24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse (17 page)

Right now the First Lady of Russia, a former principal dancer for the Bolshoi, stood in the middle of a small stage, swathed in a Diane von Furstenburg dress and grinning at the cameras. As the short press conference began, the woman haltingly answered questions, sometimes with the help of her translator.

Standing beside her on stage was the man who had been Christina Hong’s obsession for the past month or more—Nikolai Manos. A full head shorter than Marina, Manos preferred to hug the sidelines, offering the popular First Lady as the main course for the hungry media. Christina studied the man, going so far as to snap a few photos with her own digital camera, despite the presence of her camera crew.

Manos wore a talc-white London-tailored suit and coal-black silk shirt. At fifty-five he looked a decade younger—beard iron-gray, close-cropped hair more black than white, his square, Slavic face hardly lined with age. His teeth were even and white behind a modest smile, his close-set gray eyes bright and intense as they gazed out at the crowd. Flanking the billionaire bachelor, a brace of blond, blue-eyed men served as bodyguards. All were said to be former members of various Eastern European security forces.

Because the First Lady of Russia spoke slow and

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uncertain English, Christina took the opportunity to shift the topic to the host and yelled out a question.

“Mr. Manos! Mr. Manos! I’m Christina Hong, KHTV Seattle. Is it true you visited the set of Abigail Heyer’s last film in Romania?”

Manos seemed shy and reluctant as he stepped up to the standing microphone. Christina waited anx
iously for his reply. She already knew the answer, of course, but was wondering how he would choose to respond.

“I was in Romania, Ms. Hong, visiting a new studio complex my trade organization helped build. I did meet Ms. Heyer. I’m a big fan so it was quite a thrill—”

The philanthropist spoke with a low voice, so low some of the reporters in the back strained to catch his words despite the microphone. He seemed uncomfortable in front of the cameras, and was ready to fade into the background again when Christina bellowed out her follow-up question.

“Mr. Manos. Are you the mystery man Abigail Heyer was spending her free time with during the shoot?”

Nikolai Manos blinked at the question, then focused on Christina Hong. He seemed annoyed somehow, yet managed a polite, if dismissive smile.

“You flatter me, Ms. Hong. I could only hope.”

The crowd exploded with laughter and Nikolai Manos used the interruption as an opportunity to step off the stage. Behind the raised stage, in full view of Christina Hong and the rest of the national press, Manos approached his security head, began a whispered conversation. Christina Hong, who had studied this man for so many weeks, burned to hear his words, strained to read his lips.

***

“Any word?” Nikolai Manos asked, one eye still focused on the persistent reporter from Seattle.

The bodyguard nodded. “Major Salah reports that CTU is flailing. They know nothing. In any case, the hit team has infiltrated the grounds. The men will strike momentarily.”

“Make sure no one is left alive. And kill the CTU agent. I don’t care what Major Salah believes. CTU is getting too close, too quickly.”

2:02:11
P
.
M
. PDT Palm Drive Beverly Hills

Forty minutes into the interrogation, Jack Bauer had obtained no useful information. At the start of the session, he’d placed Ibn al Farad in an upright chair in the middle of the study, the youth’s back to the glass wall, the sun streaming through curtains that were shrouded in white. As Jack began his gentle questioning, Omar al Farad and his sister Nareesa hovered in the background; Omar fretting, Nareesa in tears.

Soon it was apparent Jack’s questions would not be answered. Part of the problem was that his methods of extraction were limited. There was no time for truth serums to be administered, for sleep deprivation techniques or long periods standing in a position of maximum discomfort. And with Ibn al Farad’s father and aunt looking on, more radical physical intimidation was out of the question, though Jack doubted it would work in any case. The youth he interrogated was still in the insidious throes of the amphetamine Karma, and rational replies to hard questions were rare.

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Jack didn’t know how long the effects of the drug would last, or even how much Ibn had absorbed be
fore he’d been captured. Thus far, Ibn had alternated between chanting Muslim prayers and spewing raw, hateful venom at his father. His rational speech came between fits of sobbing, hallucinations, or episodes of trance-like inattention.

Jack began to wonder if shock therapy of some kind would work—either a physical shock, like an electric current or even a dousing in a tub of ice, or perhaps a psychological blow of some kind, one powerful enough to snap the youth back to some semblance of reality. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t know Ibn well enough to know his fears or weaknesses, and his options were running out.

