24 Declassified: 01 - Operation Hell Gate

by Marc A. Cerasini

  Caitlin stared at Jack as if he’d grown a second nose. Then she laughed out loud. “Terrorist! Are you daft? You can’t be thinking about Shamus. The man might buy stolen goods here and there, but international terrorism? Mother in heaven, no.”

  They both heard a crash from above. Jack grabbed Caitlin’s arm and dragged her across the tavern and up the stairs. In the small living room, Shamus was awake and struggling. He’d knocked over a chair trying to free himself. When Caitlin saw Shamus tied up on the floor, she froze; her green eyes went wide. Jack pushed her into the couch.

  “Sit down and keep quiet,” he told her. Then he reached down and tore the tape away from Shamus’s

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  mouth. The man spit out a bundle of cloth and launched into a stream of obscenities.

  Jack grabbed what he could of the man’s short red hair. “Why did you shoot down that airplane tonight?”

  Shamus howled like an animal and spit at Jack. Bauer cuffed him, drawing blood. “Where is the missile launcher now?”

  “You’re from CTU,” Shamus said. “The Counter Terrorist Unit.”

  “Where is the missile launcher?” Jack yelled.

  Shamus clamed up. He glared darkly at Jack, spat a mouthful of blood.

  “That attaché case you handed over to Dante Arete in Tatiana’s Tavern. You remember, Shamus. The silver metal case full of money?”

  Jack heard Caitlin’s sharply drawn breath when he mentioned the case, pretended not to.

  “It exploded a few hours ago. Right in the middle of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. Killed Arete and everyone else with him. Any more attaché cases like that one floating around, Shamus? Any more fatal surprises for the poor bastard who opens it?”

  Shamus glared at Jack, but refused to speak.

  “For God’s sake, tell him,” Caitlin cried.

  “Shut up, Cait!” Shamus yelled. “Talk and I’ll kill you. Don’t say anythin’ to this lyin’ pig—”

  Jack struck Shamus with the butt of his gun. The man’s head snapped to the side, then dropped to the floor. Caitlin stared at Shamus in horror. He was either unconscious or dead. Caitlin couldn’t be sure.

  When she looked at Jack, he had fixed his gaze on her. “You know something.” His voice was ice. “Talk to me now or I’ll do to you what I did to him.”

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 A.M. AND 5 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  4:02:56 A.M.EDT The Last Celt

  “Don’t hurt me, please. I’ll tell you what I know, but not here.” Caitlin gestured toward Shamus Lynch. Jack could see she was afraid of Shamus being conscious enough to hear.

  “Let’s go,” Jack said, yanking the woman off the couch and pushing her ahead of him down the stairs. In the middle of the tavern, Jack set up a table and two chairs. Pushed her into one chair and sat down opposite her. “Tell me what you know.”

  “My...my fifteen-year-old brother has one of those cases you were talking about. Shamus is paying him to deliver it to someone.”

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  “Your brother is part of this conspiracy?”

  Caitlin shook her tangled mane of red-gold hair. “No, no ...He just took the job tonight. It’s a delivery. That’s all.”

  “A name,” Jack demanded.

  But Caitlin lifted her chin. “No. Not unless you let me go with you.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, you don’t know what my brother looks like, and I don’t have a picture, so you’ll never find Liam without me.” Then Caitlin glanced at the ceiling over her head. “And unless you plan on locking Shamus up, you know what he’ll do to me.”

  “I can’t lock him up ...Not yet.”

  “Then he’ll hurt me.”

  Jack couldn’t explain to this woman what was really going on—that he was on the run, that the FBI and the NYPD were probably looking for him right now.

  “Okay,” Jack said softly. “I’ll take you with me.”

  Caitlin nodded. “One more thing. Show me an ID. An official badge or something like that. Just so I believe you.”

  Jack reached into his jacket and produced his CTU identification card. Caitlin’s brow furrowed as she studied the card, Jack’s image. Then she nodded again.

  “Brooklyn,” she said. “Liam is on his way to Brooklyn.”

  “Who is he going to deliver the case to?”

  “The man’s name is Taj. He has some sort of business in Brooklyn. That’s all I know.”

  “You don’t know what’s in the case?”

