24 Declassified: Trojan Horse 2d-3

by Marc A. Cerasini

  Milo glanced back at the bathroom door. “You were too late, all right, Lesser,” he said bitterly. “Too late for Fay.” Then he turned and met Lesser’s eyes. “But we can still get Tony out of there.”

  Lesser adamantly shook his head. “Are you crazy? I just got away from those crazy Chechens, I’m not about to go back—”

  “I’ll go with you, Pressman,” Cole Keegan spoke up. “I’ll help get your guy out.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, Keegan,” Lesser protested, rising to his feet. “Don’t forget you work for me.”

  Cole Keegan shrugged. “I do work for you, and I have your best interests in mind, so I’ll give it to you straight. If you want to get out of Tijuana and across that border alive, we’re gonna need help. And when we get across the border, we’re going to need a few bargaining chips or we’ll end up in a Federal penitentiary. Returning their agent to CTU would signal our good intentions and a willingness to cooperate…. Don’t you think?”

  Lesser’s bony body sagged back down onto the wobbly desk chair. Instead of answering Cole’s question, he turned to Milo. “Now you see why I pay this guy a million dollars a year to watch my ass.”

  9:47:53 A.M.EDT Admiral House, The Naval Observatory Washington, D.C.

  “Because of a legislative deadlock in the Congress, the

  Vice President is unable to attend—”

  “Regretfully unable to attend.”

  Megan Gleason looked up from the monitor, rolled her gold-flecked green eyes. A resident of the Vice President’s home state, she was the very pretty daughter of a very wealthy and generous political contributor with strong ties to the state party.

  “I always forget that regretfully part,” Megan said, her pale, delicate features reddening.

  Standing over her, Adam Carlisle smiled patiently.

  “That’s why you’re the intern and I’m the internturned-almost-staff member.”

  “You’re the ‘almost-staff member’ because you graduated in June and can take the job in the fall. I’ve got another two years before I’m sprung.”

  “But you can still enjoy the perks.”

  Megan frowned, curled straight brown hair behind an ear. “Perks? What perks? My pay is nonexistent. I live in a two bedroom Georgetown apartment with three roommates, and I work twelve hours a day.”

  “Oh, the humanity,” said Adam. He removed the blue blazer from his athletic frame, hung it on the back of the chair beside Megan, then sat down and pointed to the document on the screen. “And let’s not use the word deadlock. It has negative connotations.”

  “But aren’t the President and Vice President having a problem getting their legislation passed?”

  “Yes, but we never, ever admit something like that,” Adam replied.

  “Why not?”

  Adam shook his head. “So young, so naïve.”

  “I’m only two years younger than you, Adam.”

  “In the ways of the world, you are a mere babe.” He pointed to the computer screen. “Let’s say ‘because of a legislative impasse.’ That sounds nice and diplomatic. You can smooth over anything — even gridlock in Congress — with a word like impasse.”

  Megan retyped the line. “It’s amazing how much disputation can go into a simple press release.”

  “Welcome to Washington,” said Adam. “Nothing inside the Beltway is ever simple. You cannot just say ‘the Vice President is stuck here and can’t make the Silver Screen Awards so his wife is going without him,’ even though that’s exactly what’s happening.”

  “Why not? I mean really. I’d like to know.”

  “There are so many reasons.” Adam ticked them off with his fingers. “One: by not going, the VP could appear to be snubbing the wife of the Russian President, even though both she and her husband will attend a White House State Dinner in two days’ time — which is why we’re going to make a little joke about the Russian President’s wife and our VP’s wife having ‘girl time’ without their husbands. But just a little joke because we don’t want to offend the feminists.”

  “Why don’t we say the two wives can go to Chippendale’s together?”

  Adam raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re being flip, but that joke actually worked at the annual Correspondents Dinner. It’s a little too raw for a presidential press release, however. Still, if you come up with more like that, let me know. I’ll have someone feed it to the writers over at The Tonight Show.”

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  Adam stared.

  “Okay, okay, give me another reason for your release rhetoric,” said Megan.

