Splinter Cell has 6 entries in the series. Operation Barracuda. Splinter Cell ( Series). Book 2. David Michaels Author (). cover image of Checkmate. Read "Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Conviction" by David Michaels available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. Several. Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell Series. 7 primary works . Book 7. Blacklist Aftermath. by Peter Telep. · Ratings · 38 Reviews · published · 7 editions.
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Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath by Peter Telep. Sign me up to get more news about Fiction books Book 7. Available formats: Ebook (1) · Paperback (1). Sam Fisher must save one man's life to save his own country. Eccentric. Splinter Cell David Michaels ONE IT'S like being in a state of nonexistence. As he continues to twirl the gun, Wong scans the titles of the books. I guess the guy. Editorial Reviews. About the Author. A little more than thirty years ago Tom Clancy was a Book 1 of 7 in Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell (7 Book Series).
Not in United States? Choose your country's store to see books available for download. Several disastrous missions have depleted the ranks of the Splinter Cells. Third Echelon is training new recruits when a stunning piece of evidence is uncovered. Evidence that points to the mole who sold out his government Sam Fisher, Splinter Cell r operative.
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Actions Shares. Embeds 0 No embeds. No notes for slide. Operation Barracuda Full Books 1. The waiter looked a bit perturbed, since the two men had been occupying the table for over an hour and hadn't ordered more than coffee—and now ice cream. But the waiter smiled, said, "Merci," and walked away to the kitchen.
Vlad looked at his companion and shrugged. The other man, a Georgian who went by the name of "Yuri," started to say there wasn't enough time for dessert but decided instead to stay silent. Yuri checked his pocket to make sure the passkey was still there.
The Metropole still used old-fashioned skeleton keys for the rooms, and it had been a simple matter to steal a master from one of the maids earlier that morning.
Several minutes went by and still neither man said a word to the other. The waiter brought the ice cream and, as a hint, laid the bill on the table. Vlad almost complained that they weren't ready to leave yet, but Yuri gave him a look. Vlad thanked the waiter and smiled. As Vlad scooped the dessert into his mouth, Yuri continued to scan the pedestrians on the sidewalk. It was the usual midday crowd—businessmen, tourists, beautiful women, not-so-beautiful women… and then he spotted the mark.
Yuri nudged Vlad with his foot. Vlad looked up and saw a man carrying a briefcase make his way through the cafe to the front doors of the hotel.
Dirk Verbaken. Vlad quickly put money on the table, took one last spoonful of ice cream, and stood with Yuri. They both adjusted their neckties and then discreetly followed the lieutenant colonel inside.
An objective observer might guess that the two Russians were bankers, for they appeared to be men that worked with money. Perhaps they were lawyers. Or maybe they were corporate executives from very large firms. They exuded an air of sophistication, worldliness, and wealth, and that was precisely the image they wanted to project. None of it, of course, was true. After a moment the door opened to reveal a stocky American in his thirties.
He was dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants with a wet towel hung around his neck. Beside his left leg he carried a. The man shut the door and locked it, then turned to Verbaken with his hand out.
Rick Benton. Can I get you something to drink? You know, I've lived in Brussels all my life, but I've never been in a room in the Metropole," Verbaken said. He went to the minibar, fetched two bottles of springwater, and joined Verbaken. He looked at the Belgian and asked, "I assume you brought it?
He set his briefcase on his lap, opened it, and handed the file to Benton. Benton glanced at the number of pages in the folder and said, "Shouldn't be a problem. I can snap pictures of each page with this. Verbaken shook his head. I joined the service a couple of years after the man was killed. There may be one or two of the senior staff who knew him. Very interesting guy. I'm still looking into it, though. You might say it's a pet project of mine," Verbaken answered. I wouldn't mind being stationed in Europe instead of in that cesspool over in the Middle East," Benton said.
