24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse

by Marc Cerasini

  Tony folded his arms. “Funny how extending the RICO Act makes some people crazy. But if we can use these laws to prosecute drug dealers, why not apply the same laws to stopping terrorists, too?”

  “Yeah, strange how no one complains about the IRS knowing every single financial transaction a citizen makes in a given year, but knowing what book a suspect borrows from the library is suddenly a problem.”

  “It’s the theoretical versus the real world,” said Tony. “Most people aren’t lying awake at night worrying whether the Feds know what book they borrowed from the library. They’re worried red tape is going to prevent the government from failing to stop a terrorist attack like Beslan, or Bali, or London.”

  Fay fumbled with one of the laptops, almost losing her towel. “Here, check this out.”

  She rose, tiptoed over to Tony and set the portable PC in his lap. Fay moved behind him, leaned over his shoulder to point at the screen. He could feel her breasts pressing against his shoulder, long hair tickling his nose.

  “Richard Lesser has two other identities that we know of, only he doesn’t know we know because he thinks he’s covered his tracks. Those identities are represented by these two graphs right here. Of course, he might just use his real name—he’s not a fugitive down here, so I’ve covered that with this box right here...As you can see, there’s no activity yet, from any of the three protocols CTU is running, but it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Time?”

  “Remember what I said about living in the real world,” Fay replied. “Sooner or later, Richard Lesser is going to write a check, withdraw cash from one of over a dozen accounts, use a credit card, or turn on his computer. I’ll trace the activity back to the point of origin and we’ll know where he is—or where he was in the past thirty minutes or so, anyway.”

  Tony rubbed his stiff neck. “I’m impressed.”

  Fay brushed Tony’s short, newly grown ponytail aside, moved her hands over his neck and shoulders, kneading his aching muscles. He allowed the intimacy for a minute—mainly because it felt so damn good.

  Finally, Tony leaned forward, out of Fay’s reach, while pretending to study the activity on the monitor. “So how do you know Lesser hasn’t launched another worm or some kind of cyber-attack, like the one against Boscom?”

  Fay stepped around the chair, sat on the bed and crossed her bare legs. “The folks at Boscom Systems found Richard Lesser because he got lazy and left some errant codes buried in his invader virus. I did a little research and found out he tried a similar stunt on Microsoft when he was still at Stanford. Jamey Farrell got me a copy of Lesser’s bug from an old friend at MS security. True to form, that virus has the same code buried inside. It’s like his signature, a fingerprint.”

  “So you think he’ll make the same mistake again?”

  Fay nodded. “Sure. Richard Lesser is smart, maybe a genius, but he’s impatient or he wouldn’t be a criminal. He wants results now, which means he takes shortcuts. And he’s a creature of habit.”

  Fay adjusted the hotel’s threadbare towel. “So what do you want to do now, Tony?...” She smiled. “I mean, we can’t go out because I have to stick around here and monitor these computers, but...”

  Tony swallowed. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Fay Hubley’s feelings. For starters, hard feelings might compromise the mission. But then so would having casual sex with her in a Tijuana dive. Bottom line, for the duration of this mission, Tony was her supervisor. Any sort of intimacy would be completely inappropriate.

  “I think it’s time we got a little sleep, but in shifts,” Tony declared. “Once Richard Lesser decides to make a move, we might be busy for hours or even days. Better rest while we can.”

  “You’re the boss,” said Fay, trying hard to mask her disappointment.

  7:55:34 A.M.PDT Santa Monica

  On his quiet suburban street, Jack Bauer watched Frank Castalano’s Lexus swing around the corner and out of sight. The hint of a breeze from the ocean, nearly a mile away, slightly reduced the scorching heat of the day, but not Jack’s pounding headache. Bypassing the stone sidewalk, he crossed the lawn and strode toward the front door of his split-level, ranch-style house.

  He glanced at his watch and realized he’d missed seeing Kim. Her school bus had come and gone. By now she was already sitting in homeroom. But then, missing his daughter on this particular morning might have been a blessing. Jack touched his wound. Under a thin jacket he was still clad in his black battle suit, the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his arm. Bad enough he kept weapons in the house. He didn’t like reminding Kim of the hazards that came with his job.

