24 Declassified: Storm Force 2d-7

by David S. Jacobs

  Paris was interested in Beltran, as any intelligence service would be, but it was Vollard whom they really wanted to get their hands on.

  Marcel had pushed perhaps too hard, for in the final week leading up to Bloody Saturday and the Golden Pole massacre, he'd come to the notice of Vollard and his crew.

  Instead of tailing the mercenaries, they were tailing him, closing in on him.

  On Thursday he'd met with Vikki Valence to warn her as best he could of the danger encompassing Paz and all those in his orbit. She was part of his assignment, but he cared for her, too, in his way, and he didn't want to see any harm come to her. He told her as much as he dared, without breaking his cover or revealing his ties to French intelligence.

  That was why he'd steered her to CTU. Washington and communist Cuba had been mortal foes since Castro first came to power and revealed his Marxist-Leninist ties back in 1960. The mention of Beltran's involvement in the Paz/Vollard affair was sure to prod Washington into quick action, and CTU was its most effective, fast-moving domestic action and enforcement arm.

  Not long after he warned Vikki, Vollard's killers had caught up with Marcel at the Belle Reve riverfront bungalow, putting a quick end to him. They took his cell phone, address book, and any documents or letters that might supply some new intelligence.

  Now, armed with the knowledge of Marcel's ties to Paris, CTU Center Director Cal Randolph moved quickly to contact the man he knew was French intelligence's top agent in New Orleans.

  This individual, a resident agent assigned to the French Consulate in the Crescent City, was known to Cal solely as Monsieur Armand.

  Contacting him personally on a secure, scrambled phone line, Cal had succinctly laid out the background of Marcel's death, and how it tied into the events of the day: the Golden Pole massacre, the Garros abduction and ransoming, the Supremo Hat Company slaughter, and the carnage at the Kwik-Up parking lot and environs.

  Monsieur Armand, expressing sorrow and regret at Marcel's death, thanked Cal for providing him with the information and vowed full cooperation. He arranged for his people to immediately send all their computer files on Vollard, especially his New Orleans activities, to CTU Center. Center analysts sent a copy of the files to headquarters in Washington, D.C., for deconstruction, permutation, and combination of the data by CTU's linked national net of supercomputers.

  Monsieur Armand was able to provide Cal Randolph with one last, intriguing clue: during the final days of his life, Marcel had focused a good part of his attention at a site at Pelican Pier on the New Orleans waterfront.

  Since Marcel was no painter of seascapes, there was every possibility that he'd scented some kind of link between Vollard and the site.

  * * *

  That was why Jack Bauer and Pete Malo now found themselves sheltering in the recessed doorway of a warehouse building adjacent the site on Pelican Pier, scanning the suspect site to see what they could see.

  The answer was, literally, not much. The rain was really coming down now, a continuous, high-volume downpour whipped into greater frenzy by ever-mounting winds from the oncoming storm. It was as if those ominous, low-hanging clouds that had roofed New Orleans from morning to night had suddenly had their bellies ripped open, releasing a torrential rainfall.

  Slanting sheets and curtains of rainfall now obscured their view of Pelican Pier.

  Something was afoot there, to be sure. A lot of activity was centered on a barge that was berthed to a floating dock on the downriver side of the long pier.

  There was movement, too, around the warehouse with corrugated tin siding that sat at the middle of the pier, its rear edging the upriver side of the wharf, leaving an open space in front where a number of SUVs were massed and where men were seen going in and out of the building, loading bundles into the vehicles.

  There wasn't much that could be made of that, though. The doings could have been nothing more than the usual activity associated with a civilian, law-abiding, dockside operation. A closer look was required.

  The downpour that restricted visibility was now their ally, helping to shield Jack and Pete as they made their surreptitious approach toward the pier.

  Earlier observation, even through heavy rainfall, had revealed the presence of a number of video surveillance cameras mounted at key points along the landward end of the pier, which was sealed off by a gated metal fence and watchmen.

