When Chappelle was gone, Jamey whirled on Milo. “I told you not to shoot your mouth off in front of Chappelle. You thought Chappelle was your pal. Now he’s sending you into harm’s way.”
Nina rose, waited at the door for Jack. He waved her off, approached Jamey Farrell.
“I need to see you in my office,” Jack said softly. “Twenty minutes.”
“Okay, boss,” Jamey replied with a puzzled expression.
Jack caught up to Nina in the hallway. “Thanks again, Nina.”
“What happened this morning, Jack?” she asked.
“You mean the raid? Like I told Chappelle. Bad intel, that’s all. It was a meth lab. Nothing more. Still haven’t found the Karma lab.”
“Well the DEA is making hay over the bust anyway. I saw the district head on the news ten minutes ago.”
Jack frowned.
“Stroke of genius bringing in that computer,” Nina continued. “Nothing like a diversion to redirect Ryan Chappelle’s attention away from a major snafu. I’m impressed. You’re starting to play bureaucratic politics like a chess master.”
Jack sighed. “I just want to do my job, Nina. That’s all.”
9:56:52 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico
The curtains were drawn, the room was dark, the hum of the air conditioner a constant, white noise. When the knock came, a single rap, Tony rose from the bed and looked through the peephole.
Ray Dobyns stood on the other side of the scarred wood, rocking on his heels. The portly man wore a smug smile that told Tony the informant had found something.
Tony opened the door. Dobyns didn’t enter. Instead, he stood on the threshold, gazing past Tony at Fay, her face illuminated by the light from the monitor.
“Hey, old buddy. I was wondering if I might have a word with you. In private.” As he spoke, Dobyns’s eyes lingered on Fay, who pointedly ignored them both.
Tony slipped into the hallway, closed the door behind him. “What’s up?” he asked in a low voice.
“I think I may have a lead on Lesser,” Dobyns replied. As he spoke, he dabbed beads of sweat from his upper lip with a stained handkerchief. “Ever hear of a bar called Little Fishes? The address is Cinco Albino, just west of Centro.”
Tony shook his head.
“Yeah, well, Little Fishes is more than a bar. There’s a brothel upstairs. They deal drugs there, and stolen goods move through the warehouse behind the whorehouse. The whole set up is reputedly run by the SS.”
SS was short for Seises Seises. A Mexican outfit named after the prison cellblock—66—where the gang originated. The SS was the most recent criminal gang to spring from the corrupt and brutal Mexican penal system. So far their activities had been confined to Northern Mexico and the Baja, but like all cancers, Tony knew their contagion was bound to spread.
“What’s this got to do with Lesser?”
Dobyns shifted uneasily. “Word is a gringo came to the Little Fishes about a week ago. Brought a lot of computer shit with him. Been holed up on the third floor of that dump ever since. Sound about right to you, Navarro?”
Tony nodded.
“The bad news is the guy’s about to bolt,” Dobyns continued. “Been packing all day. He might be gone already.”
“Take me there now,” Tony commanded.
Dobyns nodded. “I thought that would be your reaction. But messin’ with the SS is gonna cost a bit more.”
“I’ll up the ante to twenty thousand. That’s the limit.”
Tony could see the war behind the man’s eyes, caught the moment when greed won over survival instinct.
“Can I trust you, Navarro?”
Tony met the man’s gaze. “If we find Lesser, then we both make out. If he gets away, we both get nothing.”
Dobyns nodded. “Okay. But we leave now, before our mark goes underground.”
9:59:11 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jack Bauer had just handed over the disk to Jamey Farrell for analysis and sent her on her way—after exacting a promise that she would divulge her findings only to him.
He was about to tackle the after-action report on the morning raid when his phone warbled. “Bauer.”
“Special Agent Bauer? This is Detective Jerry Alder, LAPD. I’m Frank Castalano’s partner.”
Jack sat up. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Frank wanted you to know he’s captured a suspect in the Beverly Hills murder.”
“Where? When?”
