.
He carried the box of file folders out of the bank, loaded them in the back of the Mercedes, and went back inside. He and his driver, Erik, had been at it for the past two hours. Zdrok didn’t dare tell the bank staff what was happening. When the authorities arrived, they would have to deal with it on their own. If he could clear out his office of any incriminating evidence, then the bank employees shouldn’t have any problems other than perhaps a night in an interrogation room. And if they were detained, well, tough luck.
Zdrok looked at his Rolex and saw that it was getting late. When Erik passed him with another box, he said, “Hurry. We have to leave.” Erik nodded and said, “There’s only one more box.”
“I’ll get it,” Zdrok replied. He went through the lobby and was suddenly confronted by Gustav Gomelsky, the bank’s assistant manager and the man who really ran everything.