Splinter Cell (2004) (14 page)

“Army brat.”

She nodded. “I guess so.”

“But they didn’t stay together?”

“No. It lasted three years. I really don’t remember much about my father living with us at the time. I was three when he left. My mom always said that the breakup was mutual—in fact it was her idea for him to go away—but I can’t help thinking that he abandoned me. I guess any kid whose father leaves would think that.”

“So what happened?”

“Mom took me back to the States. She continued to work in Washington and raised me by herself. I didn’t really get to know my dad until I was a teenager. I’d see him every now and then, and he was like this
stranger
who’d come see us, claiming to be my father. He’d bring me presents and stuff, but it all seemed very detached. Then there was a period of time I didn’t see him at all. Several years. It was between the time I was nine years old and . . . fifteen, I guess.”

“Where was he?”

“I don’t know. Mom never said. Maybe she told him to stay away, I really don’t know. Anyway, it was after mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. That’s when he showed up again. He came to see her in the hospital and even tried for a reconciliation, but it wasn’t to be. After she died, he became my guardian.”

“And then you lived with him?”

“Yep. And it was weird. I was in high school and suddenly I lived with a man who was supposed to be my father. It was rough going at first, but I guess it turned out all right. We became friends, especially after I graduated and went to college.” She shrugged and smiled. “Now I think he’s a great guy.”

“Even though he’s so
mysterious
.” Eli exaggerated the word with a whisper.

“Oh stop.”

“Hey, I’m going to run downstairs and get a couple of sandwiches. How does that sound?”

“Okay.”

“Stay here and I’ll be back in a few minutes. You want
meat
, right?”

She laughed. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

“Coming right up.”

He got up from the table and left the apartment, leaving Sarah shaking her head and wondering how she got involved with such an interesting man.

Downstairs, Eli stood outside the deli below his apartment, pulled out his cell phone, and made a quick call.

“Everything checks out with Sam Fisher,” he said. “He was with the CIA in the nineteen-eighties and he married a woman named Regan Burns. She died of cancer and they had one daughter. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and supposedly works as a ‘salesman.’ ”

Eli listened to the voice on the other end and then said, “Right. Definitely. It’s just as you suspected. It’s him—he’s the one.”

I have to enter Iran illegally. Iraq wasn’t a problem because of the U.S. presence there. Iran, however, is a different story. Of course, an ordinary tourist or official governmental representative could simply apply for a visa and enter the country. Despite the prevalent notion in America that Iran is a hostile and dangerous place, it is actually a relatively warm and friendly place. I have been to Iran on numerous occasions, mostly to Tehran, and I’ve always found the people to be helpful and welcoming. Things have relaxed in the country since the heyday of the Islamic Revolution. There was a time when the
komite
, the religious police, were comparable to the Gestapo. Not anymore—today they are hardly visible on the streets. Nevertheless, you have to watch yourself. You must abide by the laws, especially the religious ones, stay away from rallies and demonstrations, and avoid talking about politics.

But since I’m on a Third Echelon assignment, I can’t very well get a visa and enter the country by the normal channels. Even my Interpol cover won’t fly in Iran, and I certainly wouldn’t get anywhere telling the Immigration authorities that I’m with the NSA. So, even more than in Iraq, I have to be invisible.

The worst part about it is that I have to abandon the Toyota Land Cruiser in Iraq and make my way across the border on foot. Once I’m in Iran, I have to find transportation to Tabriz. Walking isn’t an option.

I drive east before dawn, through Rawanduz, until I’m a mile away from the border checkpoint. I pull off the highway at the first dirt road I see, drive a ways, and stop. I make sure I have all my belongings, and then I leave the keys in the car. Some lucky son of a bitch is going to find himself a free SUV! I get out and walk across the rugged terrain, avoiding the highway, until I see the checkpoint in the distance. I’m on a hill overlooking the highway. I count three armed guards stopping vehicles traveling in both directions. On the other side of the border is another checkpoint run by the Iranians. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but I have only an hour or so before daylight destroys my chances of getting across today.