As Ibn lapsed into one of his silent trances, a knock came at the door—an odd knock, Jack noted. Three taps, followed by two, then four more. The Deputy Minister did not react to the strange knock, though he seemed troubled by the interruption. His son Ibn, however, lifted his head and grinned when he heard the staccato knocking, a reaction that concerned Jack.

“What is it?” Omar al Farad demanded, crossing the study to the locked door. “I asked not to be disturbed.”

“It is Major Salah, Deputy Minister,” called Salah through the door. “You have an urgent phone call.”

“Hasan comes,” Ibn muttered, his dazed expression transforming into naked glee.

Jack heard the young man’s words and cried out, “Don’t open the door!”

But Omar al Farad had released the lock already. The door burst open, knocking the small man backward, into the wall.

Nareesa al-Bustani jumped to her feet. “What’s the meaning of—”

Salah’s M-16 shot the elegant woman through the mouth, spraying blood and brains on walls and furniture. Behind the Saudi officer, Jack saw the corpses of two of his guards—obviously killed with a silenced weapon.

Jack drew his Tactical, but had no time to bring the handgun into play before Major Salah leveled the muzzle of his M-16 at Jack’s heart. But just as the man squeezed the trigger, Omar al Farad threw himself on the Saudi officer’s back. The M-16 discharged a spray of bullets, blasting the glass wall behind Jack to shards, showering him with razor-sharp splinters that sliced his flesh in a half-dozen places. While the Deputy Minister struggled with the Major, Jack cut Ibn al Farad loose, intending to drag the young man out of the house. But Ibn was bleeding profusely— he’d been shot by one or more of the M-16’s stray bullets.

With a banshee cry, Major Salah flipped the helpless Saudi minister over his shoulder. Omar landed flat on his back at his son’s feet. Ibn opened his eyes in time to see Major Salah furiously reduce his father’s face to a splattered goo in a long burst of automatic fire. When Omar was dead, the officer again leveled his weapon at Jack. But when he squeezed the trigger, it clicked on an empty chamber. He’d fired on full automatic mode at the fallen Deputy Minister, emptying his magazine.

Jack raised his own weapon and fired twice—a double-tap that sent the Saudi officer’s brains out the back of his head. From another part of the compound, Jack heard smoke grenades pop, more gunfire, and he knew Chet Blackburn and the CTU Tactical Unit had arrived like the cavalry.

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Kicking the M-16 out of Salah’s death grip, Jack bent over Ibn to check his condition. The young man’s lips were white, face pinched with dazed agony. One .22-caliber shot had torn away a chunk of his shoul
der muscle, another had entered his left lung and exited through his back. Jack knew the boy didn’t have much time. Through the pain and shock, Ibn stared at the puddle that had been his father’s face.

“Hasan did this to you,” hissed Jack, speaking into the dying man’s ear. “Hasan murdered your family. Betrayed you. Who is he? How did you meet Hasan? Tell me.”

With pale, trembling lips, Ibn al Farad muttered a name. A moment later, Chet Blackburn burst into the room at the head of his assault team, weapon at the ready. He found a bleeding Jack Bauer in a room full of shattered glass and casualties.

Jack looked up. “I have to get back to CTU right away.”

2:11:34
P
.
M
. PDT El Pequeños Pescados Tijuana, Mexico

“Carlos says you’re lookin’ for me.”

Milo glanced up from his warm beer. A woman leaned over him, her back to the busy bar, her long, wine-colored fingernails drumming the chipped table. She smiled but the expression on her full, generous mouth, painted the same dark red, did not extend to her eyes. Her complexion was the color of lightly creamed coffee; her long, blue-black hair danced around her naked shoulders. Her belly-baring halter top, pierced navel, and micro-mini faux-satin skirt

left little to the imagination.

“Are you Brandy?” Milo asked timidly.

The woman moved her long fingernails from the table to the back of his neck. She lightly stroked his skin. “You must have been talkin’ to your gringo friends to hear about me. Hot news travels fast, eh, cowboy?”

“Actually Cole Keegan sent me.”

The woman’s attitude immediately changed. She looked around cautiously, then slid into the chair across the table from him.

“Where is that son of a bitch?!” the woman whispered.

“I’m here to make good on his promise to get you out of here, across the border,” Milo replied. “But first I need your help.”

Brandy shot Milo a sidelong glance. “It’s about the American dude the Chechens are torturing in the lab, isn’t it?”

Milo’s eyes went wide. “They’re torturing him?”

“They emptied out the lab about an hour ago. I knew they brought someone in earlier. Then, when I saw Ordog, I knew...”

