“Ibn al Farad was searching for Paradise. He believed himself among the elect.”
Brandeis nodded. “These are all techniques outlined by Biderman.”
“Okay, let’s say that Hasan has found a way to control the minds of his subjects. How does this connect to the midnight cyber attack on the World Wide Web’s infrastructure, or Richard Lesser’s Trojan horse?”
“I didn’t say I had all the answers yet,” Jack replied. “We need to know how the Trojan horse works, what it does before we know its purpose and intended target. Anyway, I’m not convinced Hasan’s only endgame is an attack on the West’s computer infrastructure. Those kind of attacks have been defeated before.”
Chappelle sighed. He pumped the pen in his hand, tapped it on the conference room table. “Unfortunately we seem to have hit a dead end. With Ibn al Farad murdered, Major Salah and his Chechen hit team dead, we don’t know where to turn.”
Jack nudged the medical technician aside, leaned forward in his chair. “Ibn al Farad whispered a name to me before he died. He could have been trying to reveal the true identity of Hasan, or perhaps he was naming another disciple. Either way, we have to check out this new lead right away.”
Dr. Brandeis interrupted them again. “I’m sorry, Special Agent Bauer. You’re not going anywhere without further tests.”
“I don’t have time for tests.”
Brandeis folded his arms. “You probably have a concussion, Jack. You have the symptoms.”
“I’m fine.”
“You have a constant throbbing headache, don’t you? Maybe blurry or double vision…”
“No,” Jack lied.
Nina turned to her boss. “Give me the name, Jack,” she urged, plastic wand poised over a PDA screen. “You go with the doctor down to the infirmary, I’ll run the name through the CTU database, see if we come up with a match, an address or phone number.”
Jack shook his head. “You won’t have to do that, Nina. This man will be easy to find. Architect Nawaf Sanjore is quite well known around the world. His firm has an office in Brentwood, and the man resides in a luxury high-rise he designed and built near Century City.”
3:11:57 P.M. PDT Ice House Tijuana, Mexico
Milo felt a strong grip on his arm, then a familiar voice. “Get up kid, you did good.” He opened his eyes, saw Cole Keegan standing over him. Behind the biker, the iron grill lay on top of a heavyset bald man wearing a sweat-stained leather apron and rubber gloves.
“Jesus, what about Tony!” Milo cried. He tried to stand, nearly toppled. His leg burned with agony.
“Settle down, you probably sprained something in that fall.” Cole checked his leg. “Nothing broken. Try to walk it off.”
Milo coughed, hobbled over to the man strapped to the rusty box spring. Limp, shirtless, Tony Almeida’s wrists were bound with wire, the flesh scorched around the coils. Milo saw the ancient crank generator and knew Tony’d been subjected to electric shock.
“Here.” Cole thrust a pair of wire cutters into Milo’s hand. “Hurry up. They’re putting out the fire. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Tony groaned as soon as the cold metal touched his burned flesh. His eyes fluttered, then opened wide. Milo cut the wires and gently eased Tony to the floor.
“Milo?”
“Don’t look so incredulous. You’ll hurt my feelings. Drink this.” Milo helped Tony to a sitting position and thrust a bottle of water into his numb, shaky hand. Almeida gulped it down, choking once or twice. Tony noticed the fat man crushed under the iron grate. “Did you do that?”
Milo nodded. “Pressman to the rescue.”
“His name was Ordog,” said Tony.
“Now he’s Dead Dog.” Keegan grinned.
“He a friend of yours?” Tony asked Milo.
“Meet Cole Keegan. Richard Lesser’s bodyguard.”
“You found Lesser?” Tony asked, gingerly flexing his arms.
Milo nodded. “Lesser decided to give himself up, come back home,” said Milo. “He was looking for you when—”
“When the Chechens found me first.” As he spoke, Tony dribbled some water on the burns on his wrists. The sting jolted him. “How’s Fay?”
Milo didn’t answer. Instead, he used tatters of Tony’s shirt to wrap the burns. Cole Keegan kept an eye on the door at the opposite end of the lab. Tony watched Milo work, waited for a reply to his question. Finally Tony caught Milo’s eye.
