24 Declassified: Storm Force 2d-7

by David S. Jacobs

  Susan was not his boss, although as a matter of form he deferred to her in all matters not directly connected with the operation and running of the Security Division.

  His boss was Brinsley S. Wolters, head of EXECPROTEK; Wolters's boss was Wilmont Keehan, who owned the company.

  That Keehan's daughter's fiance had been abducted and three persons killed in the building where EXECPROTEK's New Orleans branch was based was a public relations nightmare and worse; as the man in charge on the spot (he was on the spot, all right), Sears knew that one false step could put him on the chopping block.

  He was a born competitor and a winner and hadn't reached his current position by folding when disaster struck; his nature was to keep fighting until the last dog died.

  Some powerful cards remained on the table for him to play when it came to keeping his job and reputation intact.

  Chief among these was the fact that it had been Susan's decision to obstruct, stall, and mislead CTU agents Bauer and Malo to keep them from confronting Raoul Garros.

  What would have been a minor peccadillo, one that in ordinary circumstances would never have had any official comeback, had taken on a deadly seriousness due to the violence that had resulted.

  In fact, it was not stretching a point to note that her delaying tactics were indirectly responsible for the deaths of Topham and Beauclerk. Not to mention the parking lot attendant. His family might have the makings of a multimillion-dollar negligence lawsuit.

  Susan Keehan was vulnerable; by association, so was her father, Wilmont; and her uncle, Senator Burl Keehan. The Senator especially was the public face of the oil-for-the-poor Hearthstone Initiative; his close dealings with Venezuela's Chavez regime were already controversial in some quarters. This debacle would be red meat to his political foes, who were legion.

  Three principal Keehans, Wilmont, Susan, and the Senator, were mired deep in the mess if they didn't play their cards right. The dynasts were sacrosanct; they'd be looking for someone, anyone else to be the fall guy and take the heat for the disaster. A role Sears was determined to avoid.

  He had plenty of incriminating evidence on the family, not just in this matter but in countless other Keehan dirty deals; he could and would use the threat of revealing it to get himself off the hook.

  Who to hang it on? That was a toughie. It might even be necessary to put the blame where it belonged, on the homicidal abductors who'd grabbed Garros.

  If only he knew who they were.

  * * *

  Acting on Sears's orders, bodyguards literally surrounded Susan Keehan, screening her behind a wall of solid, well-armed flesh. They escorted her to the KHF offices on top of the building.

  With her went Hal Dendron and Alma Butterworth. There wasn't much either could do down here in the basement garage, where the situation required Sears's adroit interfacing with the authorities.

  Besides, he didn't want them looking over his shoulder and getting too clear an idea of what he was up to. What they didn't know couldn't be used against him later.

  He put Gene Jasper in charge of the squad guarding Susan. He knew Jasper would like that; he was always trying to get close to her, to make a personal connection with the heiress and develop his own direct line of communication to her instead of having to go through his boss, Sears. Yes, Jasper would welcome the chance to make himself useful and do some politicking with the boss's daughter.

  That suited Sears fine; he didn't want Jasper watching him too closely, either; not at this critical time.

  In addition to Susan's immediate circle of personal protectors, security was beefed up on her floor, with a troop of heavily armed trigger pullers guarding the fire doors, stairs, and elevators.

  Not only would they guard her from those who might do her violence, they would also shield her from any law enforcement, national security, or media types who might want to question her.

  * * *

  The carnage in the underground garage was less easily resolved. For now, the bodies must lay in place, stark specimens of the violence that had been unleashed here today.

  They were denied even the minimum of privacy and decency that would come from having their dead eyes closed and their faces decently covered, for fear of contaminating trace evidence or destroying vital clues.

  It wasn't pretty. Mylon Sears in younger days had seen combat and worked law enforcement, but his high status in the EXECPROTEK organization had insulated him for long years from the grittier realities of the profession, such as blood and violent death.

