This is good news. “Who is it?”
“Sam, it’s a bit premature—”
“Goddamn it, Colonel, this is my
daughter
we’re talking about.” Needless to say, I’m a little pissed off. “If you want me to keep my mind off her and on this job here, then you’d better tell me everything you know.”
“Right, Sam. I’m sorry. There’s this boyfriend. Do you know about him?”
I have to think to remember his name. “A boy from Israel, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Name of Eli Horowitz.”
“That’s him. Yeah, I remember Sarah mentioning him. What about him? Is
he
the suspect?”
“She made plans to meet up with him in Jerusalem. We checked him out, and we learned that he was deported from the U.S. last year for an expired student visa. And for being on a terrorist watch list.”
“Oh, shit,” I say. I don’t care who hears me.
“We’re trying to find him as we speak. We’ve got people in Jerusalem hunting him down right now.”
“What about Sarah’s friend? The one she went with to Israel . . . what’s her name? Rivka.”
I hear Lambert sigh. When he does this, I know I’m not going to like what he has to say. “Sam, Rivka Cohen’s dead. She was found in an alley in East Jerusalem, strangled to death.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Colonel!” I’m losing my mind here. I want to pick up something and smash it to pieces. “I can’t be here, Colonel. I’ve got to go to Israel
now
.”
“Sam, you don’t have the resources that we do. Believe me, we’re in a better position to find Sarah than you are.”
“It’s
me
they want, Colonel. My daughter is just the bait.”
“That’s exactly why I can’t let you go yet. Please, Sam. You have a job to do there, and we need you to do it. I know this sounds horrible, but you’ve got to forget about her for now.”
I suck in a breath and say, “All right, Colonel. I’ll do your little errand tonight, but come tomorrow morning I’m going to Israel—no matter where I am or what I’m doing. I’m picking up and leaving this fucking island, and I’m going to find my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”
I can’t believe I just spoke to my commanding officer that way. But then again, I don’t hold a military rank. Colonel Lambert is really just my
supervisor
and I’m his employee. It’s not the same thing.
“I understand, Sam,” Lambert says. “I don’t blame you.”
That calms me down a bit. “Thanks, Colonel. Sorry. I, er, got a little carried away.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just do what you have to do tonight and let us know what you find out.”
We sign off and I look out the window at the bay. The sunset casts a bloodred spill over the choppy surface, and I wonder if that means anything.
At ten o’clock, well after dark, we board what’s called a Rigid Raider—a fast patrol craft with a fiberglass reinforced plastic hull and a single 140-horsepower outboard motor. It’s normally used to patrol harbors and inland waterways. The thing holds about eight or nine guys, and the captain tells me there’s an even larger version of the Rigid Raider that holds up to twenty men. On this particular voyage a pilot and a private join the captain and me. From what I can tell, they know nothing about my mission. I imagine they’re just following the captain’s orders.
The pilot keeps the speed down so as not to attract too much attention. It’s not uncommon to see these patrol boats at all times of the day or night, but I figure they think it’s best that we keep a low profile. The boat moves along past Cape Pyle and then around the easternmost tip, Cape Gkreko. The water seems choppier here, and the captain tells me that there are strong currents on this side of the island. He wants to get me as close as possible to the Green Line because it’s going to be a strenuous swim.
I can see the lights of Famagusta from here. The captain tells me to get ready and he helps me with the BCD and tank. The pilot turns off all the lights on the boat and cuts the engine down to a quiet putter.
“This is your stop,” the captain says. He holds out his hand and I shake it.
“Thanks for everything,” I say.
“Thank me when I pick you up in the morning.” He doesn’t say
if
he picks me up in the morning.
I put on the fins, lower the face mask, secure the SC- 20K on my back, and I’m good to go. I climb over the side while holding on to the ladder, insert the regulator into my mouth, hold on to the DPD, and dive backward into the cold, dark water.
