“Who owns this Green Dragon outfit?” asked Tony.
The woman turned to face Special Agent Tony Almeida. “A conglomerate out of Taiwan, with Abraxsus-Gelder as a partner. But a man named Wen Chou Lee holds controlling interest in the computer store franchise. They’ve been giving chains like Computer Hut and Cyber-Store a run for their money.”
“Does this Wen Chou Lee have any ties to international terrorism? The Chinese Nationalist Movement, perhaps?” Nina asked.
“No,” said Captain Schneider, still facing Tony. “But a 1995 report compiled by Interpol claims Wen Chou Lee was formerly the leader of a triad in Hong Kong. He was forced to move his business interests to Taiwan just before the Communist Chinese government regained control of the island.”
“I doubt a triad would have much interest in shooting down U.S. cargo planes,” said Tony. He swiveled his chair to face Jamey Farrell. “Any luck tracing those license plates?”
“The Mercedes is registered to Griffin Lynch, which we knew already. The SUV was licensed to a company in Manhattan . . .” Her voice trailed off as Jamey searched the file in her hand for the printout. Jamey nearly groaned out loud when she realized she didn’t have the information and must have left it at her workstation. She continued to fumble through the file even after she felt Tony’s eyes on her, heard Nina’s impatient sigh.
A knock interrupted them. The door opened before Nina could warn the visitor away. The conference room was off limits to everyone except members of the Crisis Team and unless the caller was Ryan Chappelle—who wouldn’t bother to knock—he shouldn’t have been there.
Doris stuck her head through the door. “Oh, there you are,” she said, pushing up her oversized glasses. “I’ve been looking all over for you guys.”
If Nina was impatient, she didn’t let on. “Come in,” she said. “And close the door behind you.”
Suddenly shy, Doris stepped through the door. Milo wondered if he was the only one to notice the young woman wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“Excuse me. I found something I think is important.” Doris stepped forward and handed a printout to Nina, who glanced at it, then passed it to Milo and Jamey.
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“There’s a second layer of inscription that was buried inside the memory stick software.”
Milo tapped a pen to his nose. “A watermark? Maybe a manufacturer’s protocol?”
Doris shook her head. “This is a real program, and a big one. It’s buried deeper and guarded better than the primary program data, which makes me think the whole first layer was a ruse, that the real important information is encrypted somewhere inside this buried code.”
“Encrypted?” said Nina. “You mean you haven’t cracked it yet?”
Doris brimmed with confidence. “Not yet, but Frankie’s working on it, so it’s only a matter of time.”
Milo blinked. “Who’s Frankie?”
2:55:30 A.M.EDT Woodside, Queens
Liam stood on the raised platform, four stories over Roosevelt Avenue. A cool, humid breeze wafted in from the ocean, cutting the heat of the day. With a groan of impatience, he glanced at the cheap plastic watch on his arm.
It was nearly 3 a.m. He’d been waiting close to an hour for a subway. He knew service was bad late at night, especially on a weekday. But this was ridiculous. Only three trains had come in the time he’d been waiting. Two local trains going in the opposite direction, and a maintenance train that rolled right through the station without stopping.
He decided to wait another ten minutes. If it didn’t come, he’d call it quits and hike the ten blocks over to Northern Boulevard, where he could pick up an R train.
Liam peered down the tracks to the next station in the distance. Lights had appeared—another train at last. He set the attaché case down and rubbed the sweat off his hands. Lifting the silver case again, he wondered only briefly what was inside. Whatever it was, it didn’t weigh very much. The most important thing, to Liam’s way of thinking, was that taking this case to Brooklyn meant three hundred in cash.
Liam leaned over the edge of the open platform and peered down the track. The lights were approaching. Liam could clearly make out the purple circle with a seven emblazoned in the middle. In less than a minute he could sit down and rest as the train carried him to Times Square station.
When Liam finally boarded the Number 7 train, a cherry-red Mustang rolled directly beneath him. Behind the wheel, Jack Bauer cased the stretch of Roosevelt Avenue that ran under the elevated platform, then pulled into a parking spot directly in front of The Last Celt.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 A.M. AND 4 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
3:02:49 A.M.EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
The meeting broke up soon after Doris interrupted it. Jamey hurried back to her workstation. The printout on Dante Arete’s SUV was lying on her desk, right out in the open—a clear violation of protocol. She snatched it up and stuffed it into the blue “classified” folder.
“Jamey?”