Verbaken chuckled. My wife and I—" Verbaken was interrupted by a knock at the door. The man froze and his eyes widened. Benton held up his hands. I ordered myself some lunch. That's room service. After looking through the peephole, Benton opened the door to a small man in a white coat. The waiter rolled in a cart that held three covered dishes. Once again he locked the door and resumed his position over the file. Oh, yes. New York City. Fascinating place.
He laid the pistol on the bed and lifted the lids on the food. Looks pretty good. Creamed potato soup with smoked eel, salmon flaky pastry with Sevruga caviar, asparagus, and a bottle of Duvel beer. Can't beat that, eh? I asked for a basket of bread.
And butter. Benton in I ordered some bread and butter with my lunch. It's not on the tray. Okay, thanks. He moved to the cart but was stopped by the sound of a key in the door. Benton did as he was told. Verbaken went pale. Vlad drew a gun of his own, a Glock, and pointed it at the Belgian. What do you want? Vlad struck the man across the face with the Glock. Verbaken held his hands to his cheek and bent forward. The Belgian complied, revealing an ugly scrape on the left side of his face.
Yuri motioned to the sofa. With the speed of a cat he grabbed a knife from the cart and threw it at Yuri. The Russian, however, was faster. He snapped his body sideways as the knife flew past him and hit the wall. Benton jerked backward and crashed into the food cart, creating a sickening cacophony of breaking glass and clanging pans.
The American eventually rolled off the cart and fell to the floor, facedown. In a panic Verbaken jumped to his feet and ran toward the door. Thwack thwack. This time Vlad's silenced Glock performed the dirty work. The Belgian slammed into the door and slid down slowly, leaving a bloody smear.
After a few silent seconds, Yuri observed, "Well, that didn't go very well. That made a lot of noise. He took the sheets of paper from the table—the stack that had already been photographed and the pages that hadn't. He then lifted his hard-heeled shoe and brought it down forcefully, smashing the device. See if his laptop is there. Bring the American's weapon if you can find it quickly," Yuri answered. Vlad grunted and went into the bedroom.
Yuri walked over to Benton's corpse and kicked the man's head. Now let's get out of here. He nodded to his partner and they left, shutting the door behind them. Three minutes went by before there was a knock at the door again. The silence prompted another knock. Knock knock. The waitress gasped, took in the sight of the other corpse on the far side of the room, and ran from the suite screaming.
This suburb of Baltimore has a reputation for being "hip" since Towson University is located here. I guess it's hip. I don't know. Maybe I'm just not very hip. I'm not a social guy. I don't date, I don't go out, and I stay pretty much to myself. When I'm not on an assignment for Third Echelon, I lead a relatively boring existence. I have no friends to speak of, my neighbors probably think I'm some kind of recluse, and the only shops I frequent are the nearby grocery store, a liquor store, and the dry cleaners in the strip mall over on York Road.
I like it that way. The townhouse is much too large for a single man in his forties. I have three floors in which to spread out. I indulge myself in simple pleasures such as a supersize flat-screen television, DVD player, and a surround-sound system. I keep a library of reference material in the lower floor, and that's also where my home office is. If someone were to look at the books in my library, they'd think I was a geography professor or maybe a history lecturer.
For my work I study the countries of the world. I try to keep abreast of everything that's happening politically and economically, especially in the so-called hot spots. Sometimes a single bit of knowledge about an unusual item that exists only in a given country can save your life.
Knowing who's really on your side and who's not is of primary importance when you're in the field. So every day I try to learn something new about a place. It keeps me sharp. I live near Towson Town Center, a huge indoor mall that attracts all the beautiful people in the area. I avoid it like the plague. I detest shopping malls because they're all the same. Same shops, same franchises, and the same ignorant people going about their daily business of spending money—usually someone else's.
When I need something, I go to out-of-the-way mom-and-pop shops. I can find clothes anywhere. In fact, I do an awful lot of online shopping. It keeps my personal interactions to a minimum. I want to remain as anonymous as possible.
