"You know, when I turn you over to my men, they will murder you and videotape it at the same time. They'll up-load the tape on an Islamic Web site and the whole world--and all of America--will see you beheaded. You areAmerican, are you not? You're not Swiss, like you said."
I don't answer.
"I assure you that if I had the time I could make you talk. But I'm in a bit of a hurry. I fear I'll have to expedite your sentence and make sure you're no longer a threat to me before I begin this morning's operation."
"And what might that be?" I ask. I hope to appeal to his ego. "That's an impressive-looking machine out there. What's it do?"
Tarighian's eyes flickered and he moved to the window. "It is lovely, isn't it? I call it the Babylon Phoenix. The Babylon because it's a reimagining of Gerard Bull's supergun that was designed for Iraq in the 1980s, and the Phoenix because it has been reborn from the ashes of its ancestor."
Hearing the mention of his creation, Mertens looks up and smiles at me.
"This is your doing, I gather?" I ask him.
The Belgian ignores me, but Tarighian answers for him. "Yes, Professor Mertens did an excellent job. To my specifications, of course."
"What's your game, Tarighian? What are you going to do?"
Upon hearing his real name, the man smiles at me. "You know who I am. I was afraid of that. Who do you work for, Fisher? The CIA? The FBI?"
"The NSA, not that it matters."
He shrugs. "No, it doesn't matter. You will be dead within the hour." He gestures toward the supergun and says, "The Babylon Phoenix utilizes nine tons of special supergun propellant that can fire a 600 kilogram projectile over a range of approximately 1,000 kilometers."
"That's what Bull's supergun was supposed to be able to do."
"Yes. Alternatively, I could launch a 200-kilogram object into orbit with the assistance of a 2,000-kilogram rocket. The barrel, when fully extended, is 156 meters long with a one-meter bore. The launch tube is 30 centimeters thick at the breech, tapering to 6.5 centimeters at the exit. Like the V-3, the gun is built in segments. Twenty-six six-meter-long sections make up the barrel, totaling 1,510 tons. Added to this are four 220-ton recoil cylinders and the 165-ton breech. The reinforcement around the breech is fifty feet of solid concrete, steel, and rock. From our base here in Cyprus, we can hit any target in the Middle East we wish."
"But it's crazy," I say. "You shoot the thing once and you'll have the entire world on top of you in no time."
"You're right," he answers.
"You only want to fire it once?"
"Yes. Once is all I need."
"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
THEREwas 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."