  Caitlin shook her head. “Liam never opened it. Not in front of me, anyway.”

  “Any idea what part of Brooklyn?”

  “Liam said he was taking the Number 7 to Times Square, then he’s changing trains to get to Brooklyn. He’d be going to Atlantic Avenue, but I don’t know which subway stop he’ll use.”

  Jack stood, pocketed the key to the front door. “Wait here.” As he walked back upstairs, he passed the tavern’s phone. He ripped it loose from the wall and threw it into a corner.

  Upstairs, Jack used his PDA to snap a digital image of Shamus Lynch and sent the data to Jamey Farrell’s computer. Then Jack checked the bonds on Shamus Lynch and replaced the gag. Without resources on this coast, he was forced to abandon his prisoner here in the probably vain hope that Lynch could be recovered by the proper authorities before he managed to free himself. At least he would be out of action for the next several hours—long enough for Jack to locate Caitlin’s brother and the other attaché case.

  Satisfied he had done all he could do, Jack went downstairs, to find Caitlin waiting for him by the locked front door.

  4:33:46 A.M.EDT Green Dragon Computers, Los Angeles

  “There seems to be a whole lot of activity on that loading dock, considering it’s one o’clock in the morning.”

  They sat at a red light on East Third Street, Tony behind the wheel. At his side, Jessica Schneider slipped her mini-binoculars into a pocket. Out of uniform, she opted for tight black denims and stacked

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  boots, lightweight summer blouse under a short leather jacket to hide her sidearm. Tony thought she looked fit.

  And she probably skis Vail and rides thoroughbreds, too, Tony mused. The benefits of growing up the privileged daughter of a Texas congressman. A lot different pastimes than life for a Latino kid on the south side of Chicago, playing pick-up hoops on broken concrete and hustling your way into Cubs games.

  “I’m going to open your window a bit,” Tony said, hitting the switch. Tinted, bulletproof glass descended a few inches, then stopped. Fresh night air filled the compartment—surprisingly cool for Los Angeles. A freak rainstorm had washed the late-night streets. Now the night was luminous with reflected light.

  Tony twisted a knob on the dashboard, unspooled a long, thin, flexible wire. He passed it to Jessica.

  “Use this.”

  There was an array of miniature lenses on the tip, and a mount that fit into a hook on the ceiling above the open window. Jessica slipped the tiny video camera into place. From his controls on the steering column, Tony popped the glove compartment and activated the video screen hidden inside.

  “Camera’s on. I’ll roll by slowly. Watch the screen, not them. Let the camera be your eyes. Use the center control to zoom in or out. The onboard computer will record the images and send them back to CTU for further analysis.”

  The stoplight went from red to green. There was no one behind him, so Tony edged forward. Ahead, the reptilian neon glow of the Green Dragon Computers sign, a serpentine Chinese dragon forming the letters, was mirrored on the wet pavement.

  The concrete block building that housed Green Dragon was located southeast of the Civic Center, in the heart of the redeveloped ethnic neighborhood called Little Tokyo. A maze of malls, restaurants, bookstores, and specialty and import shops, the area was the focal point of Japanese-American activity in LA.

 
According to their intelligence, the space now occupied by Green Dragon was formerly a Japanese supermarket, which explained the cavernous loading dock. Right now, the steel doors had been rolled up, the bright fluorescent lights filling the street.

  Captain Schneider stared at the screen in front of her. “I’ve got a good picture. I’m zooming in.”

  The tires hissed on the pavement. Tony kept his face pointed straight ahead. “What do you see?” he whispered.

  Jessica Schneider crouched low in the seat, straw-colored hair around her face, booted foot resting on the dash. Her pose was casual, almost sleepy, but her eyes focused intently on the screen as her fingers manipulated the controls.

  “There are four men, one supervising. He’s armed. An AK–47 is slung over his shoulder. A Dodge cargo truck—unmarked—is parked in the dock, the driver inside. The men are packing something up in a wooden crate, right there on the loading ramp. Can’t tell what it is. I’ll have to zoom in closer.”

  The SUV was almost past the open bay when Jessica Schneider spoke again. “It’s a Long Tooth missile launcher. They’re preparing it for shipment.”

