“And what, may I ask, is your target?”
“I’m afraid you will go to your death not knowing that,” Tarighian says.
“Then can you tell me what kind of payload you’re firing?”
Tarighian scratches his chin and says, “Why not? I’m using a 600-kilogram MOAB, or as you call it, a Massive Ordnance Airburst Bomb. I think you know what this can accomplish?”
I knew what he was talking about. It’s similar to our CBU-72 Fuel-Air Explosive. It’s an incendiary, advanced cluster bomb carrying ethylene gas that explodes in the air, creating a fireball and explosive wave that spreads quickly over a much greater area than traditional explosives. The aftereffects of the explosion are very similar to those of small nuclear bombs but without the radiation. It’s a nasty, deadly device. Talk about a weapon of mass destruction — this is certainly it.
“You’re evil,” I mutter. Tarighian’s eyes flare and he approaches me. He turns his head slightly, as if he’s preparing to strike me, but instead he spits a glob of phlegm at me. It hits me in the face and dribbles down my cheek.
“That’s what I think of America,” he says. He moves away and addresses Mertens. “Begin the calibration. It’s time.”
Mertens nods and picks up a phone. After a moment he says, “Begin calibration. Raise the Phoenix.”
Six seconds later the control room shakes and a loud hum reverberates throughout the complex. Through the windows I see the ceiling part and slide away, revealing the dome two levels above. The supergun and its heavy platform begin to rise on a hydraulic lift toward the ground floor above us.
Tarighian, satisfied that everything is working properly, turns to me and addresses the guards. “He’s seen enough. Take him to the incinerator room and kill him.”
Farid grunts and makes a face at Tarighian. “I’m sorry, Farid,” he says. “I need you with me. Perhaps you’d like to hurt him a little right here?”
The brute smiles like an ogre. Even though his good arm is in a cast, I’m sure his other one can pack a wallop as well. The guards hold me steady as Farid faces me. He raises his free arm, makes a fist, pulls it back, and puts his entire weight into a punch that nearly knocks my head off. For a moment I hear a ringing in my ears and see nothing but bright lights. A tremendous spear of pain shoots through my now-broken nose into the back of my brain. Before I have time to recover even slightly, Farid hits me hard in the stomach. The guards let me fall to my knees as I gasp for breath. Blood pours from my nose onto the floor.
I hear Tarighian say, “That’s enough. Take him away and get rid of him. Be sure you videotape it. Make it gruesome. You know what to do.”
The men roughly pull me out of the control room.
36
There was a seven-hour time difference between Cyprus and Washington, D.C. At precisely the moment that Sam Fisher infiltrated the shopping mall complex, Colonel Irving Lambert finished a phone call with the secretary of defense and waited impatiently at his desk for news from his Splinter Cell. He knew that Fisher had arrived safely in Cyprus, had received diving equipment from the Brits, and was on his way to Tarighian’s “shopping mall” outside of Famagusta.
In anticipation of Fisher’s report, Lambert had already been in discussions with not only the secretary, but also the top military brain trust at the Pentagon, the president of the United States, and the secretary of state. In turn, these people were in touch with their counterparts in the Middle East. Should a strike in Cyprus become necessary, Lambert wanted an immediate response. As of the current time, all the appropriate players were ready and willing — except for Turkey. Even in the face of proof, the Turkish authorities refused to believe that Namik Basaran was really Nasir Tarighian, mastermind and patron of one of the world’s most dangerous terrorist organizations. The prosperity he had brought to southeastern Turkey was unquestionable. He had created jobs for hundreds of unemployed. He had contributed food and money to just causes. He had created a great deal of goodwill between Turkey and her neighbors. How could this man be the evil being that the United States claimed?
Lambert’s intercom buzzed. “Yes?” he said, pushing the button.
“We’ve got some news on Horowitz,” Bruford said.
“I’m on my way.”
Lambert rose, grabbed his coffee cup, and rushed to the Operations Room where Bruford and other team members were working. Carly St. John had her hands on a printout that she was studying closely.
“What have you got?” Lambert asked, taking a seat at the table.
“Eli Horowitz isn’t an Israeli,” Bruford said. “He’s from Azerbaijan. He entered Israel when he was sixteen on the pretext that he was a Jewish refugee from Russia. The Mossad has just confirmed that Horowitz — which is his real name by the way — has used a number of aliases throughout his life. When he was living in Azerbaijan, he was arrested on conspiracy charges with a group of terrorists associated with the Kurds there. Because of his age and some political connections, he was set free. On a later occasion he was arrested in Georgia in possession of a cache of illegal weapons. He was about to stand trial when he miraculously escaped from jail. It was a daring operation that involved several participants. Georgian authorities believed the jailbreak to be the work of a powerful Russian mafia.”
“The Shop?”
“Very likely. That terrorist watch list he was on, when it was tardily discovered by U.S. Immigration, identified Horowitz as a mule for the Shop.”
Lambert slapped the table. “Okay, so we’ve definitely established he’s a bad guy. How the hell do we find him?”
Carly spoke up. “The Mossad has been very cooperative. They found his apartment in East Jerusalem and ransacked it. The boy left the place as if he was planning to return. All of his clothes and belongings were there — including a computer.”
Lambert raised his eyebrows, and Carly wiggled hers in reply.
“And we might have something,” she said. “This is a printout showing the contents of the hard drive. Although there isn’t anything that directly connects him to the Shop, we’ve retrieved some recent e-mails that indicate he was planning something before Sarah Burns came to Israel. Most of the mail prior to two weeks ago was deleted, but the Mossad is delivering a subpoena to Horowitz’s ISP as soon as they can. What we do have are some of the last communications between him and Sarah, much of which we already uncovered on Sarah’s computer in Illinois, but also some e-mails between Horowitz and someone named Yuri. We’ve traced this Yuri’s e-mail address, and the server is at the Russian-Israeli Bank in Jerusalem.”
“The Russian-Israeli Bank? Is that legit?” Lambert asked.
“It is. It’s a private and fairly young institution. The bank opened two years ago, and the board of directors consists of nothing but Russians.”
“Interesting.”
Then Carly smiled, pausing for dramatic effect. “And here’s the clincher. The bank is a subsidiary of the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank.”
Lambert raised his fists above his head. “Praise the Lord! We need the Israel Security Forces to get in there and tear the place apart. Now.”
Bruford replied, “It’s already in the works. The bank manager and its employees are going to have a rude surprise when they arrive at work in the morning — which should be happening any minute over there.”
“Great work, people,” Lambert said. “Now if we’d just hear something from Fisher, my ulcer might settle down.”
Chip Driggers spoke up. “Colonel, there’s a transmission coming through!”
Lambert rose and went over to Driggers’s terminal. “Is it Sam?”
“Looks like it. He’s sending some JPG files.”
When the image appeared on the monitor, both men’s jaws dropped.
“Holy shit, what the hell is that thing?” Driggers asked.
