by John Whitman
24 Declassified: Trinity
( 24 Declassified - 9 )
John Whitman
Operating out of a nearly empty space in Los Angeles, the newly created CTU faces its first major crisis. A large amount of plastique explosive has vanished and could be anywhere — with criminals, crazies, outlaw bikers… or in the bloodstained hands of Islamic radicals. As powerful representatives of the world's major religions gather for a conference on faith, peace, and coexistence, agents of the newborn elite counterterrorism unit must chase elusive shadows through the underbelly of L.A. A nightmare of assassination and terror is looming, tied to the darkest secrets of the church — an explosive threat that must be exposed and defused within twenty-four hours, or violent repercussions will be felt around the world.
And only one man possesses the necessary passion, ruthless skill, and willingness to operate outside his jurisdiction and beyond the limits of the law: a dangerous rogue CIA operative… named Jack Bauer.
John Whitman
24 Declassified: Trinity
After the 1993 World Trade Center attack, a division of the Central Intelligence Agency established a domestic unit tasked with protecting America from the threat of terrorism. Headquartered in Washington, D.C., the Counter Terrorist Unit established field offices in several American cities. From its inception, CTU faced hostility and skepticism from other Federal law enforcement agencies. Despite bureaucratic resistance, within a few years CTU had become a major force in the war against terror. After the events of 9/11, a number of early CTU missions were declassified. The following is one of them.
PROLOGUE
One month ago
It used to be easier, Claire told herself as she pushed the refreshment cart down the narrow aisle. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence and bucked like a horse. She didn’t like horses. She liked planes, or at least she had for the first thirty years of her career. In her twenties, it had been fun to be a stewardess (she was old enough to have been called that once upon a time). Her thirties had been good, too, even her forties. But now, in her fifties, the rides had grown too hard on her feet, and the aisles had shrunk too narrow for her hips. The men didn’t look at her anymore, either. They had stayed the same age, but she’d grown older. They liked her still — thirty years of dealing with grumpy travelers packed in like LEGOs had taught her how to survive on charm — but these days they smiled at her the way her grandson’s friends smiled at her, and where was the fun in that?
“Something to drink?” she said, snapping down the brake and smiling at the boy in 29A. The young man wore an REI jacket and a leather thong choker with a wooden Inuit-carved pendant dangling from it. Claire had seen the boy a hundred times. Not the same boy, of course, but annual versions of him, flying back home from Alaska after a season aboard a fishing boat. Sometimes they were rich people’s sons “toughing it out” for the experience. Sometimes they came from the underside of middle class, really needing the money. They all came back looking the same. She liked to guess as much as she could about them. Thirty years of practice had made her pretty good at it. 29A took a Coke. She poured the fizzy soda into the plastic cup and handed it over.
29B and 29C were together, a couple in their late twenties, no wedding rings, coming back from a trip up to the Alaskan wilderness. She was a redhead with a bright smile. Schoolteacher, Claire thought. He had a smile, too, but he was thinner, like a sword. She wondered if he was an athlete. The way he said, “Thanks” reminded Claire of Chicago.
On the other side of the aisle, a young man sat alone in 29D. He had short black hair and a clean-shaven face. He smiled at her warmly and said, “Tomato juice” in answer to her question. He spoke with a bit of a lilt in his voice that didn’t sound Hispanic, though he looked it. She poured tomato juice into a plastic cup. “Is L.A. home?” she asked pleasantly.
“For a while,” the young man replied.
“Everyone says that at first.” Claire laughed. She handed him the tomato juice.
Claire never heard him reply because the plane exploded.
1. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
6:00 P.M. PST Panorama City, California
“I promise you, there will be no need for anything rough.”
Jack Bauer believed him and lowered his SigSauer. He motioned for Ed Burchanel to do the same. The FBI agent hesitated, not as sure as Jack. Finally, he lowered his Glock.40 but did not holster it.
The fat man on the wrong end of Burchanel’s gun chuckled nervously. “Your Agent Bauer knows when he’s won. I am not the type to give you trouble.”
