know how to wrap a turban. Instead, I go over to one of my dead friends and steal his headgear. I try it on without unraveling it and find that it’s a perfect fit.
I take a frag grenade from my Osprey, set it to manual mode — which allows me to ignite it from a distance by pressing a button on the OPSAT — and I place it underneath the hangar’s fuel tank. For good measure I place another grenade on the control panel that operates the platform. Before I climb the rope back to the upper level, I shove the dead guards off and onto the floor. I ascend the rope, replace it in my backpack, and go back to the foreman’s office. I flip the switch to raise the platform and wait until it’s in place.
I exit the building the way I came in. I make a careful countersurveillance sweep of the area and determine I’m alone. I run back to the Pazhan and change — I put on the
This time I use the picks to open the employee entrance and walk inside, in full view of the surveillance camera. It will record an ordinary Arab walking into the warehouse. I take one of the Tirma pamphlets I stole from Basaran’s place in Turkey — excuse me, I mean
Finally, when I’m done, I leave the building and drop the remainder of the Tirma literature on the loading dock, the ramp, and on the runway field. Investigators will surely find whatever Tirma pieces are not obliterated in the coming fireworks.
Back at the Pazhan, I get rid of the
I drive away from the disaster area and can’t help smiling. I’d love to be there when Andrei Zdrok gets the news that his terrorist department store has been blown to kingdom come. And with the “evidence” I left behind, hopefully he’ll think the Shadows are responsible. Beautiful.
As I approach the city limits of Baku, I receive a message on the OPSAT from Carly St. John. I laugh out loud when I read it, for it serves my little plan that much more.
HI SAM. JUST LETTING YOU KNOW THAT I’VE SUCCEEDED IN DIVERTING TARIGHIAN’S MONEY TRANSFER TO A TEMPORARY HIDDEN ACCOUNT IN OUR OFFSHORE BANK. THAT’S ONE PAYMENT THE SHOP WON’T GET.
— CARLY
28
The Russian military lagged behind the United States in stealth technology and only recently began to aggressively pursue an updated, modern approach to air defense development. The cause was advanced considerably by the recovery and sale of a shot-down U.S. Air Force F-117A stealth fighter during the 1999 war against Serbia. Serbs reportedly sold the remains of the American aircraft directly to the Russians. Since then, Russian fighter maker Sukhoi began to use the S-37 Berkut, or “Golden Eagle,” as a test bed for developing technologies for the next generation of military aircraft. The S-37 eventually evolved into the modern Su-47.
Western intelligence speculates that the new Su-47 is a stealth fighter. To date the truth is not known to the U.S. or Great Britain, but Russian military insiders are well aware of the state of affairs. The stealth fighter does exist, if only in a prototype stage, and it is destined to compete with the F-117A.
An impressively designed aircraft, the Su-47 has swept-forward wings and a shape not unlike the Su-27 series. This configuration provides many benefits in aerodynamics at subsonic speeds and at high angles of attack. The foremounted canards are somewhat triangular and placed unconventionally far from the cockpit and close to the wings. The rear tailplanes are small but sleek and of unusual design. A strange hump behind the canopy encloses computer systems. There are two ordinary-looking D-30F6 engines and an IR targeting tracking blister mounted just in front of the canopy. With a wingspan of nearly seventeen meters and an overall length of twenty- two and a half meters, the Su-47 is the perfect size aircraft for stealth missions.
It was General Stefan Prokofiev who made one of the prototypes available to the Shop. He was in charge of the development team that was the liaison between Sukhoi and the Russian military. As a handful of prototypes emerged from the factory, Prokofiev made sure that one of them “disappeared” during a test flight. In reality it was stolen and diverted to one of the Shop’s secret hangars located in southern Russia.
The only consolation Andrei Zdrok could attribute to the disaster that befell the diaper factory in Azerbaijan was the fact that their Su-47 was currently safely at rest in a different hangar in southern Russia. To replace the aircraft would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible, and it was a loss that Zdrok did not want to incur. Losing the twenty-three million dollars’ worth of arms, equipment — and the Baku facility itself — was bad enough.
He was furious.
Too many strange things had happened in the past couple of days, and he was convinced it was not a coincidence. First, an intruder broke into the bank and blasted a hole in his safe. Nothing was taken — although Zdrok was certain that the documents were most likely photographed — and a great deal of damage had been done.
And now the warehouse/factory had been destroyed. By whom? Initial reports by his own investigators indicated that the Shadows might have had something to do with it. The site was littered with Tirma literature. Was that an accident or had it been done on purpose as a protest against the Shop’s refusing to refund the money for the Shadows’ lost arms shipment?
A knock on the door rustled Zdrok from his mind racing.
“Come in,” he said.
It was Antipov. The man entered the room, stepped over the rubble that still lay on the floor, and shut the door. “The two policemen are fine,” he said. “Their vests stopped the bullets. The night sentry insists that the man who made him use the retinal scanner was definitely American.” He handed a CD to Zdrok and said, “This is from the camera at the warehouse. What was left of it, anyway. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
Zdrok took the disk and put it in his computer. They watched the clips together.
A man dressed in a
“Who is he?” Zdrok asked. “
“Who knows? He’s obviously an Arab militant. He deliberately left that Tirma stuff. It’s a message, Andrei. Tarighian is sending us a message.”
“What does he want, a goddamned war?” Zdrok fumed. He took out the disk and gave it back to Antipov. “I’m going to call the bastard.”
He picked up the phone, consulted the directory in his computer, and dialed the number in Cyprus.
“Yes.” It was Tarighian, otherwise known as Basaran.
“It is I,” Zdrok said.
“Are you on a secure line?”
“Of course.”
“How are you, Andrei?” Tarighian sighed. He sounded tired and stressed.
“I could be better.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“What’s
“Know what?”
“Our facility south of Baku was destroyed last night. By one of your men.”
“What?”
“We have him on tape. He left Tirma shit all over the place so we’d know it was you.”
“I don’t believe this! What the hell are you talking about? You’re accusing
