24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse

by Marc Cerasini

  “Fay, start setting up. I’m going back down to the truck to bring up the rest of the equipment. When I get back, we’ll contact CTU—we’re going to need an update on Lesser’s activities over the past four hours before we can start our operation here.”

  6:54:23 A.M.PDT Beverly Hills

  Detective Castalano drove southeast on north San Fernando Road, toward Fletcher Drive, then headed south on California Route 2. Traffic was heavy already, and the going was slow. The police radio inside the Lexus crackled once. Frank turned it off.

  “It must be nice, living so close to the ocean,” Castalano said. “Do much surfing these days?”

  Jack Bauer shook his head. “Nah. Too busy with work. The family. Been teaching Kim to surf, though. Sometimes she even pretends to enjoy it.”

  Castalano chuckled. “Yeah, family time can be far more complicated than the job. How’s Teri?”

  “Itching to get back to work, full time. That’s fine with me, but she’s not having much luck finding work that suits her. How’s Rachel, and Harry?”

  “Rachel’s great, still teaching. Harry’s twelve now and a holy terror. Second year in Little League—”

  “No kidding?”

  “The team sucks, they haven’t won a game yet but he loves it. Nat Greer is the coach. You remember Nat?”

  “Sure. How’s he like retirement?”

  “Forced retirement due to injuries. He’d be the first to clarify that, which tells you all you need to know about how Nat’s enjoying his golden years.”

  Castalano merged onto U.S. 101, heading north. Traffic was thick, but moving.

  “I would ask you if you missed the excitement of the old days, Jack, but I can see your life is still full of thrills. What was going on back there on Andrita Street?”

  “My agency was working with the DEA on a drug bust. It will be all over the evening news, apparently.”

  “Still kicking down doors.”

  Jack stared at the road ahead, rubbed his temple. “When I have to.”

  “I always got the impression the LAPD was holding you back,” Castalano said. “Too many drills, too many training sessions, not enough real-time action. The rest of us were humping to keep up with the training, the missions—shortchanging our families and burning our candles at both ends. Meanwhile you were bored.”

  “I was younger then.”

  The traffic stopped moving suddenly. Castalano braked and the Lexus rolled to a halt. The detective turned to face Jack.

  “Nat Greer told me you were always a thrill seeker. Says you were a biker, a surfer, back in high school. before the military. He said you got into some secret shit, too. Special ops stuff.”

  “Nat talks too much.”

  Castalano swerved onto the Sunset Boulevard ramp. Traffic was lighter off the highway, and moving pretty steadily along Sunset. The sun beat through the tinted windows. Jack’s head began to throb and he was tired of banalities. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Castalano answered Jack’s question with one of his own. “Do you ever work freelance these days, Jack? Private detective or consulting work, maybe? Special work for some corporation?”

  “No. That’s impossible with the job I do now.”

  “I knew you guys do spooky stuff at CTU. I didn’t figure there’d be much opportunity for moonlighting.”

  Jack was unable to mask his impatience any longer. “Look, Frank, what the hell is this about?”

  Castalano’s face was grim, eyes straight ahead. They were climbing the hills now, on a winding road. “I can tell you what this is about, Jack. But it’s better if I show you. And I can do that in another minute or two. We’re almost there.”

  Near the crest of a hill, Frank made a sharp right turn. The Lexus pulled into a narrow driveway fairly well masked by the trees around it. Despite the drought, the lawns, the trees were greener, more lush up here.

  “We’re in Beverly Hills,” said Jack.

  Though the driveway continued on, Frank rolled up to circular-stone structure not much larger than a freestanding garage. The Lexus stopped under an arch, where a small wall fountain trickled. In the cool shade, Frank cut the engine while Jack studied his surroundings.