  “Reason two: we don’t want to tell the Hollywood community — which was so generous during the President’s campaign — that a stalled farm bill is more important that the Veep showing his face at their annual awards show—”

  “But it is true!”

  Adam shook his head again. “You can never, never tell wealthy people they are not important. Especially wealthy movie stars. That just won’t do.”

  Megan rubbed her tired eyes. Adam checked his watch. “Let’s get back to work. We have to finish this in the next hour.”

  “What’s the rush?” Megan asked.

  “We have to catch Air Force Two in ninety minutes.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

  “It’s true. We’re flying with the Vice President’s wife, and we have tickets for the awards show tonight. We’ll be sitting right behind the Russian contingent.”

  Megan was gaping. Speechless.

  “I told you this job has perks,” said Adam with a flirtatious wink.

  9. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  1:01:03 P.M.PDT Palm Drive Beverly Hills

  Jack Bauer had patiently reconnoitered the lushly manicured grounds around Nareesa al-Bustani’s estate — the carefully tended gardens, the tall stone fence that completely circled the property — before he set foot into its perimeter. Jack had found no cameras, no motion detectors or sound sensors, yet he knew that many of these affluent homes had invisible motion and sound monitors buried in the ground, or security cameras the size of a plum nestled among the branches of trees. It would take a specialist and a brace of high-tech gear to breach that kind of security without detection, and Jack had no time to summon such help.

  After carefully examining the area for tripwires, Jack scaled the fence near an overgrown section of the garden. He came down among a thick tangle of palms trees and razor grass. The vegetation was dry from the prolonged drought and it rustled like crumpled newspaper as he moved through it. He could only hope the swish of the grass in the hot, dry breeze would mask the sound of his footsteps.

  Jack emerged from the tangle behind the pool house, where an air conditioning unit hummed. He didn’t want to risk crossing the expansive stone patio, so instead he skirted the adobe wall until he was within reach of the sliding glass doors of the main house.

  Peering around the wall, Jack saw that one of the glass doors was ajar. Behind the pane, virgin white curtains rippled in the hot wind. Jack’s instincts bristled. Everything about this entry was too easy, too convenient — the open door was either an invitation or a trap. Whatever it was, he knew he had no choice. If he’d been discovered already, he would soon be stopped. It would be wiser for him to have the confrontation now.

  Jack slipped the USP Tactical from its shoulder holster. Though it was heavier than the 9mm version used by most CTU field agents, Jack had recently come to value the stopping power of the.45-caliber model. Right now, however, Jack drew little comfort from the cold weapon in his grip as he moved silently across the sun-baked stone patio and through the door.

  The interior was spartan — steel recliner chairs arranged around a curved glass table, a mirrored wall with a recessed bar, stocked with glass sculptures in stead of spirits. Near a standing lamp Jack found another doorway that led deeper into the mansion. He’d just stepped over that threshold when someone moved behin
d him, shoved the barrel of a gun into his kidney.

  “Please sheath your weapon, or my men will be forced to take it from you.”

  Men emerged from cover, M-16s held shoulder high, trained on Jack Bauer. Their black battle suits were scorched and scuffed, a bloody bandage encircled one man’s forearm. Their masks were gone, to reveal close-cropped hair over steely-calm eyes.

  Jack slipped the Tactical under his jacket, raised his arms. The weapon pressed into his torso withdrew and the man clutching it moved to face him. He was as tall as Jack, eyes tree-bark brown, hair as black as an imam’s robes. A deep scar divided the flesh around his right eye, from hairline to cheekbone.

  “You may put your arms down, Special Agent Bauer. We mean you no harm. There’s been enough killing today.”

  “No, no! You fool. What are you doing?”

  The outraged voice came from another room. The men around Jack lowered their weapons, stood at attention when a short, middle-aged man burst into the room, fist shaking.

  “I told you to kill the intruder, Major Salah, not capture him. Kill! Kill!”