  The building where Jack and Pete sheltered was upriver of the pier; abandoning the doorway where they sheltered, they moved out on foot. The waterfront was on the north, left bank of the river.

  The optimum angle of approach toward Pelican Pier seemed to be on the west corner of its landward side. The chain-link fence barring entry to the pier crossed the foot of it at right angles, turning at the front corners to provide wings extending for seven or eight feet along the edge of the pier.

  The top of the fence in all directions was strung with spiraled loops of razored concertina wire; no climber could get through that, so there would be no scaling the fence and going over the top.

  Jack and Pete made their way to the west corner at the front of the pier. No video cameras were in evidence at the edge of the fence.

  The agents came in low, crouched almost double, scurrying toward their goal.

  An inch of water covered the street bordering the pier, sloshing and splashing underfoot as Jack and Pete crossed to the corner. Gusty winds coming in off the river battered them, trying to knock them down. Reaching the corner of the fence, they hunkered down.

  Jack's lightweight, waterproof nylon Windbreaker jacket and Pete's supposedly water-resistant raincoat were no match for the downpour; the two of them were already soaked to the skin.

  The next part was the chanciest. To get on the pier, they'd have to climb across the wing extension of the fence that did a ninety-degree turn at its front corner, extending for ten feet back along the pier's edge.

  It was a metal chain-link fence, affording handholds. Even so, it was a long drop down, and once fallen in the turbulent waters surging around the pilings upholding the pier, the strongest swimmer could expect nothing more than a quick death by drowning.

  Jack said, "Here goes nothing." Leaning around the fence corner post, he reached inward to the wing of the fence, grabbing two tight handholds of the chain links, wrapping his fingers around them.

  Holding on for dear life, he swung outward, his feet leaving the curbed edge of the pavement. He now clung spiderlike to the fence wing; below lay surging river water, boiling and furious.

  The fence was wet and rain-slick, winds slammed him, trying to knock him off his perch. Maintaining a death grip with his left hand, Jack reached sideways with his right, hooking his fingers into the interstices of the fence.

  His right handhold secure, he released his left hand and moved it toward him, riverward. There were no footholds; the fence links were too small for that. Jack had to proceed by upper body strength alone.

  He repeated the process, working his way crosswise along the fence, narrowing the gap toward the corner post anchoring it to the pier. His hands ached; the pain in his shoulder joints was intense. Rain battered the top of his head, sluicing down his face, getting into his eyes. He kept tossing his head to clear the water from his orbs.

  Creeping spiderlike along the fence, he reached its end, swinging his feet around the corner post and planting them firmly on the pier. He was now inside the fence of this suspect dockside facility.

  His hands were stiff claws; he flexed them, opening and closing them to restore circulation and feeling to them. When he was ready, he signaled Pete to make the crossing.

  Pete hooked his hands into the fence links and swung out into empty air, over the river water twenty-five feet below. He followed the same agonizing course as Jack had; when he reached the corner post, Jack reached out to give him a hand, gripping his arm to help him swing to safety inside the fence.

  They both now crouched down, huddling in the corner before making their next move
. Pete panted, gasping. When he'd recovered his breath, he said, "A safe desk job in Center doesn't look so bad now!"

  Now they moved riverward, closing on the barnlike structure that stood in the middle of the pier. Scattered along the pier's west side were a number of boxy containers and stacked wooden pallets, providing welcome cover as they advanced toward the building.

  The building was a simple construction, a big, looming, barnlike structure with high walls and a peaked roof. Its long walls were parallel with the sides of the pier.

  The roof was made of tin; the noise made by the rain falling on it was slightly terrific. Runoff water showered down from the eaves.

  Jack and Pete sheltered in the lee of the building, below a row of ground-floor windows. The sills were set at shoulder height; the windows were made of panes of glass set in gridded metal framework. The frames were flaky with corrosion and rust; the panes were opaque with grime.

  The window closest to the pier's edge seemed like the likeliest choice to open on an obscure and deserted corner of the building; the CTU agents targeted it as their avenue of entry.