Burchanel’s expression hadn’t changed since the moment they’d kicked in the door. “You gave us trouble back in ’93.”
Jack knew Burchanel was barking more than he planned to bite. Burchanel wasn’t even aware of the entire package. All he knew was that the fat man, Ramin, had been connected to terrorist activities. But Jack was CIA, and by law the CIA was not allowed to operate domestically. Burchanel’s presence made it legal.
“Not me, not me,” Ramin insisted. He lowered himself heavily into the armchair of his own living room, like a guest not sure the chair was permitted to him. There was already a deep indentation where he usually settled his wide ass. The chair creaked heavily and made a sound like one of the springs popping. He kept his hands on the armrests in plain view. He wore thick gold rings on most of his thick fingers. His nails appeared unnaturally neat and shiny. His mustached face smiled at them, a smile that was neither arrogant nor deceptive. It was the anxious smile of a man who had no desire except to please whoever might do him the most damage, and right now that honor belonged to Jack Bauer of the CIA and Ed Burchanel of the FBI. Ramin smiled again. “I wasn’t involved directly at all in the truck bombing.”
Jack motioned for Burchanel to stay with Ramin while he cleared the rest of the house. It was a small bungalow in Panorama City, in the dirty heart of the San Fernando Valley north of Los Angeles. Master bedroom, extra bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. He was done quickly and returned, nodding to Burchanel. Jack sat on the sofa that put his back to a wall and gave him full view of the front door and the hallway. Burchanel’s position blocked the door itself, although with Ramin’s size there was no way he could outrun them, even if he were the type.
The search had taken a few seconds, but Jack spoke as if no time had passed. “Not directly, but you used to go by the name of Mezriani, and you were friends with Sheik Omar Abdel-Rahman.”
“Sheik Omar was the man behind the ’93 bombing,” Burchanel added. “You moved money around for him.”
Ramin sighed at Burchanel, then appealed to Jack. “Agent Bauer, look at me. I am an aging fat man of moderate resources. I am neither a patriot nor a zealot. I have one goal in life, and that is to make myself as comfortable as possible. I do not find interrogation or imprisonment comfortable, so I will tell you everything, everything I can.”
“Start by taking us through ’93,” Jack said. “Tell us what you know.”
Ramin obeyed. He talked freely, but ultimately he told Jack nothing the CIA agent didn’t already know. Seven years ago, Sheik Omar Abdel-Rahman, “the Blind Sheik,” had inspired several members of a Jersey City mosque to park a truck bomb in the parking structure of the World Trade Center. Most of those responsible had been caught, including the Sheik himself. One terrorist, Abdul Rahman Yasin, had been taken into custody and then mistakenly released. He’d slipped away to somewhere in the Middle East, probably Iraq. With most of the main culprits in jail, the media considered the case closed, but the World Trade Center bombing had been a wake-up call to a few entities inside the U.S. government, and they had started watching more carefull
y. Ramin hadn’t been missed in the first rounds of investigation. He’d been brought into custody and interrogated — something, he repeatedly told Jack, that he did not find comfortable at all — but his only real connection to the World Trade Center bombing was an association with some of the Blind Sheik’s zealous friends, and a knack for investing their money profitably. The FBI and Federal prosecutors had chosen not to pursue a case against him. Since 1993, Ramin had been interviewed several times by the Feds, and each time he insisted that 1993 had scared him into a much more cautious and upstanding circle of friends.
Jack had come to Ramin from the other end of operations. Jack was currently “on loan” to the CIA, although he couldn’t explain even to his wife what “on loan” meant. In the early days, in the military and with LAPD, it had been easy. You were assigned to a unit and you worked in that unit. You reported to a commanding officer, and that was that. But over the years Jack had risen (or fallen? he wasn’t sure which) into a murkier stratum of operations. It was as though the closer he got to the source of decision making, the more complex the network became. Communication channels crisscrossed. Organizational charts looked like Escher drawings. It was, to coin a phrase one of Jack’s CIA colleagues had used, the “fog of deniability.”