I cook my own meals. I'm pretty good at it, too. That's one of the things that Sarah appreciates about me. She visits infrequently, but when she does she always wants me to cook for her instead of going out to a restaurant.
That's fine by me. Being able to cook is yet another valuable skill that's helpful in my profession. You wouldn't believe the number of strange and inhospitable places I've been where I've had to whip up a meal from whatever I could find around me. I've learned to eat some pretty disgusting stuff in my time, so being able to cook a decent gourmet meal on my own is a gift.
Although I don't go out much, there are a couple of places I frequent. One is a gym that's farther south on York, past the university. It's actually just over the line separating Towson with Baltimore. It's a funky little gym that appeals to minority toughs. Only a few white guys go there. It's mostly Hispanics and African-Americans who are into boxing or weight lifting. I imagine a lot of them are in gangs, but they don't bother me. The other place I go, and on a much more regular basis, is the Krav Maga studio that's in the same strip mall as my dry cleaners.
It's close enough that I walk there from the townhouse. And that's where I go today after breakfast. I put on my workout clothes—a jumpsuit, really—and make sure the security system is on.
I leave the house and begin the ten-minute walk to the strip mall. It's a fine day outside—spring has come early this year and we didn't have a bad winter. Of course, I was gone most of the winter, so it didn't matter. The assignment in the Far East took nearly three months. I was in Hong Kong for most of that time doing the preparation for the job in Macau.
The assignment also involved a couple of trips to Singapore. Tracing the Shop's arms pipeline in that area turned out to be more difficult than was originally predicted. I received mixed reviews for the Macau job. Lambert was pleased with all the stuff I got out of the casino's computer, but he wasn't happy about the killings.
Kim Wei Lo was indeed a very bad man and probably deserved to die, but Lambert felt we could have gotten more information out of him later. He would have gone down in the subsequent arrests that the Chinese government will surely initiate once the NSA provides them with the proof of the Shop's existence in their country and territories. Hell, I didn't set out to kill him, it just happened that way. It was either him or me.
Lambert understands that, but he was still perturbed. He'll get over it, though. As Splinter Cells go, I'm pretty lucky that I'm not assigned to a static location. Dan Lee, the agent who was killed in Macau, lived and worked in the Far East territory.
Of course, the guy was Chinese, so that made sense. But there are other Splinter Cells stationed in parts of the world where I certainly wouldn't want to stay all the time. I like coming back to the States between jobs, even if it's only to hip Towson, Maryland.
I guess I have a special designation within Third Echelon. Being the first Splinter Cell and an agent who can adapt easily to just about any place they send me, I'm more useful as a "contractor. I guess that still goes on. I've used numerous cover identities when I'm on a job and I have to sometimes learn trades and skills to make the cover more legitimate.
I hated it. Too much bureaucracy. Too much in-fighting and not enough cooperation between the other big agencies. In the CIA I had to spy in the traditional way—usually posing as a diplomat or someone in an official capacity.
I had to be in more social situations than I cared for. I'm not good at entertaining some prime minister and his wife and talking about the local politics. Later on I moved to a stateside job in weapons development. I thought I came up with some pretty good theoretical work on information warfare, but the bureaucratic machine hampered my creativity.
It was extremely frustrating. I was reluctant at first, but Lambert did a pretty good job of flattering me. He told me I was the only man for the job. I was a "rare specimen," he said. I was a spy who had never come close to being caught. I had a lifetime's worth of espionage experience I'm four years older than Lambert!
He told me I knew how to survive and stay invisible. He knew I could keep a secret. So I joined. The Macau job was pretty typical of what I do. My cover in Hong Kong was that of a journalist, which is something I've been on several occasions.
