There’s also a video camera sitting on a tripod in the middle of the room. A couple of floodlights on stands point to an area of the floor near the incinerator. I wonder how many executions they’ve put on tape or if I’m their debut production.
Abbott opens the incinerator’s grilled door. The flames inside cast a golden glow over the room. I figure they think this makes their home movies more aesthetically pleasing. Abbott then turns on the floodlights and checks the video camera. He looks through the viewfinder, makes sure it’s pointed in the proper place, and then says “Put him in place” in Arabic. These guys aren’t Turkish.
Costello jabs his gun into my back again, pushing me over to the “stage.” Abbott presses the Record button, the camera’s red light turns on, and then he moves to join us in front of the lens.
We’re standing in a line with me in the middle—Abbott on my right, Costello on my left—facing the camera. Abbott announces to the audience in Arabic, “This is American spy Sam Fisher. He is to die today for waging war against Islam.”
Suddenly we hear the sound of gunfire in the distance. It’s intense, too, as if an entire platoon is firing machine guns at enemy forces. Abbott and Costello look at each other and smile. “We have a new leader,” Costello says.
Now’s my chance. I hip-check Abbott—I ram my hip-bone as hard as I can into his, knocking him sideways. At the same time I lodge my right boot on the inside of his left leg, causing him to fall to the floor. Before Costello can react, I raise my left boot, run it down his right shin, and stomp hard on his foot. I take a step to my right, turn, and then kick the ever-loving
shit
out of his right knee. I hear the bones snap as he screams and falls to the ground.
By now Abbott is scrambling to his feet and trying to level his AK-47 at me. I turn to him and kick him hard in the face with my right boot. He falls onto his back, dropping the rifle.
Part of my training included perfecting a maneuver that allows me to roll my legs through my tied arms—like jumping rope backwards. You have to be
really
limber to do it, and I spent weeks getting to where I could just manage it. It’s possible to execute the move while doing a forward roll—you just have to throw your arms around your body in the opposite direction from the way legs are going. Scrunching yourself up into a ball beforehand makes it easier. So, very quickly, I squat, form my body into a ball, and perform that forward roll, bringing my arms over and around my body. Perfect. I jump to my feet and now my tied hands are in front of me.
Abbott is on his knees now, trying to get up for a second time. Another kick to the face sends him to Never-land. For good measure I scoot the AK-47 across the floor out of his reach. I then turn my attention to Costello, who’s writhing in agony on the floor. I raise my left boot above his head and bring it down as hard as I can. No more pain for him.
All this occurred in five point four seconds.
I glance at my OPSAT, check the timer, and see that two minutes are left before the frag grenades go off. I go back to Abbott and empty his pockets, retrieving my knife, Five-seveN, goggles, and other equipment. He left my SC-20K over by the incinerator, and I’ll pick that up on my way out. But first I have to cut the rope around my hands. I move to the table saw, switch it on, and carefully hold my wrists over the spinning blade. I nick the rope just enough for me to unravel it and I’m free.
I gather all my stuff and get the hell out of there. I open the door carefully, peer outside to make sure no one is around, and step into the corridor. I run to the edge of the central area just in time to witness the domed ceiling parting. Simultaneously the supergun’s huge barrel begins to rise vertically as the hydraulics lift the entire weapon flush with the ground floor. For a moment I have to stand and watch the thing, it’s so goddamned awesome. Eventually the tip of the barrel protrudes through the domed opening. The machinery inside the massive breech then begins to rumble, and I see the barrel tilt and point in a southeasterly direction.
Then—
wham-wham-wham
! I hear my frag grenades go off in a succession of explosions. I’m not sure what kind of damage they’ll do, but I hope it will delay firing the weapon for a bit. I run around the supergun to the wing where I originally entered and head for the glass doors I smashed earlier. The floor beneath me shakes, and I hear what sounds like an earthquake. Hoorah!—the perimeter balcony must have collapsed as I had hoped. That will surely cause some confusion.
I make it outside into the sunlight. No one is around. The electrical company van is gone, so I’m going to have to hoof it.
At that moment I hear the sound of aircraft. I look northward and see a squadron of six planes heading this way. Time to move!