“The Angeles National Forest, about fifteen minutes ago. Listen. The man is a Saudi citizen here on an education visa. He’s high on some kind of drug and talking jihad against all infidels—”
“Don’t say anything more over this line. Where’s Frank taking the suspect?”
“Central Facilities between Fifth and Sixth Street, near the bus terminal. We can control access to the prisoner better there than at the Court House.”
“That’s smart.” Jack knew controlling access to the prisoner was a euphemism for keeping him away from a lawyer for as long as possible. Jack glanced at his watch.
Chappelle would hit the roof if he didn’t see the after-action report on his desk in thirty minutes, but instincts told Jack this was more important than composing a futile exercise in bureaucratic double-speak.
“Tell Frank I’m on my way.”
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 10 A.M. AND 11 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
10:01:01 A.M.PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles
The eight-man crew representing the Stage Carpenters and Craftsmen Union, Local 235, had gathered inside the union-mandated break area—in this case a large silver recreational vehicle parked on the street outside the mammoth Chamberlain Auditorium.
Not a hundred yards from the RV’s door, the red carpet was being rolled out for the Silver Screen Awards Ceremony. In less than eight hours, celebrities would be strutting down that carpet and into the pavilion. Fans and ranks of paparazzi were already staking claims to the choicest locations—behind well-guarded police barricades.
Inside the air-conditioned RV things were more relaxed. The workers lounged on couches and chairs and some took advantage of the microwave oven and coffee maker. Others smoked—strictly against Los Angeles County regulations—and watched television.
The men had been at it since 6 a.m., putting together the stage props for tonight’s awards show. Everything was in place now, except an elaborate replica of the award itself, and a large wooden podium to set it on. These props were to be placed at center stage, and the prefabricated structure was on its way over from a construction contractor in El Monte. This final piece of the set would arrive within the hour, with plenty of time to set it up before the curtain rose on the live broadcast.
Even if the parts had arrived, the union contract stipulated that after four hours of work, a meal break was mandatory. Of course, the team was supposed to stagger their breaks so that someone was always available for carpentry work. But Pat Morganthau—the team’s regular foreman—had not shown up for work and could not be found at any of his usual haunts. Meanwhile the instructions issued by the substitute foreman the management company had dispatched to the site— a twenty-something guy named Eddie Sabir—were being pretty much ignored by the union men.
In the middle of a cable sports report, the RV door opened.
“Heads up, the Teamsters have arrived,” yelled one of the carpenters. Boos and catcalls followed.
A Middle Eastern man stood in the doorway. He waved a greeting with one hand, the other held a bright blue plastic storage container.
A portly fellow watching ESPN from a lounge chair slapped his forehead. “Shit, Haroun, why’d you have to show up now?”
The man in the doorway offered the union men a broad smile.
“Good morning, good morning,” said Haroun. “The bad news is that the props are in the truck and the truck is he
re, which means we all have work to do. But the good news is that my wife has made honey cakes again.”
A burly carpenter with a long ponytail whistled. “Man, bring ’em on.”
The portly man muted the sportscast. “Come on in, Haroun, sit down. We just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
Haroun set the plastic container on the table, shook his head. “No, no, I must get the truck into the loading dock. Please be my guest. I shall return in a few minutes and join you.”
“Better hurry,” said the carpenter with the ponytail. “The last time you brought honey cakes they were gone before the foreman got any! And boy did Morganthau bitch.”
Haroun hurried out the door. Ponytail Man helped himself to one of the tiny nutty cakes dripping with sweet honey. He passed the container to the others. “Man, these hit the spot,” he gushed after a hearty first bite.
Before he took another, a groan came from the couch, out of the mouth of the youngest man in the room. He was slumped on the couch beside the portly worker. The lanky, twenty-two-year-old had shaggy blond hair and a deep surfer’s tan. He groaned again and clutched his stomach.
“What the fuck is wrong with him,” the portly man asked before sampling the sticky pastry.