“Milo? Fay Hubley?”
“The Chechens found her, Tony…she’s dead.”
Tony closed his eyes, grunted as if punched. He dropped the plastic bottle, stumbled to his feet with Milo’s help. “We’ve got to get out of here. Track them down.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Cole, moving to Almeida’s side. “At least that ‘let’s get out of here’ part.” He handed Tony his duster. “Put this on.”
Tony slipped the long coat over his muscled shoulders.
“Come on,” Milo told Tony. “Richard Lesser’s waiting for us in a car a couple of blocks from here, and an extraction team is meeting us across the border at Brown Field.”
“The exit’s over here,” called Cole. He clutched his shotgun, cocked and ready.
When they kicked open the door, the alley off Albino Street was deserted save for one. Brandy leaned against the wall, tapping her booted foot impatiently. She wore long black jeans, a Sunday church pink ruffled blouse, and clutched a small cherry-red suitcase in one hand.
Seeing her, Keegan froze in his tracks. “I knew this was too easy,” he muttered.
Brandy jerked her head toward the opposite end of the byway, where a crowd had gathered around the still-smoking brothel. The hoot of sirens signaled the not-exactly-timely arrival of the local fire department.
“Don’t worry,” she told them. “The gang guys went north for some kind of score, and the Chechens are holed up on the other side of town with that slob Ray Dobyns. Something big is up—”
Tony met her eyes. “Dobyns. You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Brandy replied. “I heard all about how Dobyns sold you to the Chechens from Carlos—”
“I see.” Tony’s voice was tight with barely contained rage. “Who’s Carlos?”
It was Keegan who replied. “Her pimp. The guy behind the bar.”
Brandy ignored Keegan, stepped up to Tony. “Listen, if you want Dobyns’s head I’ll tell you where the pig is, but you gotta visit him later. I want to be across that border and on my way to my sister’s house in Cleveland before Carlos figures out I’m gone. Otherwise I’m a dead ho’ walking.”
Tony nodded. “Don’t worry. I promise we’ll get you across the border. But first we have a stop to make.”
3:16:21 P.M. PDT South San Pedro Street Little Tokyo
“Samurai? Samurai, where are you, man? This is Jake. You remember. Jake Gollob? Your boss? Pick up the phone and talk to me. Where the hell are ya? I’m here, with a tape recorder in one hand and my dick in the other. Why? Because I don’t have my photographer here, that’s why. In an hour they’re going to seal off the press area and you won’t get in. If you’re in your apartment, pick up. I’m begging you—”
The message machine cut off after thirty seconds. Lonnie went right back to work, moving the cursor and isolating another section of the photograph, enhanced it to the limit. He studied the disappointing results on his computer monitor, wondering if another photo shop program would do a better job of enhancing the image without pixelation. With the Mohave program all he got was a blurry mess — a silhouette of Abigail Heyer sitting in the back of the limousine, sure — but the details he was looking for were gone, faded into a soft blur.
Lonnie cursed and saved the image. It was just habit, the picture was useless. He moved to the next digital photograph in the sequence he’d snapped earlier that day, at Abigail Heyer’s mansion. This picture was taken just a split-second after the previous one. He expanded the picture until it filled the screen, then cropped off the driver’s shoulder and head, ma
king the actress the central figure.
Before he tampered further, Lonnie studied the photo for a long time, absorbing every detail. He stared long enough for the phone to startle him out of his cyber trance. He ignored the call and on the third ring the machine answered.
“Nobunaga you son of a bitch! You’re fired. That’s what you are you bastard. You’re fired!”
Lon tried to ignore the stream of obscenities that followed his boss’s threat.
Sorry, Jake, thought Lon. I’ll get to the Chamberlain Auditorium tonight, but on my own time. Anyway, I might just have the celebrity photograph of the year right here, and if you want it you’re going to have to be much nicer to me in the future.
