firing squad.”
32
Lieutenant Colonel Irving Lambert wiped the sweat from his brow as he hurried from the Operations Room to the conference room where his team was assembled. Like the others in Third Echelon’s Washington, D.C., office, he had been up all night. None of them had received much sleep the past couple of days. Sometimes it got to be like that.
For an hour he had been on the phone with the secretary of defense, who had coordinated the attack on the stealth plane with Turkey. The fact that the fighters had been minutes too late to stop the destruction of Akdabar Enterprises was a political wrinkle that would be smoothed over as soon as the truth about Namik Basaran was confirmed. At any rate, the Turkish government was understandably skeptical about the NSA’s claims. Furthermore, Turkey wanted to involve the United Nations in any further actions against Basaran if indeed he was really the terrorist supporter Nasir Tarighian. That was going to take time.
But Lambert was convinced that Tarighian was in possession of some kind of large weapon in Cyprus. He didn’t know what it was, but the presence of Albert Mertens, the physicist who had been Gerard Bull’s right-hand man, indicated that it was a weapon of mass destruction.
Third Echelon had to act alone for now.
He looked at his watch as he entered the conference room. Since it was early morning in Washington, it would be late afternoon for Fisher. He’d be arriving at the Dhekelia garrison in the Republic of Cyprus — the southern portion — about now. Lambert knew he shouldn’t let personal feelings interfere with the job at hand, but he couldn’t help worrying about his best Splinter Cell. As the team in Washington was able to monitor all incoming and outgoing communications on Fisher’s OPSAT, they were aware of Sarah Burns’s situation as soon as Sam was. Lambert considered pulling Sam out. He had spoken to Fisher and assured him they would work around the clock to try and locate Sarah, but Sam had a job to do. Fisher was beside himself, insisting that he needed to be in Israel to find her, but Lambert was forced to order him to stick with the mission. Tarighian would be a desperate man at this point and was liable to do anything with whatever weapon he had in his hands. Fisher reluctantly obeyed, but it might have been at the cost of the friendly relationship with his boss.
“Morning, Chief,” Carl Bruford said.
“Morning, everyone,” Lambert replied. Along with Bruford, the team included Carly St. John, Research Analyst Mike Chan, and Chip Driggers, who had the catchall title of logistics coordinator. Mike Chan was roughly the same age as Bruford and specialized in cryptography. Driggers was in his forties, an army buddy of Lambert’s who had been recruited for his painstakingly compulsive eye for detail.
Lambert sat and looked at Bruford. “What have you got?”
Bruford cleared his throat and said, “Our man in Chicago went to Sarah Burns’s apartment in Evanston. It’s on Foster Street, not far from the university. He got the super to let him in. The first thing he did was to take a look at her computer. He found several e-mails to and from a boy named Eli Horowitz, who lives in Jerusalem. From what we gather, this guy’s a former boyfriend or maybe he still is one. That’s not certain. At any rate, they made plans to meet up in Jerusalem. We know she went to Israel with her friend Rivka Cohen, whose parents haven’t seen Sarah since… well, last Thursday.”
Lambert and the rest of the team were fully aware of what had happened to Sarah’s friend.
“Go on,” Lambert said.
“Okay, we started looking into this Eli Horowitz. He’s twenty-three years old and is an Israeli citizen. He was a student at Northwestern University last year, and we assume that’s how he met Sarah. He was enrolled as a music major, but his grades sucked. Immigration came after him in late spring last year because his student visa had expired… and get this — he’s on a terrorist watch list with the Department of Homeland Security.”
“Shit,” Lambert said.
“Anyway, with those two strikes — expired visa and his name on a list — he was immediately deported.”
“Known associates?” Lambert asked.
“A Noel Brooks was at Northwestern the same year and the two were roommates. Brooks is also Israeli and was deported at the same time as Horowitz. He wasn’t on the terrorist watch list, but his visa had expired. Other than him, we have no other information on known associates.”
“Is there any mention in the e-mails of where this guy lives?”
“No. Only that he lives in Jerusalem and that he was going to show Sarah the sights when she got there. I think she’s pretty intimate with the guy. Some of those e-mails were… suggestive.”
Lambert sighed. “Okay, it’s a start. Get onto tracing Horowitz’s movements after his deportation. We have to find out where he lives
“I’ll find out.”
“Get on it. It’s tedious, I know, but it’s the only lead we’ve got.” Lambert looked at Chip Driggers and asked, “Have you heard from Fisher?”
“Not since he left Tel Aviv. I expect him in Cyprus any minute,” Driggers said. “I’ve arranged with the British military there to supply him with diving equipment and anything else he might need. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“And what about our friends in Zurich and Baku?”
“We’ve alerted the Azerbaijan and Swiss authorities as well as Interpol and our own FBI. The local law enforcement agencies are preparing raids as we speak. We should know something by lunchtime. I’m afraid, though, that the Turkish air strike on the Shop’s stealth plane most likely tipped them off that the jig was up. They could be long gone by now.”
“Yeah, I know, it was a risk,” Lambert said. “I hope the Azeris and Swiss understand the gravity of the situation and realize who these people are.”
“I believe they do, Colonel.”
Lambert nodded and then looked at Carly. “And what have you got for me?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’m just trying to find out everything I can about that shopping mall in Cyprus. I’m mapping routes to the place from Famagusta, pinpointing the best spot for Sam to go ashore, that kind of thing. I want to have everything he’ll need ready to go in an hour or two.”
“Good. Well, we have work to do, people. Let’s get it done.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Carly?”
“What about the fallout with the Turks? Hasn’t our government been able to convince them that Namik Basaran is really Nasir Tarighian?”
“No. That’s why we can’t go to the police in northern Cyprus to help us. If they knew we were planning to possibly muck up their new shopping mall, they’d probably fight on Basaran’s side even if they know the truth about him. I’m afraid the secretary of defense — and the president — have ruled out letting the Turks in on what we want to do. They’re not happy about what happened to Akdabar Enterprises in Van. In hindsight I guess it wasn’t a good move on our part.”
“Hell, we got the Shop’s stealth plane,” Bruford said. “That counts for something.”
“True, but now they see Tarighian — or rather, Basaran — as a victim. One of their respected businessmen and philanthropists was irrationally attacked by a Russian terrorist organization. That’s how they see it.”
“I’ll try to put together a convincing presentation you can give to them,” Carly said.
“That might help, Carly. Thanks.”
With that, the meeting adjourned. Lambert went back to his office, eyed the large electronic map on the wall, and focused on the current trouble spots lit in red — outside of Famagusta in Cyprus, Jerusalem, Baku, and Zurich.
He hoped he could diminish the priority of these four places by the end of the day.
Andrei Zdrok hadn’t worked so hard in years.