  The building now behind them, the video screen went blank. Tony hung a left on Omar Street, pulled up to the curb. “I’ve got to call this in,” he said,

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  reaching for the radio. “We need backup to take this place down, seize that truck.”

  “No time to wait!” Jessica Schneider insisted. Before Tony could stop her, she was out the door and around the corner.

  “Son of a—” Tony switched off the engine, secured the vehicle. Then he drew his P228 and took off after his partner. He rounded the corner in time to see Jessica race up East Third, boots clicking on the sidewalk. Near the Green Dragon loading dock, she drew a Marine Corps–issue Beretta 92F from her jacket.

  Someone cried out a warning in Chinese. A shot struck the concrete near Captain Schneider’s boot. She aimed her weapon in the direction of the roof, squeezed off two shots. There was a howl of surprise and pain; a body plunged down the side of the building, hit the sidewalk with a wet smack. Feet pumping, Tony was about ten yards from Jessica when the Dodge truck roared out of the loading dock so fast the woman barely had time to roll out of its way. The vehicle bounced into the street in a shower of sparks, crossed two lanes of traffic, and sped away.

  Tony turned to check on Captain Schneider. She was running up the loading ramp, firing. One man pitched off the raised platform, the AK–47 still in his grip.

  “Wait! It might be a trap!” Tony called.

  Ignoring him, Jessica burst through the double doors and stormed into the building, gun blazing.

  4:42:24 A.M.EDT Tatiana’s Tavern

  “Don’t lie to me, Mr. Timko. We know you helped a man named Jack Bauer last night.”

  Frank Hensley, flanked by a pair of FBI agents, leaned against the bar. Waiting for Georgi Timko to reply, he scanned the tavern’s cheap yet suspiciously tidy interior: tables, chairs, booths, a wall-sized mirror behind the bar. Hensley could smell fresh paint.

  Georgi gazed impassively at the FBI agent. Hensley and his men had swept in for a predawn raid, searching for Jack Bauer. By the time the Federal agents arrived, however, all evidence of the violence the night before had been eradicated, the bodies disposed of. Georgi was confident. He knew an FBI search would turn up nothing he did not want to be found.

  “I don’t know this Bauer fellow,” said Georgi. “Perhaps if you describe him.”

  “We know he was here. We found Bauer’s Glock outside, in the parking lot,” said Hensley, displaying the weapon stashed in a clear evidence bag. “This weapon was used to kill two Federal marshals.”

  Timko shrugged. “Never saw it before. Perhaps it belongs to one of my customers. Many of them come from...how do you say it? Broken homes and troubled backgrounds.” He smiled.

  Another agent arrived, conferred quietly with Hensley. Timko knew the man was telling his superior that a search had turned up nothing but the Glock. Timko suppressed a chuckle, knowing he’d been successful. All they found was what he wanted them to find...

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  4:55:04 A.M.EDT Brooklyn/Queens Expressway

  The dark horizon bled color, dull purple edging out the black. Though the steel span of the Brooklyn Bridge was still swathed in shadows, the first hint of dawn was touching the sky. Jack drove past the ramp that would take them across the bridge to lower Manhattan. The city’s skyline, dominated by the twin World Trade Towers looming over Battery Park, was a mass of mammoth black boxes dotted with bars of lights and topped with peaks, spires, spidery antenna arrays.

  Caitlin, her fragile features pensive in the dim dashboard light, had said little beyond offering directions since they’d left Queens. Though Jack was itching to interrogate her further, he held back. He knew the worry she felt for her brother was clouding her thoughts, and Jack doubted he would get much useful information out of her in any case.

  The cell chirped. It was Nina, with intelligence information on the leads he’d provided CTU.