The message machine clicked off. In the silence that followed, Lon exited Mohave Photo Shop and activated a similar program from a software rival. To test the resolution, he selected an image from much later in the sequence, the best of which was a shot of Abigail Heyer crossing the stone patio to her front door, looking very pregnant under her voluminous slacks and pink cashmere maternity blouse.
A good photo, Lon decided. Crisp. Clean. Perfect composition. Jake Gollob would be proud to put it on the cover of his rag, with a banner headline announcing the pregnancy, and pondering the identity of the father. A Midnight Confession exposé. It would boost the weekly circulation by thirty percent.
But it would be a lie.
Lon went backward, through the photo sequence to the very first picture he’d snapped, a photo of the interior of the limousine taken the moment the driver opened the door. He isolated a section of that image, Abigail Heyer’s torso as she leaned forward to exit the vehicle. This time, he reversed the image before he expanded it, so the dark lines would be light, the light sections dark, like a photo negative.
The computer churned and the results appeared on his screen. Lon contemplated the image without blinking.
There it is. Plain as day.
He saved the enhanced image, printed out several copies. Then he copied all of the digital photo files from the Heyer mansion shoot onto a pen drive dangling from his key chain.
Lon rose, grabbed one of the photos of Abigail Heyer that he’d just printed out and literally ran to his bedroom. He scanned the DVD collection packing his bookshelf, found his copy of Abigail’s film, Bangor, Maine, and dropped it into the player. He remembered a passage on the DVD extras. After thumbing through the interviews and deleted scenes, he finally found it in the director’s commentary.
“It was very hard to get just the right angle, especially in the long shots,” said Guy Hawkins, the film’s British director. “In several scenes, perfect shots were ruined because the pregnancy harness was clearly visible under Abigail’s clothes. Most of the time, when this happened, we used digital effects to clean things up, but this blooper got past us…”
Lon froze the image. For a long second the harness she wore was clearly visible under the flannel shirt, just as the director had said. He compared the image on the television screen with the photo in his hand.
“Abigail Heyer is no more pregnant than I am,” he murmured. “She’s wearing a goddamn pregnancy suit!”
Lon gaped at the screen, absolutely certain he’d discovered Abigail Heyer’s secret. The international star was pretending to be very pregnant. The only question was—
“Why?”
3:27:01 P.M. PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico
Tony crossed the inn’s deserted lobby, cradling the blanket-wrapped corpse in his arms. He moved through La Hacienda’s tiny kitchen in the rear of the building where he found the innkeeper, his wife, and a housekeeper had been herded, and then murdered, by the Chechens.
In the narrow alley behind the inn, Milo stood waiting beside the car. Keegan, Lesser, and Brandy sat inside.
When Milo saw Tony coming, he popped the trunk. Tony placed the body inside, marveling at how light Fay felt in his arms, as if much of her substance had faded away with her life.
Milo gently closed the trunk, faced Tony. “Ready?”
“Take Lesser, Keegan, and Brandy back to the United States. Rendezvous with the extraction team. And make sure forensics gets Fay’s body—”
“What about you?”
Tony peered down the alley to the busy street beyond. The white van in which he’d driven across the border was still parked on the street where he’d left it. “I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to secure the equipment up in the room, erase all evidence of CTU involvement.”
Milo stared hard at Tony. “You’re going after this guy Dobyns, aren’t you?”
Tony nodded, short and sharp. “The Chechens might have information we need, too—”
“But Tony, you’ll be alone. Don’t you think—”
Tony’s cold, lethal gaze met Milo’s anxiety-ridden eyes. “I’ll make sure I ask them a few questions before I finish them off.”
Milo sighed, giving it up. “What do I tell Chappelle?”
“Tell him I’ll be right behind you…Tell him to send another extraction team. That’s all he needs to know until it’s finished.”
A horn blared. Milo jumped. “Damn!”
“Hurry up,” Brandy cried from the passenger seat. “We ain’t got all day.”
Milo frowned, tried one last time. “Tony. Reconsider. Come back with us. A follow up strike team can take care of this—”
“You know that won’t happen.” Tony glanced away. “Chappelle doesn’t like to make waves…he’ll consider the international issues, probably balk. This is something I’m going to have to do myself.”
