carefully grip the panel and pull. What do you know — the thing snaps out and pivots on a hinge, revealing a small safe. I dig into my thigh pocket to retrieve a disposable pick and adjust the amount of force I’d like the microexplosive to have. To open a safe it has to be on full strength. That can make a bit of noise, not to mention a mess.
Screw it, they’re gonna know I was here anyway.
I arm the pick and position it next to the knob. When I’m confident it’s in the right place, I take a step back, brace myself, and push the firing pin on the side of the pick.
The blast feels like the equivalent of three Black Cat firecrackers, the kind I used to ignite on the Fourth of July when I was a kid. The damage it does, however, is much worse — there’s now a hole in the front of the safe. I can easily reach through it, turn the tumblers, and open the door. I’m always amazed by the fact that every time I use one of these things, nothing within the safe gets damaged.
Inside is a stack of papers, facedown. Some are clipped or stapled together, others loose or in manila folders. Upon examining them I see they’re records of money transfers to what appears to be a numbered Swiss bank account — which means it’s private and secure. The amounts of the transfers are in the millions of dollars. I also note they’re from a variety of organizations and individuals, but the locations are not indicated. In some cases there’s simply a number — a transfer from one numbered account to another. Trying to trace these accounts back to whom they belong isn’t going to be easy, if it can be done at all. Nevertheless, I snap pictures of several pages to see what Third Echelon can do.
The last document — that is, the record most recently placed in the safe — does denote the name of the customer. The money came from Tirma in the amount of eight million dollars. The transfer is dated tomorrow and the memo notation reads “Replacement.” Damn. What’s an alleged charity organization doing spending eight million dollars? They just bought a shitload of stuff. More proof that Namik Basaran isn’t what he seems.
Many of the records reference another Azerbaijan address in regard to the payee. I don’t recognize it, but I think it’s in the suburban outskirts of Baku. I make note of the location, snap a shot of the document, replace everything neatly in the safe — even though the front is blown away — and stand in the middle of the room. I open the Osprey and take out two sticky cameras. I climb onto the desk so I can reach the air vent above it, pry off the grating, and attach the camera so it aims out and down at the desk. The second camera I place in the bookshelf and set it to the far left, on top of a large book. It isn’t noticeable unless you pull out the book or stand right in front of the shelf and look closely. Finally I wedge an audio bug on the underside of Zdrok’s desk.
Now I’m ready to leave, but as I step out of the office into the hallway, the blasted alarm goes off. I nearly jump out of my skin — it’s about as loud and abrasive as an alarm can be. I edge to the end of the hall, near the barred gate, and hear shouting outside. Just my luck — someone must have discovered the unconscious guard I left outside, or he came floating back to reality earlier than I expected.
Well, I can’t go out the way I came in, can I? The front door bursts open just as I turn and head back through the corridor to look for an emergency exit. I don’t wait to see who comes in. I toss a smoke grenade behind me and run. It explodes, filling the entrance to the corridor with thick smoke. Men shout at me from the lobby, even though I’m certain they haven’t seen me yet.
I do find an emergency exit in the back of the building, near the washrooms. There are warning notices all over it, which means another alarm will go off if I open the door. Too late to worry about that now.
I push the bar on the door, shove it open, and am greeted by another siren that resounds through the building. I leap into the alley, alight in a crouch, and look up to see two policemen standing fifty feet away, guns in hand. One yells at me, levels his pistol, and
I’ve never been one to be stopped by something as insignificant as a wall. First, though, I have to get rid of the pests firing bullets at me. The cops are either drunk or blind because they’re lousy shots. I draw the Five-seveN, drop to my knee, twist my torso, take aim, and discharge two rounds for each man. It’s as if they’re both punched in the chest by an invisible sledgehammer. I figure they’re probably wearing bulletproof vests, but the force of getting hit, even in a vest, is enough to knock you down.