  “Interpol identified the man from the image you transmitted to us,” she began. “Shamus Lynch is an alias for Patrick Duggan. For decades, he and his brother, Finbar Duggan, were international arms smugglers for the Irish Republican Army and the PLO. Both men are suspected of involvement in several bombings and attempted bombings in Northern Ireland. The brothers were born in Hillsborough, a small town south of Belfast. Their father was beaten by British soldiers during a protest march in 1972—just a week before the Bloody Sunday massacre. The man initially survived the beating but died weeks later. Their mother died a few years after their father. She was killed by a pub bomb believed to have been planted by a loyalist paramilitary group, possibly the Ulster Freedom Fighters, a cover name used by the Ulster Defense Association. Reading between the lines, it appears Patrick’s older brother, Fin-bar, joined the Irish Republican Army after their mother’s death. He would have been around twenty at the time, making Patrick no more than ten, but apparently he went along for the ride.”

  “What led to their flight from Ireland then?”

  “Seems there was some kind of botched attempt on Queen Elizabeth II’s life during her trip to the Shetland Islands in 1981 to mark the official opening of an oil terminal. The Duggan brothers were involved in handling and planting the explosives, but their information on the royal route was a setup. The explosion only destroyed property some miles away from the Queen’s location, and the British swept up almost all of their associates in a dragnet.

  “The Duggans very narrowly escaped, fled by ship with the help of IRA arms suppliers and PLO sympathizers. They surfaced in Somalia, where they began their gunrunning business by working for a local warlord. During that time Patrick’s older brother was critically injured—there were even unconfirmed reports he’d been killed. Interpol was so sure Finbar Duggan was incapacitated, they moved his dossier to the inactive list.”

  “Apparently he’s recovered,” said Jack.

  “Watch out, Jack. The Duggan brothers are tech savvy and well-versed in explosives and terror tactics. Finbar was trained by Dmitri Rabinoff—”

  Former KGB, one of the best, Jack recalled. “Rabinoff trained Victor Drazen’s Black Dogs . . .”

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  “Listen, Jack. Jamey also ran the name Taj through CTU’s database of known terrorists and their associates. We tagged the search geographically, targeting the region around New York City and came up with a possible link. Are you familiar with the name Taj Ali Kahlil?”

  “No.”

  “During the Soviet occupation, Taj Ali Kahlil became a national hero for downing Soviet HIND helicopters with Stinger ground-to-air missiles smuggled into Afghanistan by the CIA.

  “After the fall of the Soviet Union and the rise of the Taliban in Afghanistan, Taj and an associate named Omar Bayat became Afghanistan’s leading proponents of terrorism. Taj and Omar are suspected in the downing of a Belgian airliner over North Africa two year
s ago.”

  “I recall the incident but I don’t see a connection yet,” said Jack.

  “Taj and Omar used a North Korean missile launcher in that attack—the forerunner of the Long Tooth missile system, to be precise. More importantly, Taj has a brother who fled the Soviet occupation in the 1980s. His name is Khan Ali Kahlil. He’s now a United States citizen and currently runs a delicatessen on the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Clinton Street, Brooklyn.”

  “That’s where the attaché case is headed,” Jack replied. “I’m sure of it.”

  “I agree,” said Nina. “I’m sending Khan Ali Kahlil’s New York driver’s license photo to your PDA, along with the most recent photos of Omar Bayat and Taj Ali Kahlil that we have in our database. Also some intelligence on the neighborhood.”

  Jack ended the conversation, checked his PDA. The photo of Taj Ali Kahlil was not much more than a blur. The driver’s license photo of his brother Ali was almost a decade old and out of focus. The image of Omar Bayat, however, was crystal clear. It was taken by German intelligence agents in Libya in 1996. Bayat had blond hair, probably dyed, and could pass as an American.

  Road construction slowed his progress so Jack reviewed the data Nina had sent him. After a few minutes waiting for traffic to proceed, Caitlin broke the silence. “What was that conversation about?” she asked.

  “We may have found where your brother is taking the attaché case,” Jack informed her. “A delicatessen on the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Clinton Street.”

  He could tell from Caitlin’s blank stare that the address did not trigger any memories. Traffic began to move, and they passed a massive ditch in the roadway, heavy equipment moving tons of broken pavement.

  “Caitlin, try to remember if Shamus mentioned anyone else in connection with his business. Anyone at all.”

  The young woman massaged her forehead. “He once mentioned a man named Tanner. A big client, he said. Had a funny first name, like Oscar or maybe— no! I remember now. It was Felix. Felix Tanner.”

  Jack nodded. “How well did Shamus know Taj?”