Splinter Cell

much in the way of street lighting so the place is very dark and foreboding. Carly at Third Echelon had transmitted a town map to my OPSAT, so I find the police station with no problem.

I park the Toyota a block away, strip my outer clothes to reveal my uniform, don the headset, grab my Five- seveN, put on the Osprey, and I’m ready to go. I get out of the car and creep along the street, keeping to the shadows. No one is around, but in my business you can’t be too careful.

The Arbil Police Headquarters is small. It’s a one-level building with a parking lot in back. I find it odd that there are no patrol cars there. The windows are covered with a thick screen mesh, so it’s impossible to see inside. However, I detect illumination behind the windows in front. Either someone left an office light on or someone is inside. I go around to the back and quietly try the steel door. Locked, of course. It’s a basic cylinder lock, so I use my picks. It takes me seventeen seconds to get it open. Not bad.

I look through the door and see a dark corridor. I position the goggles and switch on the night-vision mode. I scan the upper edges of the walls to make sure there are no cameras, and then I slip inside and shut the door behind me. With my back to one wall I slink to a door in the middle of the corridor and listen. Silence. I carefully open the door and look in the room. It’s an ordinary office — desk, filing cabinets, a couple of chairs. I move on and come to a T. To the left is a door marked Secure Area in script I recognize to be Kurdistan. I’m not too familiar with the language. Arabic I can get by with, but Kurdistan — forget it. I recognize some words, but that’s about it. If I have to speak with a Kurd while I’m here it might be difficult, although many Kurds speak Arabic as well.

The light I saw earlier is coming from the right. I inch along the wall and peer around the corner into a brightly lit space. It’s the front outer office. There’s a wall with a glass window that opens out to the reception area. On this side of the wall there’s a man reclining in a chair, his feet on the desk. He is snoring loudly. I switch off the night vision and raise my goggles to get a better look.

The man is wearing a police uniform, but it looks as if it’s two sizes too small. Something’s not right.

I move into the room and stand behind the man. He’s burly and has a Saddam Hussein-style mustache. I gently put my left hand over his mouth and pinch his nose. The policeman wakes, startled beyond belief. As soon as he leans forward, I grasp him in a “sleeper hold,” which closes off the carotid arteries until he’s unconscious. He falls forward and slides off the chair onto the floor. I figure he’ll be out for about ten minutes if I’m lucky.

I take a cursory look around the desk and find nothing of interest except for a key ring in the drawer. I take it and go back to the corridor. Sure enough, one of the keys works in the Secure Area door, which opens to another corridor. I listen for signs of occupation and check again for cameras. They only keep one guy on duty? Very strange. I suppose there’s not much crime in Arbil in the middle of the night.

I come to a locked door and try the key ring again. It opens on the third try. I’m conscious of my sharp intake of breath when I turn on the lights. It’s some kind of storeroom and it’s full of crates. One is open and sits on the floor three feet away from me. A pile of Hakim rifles overflows from the crate. I stoop to examine the weapons and see that they are clean and ready for use. I move to another crate, the lid of which has been previously pried open and replaced. I lift the lid and see more assault rifles — AK- 47s. Another crate contains Soviet Makarov PMs, 9mm handguns that date back to the 1950s. They’re also in excellent condition. Yet another crate is full of SVD Dragunovs, gas-operated sniper rifles.

There are sixteen crates in all, most of them still sealed. This must be the captured cache that Lambert told me about. What do the Arbil police plan to do with it? Aren’t they going to turn it over to the authorities, whoever they may be?

I have to figure out where the damn things came from. The first crate is unmarked, but the second one has an ink stamp on the side. In Arabic — Farsi, really — it reads Tabriz Container Company. Tabriz? That’s in Iran! I move to the next crate and it has the same marking. In fact, nine of the sixteen crates bear the Tabriz stamp.

Either the weapons came through Iran or the supplier is simply using crates that were manufactured there. At any rate, it’s a lead.

Against the far wall of the room is a stack of four large, flat cases. They resemble electric guitar cases only they’re much wider. I unsnap the clasps and open the top one.