I run as fast as I can out of the parking lot and toward the front gate. Two guards are there, weapons in hand. I have no time to argue with these guys, so I draw my Five-seveN, stop, assume a firing stance, and pop them—
one
,
two
—before they have a chance to ask me for my “papers.” I resume speed and hurdle over the gate.
Once I’m out of the compound, I breathe a little easier but I keep moving. I climb the hill overlooking the site, the one I had used early this morning, and figure this is as good a place to watch the main attraction as any.
I press the implant in my throat. “Colonel?”
“Sam? My God, where have you been?”
“Uh, a little tied up. But I’m out now. I can see the planes.”
“Thank goodness. You had me worried. Get to the Famagusta docks. Captain Martin will meet you there in his patrol boat and take you back to Dhekelia. We have transportation to Israel all lined up for you.”
“Thanks, Colonel. Any news on Sarah?”
“Not yet, Sam. But get going.”
I sign off but linger a few moments to watch. I recognize two F/A-18E Super Hornets leading the formation—leave it to the U.S. to do so—followed by two British Sea Harrier F/A Mk 2s. It takes me a moment to identify the other two planes and then realize they’re F-16s from the Turkish air force! I’m happy to see the Turks getting involved, which must have been a major diplomatic coup for Lambert.
The Super Hornets let loose a couple of Maverick ASMs, which score direct hits on the supergun. The explosions are immense, and I feel the heat wave all the way up here. The Harriers drop an array of bombs I don’t recognize, but they produce magnificent blasts all over the complex. The Turks follow with another spread of bombs, but the smoke is way too thick for me to see what they are.
By now the entire shopping mall is engulfed in smoke and fire. The only thing I can see is the supergun’s barrel poking out of the dark cloud. The six fighters circle around, bank, and head for the complex for another round of strikes.
Suddenly there’s a huge
boom
and the entire earth around me shakes. It’s like a sonic blast only it’s right in front of me. My first thought is that I’m in the middle of a ten-point Richter-scale earthquake, but my second thought is even worse.
They’ve managed to fire the Babylon Phoenix!
I find I’m lying on my back, a bit stunned and squinting into the sky. Then I witness something I’ll never forget as long as I live.
The supergun’s payload is shooting up into the sky, soaring high above the fighters at a tremendous speed.
My God
, I think,
it’s all over
. The bad guys win after all. But then I see the two Super Hornets veer off their courses and head up and in pursuit of the MOAB. I’m able to think to reach into my Osprey, grab my portable binoculars, and watch the drama unfold in the blue sky.
The MOAB is over the sea now, disappearing from view, and the two American fighters become tiny dots following it. Then I see two air-to-air missiles—no,
four
AAMs—leave the fighters. They’re probably AIM-120 AMRAAM Slammers, supersonic fire-and-forget missiles.
Holy shit! The sky over the sea bursts into a bright orange-and-red fireball, one that certainly engulfs the two fighters. I’m aware that I’m not breathing for a moment as I watch the flaming horror fall in slow motion to the Mediterranean. All I can think of is what heroes those men in the fighters are. They sacrificed themselves to take out the MOAB and succeeded against tremendous odds.
I get to my feet and watch the debris hit the water.
“Sam? What’s happened? Talk to me!” Lambert calls.
I press the implant. “We lost our two fighters, but the guys are heroes. They shot the MOAB right out of the sky. It fell into the sea.”
“Christ. What about Tarighian’s complex?”
I turned back to look at the inferno below me. The remaining fighters had apparently suspended their attacks after the supergun fired. Now they swing back around and continue to bomb the shopping mall to smithereens. In fact, the supergun’s barrel is no longer in view. It must have collapsed while my back was turned.
“You don’t have to worry about it, Colonel,” I say. “All gone.”
I can see Lambert rubbing the top of his head and sighing with relief. The rest of the Third Echelon team is most likely pulling out the champagne.
“How did you get the Turks to cooperate?” I ask.
“Carly created a slideshow file that presented all the photos you took, backed with all the written evidence, and we sent it to the Turkish government. Needless to say, she did a convincing job.”
“Of course she did.”