  Careerism now provided the mental numbness necessary for carrying on.

  Relations with CTU were extremely delicate. Two of their own were dead, murdered, and under circumstances that boded ill for the Keehan clan. Intensifying Sears's desire to cooperate, or at least seem to be cooperating.

  Still, the situation had its positives as well as its negatives. CTU wanted all other law enforcement and national security agencies kept out of the loop for as long as possible. To ensure that the Counter Terrorist Unit took the lead in tracking down and avenging the slayers of their own.

  That guaranteed a degree of control and confidentiality over a volatile situation that was a media magnet.

  Sears knew Pete Malo, their respective positions in the private and public security sectors here in New Orleans having fostered over the years a working relationship between the two. This time out, though, the death of Topham and Beauclerk radically altered the basic dynamics of their association, and not for the better.

  Sears didn't know Jack Bauer; Bauer was a stranger to him, a variable, an unknown quantity.

  It was Bauer who suggested that they open the trunk of Garros's car. "Maybe he's stuffed inside it," Jack said.

  Sears vented a pious, heartfelt "Lord, let's hope not!"

  Pete Malo said, "I didn't know you were so attached to Raoul."

  Sears said, "I'm attached to my job. I'd like to keep it, which seems unlikely if Garros is dead."

  He reached for his communicator, intending to contact the building's security center to send a man down to open the trunk. Civilian employees were always doing something like locking their keys inside their cars; the security staff had several locksmiths on duty.

  Pete Malo said, "Never mind, I'll do it myself. It's quicker." He took out his pocket kit of lock-picking tools and went to work. In moments, the tumblers clicked into place, the trunk unlocked, and he lifted the lid.

  Inside, there was nothing more than a spare tire. Pete said, "Now we know he's not there, at least."

  Jack prowled around the area of the parking attendant's booth and gate, searching for any brass cartridge that might have been ejected by the murder gun. Finding none.

  Jack noted other leads worth following up on. One such was the ticket-issuing machine at the gate at the bottom of the entrance ramp.

  The killers' vehicle had not been equipped with one of the pass cards for automatic entry issued to building personnel. Otherwise they could have driven out of the garage without having to bust through the gate.

  On entering, a ticket would have been issued to them. A record was kept of all such tickets. By checking the record against all other visitors' cars, the time of the killers' car's entry could be determined. This would help pinpoint the time of some of their movements. Perhaps someone in the garage or on the street at that time had seen something of value.

  Surveillance cameras monitored the garage. They were automatic — the space was too vast and the building too large to allow for individualized oversight by human operators in the Mart's security command post. The camera feeds were recorded onto large spools of tape that were changed every twenty-four hours. Examination of the relevant spools might reveal significant details of the crime, its perpetrators, and their vehicle.

  The getaway car was a stolen one, no doubt, and fitted with a set of plates lifted from another vehicle — standard operating procedure for professional crooks and hitters — but the motions had to be gone through anyway. Legw
ork and attention to detail had a way of paying off in the long run, and sometimes sooner than that.

  Jack and Pete stayed on the scene until the first CTU vehicles began to arrive.

  CTU Agent Ned Lauter took charge of the on-site investigation.

  Jack and Pete got in their SUV and drove off.

  * * *

  The principals met in a conference room in the KHF offices to hold a strategy session. Present were Susan Keehan, Mylon Sears, Gene Jasper, Hal Dendron, and Alma Butterworth. Closeted in conference.

  All were grouped around a circular table. Susan stood, restless, too uneasy to sit.

  Her expression was strained. The cords in her neck stood out. White-knuckled anxiety rolled through her in waves, threatening to make her physically ill. Fear alternated with rage.

  Mylon Sears assumed the remote, owlish expression of a doctor about to give a patient the bad news. "I'm afraid that there's no other conclusion than that Raoul has met with foul play, that he's been abducted."