  The building had a large glass door behind a cast iron gate. The gate was wide open, the door ajar. Farther along the driveway, Jack spied several other vehicles huddled together under a copse of spreading eucalyptus trees—two unmarked police cars, two ambulances, and a black crime scene van. Jack also noticed a tan Rolls-Royce convertible with the top down. Except for a plainclothes detective loitering around and trying to look nonchalant, no one else was in sight. All of the vehicles were deep enough inside the grounds to be invisible from the road, and Jack thought that was intentional. The authorities were deliberately trying to hide something.

  “Have you ever heard of Hugh Vetri?” Frank asked.

  The name jogged something in Jack’s memory. “Maybe. Should I know him?”

  “Let’s go,” said Frank. “I’ll introduce you.”

  As they climbed out of the car, a member of the LAPD Crime Scene Unit came through the glass door. The man saw Frank with a stranger and frowned. He approached, handed them both latex gloves.

  “We’re finished in the bedroom and the study. We’re working on the nanny’s room now,” the forensics man told Castalano. “But I still don’t want anyone going in there who doesn’t have to.”

  “We’ll make it quick,” Castalano replied. The other man had more questions so he and the detective huddled for a few minutes. Not wishing to eavesdrop, Jack moved a discreet distance away, pulled on the gloves. The morning sun was already scorching, even in the cool shade. Jack massaged his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut to block out the glare for a moment. Finally, Castalano broke away from the other man, waved Jack through the door.

  A moment later, Jack found himself in an air-conditioned glass-enclosed entranceway which housed a wide staircase made of a single steel beam stacked with marble stairs. Hugh Vetri’s mansion had been constructed vertically, down the side of the hill. Each of its three glass-fronted stories shared a spectacular view of the valley below, already swathed in haze and smog.

  “Down here, Jack.”

  Castalano led Jack down the curved staircase. Modern art and hanging sculptures dominated the walls, the ceiling. The lamps, the furniture resembled the art; it was all made of cold steel, glass and chrome. When they arrived on the first level, Jack heard many voices. The tone was professional, but their voices muted, respectful, whispered. That’s when Jack knew someone had died in this place.

  “Who is this Hugh Vetri?” Jack asked, his professional instincts aroused. “A movie star or director?”

  “Vetri’s an independent producer,” Castalano replied. “A couple of years ago he made some fantasy movie that turned into the blockbuster of the year. He’s about to release the sequel, or he was.”

  “Was?”

  Castalano halted in front of an ornately carved oaken door, pushed it open. “Meet Hugh Vetri.”

  The smell hit Jack first. Spilled blood, emptied bowels and bladder—the stink of the abattoir. His eyes followed a trail of clotted brown blood that led to a large oak desk. A man was sprawled across it, arms and legs out, like a frog on a dissecting table. Leather belts and silk ties had been used to bind the man’s wrists and ankles, and like some biological specimen, the victim had been eviscerated. Ribbons of entrails lay scattered across the room. On the floor, a chunk of the man’s liver gleamed dully in the sunlight streaming through the glass wall. The organ lay amid the scattered contents of the desk top—only the corpse and a computer monitor remained on the oak surface. The computer was running, on the monitor a screensaver with an ocean view played in an endless loop.

  Jack tamped down his revulsion enough to study the corpse without touching it. Of particular interest was the positioning of the body, the binding wounds on the arms and legs, the bright bruise on the cheek, under the right eye. Most revealing was the
expression on the dead man’s face—one eye open, the other closed, mouth gaping and blood flecked, tongue black and distended. This man’s death was deliberately prolonged. He’d experienced hours of torture before being released.

  Detective Castalano broke the silence. “His wife, Sarah, is in the master bedroom. Her throat was cut. Vetri’s daughter is in the bathhouse. Whoever did this found her while she was taking a midnight swim. She was the first to die, but it was mercifully quick, unlike this poor bastard.”

  “Anyone else?” Jack’s voice was brittle.

  “The live-in nanny and an infant son. They’re both in the nursery. Want to see those crime scenes?”

  “No.”

  “That’s smart. Their murders were savage enough, Christ knows. But whoever did this saved their real fury for Hugh Vetri.”

  “How did the murderer get in?”

