“Okay.”
“Our intelligence reports suggest that Zdrok has ties to organized crime, but nothing has ever been proven. He’s never been accused of anything or had any problems with the law. He’s on a watch list, though. The Russian government suspects he might be a major player in the black market.”
“Colonel, I have reason to believe he may be one of the top dogs in the Shop,” I say. “Rick Benton thought so, I think. You saw the chart I sent you?”
“I’ve made that same connection, Sam. I label the guy Russian mafia.”
“I’m going to have a look inside the bank tonight. No telling what I might find.”
“In the meantime we’ll see what else we can dig up.”
“And don’t forget there’s his connection with Namik Basaran. They obviously know each other and Basaran lied to me about it. Basaran’s dirty, Colonel. I don’t care what kind of charity he runs, the guy’s a phony.”
“So far he’s clean, Sam,” Lambert says. “The Turkish government insists he’s the equivalent of a saint.”
“What about his background? Do we know anything about him? He’s got skeletons in his closet, I just know he does. I saw a photo in his office of a woman and two girls — I’d bet they’re his family, but where are they now?”
“We’re still digging. I’m afraid there isn’t much on the guy before the nineties.”
“Well, that’s enough to make me suspicious. A man in his forties just doesn’t magically materialize in a country without some sort of history. Find it, Colonel.”
“We’re doing our best. Oh, here’s one report I’m looking at now… hmm, it’s a memo from a Turkish intelligence officer that’s apparently been disputed by his superiors, but he claims that Basaran isn’t really Turkish.”
“I’d like to talk to this officer. Who is he?”
“Well, unfortunately, he’s dead. Doesn’t say how or when he died… just says he’s deceased.”
“Shit.”
“Now, there’s the other fellow you wanted to know about… ”
“Mertens?”
“Albert Mertens. Dr. Albert Mertens was one of Gerard Bull’s right-hand men during the years when Bull was an arms designer and dealer. Mertens was one of the top physicists on the fabled ‘Babylon Gun.’ Remember that?”
“Sure. When we were talking about Gerard Bull in Washington, I happened to recall it. It’s the supergun that could fire a payload at a target a thousand kilometers away. Saddam Hussein commissioned Bull to make one so he could attack a neighboring country without more expensive cruise missiles. Wasn’t it able to fire not just conventional explosives but also biological or chemical warheads, or even nuclear bombs?”
“You’re right, Sam. Luckily the thing was never finished.”
“Okay, so what’s this Professor Mertens doing working for Basaran?”
“I don’t know, but it’s got us concerned. You see, Mertens served seven years in a Belgian prison for illegal arms dealing. According to the data we received, Mertens was transferred during the seventh year to a mental institution and was committed. The guy’s a raving lunatic. Then, five years ago, he disappeared from the clinic. Either he escaped on his own or someone broke him out. We don’t know. The Belgian police have been looking for the guy ever since.”
“So what’s Basaran up to?” I ask. “Has he got Mertens building him a supergun? And if so, why? Basaran’s supposed to be on
“Let’s just keep moving forward, Sam. You’re doing a great job.”
“Any luck on Nasir Tarighian?”
“Not yet. The research team does have a lead on obtaining a photograph of the man. As soon as it’s available, you’ll be the first to get it.”
“Fine. I’ll send you a report tonight after I’ve had a look inside that bank.”
“Just be extra careful, Sam,” Lambert says. “If this Zdrok guy is really part of the Shop, he’ll have your intestines for dinner if you’re caught.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to stay off the menu.”
24
It’s a little after midnight when I make my way through the streets, sticking to the shadows and pausing every now and then to make sure no one is following me. Not only is it important to make sure you’re not seen as you move forward, you need to have eyes in the back of your head as well.
There are a few late-nighters in Fountain Square. I can’t imagine why, because it’s cold as hell with the wind coming off the Caspian. I avoid the place altogether and take backstreets to reach the bank. As expected, there’s a lone security guard standing outside under a light, bundled up and rubbing his arms to keep warm. I see his breath wafting from his nose and mouth. Unfortunately that’s also a hazard for me when it’s cold outside. There’s not a lot I can do to mask my breathing except stay in the shadows and avoid light.
I have to move quickly for this to work — he mustn’t see me coming. I choose a dark spot along the street and then dart across so I’m on the same side as the guard. I
crouch and draw my Five-seveN. I’m approximately thirty feet from the guy, but he can’t see me. Like a cat, I run lightly and noiselessly right up to him and halt with the barrel of my pistol at his temple.
It takes him a few seconds to realize what has just happened. He doesn’t move his head but tries to look at me with his eyes. With my free hand I take the Glock from his holster and toss it away. The guard asks me something, probably, “What is it you want?” or something like that. I don’t answer. Instead, I turn him around to face the retinal scanner. I point to it and he gets the idea. At first he shakes his head, but I tap him with the barrel again. The guard slowly leans forward and looks into the scanner.
I hear the door unlock.
While he’s still in this position, I club him hard on the pressure point at the base of his skull. He drops like a sack of Azeri beets. I get a good grip under his arms and drag him into the shadows. For good measure I kick his Glock into the sewer drain.
I lower my goggles, turn on the night vision, and open the bank door. In two seconds flat I crouch and shoot out the overhead lights with the Five-seveN—
Bypassing the teller windows, I go straight to the barred gate and use the lock picks to open it. Beyond that is a small room to the left that holds a minimal amount of safe-deposit boxes. Across from that is an office, presumably Zdrok’s. Down the corridor is the vault. I go into Zdrok’s office.
His computer is on, but the monitor is off. I switch it on and examine the hard drive. His e-mail address is easy to pick up, so I note it in my OPSAT. Armed with this information, Carly St. John can hack into his server and retrieve everything he’s sent and received that hasn’t been deleted. The rest of the files are Excel and Word documents that appear to be legitimate bank business. I do find a folder that’s encrypted, and I try all the basic hacker tricks to get inside. No luck. I’m also unable to copy the file into my OPSAT. Whatever’s in there, Zdrok made sure he’s the only one that can access it. I end up making a copy of the folder’s properties so I can send it to Carly.
A quick search of the desk and filing cabinets reveals nothing of interest. I’m beginning to feel as if I’ve struck out. Perhaps Zdrok keeps all the good stuff in Zurich. I sit in his chair for a moment and look around the room. Sometimes this helps inspire me to try something I hadn’t thought of. I notice that the interior designer placed polished mahogany panels on the walls, arranged in a geometric, artistic pattern. The panels jut out slightly, creating an embossed effect. I stand and cross the room for a closer look. On a whim I switch the mode on my goggles to fluorescent. In this mode I see that the panels’ top edges are very dusty.
I move to the other wall and examine the panels there. The dust on one panel reveals evidence of disturbance, as if someone had gripped the panel and inadvertently wiped the top edge clean in some spots. I