“But—”
“Go, Milo,” Tony snapped. “That’s an order.” Then his voice softened. “I’ll see you back at headquarters in a couple of hours.”
12. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
4:00:51 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Stripped to the waist, lying flat on his back in a hospital bed, Jack Bauer gazed at the bomb-proof concrete ceiling. The CTU’s L.A. headquarters more resembled a military bunker than a federal office, and its infirmary reflected the same utilitarian style — windowless concrete walls, exposed ducts snaking along the ceiling or between banks of medical equipment.
Standing steel and glass partitions separated the twelve-bed hospital ward, where Jack waited, from the triage unit and intensive care facility down the hall. Farther along the blast-resistant concrete corridor sat a glass-enclosed surgical theater, a biohazard treatment unit, and a state-of-the-art biological isolation and identification facility.
Dr. Brandeis had brought Jack here, sent him through the CT scanner, then the MRI. Alone now, Jack waited for the test results, and for the painkillers he’d hastily swallowed to knock his raging headache back down to a dull, manageable throb again.
Jack glanced at his watch, grimaced, and reached for the secure telephone on a buffed aluminum night-stand beside his bed. He tapped in his personal code for an outside line, then dialed his home phone. Teri answered on the second ring.
“Teri? It’s me.”
“Hello, Jack.” He could feel the chill in her voice. Well, she has a good reason to be upset.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. There’s a situation—”
“Another crisis. I thought as much. Don’t worry about it.”
There was a long silence. “Is Kim home from school yet?”
Teri sighed. “Since I didn’t hear from you, I sent her over to my cousin’s house. She’s going to watch the Silver Screen Awards with Sandy and Melissa.”
Jack blanked for a second. “The Silver Screen Awards?”
“Yes, Jack. Her mother is going to be in the audience tonight, remember?”
Their early morning conversation came flooding back: how Teri had received that call from her old boss, got the last-minute invitation to attend the awards show, was excited about seeing some of her old friends.
“Of course, that’s why I called,” Jack lied. “I wanted to te
ll you to have a good time. What did you decide to wear?”
Jack could almost feel Teri melt a little. “My black Versace,” she told him. “You know the one…”
“I remember,” whispered Jack. “And I remember the last time you wore it.”
They’d spent a long weekend in Santa Barbara. The first night, she’d worn it to dinner. The second and third nights, dressing was the last thing on their minds. But that was nearly six months ago. They’d had few romantic moments since.
“I’ll bet you look great,” said Jack.
“You can see for yourself.” Now Teri’s voice was as soft as Jack’s. “Tonight, when I get home. Probably around midnight.”
“I’m looking forward to that,” Jack replied, but he tensed up the moment he’d said it. Although he hoped his work would be over by midnight, he honestly couldn’t be certain. “Look, about tonight, I’m really sorry—”
“Jack, don’t apologize. We both know what you do is important…more important than I probably realize. It’s just that sometimes—”
“Teri, listen—”
“Oh, the limousine is here. I have to go.”
Jack checked his watch. “So soon?”
“Yes, it actually starts in an hour. Dennis says they stage it early so they can broadcast it during prime time on the East Coast. Look, the driver’s honking. I have to leave. Bye.”
“Have a great time,” Jack said. “I love you—”
But Teri had already hung up. Jack listened to the electric hum for a moment, then dropped the receiver in its cradle. He lay back in the bed, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. When he opened them again, Dr. Brandeis and Ryan Chappelle were approaching. Jack sat up and slipped his shirt over his head — more to hide the patches, bandages and bruises than out of modesty.
“How are you feeling, Special Agent Bauer?” Dr. Brandeis asked, his eyes scanning, assessing.
“The headache is almost gone,” Jack said. “The vision’s pretty much cleared up. The rest did me good.”
From the doctor’s pinched expression, Jack knew the man wasn’t buying it. Ryan spoke next.
24 Declassified: Trojan Horse 2d-3 Page 16