  Gene Jasper hastened to put a positive spin on it, saying, "That's a good thing, Susan. That means that he's still alive. Otherwise they would have killed him in the garage and left him there with the others."

  Susan shook with frustration. "'They'! Who are 'they'?"

  Sears said, "No reason to trust CTU or any other government agency when it comes to Raoul and LAGO." His remark elicited plenty of head-nodding agreement around the table.

  "But that doesn't necessarily mean that they're totally off-base on this one," he added.

  That line was less well-received, generating scowls and frowns from the others, with the exception of Jasper, who received his boss's statement with a look of studied neutrality.

  Sears forged on, bearer of bad news. "The Venezuelan official presence in this city is definitely under assault. Our own independent sources have verified the attack on Colonel Paz this morning. It left seven dead: his two bodyguards, and all five of the attackers. He's still missing, and nobody at the consulate has heard from him."

  Alma Butterworth said, "Convenient."

  Sears said, "How so?"

  She fired back, "Dead men tell no tales. No witnesses are left behind to contradict the official story."

  "You're suggesting our government is behind the slaughter?"

  Alma said, "It wouldn't be the first time. We've seen what this Administration has unleashed on the people of the Middle East and Latin America."

  Sears tried to gloss over the rhetoric to keep his presentation moving. "Be that as it may, even the blackest of government black ops avoids this kind of violence at home. Bad press and all that. These mass killings will generate a ton of international ill-will.

  "Besides, I hardly think that even CTU would kill two of its own men to buttress a cover story," he added.

  "Hmph," Alma Butterworth said, her flinty stare and tightly set mouth suggesting strong disagreement with his analysis.

  Susan Keehan was showing signs of impatience, danger signs. Storm warnings. "I wouldn't put it past our government. They hate President Chavez and his populist reforms and would do anything they can to derail it."

  Sears said, "How does this violence help Washington's propaganda line? It makes us look like a banana republic." He'd spoken without thinking and added quickly, "Pardon the expression."

  Susan wasn't buying it. "If not us, then — who?"

  Sears, hesitant, suggested, "This kind of violence is the stock in trade of drug gangs."

  Susan exploded. "That's another slur on Venezuela, trying to associate it with drug trafficking! That's what Washington always does whenever it wants to smear a progressive Third World regime, accuses it of being involved in narcotics and terrorism!"

  * * *

  A phone rang. Not so much of a ring tone as an electronic bleeping.

  Susan started, gasping. She looked ready to jump out of her own skin. Several more ring tones sounded before she realized that their source was her own cell phone. Only a select few had access to her private number; among them, Raoul currently headed the list.

  She reached into her pocket for the cell, hand shaking so much that she almost dropped it. She fumbled with it, then recovered. Meanwhile, the electronic bell tones chimed again.

  She flipped open the lid of the cell and said, "Maybe it's Raoul!"

  That galvanized the others at the table, causing them to lean forward in their chairs toward her, lunging, quivering like hunting dogs on point.

  Bright spots of color blazed in Susan's cheeks, making her look feverish, consumptive. "Hello, Raoul! Raoul!"

  A voice on the other end said, "Yes, it's me. Raoul."

  Susan vented a rapid-fire torrent. A rush of words, babbling. "Oh, thank God! I've been so worried! What happened to you, Raoul? Are you all right? Where are you?"

  Raoul did not immediately reply. Susan said, "Raoul? You are all right, aren't you, darling?"

  He said, "Susan, please listen. This is serious." Raoul's voice was husky, cracking. He sounded like he was going to cry.

  "Raoul, what is it, dear? You're frightening me… "

  "Please, Susan, let me speak without your interrupting for once. It is a matter of life and death — ugh!"

  Raoul was silenced in mid-phrase, sounding like he'd been choked off. Strangled noises gurgled in the background.

  Susan called his name several times in ever more frantic desperation. "Raoul? Raoul! Raoul, speak to me! Raoul, are you there?!"