  “That’s the funny part,” Castalano replied. “The alarm company says the alarm was activated at eight p.m., then turned off again around midnight. The code was used. Whoever did this may have been an insider. We’re checking out that angle now, along with some others.”

  Castalano glanced at the corpse, looked away. “It’s like fucking Charles Manson all over again. I thought hippies were extinct.”

  Jack began to back out of the room. Castalano caught his arm. “Sorry. There’s more you have to see, Jack.”

  The detective crossed the room to the computer still sitting on the corner of the desk. The keyboard had been knocked on the floor, but the wireless mouse was lying on its pad near the dead man’s head.

  “Hugh Vetri was using his computer when he was murdered,” Castalano said. “He was viewing the information from a CD-ROM.”

  Using a gloved hand, Castalano reached out and touched the wireless mouse. The screensaver vanished and the computer jumped to the last file on display. Jack stifled a shocked gasp when his own face appeared.

  To go with the picture there was an accurate profile of Jack, complete with the names of his family members, his home address, and all of his numbers, including his home phone, his cell, and the office telephone at CTU Headquarters. Jack leaned closer to the monitor. On second glance, it appeared this file came right out of CTU’s own database.

  “Where did Hugh Vetri get this information?”

  Castalano shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the experts can tell us both, once they data mine the dead man’s hard drive.”

  Jack studied the monitor. “Who found the bodies?”

  “We’re thinking the killer called it in,” Castalano replied. “911 received an anonymous tip five hours ago. We’ve got some leads; the call came from a pay phone and we traced it. Nothing definitive yet, though.”

  There was a pause. “Jack. I have to ask you this.”

  Jack nodded. “Shoot.”

  “Do you know any reason why Hugh Vetri would be interested in you or any member of your immediate family?”

  “Not a clue,” Jack replied.

  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 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  7:05:11 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

  Tony dragged the remaining backpack out of the cargo bay, set it on the hot pavement. Music blared on the street. Not a traditional Mexican ballad or even brassy mariachi music—just raucous urban hip-hop chanted in Spanish. Men, old and young, headed to jobs or to look for work. Children traipsed off to school in groups, darting among the cars as they raced across the crowded streets, while stalled traffic continued to pump noxious fumes into an already smog-choked atmosphere.

  The back of the van was empty now. This would be Tony’s final trip. Upstairs, Fay Hubley had already gotten the satellite interface up and running. The computer system would be next.

  Before he closed the driver’s side door, Tony considered pocketing one of the two Glock C18s hidden in a secret compartment in the floor—then changed his mind. Guns were trouble and the fugitive they hunted wasn’t prone to violence. Tony hoped he could get through this mission without resorting to weapons.

  He was almost finished when he suddenly felt his sweat-dampened skin prickle. Someone was observing him. He could feel it. Without looking up, he reset the van’s security system and slammed the door. While adjusting the backpack on his shoulders, Tony casually glanced around. A policeman leaned against a squad car on the opposite side of the street. His gray uniform appeared crisp, despite the melting heat; his face was impassive, unreadable; his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

  Tony considered the possibilities. He could be eyeing the van for towing later. Though the vehicle was legally parked, auto extortion was common enough in Tijuana, especially cars with U.S. license plates. Vehicles disappeared only to be returned after a hefty “towing fee” was paid to the policia.

  On the other hand, the guy could be watching out of natural curiosity, the need to know what’s happening on his beat. Tony hoped it was the latter. Among other things, the CTU pre-mission briefing reminded him and Fay that criminal gangs did, on occasion, kidnap Americans and hold them for ransom. Corrupt police had been known to get a piece of that action as well.

  With a final yank on the strap, Tony circled the van and walked through the doors of La Hacienda. With every step he could feel the cop’s eyes boring into his spine.

  Back in room six, things seemed suddenly cluttered. Several laptop computers, interconnected with a small server to form a network, were now spread out across the small desk and one of the two beds. Lights blinked and disk drives whirred, but Fay was nowhere in sight. Tony saw the closed bathroom door and heard water running. He peeled the pack off his shoulder and set it down next to five others just like it—all empty now.