“What about you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Colonel. But now I have to get to the docks and catch a ride to save my daughter.”
“Go for it, Sam.”
39
I arrive in Tel Aviv that afternoon and have another twenty-four hours to acknowledge to Sarah’s captors that I’m in Israel. Before making the call, though, I have a conversation with Captain Abraham Weiss of the Israel Security Forces in the back of an unmarked black Lexus. Captain Weiss met me at Ben-Gurion Airport, where I was whisked away as a government VIP without the rigmarole of Israel’s tight security and Immigration checks.
“I’ve been in contact with your people,” Weiss says as the car rolls out of the airport. “And we’ve been working around the clock to locate your daughter. I’m happy to say we know where she is. At least we think we do.”
My heart nearly leaps out of my chest, for I was really sweating it out in the short plane ride from Cyprus. “Where?” I ask.
“We’re nearly one hundred percent certain she’s in an abandoned warehouse very near the small airport north of Jerusalem.” Weiss speaks confident English with a heavy Israeli accent. I have a good feeling about him and did so from the moment we met. I have great respect for the Israelis’ security personnel. They live day in and day out with the threat of constant danger. The pressure must be immense.
“We got lucky when we raided the Russian-Israeli Bank this morning,” he continues. “At first it seemed as if the bank was completely legitimate and we’d hit a dead end until we began to examine real estate transactions. Most of them were perfectly reasonable, but then one of our analysts questioned the validity of a couple of buildings because of where they are located. One is this warehouse. The Russian-Israeli Bank owns it. However, our analyst happens to have performed some work in another building not far from this location, and he remembered that it’s on a street full of derelict buildings. They’re all due for demolition sometime next year. We made a leap of faith and posted a hidden surveillance team outside the warehouse. Within an hour Eli Horowitz was seen leaving the building. He returned almost an hour later. The surveillance team is certain there are others in the building with him, but it’s not clear how many.”
“I don’t care how many assholes are in there,” I say. “I’m going to wipe them clean.”
Captain Weiss shrugged, not getting the poor attempt at humor. “I’ve been told by my superiors that this is really the U.S.’s show, although we’ll be supplying you with a backup team. In other words, you’re in charge. We’d like to arrest the men responsible for your daughter’s kidnapping and for the murder of Rivka Cohen, but should an accident befall any of them, there would be no questions asked by our government.”
That’s his way of saying I’m free to do whatever the hell I want with the kidnappers. I probably have Lambert to thank for that.
“I want to go in tonight. Alone,” I say.
“I assumed you would say that,” Weiss says. “Let’s meet your backup team first.”
After a forty-minute drive we reach the northern outskirts of Jerusalem and stop at a staging point in front of an auto parts factory. We’re in an industrial area, and the captain says the warehouse is two miles away. A team of ten Shin Bet Special Ops soldiers are here, equipped and ready to go. Shin Bet, or Shabak, is a branch of the ISF responsible for internal security. They spend a lot of time protecting government officials, preventing violent insurrection, gathering intelligence, pinpointing terrorist cells and dealing with them. Shin Bet’s activities are always classified. Their job is a lot like mine, so I feel as if I’m with family.
They appear well equipped, too. I really like their replacement for the Uzi, the Tavor “Bull Pup” Assault Rifle, made by Israel Military Industries. It comes in a few different designs, each one suited for specific needs. One of the men shows me his weapon and says it’s the Micro T.A.R., which is uniquely configured for security forces and special missions. They use a 30-round magazine of standard NATO 5.56mm ammunition.
Captain Weiss hands me a cell phone and tells me to call the kidnappers’ number. He says the phone is untraceable just in case they try to figure out where I’m calling from. I bring up the stored number on my OPSAT and dial. I get a recorded message from a man with a heavy Russian accent.
“Mr. Fisher, if you are in Jerusalem, please indicate so at the sound of the beep, and we will be in touch with you shortly.”
When I hear the tone I say, “This is Sam Fisher. I’m not in Israel yet but will be tomorrow morning. I’m traveling from a great distance. I will call again before noon and will await your instructions. Please keep my daughter safe.” I disconnect, look at the captain, and ask, “Now what?”