I was supposedly working on a book about the changes in Hong Kong since the handover in To tell the truth, I didn't see that many changes. I'd been to Hong Kong many times before and a couple of times since, and I can't tell much difference other than the fact that there are fewer Brits now. Still, there are some British government agencies left in Hong Kong. They provided the private boat that got me to Macau and back. The rest of it I had to do alone, though.
I motored around the peninsula at night and moored a couple of miles from the main port. Like the Americans, the Brits supposedly had no knowledge of my presence or actions in the area, although the U. That's why they helped.
I get to the strip mall and walk inside KM Studio, early as usual. I'm always the first one there. The instructor is an Israeli woman named Katia Loenstern. She's thirty-something and extremely attractive. Very buff and strong, too. I think she likes me, but I can't reciprocate.
It's just too dangerous in my business to get involved with someone. Besides, I never know when I have to leave the country, and I can't talk about what I'm doing. It's not the best set of circumstances upon which to build a relationship. I don't particularly enjoy being celibate, but I've trained myself not to think about it. I can appreciate looking at a beautiful woman, but that's as far as my thought process goes.
I've been able to find the discipline to stymie it there before I allow the desire mechanism to kick in. Katia is in the studio, limbering up on a ballet rail. I think she rents the studio to a ballet class on some days. I can't imagine that Krav Maga classes alone pay the rent. I thought you'd disappeared off the face of the earth. I was in the Far East. I hadn't been to class in three months even though I had paid for the whole year in advance.
At least it was the truth. I should have told you I'd be gone a while. As usual, she's dressed in a leotard and tights for the warm-up. She'd put on a little more clothing later for the sparring portion of the class. Katia is tall, muscular, and has a nice, natural body. Her black hair comes down just past her shoulders.
She has brown eyes, a long nose, and a rather pouty mouth. Yep, I would certainly jump her bones in another life. Overseas sales. I was in the Far East for three months. I begin my own warm-up stretches and ask, "I don't? What does a salesman look like? Just not like you. Like a career soldier. Someone who's been in the army for thirty years. I'm not that old! Okay, twenty years. How old are you, anyway? I forgot. Maybe even thirty-eight. And that's getting pretty close to me. Is she flirting?
Was that a come-on? Come on, I fessed up. Josh and Brian are orthodox Jews who believe that "the war" will come to their neighborhood someday, and they want to be able to defend themselves. They're big guys.
I don't think they'd have any problem defending themselves, with or without Krav Maga. Over the next ten minutes the other students arrive. Out of twelve people, nine are men ranging from age sixteen to forty-something I think I'm the oldest guy in the class. The three women are relatively young, between eighteen and thirty, I think.
Katia's a very good instructor. She starts each class with a basic warm-up that includes some kind of aerobic activity, strength conditioning with pushups and sit-ups, and stretching. Warmups are usually different in each class to keep things interesting and to ensure that each student leaves with a variety of exercises that can be used to keep fit outside of class.
Following warm-up, Katia leads us in hand techniques for fifteen minutes. This time is devoted to hand strikes such as punches, elbows, and hammerfists, and associated defenses.
The next fifteen minutes focus on leg techniques— kicks, knees, and their defenses. The final quarter hour is spent on self-defenses, and in Krav Maga there's a lot to learn.
Katia goes through each self-defense move thoroughly, step-by-step to ensure maximum understanding. Then we practice live, with partners. The entire hour includes drills to enhance muscle strength and cardiovascular conditioning, as well as drills to teach students how to operate under pressure or fatigue, defend against multiple attackers, and keep fighting spirit high for the entire duration of a defense or fight.
Unlike the color belt system used by other martial arts systems, Krav Maga is broken down into levels. When you progress through the system, you move up in level until you reach 3B, the most advanced class that Katia teaches. That's the one I'm in, as well as "Fight Class," where we have the opportunity to spar while wearing protective gear. In 3B we work on weapons defenses, grappling, joint locks, spinning heel, and slap kicks, and other advanced combatives.