Stingers. Four cases of Stingers, two in each case. Un-fucking-believable. These are American made. How the hell did they get them? Off to the side of the cases are two shoulder-launchers for the Stingers. These babies are terribly effective against low-level aircraft, such as helicopters, and a single man can fire one like a bazooka.

I make notes of the inventory on my OPSAT, take a few photographs, and leave the room. I move farther down the hall to a large steel door with bars in a window. The jail perhaps? I turn to the key ring again and unlock the door. It squeaks with rust and I wince. Hopefully no one is back there. I look inside and see a row of six barred cells. A small desk is to my left, but it is unmanned. There’s nothing here except a hammer lying on it. Upon closer examination of the tool, I discern a substance that appears to be dried blood and perhaps fleshy material and hair on the hammerhead. I turn to leave, but something in the first cell catches my eye. At first I think it’s a bundle of blankets, but I see now that there might be a figure lying on the cot. I turn on the lights and step closer to the cell. It is indeed a body, completely covered by a blanket. Is he dead?

I move to the next cell and there’s another guy, covered by a blanket. The third, fourth, and fifth cells contain the same. Number six is empty. I look on the ring and try the keys until I find one that opens cell number one. I pull the blanket back, and sure enough, there’s a guy with a bullet hole in his head. From what I can tell, he was shot in the back of the skull and the round exited through the front of his face. He is unrecognizable, of course. I pull the blanket back farther and see that the man is wearing only his underwear.

The man in the second cell received the same treatment, although it looks as if he was tortured before being killed. There are burn marks, probably from a cigarette, on his upper body. The third guy’s right hand is mangled, as if someone had pounded it a few times with a hammer. The hammer. The fourth man, like the first, was just shot.

I back out of the jail area and close the door behind me. I lock it again only because whoever had done this is sure to return. My friend in the outer lobby will be waking soon, and he probably knows a lot about what’s going on here. Perhaps he’s one of the killers.

I go back to the front of the building and see that the guard is still unconscious. He’s breathing steadily, so I’m sure he’ll recover with just a bad headache to remember me by. I make my way to the first corridor and head for the back door but decide to check out the office I saw upon entering. I open the door, step inside, and use my night vision to avoid turning on lights.

I have good reason to believe that this is the office of the chief of police. There are a couple of citations on the wall and a photo of the chief shaking hands with a man I figure is one of the Kurdish politicos. I look closely at the photo and I could swear that one of the dead guys in the jail cell is the chief. I’m not positive because the victims’ faces were bloody messes. Even so, if I had to bet on it, I’d say that the guy in the photo is the man in the second cell, the one who had been tortured before being executed.

On the desk are several manila folders full of mug shots. I open the top folder and am surprised to see none other than No-Tooth. In fact, the top four photographs in the pile are the same four men who tried to steal my car and leave me for dead outside of Arbil. Notes on the back of each photo are written in Kurdistan script, but I can make out the words terrorist, wanted, and Iran. On the back of No-Tooth’s photo is another word I recognize—Shadows with a big question mark beside it.

It’s all very clear to me. Those four bandits I encountered outside the city were here earlier. They killed the four real policemen and placed the corpses in the cells after stripping off and donning the uniforms. The bandits had wanted my Land Cruiser. To move the crates of weapons? One of them had said they were waiting for a truck to “move some boxes.” Are those guys the Shop’s customers? The Shop is selling arms to the Shadows? I have to say I’m not surprised. If the Shadows are the terrorist group du jour, then it makes sense that the Shop, the biggest illegal arms dealer in the world, would want them as customers.

I hear a car door slam outside. Shit. As keys rattle in the back door, I flatten against the wall of the office and hope whoever it is doesn’t come in here.

Two voices. One man is laughing and speaking rapidly — in Arabic. I catch the words “police,” “taking care of,” and “move the boxes.” The men walk past the office and continue to the outer lobby. I hear exclamations of surprise and concern when they find my friend on the floor. There’s a groan and a slap and another groan. The guard is coming around. One of the men orders the other one to check on the weapons, and I hear him ask for the keys. More talk, the sound of moving things on the desk, and an angry shout. The keys are gone, of course. They’re