“I need to get him out.”

“You need to get
me
out,” Brandy shot back. “I kicked my drug habit, and I’m ready to split. Only I owe my pimp so much money he’ll never let me go. That’s why I made a deal with Cole. He promised to get me out, across the border where I’ll be safe.”

“I need to get you
and
my American friend out, or nobody’s going.”

Brandy glowered at Milo as if sizing him up. He

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steadily met her challenging gaze. For a long moment, neither relented. Finally, the girl slapped the table with the palm of her hand.

“Go to the roof of the brick building behind the bar, Cole knows how to get up there. You find a barred window in the roof near Albino Street. Be ready to come through that window at three o’clock, sharp.”

“Jack Bauer followed up a promising lead in the Hasan investigation earlier today, a tip from a former colleague in the Los Angeles Police Department. Jack went to interrogate someone who may have had actual physical contact with the terrorist leader.”

Ryan frowned. “Why am I learning about this now, and not three hours ago?”

“Jack felt the lead was questionable, that he was on a wild goose chase. He didn’t want to bother you. Then, when things worked out, events happened too fast to keep you apprised. Jack made a major breakthrough once he contacted Omar al Farad—”

“The Saudi Deputy Minister of Finance?”

“The Deputy Minister’s son, Ibn al Farad, had met with Hasan, became a disciple, perhaps even a member of his terrorist cell. Jack hoped Ibn might be able to describe the man. Ibn al Farad did give Jack one promising lead before he was murdered—”

“
Murdered
. The Deputy Minister’s son was killed?”

“Along with the Deputy Minister and his sister, Nareesa al-Bustani.”

Ryan placed his hands on the table. They were shaking. “Please tell me Jack had nothing to do with these deaths. That he was somewhere else.”

“Jack was at the al-Bustani home when it was attacked by a team of professional assassins,” Nina coolly replied. “CTU’s Tactical Unit arrived too late

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to save them. The assassins were unfortunately killed in the assault, so we have no immediate knowledge of who they were, why they wanted the Saudis dead.”

“On whose authority was the Tactical Unit mobi
lized?”

“Jack’s,” said Nina. “He felt he would need back up in case of trouble. He was right. CTU was monitoring the woman’s home through the mansion’s own security cameras. When Chet Blackburn’s unit observed the van enter the property, detected the sound of gunfire, they moved immediately. They were inside the house within three minutes, but they were still too late to save the minister and his sister.”

Ryan closed his eyes for a moment, fighting down his anger. When calm finally returned, he shifted his attention to Jamey Farrell. “I see you called in Doris Soo Min to help. Doris still has her Level Three security clearance from the Hell Gate incident?”

Jamey flinched when he’d first addressed her. She nodded timidly and Chappelle shifted his gaze to the younger woman. “Welcome back, Doris...”

“Er...Thank you, Mr. Chappelle.”

“I hope you’ve made some progress isolating Lesser’s virus.”

Jamey and Doris exchanged nervous glances. “Well—” said Jamey.

“Actually—” said Doris.

“Just give me the facts so I can deal with them,” Ryan said, his control slipping again.

“Well, actually this Trojan horse is a tough little bug,” said Doris. “It’s nearly impossible to separate it from the program it’s embedded in—you know, the movie download. Anyway, Frankie—”

“Who’s Frankie?”

“Frankenstein. A reverse-engineering program I created,” Doris explained. “Frankie’s on the job, and he’ll sort it all out eventually, but it will take hours, maybe days—”

“We don’t have days,” Nina said. “Time is running out.”

“What now?” Ryan asked.

“Milo Pressman made contact with Richard Lesser, who told Milo that an attack on the computer infrastructure of the world will be launched at midnight. Since Jack’s not here, I’ll need your permission to activate the Threat Clock—”

“I need to hear more,” Chappelle said.

“Richard Lesser has agreed to cooperate with CTU in exchange for protection from Hasan, who is masterminding the attack. Lesser is even providing a copy of the virus that will be launched—”

“That’s the first good news I’ve heard. Where’s Lesser now?”

“Milo refused to leave Tijuana without at least trying to rescue Tony Almeida, who’s been captured by the Mexican gang
Seises Seises
.”

“But Milo’s not a field agent,” Chappelle cried, losing it now. “He’s not even armed!”