34
THE
captain was right about the strong currents, but the DPD prevents the swim from becoming a struggle. I forge ahead, allowing the device to pull me along at a speed of roughly a knot per hour. I figure I can climb out of the water near the docks and use the moored boats as cover. I seriously doubt there will be much activity there at this time of night.
The DPD’s headlight casts a ghostly glow on the floor, and I can see masses of brightly colored coral shelves and an abundance of fish. Not being much of a fisherman, I can’t identify them, but I know none of them are dangerous. Apparently there are no sharks in the Mediterranean, but barracuda have been known to take bites out of swimmers. Moray eels are also nasty creatures that are a must to avoid. At any rate, what I see here would fit nicely inside a restaurant aquarium.
The computer tells me I swam a distance of three-quarters of a mile when I finally see the wooden posts supporting the Famagusta docks. The water is dirtier here as a result of pollution from the dozens of moored boats. I surface with just my face above the water so I can evaluate the situation.
There are boats of all sizes—catamarans, motorboats, sailboats, several small yachts—and a brightly lit boardwalk. I see a lone night watchman in a shed on the boardwalk. The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus flag flies on a tall flagpole that’s next to the shed.
This is easy. I swim to the dock and follow the edge to the shore. When I’m able to touch bottom I crawl up, remove my fins, and climb out of the water into the shadows. I avoid the boardwalk altogether and make my way up a concrete slope to level land. This is where I’m most vulnerable to being seen, so I quickly skirt into a grove of trees that abuts the docks. I get lucky and find a water drainage pipe built into the ground where I can store my SCUBA gear. The sky is clear and I don’t expect rain, so the stuff should be safe nestled inside the pipe. I strip off the tank, BCD, and other gear and leave it. I retrieve my headset and goggles from my Osprey and I’m ready.
It’s a three-mile hike to Famagusta Center. Since I’m keeping to the shadows and avoiding streetlights, it takes me nearly an hour to get there. Now it’s nearly three in the morning and I have two, maybe three hours before dawn.
The property is in a clearing outside of Famagusta, just off the main highway. At the moment a wire fence surrounds the grounds. Signs written in Turkish and English read: Keep Out—Construction Hard Hat Area. Other signs proclaim—Famagusta Center, Opening Soon! Vendor Space For Rent! The place is well lit with floodlights, trucks carrying debris periodically leave a loading dock area at the back of the complex, and men in hard hats go in and out of various entrances. That’s a clue right there that something’s afoot—construction employees normally don’t work in the middle of the night. These guys appear to be working feverishly to meet some kind of deadline. Lambert’s probably right—Tarighian means to use his weapon as soon as possible.
I’m unable to see an area of the fence that’s not covered by the bright lights. I’m beginning to wonder how the hell I’m going to get inside when providence intervenes. A pair of headlights appears on the road near where I’m crouched, and they’re headed my way. When it’s close enough I see that it’s a professional electrical company’s van, and there’s a lone driver inside. The van passes me, not traveling very fast, so I jump up and toss a rock at it. As the van slows I run behind it and slap the back doors a couple of times, loud enough for the driver to hear me. He slows even more and stops. When he lowers the window, I’m there with the Five-seveN pointing at his nose.
“You’re going my way,” I say. “Can I have a lift?”
He doesn’t understand the words, but he gets the meaning. I keep the gun trained on him, walk around the front of the vehicle, and get in the passenger side. I tell him to drive on as I crouch on the floorboard, my pistol stuck against his potbelly. He’s obviously frightened and I tell him to calm down. He nods and proceeds.
We get to the gate, where he stops the van and lowers the window. The guard there asks him something in Turkish and the driver replies, reaching for a clipboard on the passenger seat. He shows the guard the front page on the clipboard, and we’re cleared to go through. I take the opportunity to rise and peer through the windshield. I see a parking area where several vendor and construction vehicles are stationed, so I point him over there. As soon as he parks the van and shuts it off, I get in the seat beside him, motion him closer, then conk him on the back of the head.
“Sorry,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. I lay him on the floorboard, look to see if anyone is watching, take the keys, and then get out of the van.