  Pete shucked off his raincoat, wrapping folds of cloth around his right hand to protect it. He then palm-heeled the windowpane in the lower right corner of the frame.

  It popped out, falling inward.

  Here was where the downpour was working for them; the sound of the glass falling inside and breaking would never be overheard over the rattle of rainfall drumming on the echoing tin roof.

  Jack peeked inside through the gap. As they'd guessed, the window lay in a dark corner of the shedlike structure. The interior was vast, gloomy, cavernous, the dimness broken by a series of floodlights hanging overhead on wires suspended from a rafter beam that ran along the building's central axis.

  It was an old building, filled with a lot of old junk, stacked piles of metal truss braces long since gone to rust, massive blocky mounds wrapped in greasy, age-darkened tarpaulins, worktables and benches that hadn't been put to use in decades.

  The real action was going on in the center of the space, where a knot of men were loading bundles of material into the backs of several SUVs that were parked inside. The long west wall was broken by an open bay door; floodlights mounted outside the bay and atop it threw cones of light onto the pier, illuminating slanted lines of rain that sliced through the glow.

  Still, there was nothing about the activity to suggest whether it was lawful business or illicit doings; Jack and Pete needed a closer look.

  Jack hooked his hands together, giving Pete a boost so he could reach up inside the empty square where the pane of glass had been. Pete's hand was still wrapped in the folds of the raincoat, protecting it. Groping around at the top of the window, he located a catch; he turned it, unlocking the window.

  He stepped down from Jack's knitted hands, planting both feet on the pier. Hinge-mounted to the frame along its upper end, the window swung open and inward as Pete exerted pressure against it, easing it open until the space was wide enough to accommodate the passage of a man.

  The dark corner on which the window opened was hemmed in by some wooden packing boxes stacked to the left of the frame; beyond the corner of the stack, a view opened to the center of the building, where the loading of the SUVs continued uninterrupted, the handlers seemingly oblivious of the activity at the far end of the structure.

  Pete unwrapped the raincoat bundled around his arm, letting it fall to the pier. Jack was in better shape, so he gave Pete a boost up, allowing the older agent to enter first.

  Pete wriggled headfirst through the opening, squirming down the side of the wall to the floor. He kicked his feet clear and tumbled to the concrete floor, moving into the square of shadow cast by the pile of packing cases. Rising, he motioned to Jack that the coast was clear.

  Jack gripped the lower end of the frame, chinning himself up and over the opening and going through headfirst, slipping noiselessly to the floor. He was just gathering his feet under him when moving shadows fell across him and Pete.

  Three men stepped out from behind the stacked packing cases, where they must have been lurking. Backlit by the lights on the center of the building, they were shadowy forms, their faces hidden. Reflected light glinted on the guns in their hands, guns leveled on Jack and Pete.

  One said, "Hold it!"

  Pete made a try, throwing himself to one side and grabbing for the gun worn in a holstered side clip at his hip. His piece hadn't even cleared the holster when a shot rang out, a muzzle flare spearing from the gun barrel of the shooter, the man in the middle.

  Pete toppled, dead weight slamming to the concrete floor. He rolled into the light, his upturned face revealing a hole in the center of his forehead.

  Jack stayed in place, keeping his empty hands clear of his body. Pete had reached against a drawn gun, an impossible try. Just as Colonel Paz had tried to go against Jack when the latter had the drop on him. Paz had had a gun in his hand, and he still hadn't had a chance. Pete's hand was empty, making the odds against success even more astronomical.

  Possibly he'd gambled that he could take a few hits to the body and still return fire, giving Jack a fighting chance to go for his gun. But the gunman standing in the center of the trio was too good; a dead shot, he'd drilled Pete squarely through the middle of the forehead. And that with a hip shot made while Pete was in motion, too; the killer was an ace marksman.

  The shooter stepped forward, a line of gun smoke curling from the barrel of his gun. Turning to one side to face Jack, he moved so that his face was partly in the light.

  He was young, in his mid-twenties, dark hair slicked back straight from the top of his forehead and worn long in the back, curling over his collar. Cleanshaven, with chiseled features, he had bright blue eyes that stood against a deep tan.