  A new voice said, "I am here, but I am not Raoul."

  No, the speaker was most definitely not Raoul. The voice sounded flat, mechanical, chillingly inhuman. Sexless, identifiably neither male or female. There was a quality to it that suggested that it emanated from some kind of electronic voice box, a filtering device that took human speech and digitized it, reproduced it with all traces of individuality of tone, timbre, dynamics filtered out. The distortion maximized its sinister aspect.

  Susan was thrown by it; for a moment it left her speechless — for her a rare experience. The caller said, "Miss Keehan? Are you there, Miss Keehan?"

  Susan recovered, finding her voice. "Who's this?"

  "This is me," came the reply.

  "Yes, but who are you?"

  "I have Raoul Garros."

  "Have him? What do you mean, you have him?"

  "The role of naif ill becomes you, Miss Keehan. Especially not at a time like this, when the crisis has arrived. I have the body in question. Whether that body remains among the living or the dead is entirely up to you."

  "You — you've kidnapped him!"

  "Yes."

  "What do you want?"

  "Money. A great deal of money, that is what I want. You want Raoul. Here is a basis for negotiation."

  For a flash, Susan's fear was replaced by anger. She said, "You must be crazy! Put Raoul back on!"

  The caller said, "Certainly. One moment, please."

  A pause was followed by a shriek of agony — Raoul's shriek. So loud and piercing was it that it was plainly audible to the others seated around the conference table. It seemed to go on forever.

  When it ended, Susan, shivering, said, "What are you doing to him?"

  The machine-made voice returned. "You would like to hear more?"

  Susan said, "No! For God's sake, don't! Please stop! Don't hurt him!"

  "We understand each other better now, eh? You do agree that the man you spoke to is Raoul Garros, no?"

  "Yes… "

  "You are certain of his identity, Miss Keehan? If not, I will send you some body parts as proof. A finger, or perhaps an ear. Possibly both. Or would you prefer some more, uh, intimate part of his anatomy?"

  "No!"

  "I am in charge, Miss Keehan. Please remember that. Or else Raoul will experience a great deal of pain. More than he has already suffered."

  "No, don't! Please don't hurt him anymore!"

  "Ah… " Even the mechanized tones of the voice distorter failed to disguise the pleasure in the caller's voice. "I hav
e Raoul. You have one million dollars. I suggest an exchange."

  Outrage colored Susan's reply: "A million dollars!"

  The caller said, "It is your money, and you have a great deal of it. A mere million is no great hardship for you. Should you refuse to pay, however, Raoul will experience a great deal of hardship. Death will come to him as a blessing."

  She said, "I'll pay."

  "Such compassion! So very charitable of you. Raoul will be deeply grateful," the voice said. "Here is how I want the ransom money. Write this down. A single mistake will be fatal for Raoul."

  A frantic interval followed as Susan got hold of a pen and notepad.

  The caller said, "Listen carefully. The money must be made up of small bills, no larger than hundred-dollar bills. Old bills, which have been in circulation for twenty years. No consecutive serial numbers. Do you understand?"

  Susan said, "Yes."

  "Read it back to me to be sure you've got it right."

  "Small bills, nothing larger than a hundred. Twenty years old. No consecutive serial numbers."

  "Correct," the voice said. "Cooperate fully and without question. Make no attempt to contact the authorities. They are bunglers who will succeed only in getting Raoul killed. Messily."

  The caller continued, "Stand by. I will contact you presently, within the hour, with instructions on how and where to deliver the money. Do nothing until you hear from me. Make no attempt to trace this call, or Raoul dies."

  Click.

  Connection terminated.

  Leaving Susan shouting into a dead phone.

  11. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME

  Planters and Traders Mercantile Exchange, New Orleans

  Gene Jasper was saying, "It's a waste of time to have Susan go down to the vaults to get the money, Molineux. Why not just bring it up here to her? Time is of the essence."