“Milo’s getting help from a United States citizen named Cole Keegan,” said Nina, lifting a file from the stack on the table. “I’ve run Keegan’s name through the Pentagon computers. Cole Randall Keegan was a sergeant in the Army Rangers during the First Gulf War. He hasn’t held a job, or paid taxes since he received an honorable discharge from the military in 1992. Keegan’s last known associates are the Lords of Hell motorcycle gang out of Oakland, California.”

“So Milo and some expatriate biker are going to rescue an experienced field agent from the very people

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who outsmarted and captured him?” Ryan paused. “People, I am not hopeful. Get Milo on his cell
now
. If he wants to play hero, he can do it on his own time. But he’s got to send Lesser and a copy of that virus back with Fay Hubley—”

Nina cleared her throat. “Milo asked for two hours and I gave him the time. Milo feels Tony’s life is in dan
ger. You see, Fay Hubley was murdered by the same men who captured Tony. Milo verified her death.”

Fay’s murder was news to Jamey. Though she remained outwardly calm, her lip trembled, her eyes misted when she heard the news.

“Does the virus embedded in the movie download have any connection to the virus that will be launched at midnight?” asked Chappelle.

“We don’t know,” said Nina. “Either way, we’ll need Richard Lesser’s expertise to prevent the imminent attack.”

“And he’s still down in Mexico—”

“He’ll be here in two hours, Ryan. Milo swore he would pull it off and I trust him,” said Nina.

Ryan nodded. “Okay, start the Threat Clock. Zero hour, twelve a.m.” Next he focused on Doris. “What do you need to isolate that virus. To speed up the process?”

“That’s easy,” Doris replied. “A copy of the virus program independent of the download. Just the execute file. But—”

“I know,” grunted Ryan. “It’s still down in Mexico with Milo Pressman.”

2:54:34
P
.
M
. PDT El Pequeños Pescados Tijuana, Mexico

The room was not much bigger than a walk-in closet. A bed, a nightstand, a chair and a dresser with a flyspecked mirror above. In the corner a chipped, rust stained enameled sink trickled cold running water, the faucet long broken. There was no window in the air-less space, the fan above the door only sucked hot air from the narrow hallway into the cramped room. A single lamp burned in the corner, offering a constant, dim glow day and night.

A tall, tattooed man who said he was a married truck driver from Portland sat on the edge of the bed, scribbling in a small notebook.

“I figure the CTU operatives will try to cross the border in the next two hours,” said Brandy, “just as soon as they rescue their agent.”

“You’re absolutely certain they don’t suspect you?”

Brandy nodded. “Positive. Cole Keegan bought my cover story and sold it to the others. With luck they’ll whisk me across the border, and all the way back to CTU headquarters.”

The man rose, tucked the notebook into his frayed denim jacket and sauntered to the door. “I’ll deliver your report. Take care of yourself.”

Brandy smiled. “Always.”

When the man was gone, Brandy crossed the rough wooden floor to the dresser. She popped the cork on a fifth of Soberano, poured some of the liqueur into a lipstick smeared glass, and swallowed it in a single gulp. The brandy was as warm as the day and burned her throat.

She glanced at the watch on her wrist. Almost time.

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The woman crossed the room, grabbed the bottle of warm brandy. Then she tore the sheets off the bed, piled them up on the mattress. On top of the pile she tore up a box of tissues. Then she sprinkled brandy over the whole mess. In the hot room, the fumes be
came overpowering—all the better to guarantee a fire.

Finally, Brandy reached under the pillow where she’d stashed her last john’s disposable plastic lighter. She grinned before she struck the lighter, realizing that the cowboy with the wedding ring he’d tried to hide and the breath that stank like too many beers was indeed her last john—forever.

She struck the lighter and put the flame against the tissue. The mass ignited immediately, the flames leaping up to the ceiling much faster than she’d anticipated. Brandy slipped into her sandals and crossed the room. When she ran into the hallway, she left the door behind her wide open. Amazingly fast, smoke was filling the second floor of the brothel. Brandy heard alarmed voices from another room. Time to start screaming. So she took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

“¡Vaya! ¡Funcione! ¡El edificio se arde!
”

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9
10
11
12 13 14 15 16 17
18 19 20 21 22 23 24

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLAC
E
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
3 P.M. AND 4 P.M.
PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

3:01:07
P
.
M
. PDT Ice House Tijuana, Mexico

Cole decided they would climb onto the roof of the old brick building using a vertical fire escape “hid
den” in an alley off Albino Street, while Richard Lesser waited in Milo’s car a few blocks away. Initially Milo objected to the plan, distrusting Lesser to stick around long enough for them to rescue Tony. Cole eventually pulled Milo aside and smoothed things over.