  Smiling with his lips, he said, "You want some, too?"

  Jack stayed in place, motionless.

  The shooter took a step forward, toward Jack. He said, "A snoopy guy, eh? This is what happens to snoopy guys."

  He slammed the flat of his pistol against the side of Jack's face.

  Jack dropped, all going black.

  20. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 A.M. AND 1 A.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME

  Pelican Pier, New Orleans

  Jack came to. He was soaked, dripping. Blood?

  No, it was water, a bucketful of water that had just been dashed in his face by a hulking goon who stood looming over him.

  Jack was sitting up, in a straight-backed, roller-mounted swivel chair. Damned near antique, by the looks of it; it was made not of steel and plastic, but of old brown wood, nicked and scarred.

  His hands were secured behind his back. He could barely feel them; they were lumps of meat. He tried to wriggle his fingers to see if he could; they responded, producing agonizing sensations that wrung a groan from him.

  A voice said, "Don't bother shamming; I know you're awake." A familiar voice, crisp, well-modulated, slightly accented. The speaker had to speak loud to be heard from the rain drumming on the rooftop.

  Jack's eyes came into focus; he looked around. He was in a different part of the building, a corner square that had been partitioned off into a sizable office space.

  The partitions were ten feet tall; the top had not been roofed over but left open.

  Overhead, a cable dangled down from a rafter beam, terminating in a half-shaded lamp suspended about ten feet above the floor.

  The partitions were old, too, made of age-darkened wood; starting at shoulder height, their upper halves were made of frosted, translucent glass, no doubt to let some light into the space.

  There was a rectangular wooden desk, as dark and scarred as the partition walls; it contrasted with the layout of computer towers and monitor screens arrayed on the desktop. Some filing cabinets stood in the corners where partition walls met.

  The office space had no door, only a door-shaped opening that served as an entryway, set in a partition opposite the rear wall, one of the
walls of the building. The office looked like it dated back to the 1950s; the high-tech equipment assembled there was brand-new.

  To one side of the entryway stood an old wooden table; atop it were a number of glass cases, terrarium-style, each containing its own set of nasty nature specimens.

  One case held a mess of wriggling coral snakes, brightly colored with their bands of red, black, and yellow. They were incredibly venomous; a bite could easily kill a full-grown man. Another held several water moccasins, entwined among one another — black snakes, the inside of whose mouths showed white when they bared their long, curved, poison-dripping fangs, a distinguishing mark that had given rise to their nickname of cottonmouths. A third was stocked with foot-long black centipedes, each of whose bite could make a human limb blacken and swell to elephantine proportions; a fourth was chock-full of tarantulas, black and hairy eight-leggers with bodies the size of silver dollars.

  A set of two-legged venomous creatures stood grouped around the chair where Jack sat. Two were known to him: Major Marc Vollard and Rex de Groot, one of Vollard's lieutenants.

  The third was the blue-eyed, bronze-tanned shooter who'd killed Pete Malo.

  De Groot held the bucket, which he'd just emptied into Jack's face to bring him around.

  Vollard was of medium height, compactly made, well-knit. His spade-shaped face showed long green eyes, a snub nose, and a pointy chin. His upper lip was so thin as to be almost nonexistent; above it he wore a neatly trimmed pencil mustache, iron-gray.

  He was outfitted in a safari jacket, light blue T-shirt, khaki pants worn tucked into the tops of a pair of combat boots. A thin, lightweight red scarf knotted around his neck added a flash of color. A black patent leather Sam Browne belt was fitted around his torso, holding a holstered sidearm at his hip.

  De Groot was big, fleshy, built like an old-time wrestler from pre-steroid days, with sloping shoulders and thick arms, a barrel chest and a big gut. A mop of unruly, silver-gray hair covered his ears and the back of his collar, framing a ruddy, jowly, thick-featured face. He was outfitted in hunter's camouflage-style fatigues; a gun belt worn below his sagging gut held a holstered, long-barreled.44 magnum revolver.