Splinter Cell

Andrei Zdrok spent twenty minutes going over the sales of the last month and outlining the Shop’s profit margin. He also detailed the company’s losses and what it meant for them.

“If we don’t reestablish our position in the Far East within the next two months the Shop will lose six point three million dollars,” he said. “Gentlemen, I do not want to give up my chateau on Lake Zurich. If we have to recruit another partner, then we will. Jon Ming has expressed interest on numerous occasions. What do you think of the notion of bringing on a Chinese partner?”

Herzog shrugged. “If we have to in order to save the company, then fine. But let’s try to repair the Far East damage ourselves first.”

Antipov said, “Never. I hate the Chinese.”

Zdrok almost smiled at his associate’s bigotry. “At least you’re honest, Anton.” He then moved on to another important topic and announced, “I’m happy to report that we have the identity of the next Splinter Cell on the list. His name is Sam Fisher. He lives in Baltimore, USA, and is not assigned to any particular territory. The NSA sends him out to do specialized missions — the difficult assignments. We believe he was responsible for Kim Wei Lo’s death in Macau and for the damage done to our interests there. His identification has given us an opportunity to dispose of him. Someone close to him is now in our control, and hopefully she will lead us to Mr. Fisher… or lead him to us, more likely.”

Antipov and Herzog nodded.

“Mr. Fisher will not be an ordinary enemy. He is probably the best trained and formidable opponent we have faced. The other Splinter Cells were mere children compared to Fisher.”

“What would you like us to do?” Antipov asked.

“Nothing,” Zdrok answered. “I have assigned our enforcers to the task.”

More nods. Antipov and Herzog had no problem with that.

Zdrok turned to Antipov. “Anton, I want you to handle this situation with the Shadows. It’s turned into a mess.”

“How do you want me to handle it, Andrei?” the former KGB officer asked. “Do everything I can to patch things up, or do everything I can to insist on implementing our policies?”

Zdrok said, “Let me put it this way. If their management doesn’t see eye to eye with us, then fuck them. We don’t need them. I don’t care who the hell they are. I have a feeling that they’re treading down a road that will bring them serious consequences. This new project of theirs makes no sense to me. But then again, I’m not a fundamentalist Muslim.”

Antipov asked, “Then I should…?”

“Cut them off,” Zdrok said. “If they give us any more trouble about money or refunds or credit or shit, just cut them off.”

Antipov nodded, but it was clear that he wasn’t sure if he agreed with the boss.

Zdrok ignored him. He knew that Antipov would do his job and perform it mercilessly. Zdrok took a breath and then had another idea.

“On second thought, we might look to Mr. Mohammed for a solution,” he said.

“Ahmed Mohammed?” Antipov asked.

“Yes. He’s the one who really does all the work for the Shadows, isn’t he? Why not get word to Mohammed that should leadership in the Shadows suddenly become questionable, then the Shop will continue to support him.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Antipov said. Herzog nodded as well.

“Good. I’m off to Baku,” Zdrok said. “I’ll be in touch. If you need me, you know how to find me.”

With that, he stood and left the room. Antipov and Herzog looked at each other, shrugged, and got up from the table.

The Shop had a unique four-man leadership. They each had specific jobs and duties. Each man commanded a legion of underlings. Each of the four partners had tremendous wealth and power.

But there was never any question as to who was in charge.

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 maitre 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