“Lesser’s scared,” Keegan said while the computer genius was out of earshot. “I’ve been with him for a year and he’s never been this antsy. He needs protec

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tion from this Hasan guy and he knows I ain’t enough. As long as CTU can defend him from
Seises Seises
, the Chechens, Hasan, you can trust Lesser to do the right thing.”

Cole eventually convinced Milo to trust Lesser, but the plan itself was another matter. Milo looked around nervously as Cole led him into the alley. He felt curious eyes following them down the narrow by
way, making Milo very uncomfortable. As it was, the gringo biker stuck out like a neon beer logo in a convent—dirty blond beard and ponytail, leather vest, tattoos, he was at least a head taller than everyone else around him. Even worse, Cole had donned a dun-colored duster to hide the sawed off shotgun strapped with duct tape across his broad back—a fairly obvious ploy to conceal a weapon, especially in near onehundred-degree weather. Trying to break into the headquarters of a Mexican gang and their Chechen cohorts in broad daylight seemed the height of insanity to Milo.

Yet brazenly, without a backward glance, Keegan walked up to the wrought iron ladder and began to climb. From Albino Street, a crowd of children on their way home from school gathered to point and watch them.

“Jeez, Cole. It’s broad daylight. Everyone can see us.”

Already four rungs up the ladder, Keegan peered over his big shoulder to reply. “I know, dumb ass. That’s why we better look like we belong here, capeesh? Now hurry up and climb.”

Milo took hold of the rusty ladder and placed his foot on the first rung. Groaning under their combined weight, the steel ladder rattled with every step they took.

“I hope this thing holds,” carped Milo.

“Don’t worry, we just have to get to the top. We ain’t coming back this way.”

Cole reached the roof, three stories above the street. He pulled himself over the low wall, turned and offered Milo a lift to the top. The dusty expanse of roof was flat and covered with black tar paper, peeling in places. There was a single chimney and Milo could see the recessed skylight Brandy told him to find. Beyond the edge of the building he spied the rickety, sloped roof of the wood-framed brothel that abutted the brick structure on Albino Street.

Near the chimney a chemical stench was overpowering—a reek like nail polish remover with an ammonia taint.

“God,” gagged Milo, covering his mouth.

“Vapors from the meth lab underneath us,” said Cole. “Somebody’s been cooking pills.”

“For what they’re doing to the environment alone, these guys should go to jail.”

“We’re on a rescue mission, not a campaign to stamp out evil.” Cole removed his duster, tore free the shotgun taped to his back. He drew a pair of Colts from his belt, handed one to Milo.

“Can you shoot?”

“I’ve had training, but I haven’t practiced in a long time.”

“This ain’t no fancy James Bond gun. It kicks like a sonovabitch,” Cole warned.

Milo hefted the steel-gray weapon, tucked it into his belt between the two bottles of water he’d brought. Milo glanced at his watch. “Let’s go.” He took a step toward the barred window; Cole dragged him back by the scruff of his neck.

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“Look where you’re walking—away from the sun. You’re casting a shadow that’s gonna fall right across that grill.”

Milo bristled. “So?”

“Ever been in a dark room when someone walked past the only source of light?”

Milo’s shoulders sagged. There was so much he didn’t know about this field agent stuff. “Okay. You do it.”

Milo waited near the ladder while Cole Keegan circled the barred window, then got down on his belly and crawled to the edge of the window to peer inside. He backed away a moment later, returned to Milo’s side. “All I see is some guy tied to a box spring and a generator. Hispanic, longish black hair, goatee—”

“It must be Tony. He grew the goatee and hair for field work—”

“He’s alive, but he isn’t in great shape and he ain’t alone down there. I heard voices.”

Milo grabbed the Cole’s arm. “Look!”

From somewhere inside the brothel, wisps of smoke began to rise. A few lazy white puffs, followed by billows of darker smoke. They heard voices—first a woman’s hysterical screams, then many excited voices calling out in anxious fear. Smoke rolled across the tarred expanse, choking Milo, burning his eyes.

Cole didn’t hesitate. He dragged Milo to the win
dow, kicked the iron bars once, twice. The grill didn’t budge. “You gonna help?” Cole asked.

Covering his mouth, Milo stepped forward and slammed his booted foot down on the grill with all his might. To his stunned surprise, the steel grate gave way under his weight and Milo plunged helplessly through the hole, into the dark, smoky interior of the burning building.