When the hour's up, everyone is in a major sweat. I can't wait to get home and hit the shower. As folks are leaving, I wipe my face and neck with a towel and catch my breath. Katia comes over to me and says, "Sam, you should be teaching this class, not me. You've been doing this a long time, haven't you?
I mean, I knew you were good, but today you showed me a thing or two.
Where did you study before? Are you from Israel? Born and raised here in the States. I'd really hate to fight you for real. Or something cold to drink? We can go to the little diner next door. This is all I need. Part of me wants to go with her and the rest of me wants to run like hell. I just can't get close to a woman. I know it doesn't work. I've been there, done that. I'm not going to bite you. I might kick you in the groin if you don't, but I won't bite. You looking for every excuse you can think of?
We'll sit in the corner and no one will smell us. She shakes her head as if to say, "I just don't get you.
Katia downloads a medium coffee, black. I opt for decaf. I don't like to have to depend on stuff like caffeine. If you get too used to coffee to keep you alert, you have no business being a Splinter Cell. Now comes the hard part. She's probably going to ask me a lot of personal questions and I'm going to have to lie. I keep a catalog of cover stories for situations like this.
The usual "What do you do for a living? We sit at a table and she grins at me. Here we are. See, this isn't so bad. Maybe if I keep my end of the conversation monosyllabic, she'll get bored. You get to travel a lot?
I travel to other countries and sell ball bearings. It's real exciting. Just the traveling part would interest me. Believe me, it's not as exotic as it seems. What do you do besides take Krav Maga classes?
Sometimes the shy act turns off women and sometimes it makes them more interested. I'm hoping it'll discourage her since she's such an outgoing lass. I live alone. I'm not much of a socialite. You must have a dozen girlfriends. She looks heartened.
Maybe I should have told her I had six girlfriends that live with me. Damn, this is hard. Bad marriage or something? You're not married, are you? But no, I'm not. I was married for four years when I was just out of college. Big mistake. Haven't looked back. She died. That sure put a damper on things. Maybe I should just tell the truth more often. How long were you married? I have a daughter going to college in Illinois. I shrug.
Doesn't everyone? You want to try one of Katia Loenstern's specials some night? I don't want to tell her that I like to cook, too.
That would just give us something in common. It pains me to have to tell her this. She looks as if I'd just slapped her. Thanks, really. But I just can't do that. I'm sorry.
I said I don't bite. I try to put on the introverted, scared-of-women act to dissuade her. I really thought that would do the trick, but instead she says, "Bullshit! You think I'm gorgeous. I can tell.
Come on, what is it with you? I don't… I can't get involved, all right? Let's just be friends. Look, we all have pasts we want to hide. Don't worry about it. We'll be friends if that's what you want. I look at the time and say, "Well, I guess I'd better be going.
I have some, uhm, sales reports to do this afternoon. Will you be at the next class? You never know, though, in my job. I take it and give it a light squeeze.
And then we separate. She goes back to the studio and I begin the walk home, cursing at myself for being such a shit. I keep a regular unlisted home phone line. There's an extension in the kitchen, on the middle level, right when you walk into the house. I pick up the receiver and I hear Sarah's sweet voice. I'm happy to hear from you," I say. I honestly get a warm, fuzzy feeling when I talk to her. We're so excited.
The airport? Where are you going? We've been planning this for—" "Sarah, we discussed this at length! I told you that you couldn't go. Come on, you didn't come right out and say I couldn't go. You didn't want me to go, but you didn't say I couldn't go.
Israel's just too volatile right now. With the state of things in the world with respect to Americans, I'm just not comfortable with it. I'm twenty years old! You can't stop me now! We're on our way to the airport as we speak!
I have my tickets and everything! What am I supposed to do about this? I'll try to figure out what the time difference is and not call you in the middle of the night. I gotta go. I love you. Damn it. I guess I had forgotten all about her plans. Sarah wanted to go with her friend Rivka to Israel over spring break. I had told her I wasn't too crazy about her going to such a dangerous location but I guess I wasn't forceful enough.