  Looking forward to a cool shower and a few hours of sleep, he fumbled for his keys, felt the CD-ROM in his pocket, packed in an LAPD evidence bag. Though it took plenty of convincing, Detective Castalano allowed a team from CTU’s Cyber-Unit to take Hugh Vetri’s computer back to headquarters for analysis by Jamey Farrell. Jack’s argument—that CTU could do a much better job of mining the data on the hard drive than the LAPD—was logical and accurate. But both men knew the real, unspoken motive for Jack’s request.

  It was the violation. The fact that Bauer’s privacy had been invaded and details about his personal life and the lives of his family had been compromised, perhaps putting them in jeopardy. Jack Bauer needed to know how and why that happened, and what he must do to protect those he loved.

  That’s why he’d held on to the CD-ROM. He would slip that disk to Jamey later, unofficially and in private, and ask her to deliver her results to him personally.

  The thought that his family might be in danger sent a jolt of adrenaline through him, and Jack paused before opening the door, to collect himself. Tamping down his fears, he steadied his hand. It was imperative that his family never see the anxiety, the uncertainty, the dread on his face. For Jack Bauer, bringing home his job, or its dangers, was not an option.

  After unlocking the front door, Jack stepped into the foyer and then the living room, which was empty but hardly quiet. Kim had left the television on again—that, or his wife had taken to watching MTV. He slipped off his jacket, hung it in the closet. Then he quickly tore away the stained bandages and rolled thesleevedowntocover thewound.Heflexed his arm, moved it from side to side, happy to see the limb still worked and the pain had receded to a dull throb. Jack crossed the living room and switched off the television.

  In the kitchen he stuffed the bandages deep into the garbage can. A fresh pot of coffee had just been brewed. The aroma was tempting, but Jack resisted it, knowing he needed a few hours’ sleep.

  “Honey?” he called, walking toward the bathroom.

  “In here,” came a muffled voice from farther down the hall.

  Jack found his wife in the bedroom, still in her pajamas. She had pretty much emptied her closet, the clothes spread out across their queen-sized bed, the chair, desk and dresser, the shoes scattered across the floor.

  “What’s going on?” Jack asked, leaning against the doorframe.

  “What’s going on is I don’t have a thing to wear.” Teri crossed the room, pecked her husband on the cheek. If she noticed his attire, she didn’t comment. Nor did she mention the lump on his head, though Jack wasn’t sure it was even visible.

  “Are you going somewhere special?”

  “I might be,” Teri replied. “Depends.”

  Jack’s eyebrows arched. “Depends on what?”

  “On whether I have something to wear tonight. Something suitable for television.”

  “Oprah’s taping in L.A.?”

  “Not even close.”

  Jack emptied his pockets, tossed his key, wallet, cell phone on the dresser. “Okay, I give up. What’s going on?”

  Teri draped a little black dress over herself and examined her reflection. “Do you remember when I had that freelance job with Coventry Productions?”

  Jack moved some clothing, sat down on the edge of the bed. “The animation studio? I remember. You worked with that other artist
...Natalie.”

  “Nancy.”

  “That’s right. Nancy.”

  Jack mind raced back to that time, two years before. What sprang to mind first were his CTU missions. Since coming to CTU, his missions had become the measure of Jack’s life. Two years ago, Operation Jump Rope was wrapping up and Operation Proteus was just launching. And at home—well, Jack wasn’t home enough to know, he remembered that much. Kim was entering her teens and the mother-daughter bond became a pact of mutual destruction.

  Jack recalled that Teri was working long hours then, too. With some British animator named Dennis at an office in Century City. Jack never met the man beyond hearing his voice when answering the phone, but Teri seemed impressed with him—Jack remembered that much, too.

  “So what’s up with Nancy?” he asked.

  “Well I heard she just had a baby. A little boy.”

  “You heard? From Nancy?”