  With a tired groan Tony sank into a lumpy chair and pulled off his boots. Leaning into the seat, Tony crossed his arms, propped his legs on the edge of the laptop-covered bed and closed his eyes. The persistent rattle of the air conditioner had nearly lulled him into sleep when he heard the bathroom door open. Fay bounded out in a cloud of steam, swathed in nothing more than a towel. Her hair was pinned up and she smelled of citrus. Tony shifted position to let her pass, uncomfortable with the woman’s choice of attire—or lack thereof.

  “Any word on Lesser?” Tony asked.

  Fay sat down on the edge of the bed, across from Tony, and crossed her long legs. “He hasn’t logged onto the Internet yet, but we’re watching for him,” she replied. “Of course, Richard Lesser may have some fake identities, servers and accounts we don’t know about, but he can’t launch any attacks without using his signature protocols, and when he does that we’ve got him.”

  As she spoke Fay undid her hair. Blond locks tumbled down around her pale shoulders. Though she clutched the towel to her breasts, the terrycloth had dipped low enough for Tony to see the dragonfly tattoo on her lower back. He looked away, his gaze settling on the computers scattered all over the hotel room.

  “Back at CTU, your boss Hastings said you required a half-million dollars worth of stuff to find Lesser,” said Tony. “But all I see are a few laptops, a server, a satellite hookup, and some network connections.”

  Fay laughed. “Most of the expensive stuff is back at CTU,” she told him. “I’m sure Hastings was talking about the cost of allocating all of CTU’s resources for a single manhunt. This stuff here just interfaces with the systems and protocols running back at CTU’s cyber division.”

  Tony leaned forward, glanced at one of the monitors. Data scrolled along the flat screen. Though he was hardly a novice, Tony could make no sense of the information being displayed.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Well,” said Fay, sliding across the bed to the largest monitor. “As you know, originally CTU used two separate computer systems to gather intelligence information. One system mined data from unclassified but secure sources—credit card companies, airline logs, banking records, state and f
ederal bureaus, chemical supply stores, stuff like that. Since your average terrorist lives in the real world, they have to do everyday things like eat, buy things, go places, work at jobs and pay the rent. By utilizing an algorithm similar to the mathematical model employed by Able Danger—”

  Tony rubbed the black stubble along his jawline, scratched his new goatee. “You’re talking about the clandestine DOD project to hunt al-Qaeda?”

  “That’s the one. By using a similar system, algorithms and protocols, CTU has had some success in locating and capturing terrorists within our borders.”

  “Using CTU’s random sequencer, right?”

  Fay nodded. “We also have a second system which mines data, but this one collects its intelligence from closed, or even classified sources. With it CTU can access private accounts, trace secured transactions, search classified CIA and DOD files, the State Department and Commerce Department files, telephone logs, corporate computers, secure medical data—even Interpol files. In the case of Richard Lesser, we’re running protocols that will even let us know if he phones his bank for a balance. Any electronic activity at all will show up on our radar.”

  “That still doesn’t tell me what you’re up to with this setup.”

  Fay tossed long blond curls over her shoulder. “Using the random sequencer, I’ve managed to set up a third system. This one mines data from the World Wide Web, all of it—including a lot of stuff once considered secure.”

  “What, like a super search engine?”

  Fay grinned, her pride evident. “More like a super bloodhound. Once I know who I’m looking for, what computer, server or ISP is being used, then my program and CTU’s mainframe working in tandem with my magic fingers will hunt them down.”

  Tony was skeptical. “How close can you get?”

  “From this laptop I can trace a subject’s activity to a specific server, then on to a specific phone number or Wi Fi zone. If I’m on top of my game—which is, like, always—no matter how many times Lesser washes his system or tries to cover his tracks, he’s mine. With the warrant we have, I can legally access all kinds of data that the government was barred from collecting before.”