But one thing did remain clear, even in that fog: the bad guys. They were out there, and if Jack couldn’t pierce the heart of his own government’s workings, he sure as hell could pierce the heart of the other guy’s. So when the chance to be seconded to the CIA had come up, he’d taken it in a heartbeat. CIA meant overseas work, and that’s where the enemy lived. Ironically, Jack’s most recent task with the CIA had led him right back home.
“Farouk tells me you have been in bed with AlGama’a al-Islamiyya,” Jack said. Ramin winced at the term in bed and wiggled his bejeweled fingers.
“Farouk likes to sound more important than he is,” the fat man said. “Ask anyone in Cairo.”
“I did and you’re right,” Jack said. “If I believed everything Farouk said, Burchanel here would be asking the questions, not me.” Burchanel smiled unpleasantly. “But I do believe that you’ve gotten cozy with some unsavory types again, Ramin. And I also believe that somewhere in all of Farouk’s stories about terrorist attacks on U.S. soil, there’s a little bit of truth. You’re not the type to blow yourself up for the sake of Allah, and you’re not the type to go to jail for someone else’s sake. So tell me everything you know about Abdul Rahman Yasin trying to get back into this country.”
Ramin sighed. “If you know about Yasin, then you must know about tomorrow night.”
Jack reacted, startled, despite his training. Burchanel, too. “What’s tomorrow night?”
Ramin looked equally surprised. “I thought you knew. I don’t know what it is, but I know that it is tomorrow.”
Burchanel stood up and snarled. “Tell us what it is.”
The fat man leaned back in his chair. This time it didn’t creak or pop as before. Somewhere in his brain, that seemed wrong to Jack. “I don’t know what, I swear!” Ramin squealed. “I am not a terrorist.”
“You only handle their money,” the FBI agent snapped. He leaned down, gripping Ramin’s shirt in two clublike fists.
“But not their information!” Ramin clasped his sweaty, bejeweled hands over Burchanel’s. “I only know that Yasin will be leaving the next day, so it must be tomorrow night! He would not stay longer.”
“What’s the target!” Burchanel demanded.
“Hold on…” Jack started to say.
Ramin squeaked again. “I don’t know! I only know that with Yasin you must think in threes! I heard talk of three points of attack, three opportunities, three, three, three all the time!”
“This is bullshit,” Burchanel said. He braced with his legs and heaved the fat man up and out of his seat.
Jack heard another pop. “Down!” he yelled.
The chair blew up, vanishing in a spray of light and heat, wood and metal. Jack hit the floor while a thousand angry bees tore at his clothes, some at his skin, trying to pull him in pieces away from the center of the blast.
6:14 P.M. PST Westwood, California
“Dare,” Kim Bauer chose.
Her best friend, Janet York, grinned mischievously. “Kiss Dean. French!” Everyone oohed and giggled.
There were six of them, three girls and three boys, sitting in the den of Lindsay Needham’s house. The housekeeper was supposed to be watching them while Lindsay’s mother was at a meeting, but housekeepers were easily gotten rid of, and the six thirteenyear-olds had gotten down to a very intense game of Truth or Dare.
Kim Bauer looked at Luke, hoping she wasn’t blushing too badly. She was just glad Janet hadn’t chosen Aaron. Aaron was cute, but he was brother material. Luke was a hunk. He was most of the reason Kim had been willing to play Truth or Dare in the first place. Kim had kissed boys before — she was thirteen, after all! — but she’d never French kissed. She didn’t think Luke had, either. Their lips locked; something warm and wiggly, strange and uncomfortable, happened; and then it was over except for a lot of squealing and giggling.
“Okay, okay, my turn!” Kim said. Her heart was racing, but she felt no need to remain the center of all that attention. “Aaron!” she declared to a boy across the circle from her. “Truth or dare!”
Aaron had just recovered from laughing and applauding. “Truth,” he chose.