  Teri tore through another pile of clothing. “Actually Dennis Winthrop called. He was Nancy’s boss. I don’t think you ever met him so you wouldn’t remember his name.”

  “No.”

  “Anyway, Demon Hunter—the animated feature Coventry Productions produced—has been nominated for a Silver Screen Award. Since I worked on the art direction, I was invited to the show tonight. It’s going to be broadcast live on television.”

  “That’s great,” said Jack. “Are you going to get a trophy if you win?”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Teri laughed. “I worked as a freelance assistant for the background artist. I’m lucky to be invited. I can’t wait to see Nancy. And Carla and Chandra, too.”

  Jack stood up, embraced his wife. “Since you might be on television, why don’t you go out and buy something brand new to wear?”

  “That’s silly, Jack. I’ve already decided on the black dress.”

  “Good,” he smiled. “You look pretty hot in that.”

  “You don’t mind, do you Jack?”

  “Of course not. Kim and I can get take out pizza.”

  “Great. But don’t get pepperoni. Kim’s a vegetarian again.”

  Jack snorted skeptically. “Since when?”

  “Since I cooked meat loaf last night.”

  “Well, we’ll have a great time trying to spot you during the broadcast.”

  Teri laughed. “Don’t blink then.”

  Jack sat back down on the bed, yanked off his chukkas, and tossed them into the corner. Teri walked to the mirror, brushed the short locks of dark hair away from her face with her long fingernails and studied her features in the glass.

  “One more thing,” Jack said, rising and heading for the bathroom and a quick shower. “lf you do win, don’t forget to thank your faithful and supporting husband in your acceptance speech.”

  Teri smiled, catching Jack’s eye in the mirror. “You and Kim are always first on my list, Jack. You know that.”

  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 8 A.M. AND 9 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  8:03:41 A.M.PDT Angeles Crest Highway Angeles National Forest

  Although it was not nearly as spectacular as the famous Sierra Nevadas to the north, the San Gabriel Mountains and its surrounding national park had a more distinct advantage for the people of L.A.—it was only a thirty minute drive from the Glendale corridor. The San Gabriels were forested with oak, pine, and cedar and graced with clear streams, small lakes, waterfalls, and steep canyons perfect for fishing, hiking, and camping.

  Several roads climbed into the 700,000-acre park, all of them twisting, steep and narrow, but the main route through the mountains was the Angeles Crest Highway. It rose steadily from La Canada Flintridge, eventually peaking at nearly eight thousand feet above sea level, before descending to an eventual end in the flat, blasted wasteland of the Mojave Desert.

  Veering off a sharp curve in this highway was an unmarked road. At the end of the short, bumpy dirt path, flanked by tall pines, sat three wooden buildings, several picnic tables, a flagpole, and a half-dozen tents. This small no-frills campground had been established by two inner city churches in the late 1980s—the Lion of God Church in South Central, Los Angeles, and the Baptist Church School of Compton, a small Christian congregation operated out of a dilapidated storefront.

  With a sharp cliff presenting perfect vistas of higher mountain peaks, they could give urban kids a few days of escape from the scorching heat of the city and fulfill their mission statement for all retreats: here the children could witness the glories of God as reflected in nature, rather than the sins and hubris of mankind cast in concrete; they could inhale the scents of plants and trees instead of smog; they could listen to birdsong, while they received biblical instruction, instead of the constant assault of subwoofers in gangbanger SUVs.

  Nine of the kids who’d come for this particular retreat session—four boys and five girls between the ages of twelve and fourteen—were now seated around a pair of picnic tables. Breakfast had ended, the paper plates had been gathered up, and Reverend Landers, tall and reed thin with a hide like brown leather and white hair bristling over an expansive forehead, was leading them all in a goodbye prayer.

  Fifty feet away, twenty-five-year-old Laney Caulder emerged from the camp’s largest building to stand on its porch. Squinting against the morning glare, the slender young African-American woman with long hair braided into a beautiful cascade of cornrows, looked away from the yellow sun blazing in the sky before covering her head with a baseball cap.