What can I do? Technically, she's an adult. She's a junior. I think. Sometimes I forget how long she's been in college. Rivka is her best friend and she happens to be from Israel. They're supposedly going to stay with Rivka's family in Jerusalem for a little less than a week. I glance at the photo of Sarah that's stuck on the refrigerator with a magnet. She's the spitting image of her mother. Beautiful and smart. A class act all the way. The only thing she inherited from me was my stubbornness.
The memory of Regan giving birth flashes through my mind. It was a difficult labor and being on a U. Regan had a job as a cryptanalyst for the NSA. We met in Georgia, of all places.
We had a stormy affair and Regan got pregnant. The wedding was a small, quiet one on the base in Germany, and that's where Sarah was born. I don't like to reflect on the three years Regan and I were together. It wasn't a happy time. I loved Regan and she loved me, but our professions interfered. It was a distant, difficult marriage. Regan eventually went back to the States and took Sarah with her. She reclaimed her maiden name, Burns, and had Sarah's legally changed.
As for me, I dedicated myself entirely to the work, operating extensively in Germany, Afghanistan, and the Soviet satellites in the years leading up to the collapse of the USSR.
Needless to say, I became estranged from Regan and Sarah. I think Sarah was fifteen when Regan died. That was so goddamned hard. I hadn't spoken to Regan in years, and I tried my best to have a reconciliation with her when I learned that she had less than a year to live. Fucking ovarian cancer. It doesn't take a trained psychologist to figure out why I'm afraid of commitment now.
Living with the guilt of not being there while Sarah was growing up and then facing the fact that the woman you love is dying will turn anyone off from relationships.
I became Sarah's legal guardian, and that's when I took the bureaucratic job with the CIA in the States, hoping I could settle into a suburban life and focus more on her upbringing. Unfortunately, I have enough trouble being comfortable around human beings in general, much less a teenage girl. It was an awkward, difficult time. I suppose, though, that it's turned out okay.
After she graduated from high school, Sarah seemed to come around and appreciate me more. I've read that all teenagers go through the same thing. Once they leave the nest, they become your friend. Thank goodness that's what happened with us.
I wish I could see her more often. I hear myself sigh as I force these thoughts out of my head. I walk downstairs to the office so I can check my other answering machine. My line to the NSA isn't a phone at all. It's really more of a pager embedded in a paperweight on my desk.
If the pin light is on, that means I need to contact Lambert from a secure line outside the house. I don't ever call on my home line. The pin light is on. Every night it was the same thing, except on Sundays when the theater was dark. Even days were bad because of matinees. As the officer in charge of the area surrounding the National Theatre in London, PC Perkins felt that supervising traffic was below his station. Nevertheless, he did it without complaint.
He didn't actually have to direct traffic— thank God for that—except in the case of an emergency, a royal event, or if some idiot did something to cause an accident.
Perkins had walked this beat for the last twenty-two years and would probably be doing it for at least the next ten. Perkins could always put in for a transfer, but his superiors always frowned upon such requests. At age forty-three, he felt, he was becoming a bit long in the tooth for this type of work.
On weekday evenings traffic was even worse because of the business day rush hour. Waterloo Bridge loomed overhead, running from northwest to southeast across the Thames to the South Bank.
The mass of vehicles traversing that particular road never let up. At rush hour, before the theater's evening performance, it was at its worst. Perkins wondered why more people didn't just take the tube and walk. Certainly it was simpler and less annoying. Perkins usually stood at the intersection of Theatre Avenue and Upper Ground because the only place coaches could let off passengers was on Upper Ground at the back of the theater.
Thus, he was practically directly beneath Waterloo Bridge and had to deal with the noise of the traffic above him. It gave him a daily headache. It was now 6: Perkins stood at the crossroad and watched as irritable coach drivers continued to stop, then move, stop, then move.