There seem to be several public entrances to the building made up of glass doors that are most likely locked at this time. The workers and guards are using the loading dock I saw earlier. This appears to be for a major department store, the biggest vendor in the complex. I want to avoid the heavy traffic areas and find another way in, so I opt for a set of glass doors. I scan the lightpoles for security cameras and see none—but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. I’m afraid I have to be a little reckless at this point. I’m running out of time and I want to get in and get out as quickly as possible. So what do I do? I walk out into the light, head for one of the public entrances, and use my lock picks to get inside.
No one sees me that I know of.
I’m inside the building. The lights are off here in a main corridor that passes through the shopping center. Empty storefronts line the sides of the hallway, and I find it odd that none of them are named yet. For a mall that’s set to “open” soon, from what I can see there are no real stores inside.
I move toward the central core of the mall, a wide open space that connects three wings and a passage to the unnamed, big department store. Overhead is the huge domed ceiling, and there seems to be a line on the underside dividing it into halves. A few lights are on here, so I hug the walls and try to use natural cover to mask my movements. Then I hear the sound of a motorized vehicle in one of the other dark wings, so I crouch and wait for it to come into view. It turns out to be one of those three-wheeled golf carts like the ones they used at Akdabar Enterprises in Turkey. Two guys dressed in security guard uniforms are inside.
The cart rolls past me, headed for the department store wing. It’s now or never, so I make my move. I run and chase the back of the cart, jump onto the back end, and surprise the two guards. Before they can react and say, “Hey!” I slam their heads together. One guy goes out, but the other one must have a hard head. He leaps out of his seat at me, pushing me flat onto the back of the vehicle. It continues to move forward but swerves for a wall. The guard hits me hard in the face, producing a star-filled slate in front of my eyes, but I bring up my knee in a classic Krav Maga below-the-belt crotch crunch. This causes my opponent to freeze with shock and pain.
At that moment the cart crashes into the wall. It’s a good thing it wasn’t traveling at a very high speed, or it might have attracted some attention. Instead it makes a dull
thud
, and my happy nemesis flies off me and smashes into the steering wheel. I rise and punch him hard in the jaw and he’s out, like his friend.
Neither guard is armed, but I relieve one of them of a security keycard. I imagine it will come in handy at some point.
I creep into the dark department store, which is—surprise, surprise—empty. But on one wall there’s a double door that looks like a big elevator. Of course, now I see what this place is. It’s not a department store at all but some kind of staging area. Supplies and stuff are brought in through the loading dock and taken to this double door—which I assume is the main entrance to whatever it is that Tarighian’s hiding. I start to move toward it, but I hear footsteps in the darkness near the loading dock area. I wait until I see two guards walk out of the shadows and to the double door. One of them inserts a keycard, the doors open, and they go in.
When the doors close, I run across the floor and use the stolen keycard to open them.
I nearly gasp aloud when I see what’s on the other side. There’s a long ramp sloping to a brightly lit underground level that’s full of workers. I leap to the side, out of the doorway, and roll to a position behind a stack of crates. I
think
no one saw me. They’re all too busy, like worker bees preparing the nest for the honey harvest. From here, though, I have a better chance to look around and comprehend what I see.
Quite literally, it takes my breath away.
It’s a goddamned missile silo. Or something like that. The level I’m on is really a circular, perimeter “balcony” that looks down onto the lower level, much like a rotunda. In the middle of the bottom floor sits a gigantic cannon-like apparatus made of alloy and steel. The base appears to be about a hundred feet square and looks as if it weighs a few tons. Surrounding the base is a massive mechanism of hydraulics that raises and lowers the weapon. The cannon-barrel is about 100 meters long, several meters thick, and sits perpendicular to the ground floor, pointing straight up. The thing probably raises from a deep well in the ground so that it extends the full length into the air.
My God! I suddenly realize what it is! I
recognize
it! I remember seeing pictures of the original designs, back when Gerard Bull attempted to develop one of these things for Iraq in the 1980s.