  The newcomer was a head shorter than everyone around him, his flesh the color of untreated leather, hair gray-white and cropped in short bangs across a creased forehead. His eyes were dark and flashing with anger. But the one called Major Salah met the older man’s rage squarely, refusing to back down.

  “I have followed your orders up to now, Deputy Minister. But murdering the Special Agent in Charge of the Los Angeles Counter Terrorist Unit would have dire repercussions not even a man of your political power and wealth could ignore.” Major Salah paused, his gaze met Jack’s. “And I will not murder a member of an intelligence service our nation is allied with. It is dishonorable, and there has been enough killing this day.”

  Understanding now that he was not dealing with terrorists but a unit of the Saudi Special Forces Brigade, Jack felt some relief. Because of the unusual structure of the Saudi military, government ministers each controlled a unit of the Special Forces, ensuring no individual or branch of the Saudi government had more power than another. It was a byzantine system that kept the royal family safe from betrayal or mutiny, but it also compelled professional soldiers like Major Salah to take orders from men better suited to banking or economic planning.

  Sensing the growing tension, Jack stepped between the Major and the diplomat. “I thank you for sparing my life, Major Ja’far al-Salah. I know that you must obey the orders of the Minister—”

  “Omar al Farad is but a Deputy Minister—”

  “And the father of Ibn al Farad,” Jack added, turning to face Omar. “And as a father, Deputy Minister, you are understandably concerned about the welfare of your son.”

  Omar al Farad’s gaze shifted from Jack to the doorway. A regal, middle-aged woman stood there, her dark, gray-streaked hair just brushing the collar of her ivory silk blouse, her long legs clad in matching silk pants. The woman was striking, with large, dark eyes and high, brown cheekbones damp with tears. To Jack, the family resemblance was noticeable. This woman was related in some way to Omar al Farad.

  “What is it, Nereesa?” asked Omar.

  Nereesa al-Bustani, Jack realized, the owner of this estate. He watched her glide across the room, seemingly oblivious to the ranks of armed men bickering around her. With a slender hand, she touched Omar’s arm. “Ibn is awake now, brother, come,” she whispered in flawless English.

  As Omar turned to follow his sister out the door, Jack seized his arm — eliciting an alarmed response from the armed men, an angry glare from Major Salah.

  “You must let me speak to your son,” Jack urged.

  “No,” Omar al Farad replied, yanking his arm away. “Your nation, your evil culture, has done enough to ruin him. As soon as my son is well enough to travel, he is leaving the house of his aunt and going home.”

  “Listen to me, for what I am telling you is true,” said Jack. “Your son will never reach Saudi Arabia alive. In fact, he will never leave this city.”

  The Deputy Minister glared. “Is this a threat?”

  “No,” Jack replied. “When your men attacked our convoy, we were moving your son from a police facility to CTU Headquarters for his own safety. Ibn was in protective custody because we feared those he conspired with now want to silence him forever.”

  Omar al Farad shook his head. “My son conspired with no one. He is not a terrorist.”

  “I never called him a terrorist, But your son had committed multiple murder. He must face justice—”

  “You see! You speak of justice for crimes that were not Ibn’s fault.”

  “That is exactly right,” said Jack, his voice even. “Your son is not responsible for his crimes. I believe he was drugged and brainwashed by a man named Hasan. It is Hasan I seek. If your son can lead me to him, it will do much to prove his innocence.”

  Again, the man’s anger faded as abruptly as it came, replaced by confusion and uncertainty. Beneath the immaculate London-tailored clothing, the passionate outrage, Omar al Farad was a man in crisis, a man on the verge of collapse.

  “Talk to me, Deputy Minister,” Jack continued. “Tell me what happened to your son. How he became involved with this man Hasan.”

  Omar al Farad glanced at his sister. She closed her eyes and nodded once.

  “Very well,” said Omar. “But not here.”

  Nareesa led the two men to a small library packed with books in English and Arabic. They sat across from one another, a café-sized table between them. A maid appeared, served them tea and honey cakes. When Jack looked up again, he and Omar were alone.