Civilian and taxi drivers moving along Theatre Avenue had even worse tempers. They expected the world to stop so that they could see the latest Shakespearean production. Perkins had lived in London his entire life and had never been inside the National Theatre except to investigate reports of theft, sick patrons, or the occasional belligerent guest. Not once had he sat in one of the three theaters to watch something. He didn't really care to. He wasn't into "high brow" entertainment. When he had told his wife that, she'd replied that back in Shakespeare's day the plays were considered entertainment for the lower and middle classes.
Perkins had nothing to say to that. A blast of car horns on Theatre Avenue pulled his attention away from a density of taxis on Upper Ground. He squinted in that direction and was aghast at what he saw moving slowly along the street and eventually stopping on double red lines, halting traffic. It was a large lorry pulling a flatbed covered with theater scenery. Three "actors" were performing on it for the benefit of pedestrians and cars trying to go around the lorry. Perkins had never seen anything like this in all his many years on the South Bank.
For one thing, lorries weren't allowed on that particular road. Perkins grabbed the radio from his belt and contacted his second-in-command, PC Blake, who was stationed on the other side of the theater. They're doing some kind of show.
It's causing all kinds of problems over here. He had to stop, though, and direct a number of cars around the lorry and then run back to the intersection to unclog a maze of taxis that formed in less than ten seconds. Perkins cursed and slapped the bonnet of one of the taxis, telling the driver to hurry around and lay off the horn.
Blake came back on the radio. They didn't provide this so-called entertainment. That does it. Thank you, Blake. He was angry now and he pitied the poor soul he was about to berate.
He left the chaos at the intersection and walked with purpose to the lorry. The actors were dressed in medieval attire and speaking lines that no one could hear due to the traffic on the bridge overhead. What was the bloody point? Perkins wondered.
The driver sat in the cab bobbing his upper body in a strange fashion. He appeared to be Middle Eastern—he had a dark complexion and black facial hair. Perkins stepped up to the window and rapped loudly on it.
You've got to move! You're not supposed to be here! The driver didn't look at him. He continued to bob back and forth, muttering something to himself.
Please lower your window! I'm speaking to you! He was praying. As soon as the realization hit him, Perkins's heart nearly stopped. He gasped and stepped back from the lorry, but it was too late. The explosives were so powerful that they obliterated the lorry and its troupe of suicide "actors," eight vehicles on Theatre Avenue, and caused a section of Waterloo Bridge to collapse.
Fourteen motorcars fell off the bridge, causing a massive, burning pileup. The side of the theater facing the blast was singed and several windows were broken. Sixtytwo people were killed and nearly a hundred and fifty were injured. Constable Perkins never had to supervise traffic at the National Theatre again.
EACH major broadcast network covered the disaster in the U. A bright female reporter caught Namik Basaran as the fifty-twoyear-old man rushed out of the Ritz Hotel to travel to Embankment and view the scene personally. Close beside him was his bodyguard, a broad-shouldered man wearing a turban.
Basaran, can you tell us what your visit to London entails? Basaran, a swarthy man with a noticeable skin condition, spoke to the camera. For the four years of our existence we have provided relief aid to victims of terrorist attacks all over the world. The United Kingdom is no exception. I hope to authorize the release of several thousand pounds to help the victims of this horrible tragedy.
Could you elaborate on this? That is nonsense. Terrorism is fluid. It changes daily. Terrorism used to be hijacking an aircraft and forcing the pilot to take it to another location. This evolved into holding hostages aboard the craft to force governments to do something. Now we have hijackers willing to die on an airplane and kill every passenger along with them.
Terrorists have become more desperate and bold. Had it been grafted?
Suffice it to say that I've experienced tragedy in my life and have dedicated the personal profits I make from my legitimate company, Akdabar Enterprises, to benefit Tirma.