This gives me time to pull out the cigar holder from the pocket on my left calf. I call it a cigar holder because it’s a long cylindrical tube — but it has many uses. I then reach into the Osprey, find the length of rope I keep there for emergencies just like this one, and attach the end of the rope to the cigar holder. I push the button on the holder and four steel prongs snap out, creating a portable grappling hook.
I swing the hook twice and throw it over the wall. The hook catches on the bricks, and I give the rope a good tug or two to make sure it’ll take my weight. Then it’s just a matter of climbing up the wall, retrieving the hook, and jumping down to the other side.
Now I’m on a street around the corner from the bank. The sirens are still blaring, so I can’t stay and watch the excitement. I run across the street to the nearest building and flatten myself against a side bathed in shadow. I need a moment to get my bearings. From here I can see the front of the bank. Three police cars have pulled up, lights blazing. The original guard is sitting up against the wall, rubbing the back of his head. I don’t know how many cops are in there looking for me but as soon as they figure out I’ve left two of their buddies in the alley, they’re going to be hunting for me like angry bees.
Before I can slip away into the darkness, a policeman appears at the end of my street and sees me. He shouts and draws his weapon. I immediately turn and run in the opposite direction. I hear gunshots and now there’re more of them aware of my presence. I turn the corner and suddenly I’m at Fountain Square where a small handful of people — college-age kids, really — are still huddling together, laden with heavy overcoats, smoking cigarettes and drinking vodka. It takes a real hardcore crowd to remain outside after midnight in this kind of wind chill. I have no time to stop and chat — I dart across the square just as two policemen appear behind me in pursuit. Another gunshot proves to me that the cops in Baku don’t care much about innocent bystanders. The group of young people scream and disperse in all directions, which is a good thing for me. Suddenly there are several moving targets in the square, and I’m hoping this will confuse my hunters.
As they fire more wild shots at me, I make it across the square and skirt into a dark alley. The grappling hook I fashioned is still coiled around my shoulder. If I can get a minute to use it again, I’ll take to the rooftops. But first I have to take care of Mutt and Jeff behind me.
I find a nook in the wall that’s deep enough to cover me in shadow. I stop running, slip into the cranny, and wait until I hear the two cops enter the alley. They slow down, suddenly realizing I’m not in sight. The men speak to each other in low voices — one of them seems to be adamant that I came this way, the other is not so sure. With their weapons in hand they walk slowly toward me. The element of surprise is key here, so I hold myself back until just the right moment. When I see both of their backs, I step out of the nook and move between them. I grab their shirt collars, one in each hand, and slam the two men together. A pistol discharges and the owner drops it. The two cops are shaken but have the tenacity to turn and face me. Using the Krav Maga technique of moving forward in offense and positioning myself on the opponent’s dead side, I prevent the armed cop from shooting me. The “dead side” of an opponent is his “outside.” If you face an enemy who has his left foot forward, you must move forward and to your right. Moving in this direction places you in a position where the opponent’s hands or feet can’t readily strike you since you’re at his side. This also allows you to clobber the guy because he’s on your “inside.” And that’s just what I do. A quick jab to his arm causes him to drop his weapon. I swing to the right, raising my leg for a kick, and slam my boot into his chest. He goes down. The other cop is too shocked to budge. I move in, punch him hard in the stomach, and then pound him on the back of the head when he bends over in agony.
The alley’s quiet after that.
I take the rope and grappling hook off my shoulder, swing it like a lasso, and throw it onto the roof of the building closest to me. I hear shouts and running footsteps in the square, so I have no time to lose. Getting up the wall is easy, and once I’m at the top I have a bird’s-eye view of the Old Town. Below me, three more policemen enter the alley and rouse their stunned colleagues. I move to the other side of the roof so I can see Fountain Square and the bank beyond it. The number of patrol cars has increased and there’s a lot of activity around the building.
Using the rooftop route, I head northeast toward the harbor, one shadow at a time.