  “My first mistake was marrying an American wife,” Omar began. “She loved the boy too much, spoiled him until he was seven years old—”

  “What changed?”

  “She died, Mr. Bauer, at our home in Riyadh. Cancer of the brain. First she was confused, then her madness became violent, finally she succumbed. There was nothing anyone could do. After an appropriate mourning period, I married again — this time someone more suitable, a member of the Saudi royal family.”

  “I see.”

  “My second wife did not approve of my first marriage or the product of that marriage. So when Ibn was eleven, I sent him to Andover, the same boarding school I’d attended. I tried to give him a good education, make him wise, but when he was of college age, Ibn demanded to be sent to the University of Southern California. He wished to become a filmmaker.”

  The man sighed heavily. “He’d been polluted by the filth he’d been exposed to.”

  “Filth?”

  “The rap music, the movies full of wanton harlots and venal men, sin and degradation. Of course, I disapproved of Ibn’s choices, but there was little I could say to dissuade him. To my shame, I finally relented.”

  Omar’s features darkened, his fingers clawed at the cup. “In his first year, he met a girl. An American girl. My son, he was not sophisticated in the ways of the world, and he was weak. Because he was robbed of his mother’s love early on, he craved the attention of women. This…whore…She took advantage of him—”

  “She hurt him?”

  “She used him, Mr. Bauer. Like an evil sucking harpy. And what was left was not my son. He stopped going to the mosque, dropped out of school, he took drugs, even drank liquor. Then, six months ago, he vanished. My lawyers could not find him. He did not touch his trust fund for we watched the account. I feared my son was dead — until today, when Major Salah told me Ibn had been found by your police. That he was about to be charged with terrible crimes.”

  More than anything else, Jack wanted to throttle Major Salah, demand to know what made the rogue officer think he could stage a covert operation inside the United States with impunity. But he was forced by circumstance to hold his tongue. Silently, Jack vowed to bring Major Salah, his men, and even Deputy Minister al Farad to justice for the policemen they maimed and murdered — but only after he’d gotten what he needed. The priority at the moment was interrogating the
fugitive. A reckoning would come later.

  “Your sister said your son is awake,” said Jack. “Let me speak to him.”

  “Why? What can be gained?”

  “Ibn has had contact with Hasan. When I find Hasan I will make him confess to his crimes. What he did to your boy. The faster I find Hasan, the faster I can clear your son’s name.”

  Omar’s eyes appeared haunted. Finally he nodded. “Very well, Mr. Bauer. But my son does not leave this house.”

  1:13:37 P.M. PDT Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills

  “If that were me I’d just die! But not the Material Girl. No, that woman is a force of nature.”

  Valerie Dodge, CEO and founder of Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency, lounged in her contoured leather office chair. She held the silver phone to her ear, tapped the flawless surface of the desk with long, pink enameled fingernails. Her own forty-year-old reflection stared back at her from the polished glass. She had an oval face, framed by long, straight sun-bleached hair. White, perfectly capped teeth flashed against a dark tan. Laugh lines were evident around her light blue eyes and at the edges of her generous mouth. Hardly the same face that had graced the cover of every fashion magazine in the world in the late 1980s.

  But not so bad, either, she mused. A little too old, a little too tanned, and a little too brassy — but just tough enough to parlay a supermodel fame into a lasting career. To conquer the most cutthroat town in America.

  “Yes, darling. Tonight is the big night. My girls are ready, the venue’s ready. My Katya’s handled everything. She’s a wonder — I’d just die without her. After all the work she’s done these past weeks, Katya will probably want a raise, the ingrate!”

  A knock interrupted her laugh. “Here’s Katya, now. I’ll see you tonight, at the wrap party. Remember, Club 100. Midnight — unless that damn awards show runs overtime.”

  The office door opened. The woman who entered looked to be in her early thirties. She wore a simple black dress, black leather boots that just touched the bend of her knee. Straw-blond hair in a tight bun, her only jewelry a black choker around her long, graceful, bone-white neck. In her arms she cradled a square box emblazoned with the name of an exclusive Rodeo Drive boutique.