“Dickhead here went to that new strip club out by the airport,” Ponytail Man replied. “He drank till three a.m., then came to work.”
“He ain’t gonna be worth shit,” opined a middle-aged, muscle-bound worker with a shaved head. He leaned back in his armchair and licked his gooey fingers.
The sick young man couldn’t take it anymore—all the eating, the smacking lips, the smells. He jumped up and raced to the john, slammed the door and locked it behind him. He hung his head over the toilet, waiting.
“Another worshipper of the porcelain god,” quipped Ponytail Man. The others laughed.
Inside the cramped head, the young man gagged a few times, but nothing came up despite his nausea, the wracking cramps. He wasn’t surprised. He’d lost the contents of his stomach a long time ago, and wondered now when the agony would subside. Vowing never to drink to excess again, he ran water, washed out his mouth, rinsed his face. After he toweled off, he felt a little better, so he took a deep breath and opened the door.
At first he thought the whole thing was a twisted joke.
Ponytail Man was slumped over the table, head lolling to one side, eyes wide and unblinking, lips blue. The portly sports fan’s eyes were wide and staring at the television broadcast, but he could no longer see. Another man was sprawled next to him on the couch, mouth gaping, tongue black and distended.
The big, bald dude lay dead on the floor, fingers curled and clutching the carpet. The youth whimpered, felt more than saw movement behind him. Then something hard and cold touched the back of his head. The young man froze, knees suddenly weak.
“You really should have eaten the cakes,” said Haroun. The sound suppressed Colt bucked in his hand. The young man’s head burst like a melon; his body jerked and tumbled limply to the floor.
Haroun grunted as blood sprayed across his face. “As Hasan commands, so it shall be,” he murmured.
The muffled sound of the shot had hardly faded before eight men in jeans and T-shirts entered the RV. Unlike Haroun, not one of these men was of Middle Eastern origin. All were Caucasians with brown or black hair, three were blond with fair skin and gray or green eyes. Their appearance easily fit the names and identities of the dead men around them.
Silently, the newcomers stripped the tool belts, ID tags, wallets, vests, clothes, keys and watches from the dead men. Meanwhile Haroun gingerly lifted the box of cakes and gathered up the fallen pastries, careful not to touch the tainted confections with his bare flesh. He dumped the poisoned food into a garbage bag, tossed the sound suppressed handgun in with it, then joined the others.
For the past two weeks, Haroun—obeying the instructions of the mysterious Hasan—had worked side-by-side, and socialized with the murdered men who lay at his feet. On three previous occasions Haroun had brought honey cakes baked, he said, by his dutiful and obedient Muslim wife. In truth Haroun had no wife, nor would he ever have one— except perhaps in Paradise where he would have many. Each time, the cakes had been delivered to him by an operative of Hasan, and Haroun was advised to share them with these men.
But not today. This time Haroun was told not to touch the pastries on pain of death. As always, he obeyed his master’s instructions to the letter.
It was the least he could do for the man who showed him the Gate of Paradise, granted him a tantalizingly brief vision of the world beyond this one.
Haroun did not know what deadly poison his master had used to kill these men. Nor did he care. All that mattered was that at last the plan had been set into motion. Nothing could stop the tide of blood to come. The dead men scattered around him were but the first of many who would fall. But unlike the quiet, anonymous deaths of these foolish pawns, the massacre to come would be seen by hundreds of millions all over the world.
10:12:41 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico
The pop tune ringtone shook Fay Hubley out of her monitor trance. She saved her work, reached for the cell in her leather bag, dangling off the back of the chair
“Hello.”
“Fay? It’s Jamey. I tried to reach Tony but—”
“He turned his phone off. He hooked up with some smelly snitch down here and he’s following a lead or something.”
“He should have passed that information on to Nina.”
“Tony told me to make the call,” said Fay. “I was just about to—”
“What’s the name of this snitch?”
“The guy’s last name’s Dobyns. His first name is Ray.”
“Can you spell his last name?”