She jumped at the call, whirled to find Nina Myers standing over her. “Yes?” Jamey replied, in a tone that revealed her alarm.
“Are you all right?”
Jamey nodded quickly. “Just a little tired.”
“We all are,” said Nina, stepping forward. “But that doesn’t excuse sloppy performance of a critical task.”
“I don’t—”
“The license trace on Arete’s SUV,” said Nina in a clipped tone. “I need the information now. I’m going to debrief Ryan.”
Jamey yanked the document out of the blue folder, thrust it at Nina. She took the printout and scanned it. “The white SUV is registered to a Wexler Business Storage Company on Houston Street in Manhattan...”
Jamey nodded. “It has not been reported stolen. But that may change once the place opens up and someone notices the SUV is missing.”
Nina looked up. “What do we know about Wexler Business Storage?”
“Nothing yet,” Jamey replied. “I was about to run a check on the company, access their tax records, when the Crisis Team meeting was called.”
Nina dropped the printout on Jamey’s desk. “Get on it now. Top priority. I want a report within the hour.”
Just then, Ryan Chappelle appeared at Nina’s shoulder. “I need to see Tony Almeida. Do you know where he is?”
“He’s over at financial. I’ve got him checking bank files and transaction histories on a Taiwanese computer firm and its owner.”
“You mean Wen Chou Lee and Green Dragon Computers? Put Jamey on it. We’re going to need Tony in the field.”
Nina nodded, surprised. “Okay. But how did you
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know about Lee and Green Dragon? I just found out about it myself and was on my way to brief you.”
“Captain Schneider brought me up to speed a few moments ago.”
Nina frowned. “Captain Schneider?”
“The captain is part of our Crisis Team, right? Good call on your part, Nina. It doesn’t hurt to make political friends on Capitol Hill. Treat Congressman Schneider’s daughter right, and he might return the favor someday. CTU can always use a political ally.”
“I was only thinking of what was best for the current mission.”
“And speaking of the mission, I’m putting Captain Schneider in the field with Tony. They’re both ex-Marines, they speak the same institutional jargon, as it were. I think they’ll work well together.”
Nina hesitated but didn’t protest. “I’ll ...I’ll go find Tony.”
“No. Keep doing whatever it is you were doing,” said Chapelle. “I’ll brief Agent Almeida myself.”
3:11:19 A.M.EDT The Last Celt
Caitlin had swept and mopped the floor, stacked the dried mugs on the rack, and polished the bar. More than an hour had passed since Liam had left for the subway, and Caitlin estimated he was halfway to Brooklyn by now. She looked a
round the bar, but there was nothing left to do. Tossing the last of her cold tea down the drain, she prepared to climb the stairs to her tiny apartment.
Caitlin had been stalling because Shamus was up there, waiting. He hadn’t made a sound in more than half an hour and she was hoping he’d fallen asleep. Shamus did that, more often than not, on the nights he stayed with her—especially after he’d had two or three beers. Caitlin knew his routine and kept the tiny refrigerator upstairs well stocked with Sam Adams. Caitlin knew Shamus was expecting more from her than sharing a beer and some television. She never, ever offered, but he’d forced himself on her twice.
Over the past few weeks Shamus had felt increasingly pressured—something to do with his business— and the tension had revealed a cruel side to his personality. It was during this time that he began to pressure her for physical satisfaction, then forced himself on her.
The first time was two weeks ago. She’d tried to fend him off, but then she’d surrendered quietly rather than awaken her brother. The second time was only a few days ago. Liam had spent the night with a friend in the neighborhood. Shamus got a little drunk and a little rough, and so she’d surrendered again.
Upon reflection, Caitlin decided she had once liked Shamus, but she’d never loved him. Now she didn’t even like him.
Even now Caitlin was torn about the situation. She and her brother owed their survival to Shamus’s generosity. He’d helped them when they were both desperate, jobless, and nearly homeless. For a while Caitlin had even convinced herself that Shamus was genuinely fond of her. Only lately, when the relationship turned possessive, had she come to realize that Shamus was only exploiting the gratitude she felt to
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ward him for his own ends, and that his generosity was a sham.
If a man demands something in return for his help, that’s not generosity, is it? That’s a transaction.
Caitlin started when someone pounded on the stout front door. She glanced at the clock, then tentatively approached the entrance, if only to assure herself the doors were locked, the bolt secure. The pounding came again, louder than before.