I strip down to my uniform, stuff my outer clothes in the Osprey, and make my way down the hill. I dart from one large bush or tree or boulder to another, pausing at each step to make sure I haven’t been seen. It’s unlikely. My uniform is dark and there are no lights on the hill. The guards’ attention is focused on the vehicles entering and leaving the country.

In fifteen minutes I’m at ground level, lying on the slope of a ditch, my head barely peeking over the top so I can see the checkpoint. They don’t expect anyone on foot to try and cross over. If I stay down and move laterally east, I should make it. I wait until a car approaches the checkpoint and one of the guards talks to the driver.

Employing a crablike maneuver on all fours, I traverse the ditch. I’m parallel with the checkpoint when one of the agents steps out to smoke a cigarette. He walks to the side of the building that faces me and gazes at the night sky. I can’t take a chance of him seeing me, so I lie perfectly still.

Shit, he’s starting to walk toward the ditch. He’s lost in thought, tugging on the cigarette, probably wondering what he’ll have for breakfast when he gets off his shift. However, I’m close enough that he could possibly spot me if I move.

Then one of his associates calls for him. The guard acknowledges the summons, takes one last drag on the cigarette, and then tosses the butt toward me. It lands a foot away from my face and it’s still burning. Luckily he doesn’t bother to look where the butt fell—he’s forgotten all about it as he walks back to the building.

I take the opportunity to pick up the butt and rub it out in the dirt.

Once again I apply the crab walk to move farther east. Now I have two checkpoints to watch. At this time in the early morning there is very little traffic. I’m fortunate that there were one or two cars going through to mask my transit thus far. Now, though, there’s nothing. The road is deadly quiet. The Iraqi border guards retreat into their checkpoint building, but there’s a lone Iranian outside of his. He’s standing there, looking west, as if a parade of cars is on the way and he’s preparing himself to inspect them. What’s he doing?

The guy calls out to the Iraqi checkpoint. He waits a few seconds, then calls again. Someone’s name. In a moment the cigarette-smoking Iraqi I saw earlier comes out of his building. He shouts back to the Iranian. I don’t understand what the Iranian says, it’s in Farsi, a language I can’t speak. I have an easier time
reading
Farsi than speaking it, because written Farsi is very similar to Arabic. The Iraqi nods and the two men walk toward each other. Shit, what’s going on? They meet halfway between the two checkpoints, and I realize I have nothing to worry about. The Iraqi pulls out his cigarette pack and offers one to the Iranian. They share a joke, I think, for they talk and laugh, and after five minutes they separate and stroll back to their respective positions.

All clear. I literally crawl into Iran.

I continue to walk in the darkness, remaining off the highway. The sky is beginning to turn deep orange and red. The sun will be up within minutes. I have to find a place to stay put through the day, and I think I see a good possibility about a mile ahead, where the highway crosses a bridge.

Ten minutes later I’m at the bridge just as the sun peeks over the hills directly in front of me. The bridge spreads across a ravine that appears to be a good two hundred feet deep. This is very hilly country—these foothills eventually become the volcanic Sabalan and Talesh mountain ranges.

Bridges are among my most frequented hotels. The accommodations are not always of the four- or five-star variety, but they usually offer me what I need the most—privacy.

I make my way down the hill to the edge of the highway, then inch down the steep slope next to the bridge. I grab the steel supports and climb up and around to the inside. It’s an easy ascent to the underside of the highway, where a hollow section—a ledge—runs the complete length of the bridge. It’s about four feet wide, with headspace of a couple of feet. It’s perfect for me to lie in, as long as I don’t roll over in my sleep and fall off. It’s never happened before.

Before retiring for the day, I send a text message to Lambert via my OPSAT, telling him I’m in Iran and on my way to Tabriz. I then eat a very satisfying pack of rations. It’s not a gourmet meal by any means, but it reduces the hunger pangs and lulls me into the disposition to get some shut-eye.

And that’s where I sleep most of the daylight hours—underneath a bridge, the highway into Iran directly over my prone body.