“No, but Tony said he knew the guy from before so it’s probably in one of his after-action reports.”
“And where did Tony go?” asked Jamey.
Fay exhaled with distaste. “Some ho’ house. A place called El Pequeños Pescados on Albino Street.”
Jamey noted the information in the mission log, pumped Fay for more and came up dry. She was concerned about Fay. The girl sounded distracted. “Listen, Fay, I want to give you a heads up. We found a Trojan horse. It’s an attractive download for people with the right equipment—a movie that hasn’t been released yet. Milo Pressman matched the hidden virus with the protocols you isolated and he says it has Lesser’s fingerprints all over it.”
Fay chewed her lip. “That’s bad. If Lesser’s launched something in the last five days, he did it from a server we know nothing about. That means he’s at least one step ahead of us.”
“Ryan Chappelle is sending Milo Pressman down there to back you up. He should arrive in a few hours. I’ll update you when I know more.”
“Cool,” said Fay. “That will be fun. Milo’s cute.”
“Listen up, girl. You’re not on vacation. Stay alert. Stay wary. Tony’s an ex-Marine, and he has good field experience. If he left you with instructions, follow them. This mission is heating up and a lot can go bad down there.”
Fay laughed. “Take it easy, Jamey. I’m not in Afghanistan. I’m just across the Mexican border. Really, what can happen to me in the middle of the day?”
10:18:37 A.M.PDT Albino Street Tijuana, Mexico
Ray and Tony took a cab to the choked streets of Centro, but Tony made them get out in front of Planet Hollywood.
“Why are we switching cabs?” Dobyns asked nervously. “Are we being shadowed or something?”
“We’re walking from here, that’s all,” said Tony.
It was apparent from his girth that Ray Dobyns didn’t like walking. All the way to Albino Street the man complained about his sore feet, the uneven pavement, the crowds, the heat, the exhaust fumes.
The neighborhood surrounding the tavern and brothel called El Pequeños Pescados had decayed since the last time Tony had been to Tijuana. Perhaps in its heyday Albino Street had aspired to genuine middle class sta
tus, but things had obviously gone to seed. Now there were too many bars nestled between ramshackle storefront churches, fortune tellers in street stalls, pawnshops, liquor stores and check cashing businesses. There were also unmistakable signs of criminal activity—gang graffiti, street whores, pickpockets visible to those who knew how to spot them. A battered shell of a car, windows shattered, interior looted, sat next to a crumbling curb.
Ray Dobyns described Number Five Albino Street as a warehouse, but it was obvious to Tony that the building had been an ice house in the 1940s and ’50s before it was converted to industrial use. The warehouse was a flat-roofed, windowless rectangle of dingy red brick. A three-story wooden clapboard tavern and inn had been built against the older brick structure sometime in the 1950s. Over the rough wooden porch that fronted the tavern, a faded billboard for Azteca beer and a neon Cuervo sign in the window were the only indication this place was more than another tenement. A battered Ford van was parked in front of the building, locked tight. No one was visible on the porch, or on either of the narrow wooden balconies fronting the second and third floors.
“Do we go in?” Tony asked.
Dobyns shook his head. “Listen, Navarro. I don’t want to blow this deal—I need the money bad. Let me go in first and check the place out. I’ve been here before. They know me. I’ll be back in five minutes or less. You can time me.”
Tony considered the man’s plan. While he didn’t trust Dobyns, Tony knew the con man would gain nothing by double-crossing him. Above all, Dobyns loved money, and he seemed to be in desperate need of some right now.
“Okay,” grunted Tony. “I’ll meet you right here in five minutes.”
Dobyns waddled across the street, pushed through the wooden screen door and into the seedy tavern. Tony watched for a moment, then went into a tiny store and purchased a cold bottle of Jarritos. Sipping the sugary Mexican soda, he waited, glancing at his watch from time to time.
Dobyns reappeared exactly five minutes later. But instead of crossing the street, he motioned to Tony from the porch.
24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse Page 8