  “Sure is gonna be hot down in the city. I almost hate to leave these mountains,” Laney said.

  Behind her, a heavyset black woman in her late fifties rolled out of the building on an electric wheelchair.

  “It’s hot all right,” Rita Taft observed. “But I can feel a chill in the wind coming off the highlands. Winter’s coming. In a couple more weeks the Reverend’s gonna have to close this place down till spring.”

  The older woman scanned the distant mountains with tired eyes. Then, using a chin control to operate the wheelchair, she circled around to face the younger woman.

  “Back when this place first opened up, back twenty years ago, you could see snow on the mountains every summer—even in July. But this year’s different. With the drought and all, there’s been no snow. Not one little flake.”

  Rita paused, fixed her gaze on the younger woman. “I been thinking that maybe things are better without the white powder, if you know what I mean...”

  Laney Caulder nodded. “It’s better.”

  “So you’re telling me you ain’t gonna need that nasty snow no more, not even when you get back to the city? Back to that world and all its evil influences?”

  The younger woman shook her head. “I’ve been off the drugs nine months now, free and clear. Thanks to you and the Reverend, I found me a better way. I’m not gonna backslide...”

  Rita Taft’s grin lit up her round face. “God bless you girl. Keep it up and next year you can take over

  my job!”

  Laney’s brown eyes opened wide. “I could never—”

  “You said the same thing six months ago when the Reverend made you a camp counselor. Now you’re the kids’ favorite.”

  “I sure do love ’em.”

  A cloud of dust appeared above the trees at the end of the camp. A moment later the church van arrived to take the kids home. Laney glanced at the bus nervously, hesitant to leave.

  Rita cleared her throat. “You have your cell phone. Don’t forget to call me when you get back to Compton,” she said. “And don’t fret. You’ll only be gone a few days. I’ll see you here next Tuesday when you come up with a fresh batch of kids.”

  Laney stooped and kissed the old woman on the cheek. “Take care, Miss Taft, and make sure to remind Tyrell to recharge your battery or you’re gonna get stuck again.”

  Rita jerked the chair forward playfully. “Go home, girl.”

  Laney bounded off the por
ch and down to the bus—really a large van with four rows for passengers. Already the kids were climbing inside choosing seats. She circled around to the passenger door and climbed aboard. Thelma Layton, a mother of five with cocoa skin and short black curls, greeted her with a wide grin from behind the steering wheel. “Girl, you are gonna regret going back to that city. Hell has got to be cooler than Compton.”

  “Shhh,” hissed Laney. “Watch your language in front of the kids.”

  Thelma threw her head back and laughed. “Those kids don’t scare me, and they ain’t listening anyway. I do watch my mouth in front of Miss Taft, however. Once I used the F word and she whacked me in the shins with that damn chair of hers.”

  Laney shot her friend a shocked look. “You’re lucky she didn’t have Tyrell wash out your mouth with soap.”

  Thelma offered Laney a sly smile. “I don’t worry about Tyrell nor the Reverend either. They’re both too old to catch up with me.”

  Thelma checked the passengers through the rearview mirror.

  “Okay, everyone, buckle up,” she called loudly over the laughter and cries of the children. A moment later she started the engine, kicked up the air conditioner. The bus circled the camp one last time, then climbed back up the hill toward the highway.

  The wooden gate was closed. Thelma braked and the dust cloud they’d kicked up washed over the bus. “I told Tyrell to leave that gate open. Where was he going, anyway?”

  “The Wal-Mart in Verdugo City. Miss Taft needed some stuff,” Laney replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll open the gate.”

  Shepoppedthe door andhoppedout,ran to the wooden gate and dragged it open. A few yards beyond the entrance, the concrete ribbon of highway began.

  “Get in!” Thelma called.

  Laney shook her head. “I don’t want to leave the gate open. Go through and wait for me on the highway.”

  Thelma waved and moved the vehicle forward. Over the rumble of the van’s engine, Laney thought she heard another sound—a roar like an airplane.