 

 

MY
OPSAT wakes me at nine o’clock that night, after the sun has set. The constant rumbling of vehicles passing over the bridge hasn’t kept me awake—on the contrary, there’s something akin to white noise about it. I slept like a log.

I carefully slip out from my crawl space under the bridge, grasp the support, and climb down to the ground. I move away from the road and into the brush, where my presence will go unnoticed. I sit behind a tree and check my OPSAT. Lambert has left a message—

 

 

Okay. Now the trick is finding a ride to Tabriz. Hitch-hiking isn’t an option, so I start the long walk to the next town, which is Mahabad—about thirty miles away. I estimate I can make it in seven or eight hours. The drawback is the up-and-down terrain, which contributes to the wear and tear on my legs and feet. I silently thank Katia Loenstern for all the leg exercises she had us do in Krav Maga class. It’s tough going and I have to stop and rest several times, which makes me realize it’s going to take a lot longer than I initially thought. What the hell, I’ve had to rough it many times in my career, though, and this is a relatively tame sojourn compared to some.

Along the way I pass through a couple of seemingly deserted whistle-stop villages. While Iran is a very modern country, the rural parts still contain vestiges of the past. You’ll see shepherds dressed in the same type of clothing that was worn hundreds of years ago. Not everyone drives cars. If I happen to get hurt or ill, I’m on my own. There aren’t going to be any emergency clinics on the road. This thought flits through my mind when I hear wolves howling in the deep woods to my left.

It’s nearly morning when I finally reach Mahabad. Not a large town, but bigger than a village, it’s a rural community that is just beginning to rouse from slumber. I hear the musical intonations of Islamic morning prayers drifting through the air—something I have to admit I find very soothing. Besides the dominant Persian population of Iran, the region where I’m headed is full of Kurds and Azerbaijanis. Persians are direct descendents of the Aryans that first inhabited the land about four thousand years ago, and they make up over half the total population in the country. Nearly everyone in Iran is a Shiite Muslim, the Islamic branch that dictates the cultural, religious, and political direction of the country. Sunni Muslims make up a small ten percent or so. It’s interesting to note that in the rest of the world, almost all Muslims are of the Sunni variety—but in Iran, and most of Iraq, the majority is Shiite.

I wander into town, now dressed in casual clothing with my uniform underneath. It’s not as hot here in the mountain region, so I’m fairly comfortable. Most Persians are light-skinned and can pass for a Westerner if they have to. I blend right in, even with my darker complexion. I probably look as if I’ve just come off the bus from Tehran. No one looks twice at me. As long as I don’t have to talk I’ll be fine.

Most of the men are wearing the traditional
jeballa
, a full-length robe, and many wear turbans. In the bigger cities you’ll see men wear Western clothing—suits, casual trousers, and shirts. The women, however, are almost always covered in the
hejab
, the modest dress. This is usually represented by the
chador
, a tentlike cloak that is draped loosely over the head, legs, and arms. Nothing that suggests the shape of the body can be worn. All bits of skin except for the hands, feet, and face above the neckline and below the hairline must be covered. In the cities women can get away with wearing a full-length skirt or even trousers worn beneath a long dark coat known as a
roupush
. The hair is covered by a simple headscarf. Here, though, everything’s more traditional, more old-fashioned.

I find what I’m looking for at the edge of town. It’s a sort of minor truck stop for commercial vehicles traveling to the north. I walk around to the back of the place where I can’t be seen and sit down to wait for my ride. Thirty minutes later it arrives.

It’s a ten-wheeler truck—perfect for my needs—with the words “Tabriz Moving Company” painted in Farsi on the side. I wait until the right moment, when the driver is inside the station using the washroom, then I run to the back of the rig, crouch, and crawl beneath the hot flatbed. I turn my belt all the way around so that the buckle is on my back and pull out the hook. I then lodge my body up above the axles, facedown, and position myself so I can hold on to and rest my legs on parts of the chassis with the hook securing me in place. It’s not the most comfortable way to ride a hundred miles, but I’ve done it many times, and it really isn’t so bad as long as you keep your wits about you, don’t fall asleep, and never let go.