Kim knew that Aaron and Janet had been going steady, and that they’d been caught behind the gym once. Janet denied anything was happening, but Kim wasn’t so sure. “Has anyone ever touched you?” she asked.
Aaron’s laughter thinned. “Touched me? Well, sure…”
“Uh-uh.” Kim grinned. She glanced wickedly at Janet. “I mean, touched you. Down there.”
“Kim!” Janet shrieked. The others shrieked, too. All except for Aaron. Kim had expected him to blush, but instead he’d gone ghostly white.
“Well, spill!” Dean demanded, oblivious.
“Spill!” repeated the others.
Aaron was not playing along. He fidgeted, the color gone from his face, his lip trembling. He looked at Kim with wet eyes, then looked down. All the laughter died.
“Aaron?” Kim asked quietly.
The boy got to his feet and hurried from the room.
6:19 P.M. PST Panorama City
Jack stumbled out of a cloud of dark smoke and into a sea of red and blue flashing lights set against black and white. He was vaguely aware of the police cars and uniformed officers. He knew someone was trying to talk to him, but the words came through as a muffled buzz, distorted by the ringing in his ears.
Booby trap, he said. Or at least that’s what he meant to say. He couldn’t hear his own words. Bomb in the chair. Pressure release, like a land mine. The fat man sat down and that triggered it. They’re ahead of us.
The uniformed officers asked him a few more questions, but he couldn’t hear them yet. They’re ahead of us, he kept thinking and saying. They’re ahead of us. The uniforms didn’t know what that meant, so they left him sitting on the curb and went back inside to search.
Jack breathed in the cleaner air and worked his jaw as though that would open up channels and let the ringing sound leave his head. The muffled voices became a little more distinct as he watched figures in firemen’s jackets carry two people out of the house on stretchers — the fat man covered by a sheet, and Burchanel. Jack couldn’t see much of the FBI agent with the emergency personnel around him, but what little he saw looked bad.
They’re ahead of us, Jack told himself. They knew we’d talk to Ramin and they tried to put him out of service. They’re ahead of us. It occurred to him that he kept repeating that same phrase. It was not a good sign.
Someone knelt behind him, tearing the back of his shirt open. The someone — a paramedic — daubed his back with soft, wet gauze. The wetness felt cool at first, then it stung. Jack gritted his teeth but said nothing. This was easier to deal with than the ringing in his head
. He could focus on pain. Sounds came into his head now as separate and distinct stimuli. Soon enough he was able to focus on two people standing in front of him. One was a paramedic— maybe the same one who had treated his back. The other was a tall man with steel-blue eyes. It occurred to Jack that he knew that man.
“…got to be a concussion,” the paramedic was saying. “And his back is torn up a little from chair fragments, but there’s nothing serious. Not like the other guys. I can’t believe he survived it, that close.”
“That’s Jack,” said Christopher Henderson. Henderson stooped in front of Jack to look him in the eye. “You okay, buddy?”
Jack was. Henderson’s voice came from farther away than it should have, but otherwise, Jack’s head was clearing. “I’m pissed,” he said. “How are they?”
Henderson shook his head. “The fat guy’s dead. Your FBI man would be, too, but the fat guy shielded a lot of the blast. Still, they’re taking him to ICU.”
Jack nodded. Every passing moment brought him a little more clarity. Still, he’d had concussions before, and he knew that clarity came in layers — at each stage you felt fine, until the next layer came and you realized how groggy you’d still been a moment before.
“Was the fat guy Ramin Ahmadi?” Henderson asked.
Jack nodded again, and this time he smiled wryly. “This unit of yours is coming along, eh?”
Henderson managed to nod proudly and dismissively at the same time, the way a man takes a compliment on a golf swing he knows is good. “We’re on the distribution list, now. I still think you should come over. Speaking of which…” He spun on his heels and sat down on the curb next to Jack. “What’s a CIA agent doing operating domestically?”
Jack rubbed his eyes and pointed down the road, where an ambulance had just taken Ed Burchanel. “I was just along for the ride. It was Ed’s investigation.”