Caitlin put her face against the wood, peered between the cracks. In the dim glow of a nearby streetlight, she saw a man with an intense gaze and sandy-blond hair standing on the sidewalk. He was athletically built, dressed in dark clothes. He must have seen her shadow because he suddenly spoke.
“Please, you have to let me in,” he said.
The accent sounded American to Caitlin. He didn’t sound like he was from New York.
“I need to see the Lynch brothers. It’s a matter of life and death.”
3:14:49 A.M.EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Ryan Chappelle found Tony Almeida downloading Wen Chou Lee’s financial records from the Taiwan Bank and Trust Company database.
“Want to engage in a little field work?” asked Chappelle. “With supervision, of course.”
Tony nodded eagerly. “You bet.”
“Send this data off to Jamey’s workstation where she can evaluate it. Then I want you to reconnoiter the Green Dragon Computers store in Little Tokyo. I’ve got a report which indicates there’s a small electronics repair facility inside that store. Zoning and salary records indicate three shifts a day, which means that facility is up and running twenty-four/seven.”
“How aggressive do you want me to be?”
Chappelle contemplated the question. “Don’t run in with guns drawn, but get results. We know it was this facility that retrofitted the memory stick, so at least one person inside that firm knows about the device and how it was meant to be used. Find out what you can in a hurry. I don’t want you to have to make a second trip.”
“Should I talk to Blackburn, the team?”
Chappelle winced. “Definitely not. I’m keeping the Special Assault Team out of this, especially after that mess at LAX. You’ll have a partner, but not someone from Tactical, or Division . . .”
Tony’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who exactly are you referring to?”
“Captain Jessica Schneider. She’s the one who dug up the information on Green Dragon. She wants to go into the field to further investigate but she needs backup. That’s you.”
“No way,” said Tony. “I’m not taking orders from a novice.”
“I already told her she’s going. And that she’s in charge,” Chappelle replied.
“She’s active military. What about posse comitatus?”
“She’s temporarily attached to CTU, which means Captain Schneider has an executive mandate to deal with domestic terrorists that overrules posse comitatus.”
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Tony frowned. “But she has absolutely no field experience.”
“Captain Schneider found the link to Green Dragon everyone else missed. For that she’s earned the right to follow up the investigation to the end. As far as field experience goes, everyone has to start somewhere. You had no field experience a year ago.”
“It’s political, isn’t it, Ryan?”
Ryan Chappelle nodded. “Yes, Tony. It is.”
“Get someone else, then. Special Agent Martinez, or that new guy, Curtis what’s his name.”
Ryan shook his head. “Believe it or not, Captain Schneider requested your presence, and you’re going, Tony.”
3:17:00 A.M.EDT The Last Celt
“There’s no one here. We’re closed.”
Caitlin was firm, but the blond American refused to go away. He seemed to search for another way in, then he spoke again. “I need to see Shamus or Griffin. It’s urgent.”
The man sounded sincere. “Who are you, then? The police?” Caitlin asked. “If you’re a cop then show me yer badge.”
The man shook his head. “I’m just a business associate. Listen, Shamus and Griffin are in danger. The people around them may be in danger, too.”
Caitlin thought of Liam and the case he carried.
“At least give me some information,” the man pleaded.
Caitlin took a deep breath. She unlocked the bolt but left the chain in place as she cracked the heavy oak door. “You say you know Shamus?” she asked, nervously peeking through.
Jack nodded. “Yes. I’ve got to speak to him. I’m trying to keep him alive. His brother, too.”
Caitlin gasped when a voice spoke behind her. “He’s a damned liar, Cait.”
She turned to find Shamus standing there, shirtless. He was flushed, angry. A gun with an absurdly long barrel was clutched in his right hand.
Through the partly opened door, Jack saw Shamus, too. He lunged, butting his shoulder against the thick wood between them. With the noise of splintering wood the bolt tore free. The door slammed against Caitlin, sending the young woman flying backward. She struck her head against the wall and slumped to the floor.
As Jack pushed through the open door, Shamus raised his arm and the weapon in his hand discharged. The blast was muffled by the noise suppressor on the barrel, but Jack felt the bullet whiz past his head, heard it slap against the elevated train’s steel support beam in the street behind him. Jack leaped forward. Before Shamus could fire again, he slapped the weapon out of his hand.
Shamus stumbled backward but didn’t fall. He bolted across the tavern, tossing tables and chairs in Jack’s path. Jack caught up with him just as he burst through a door and started to climb narrow stairs to the second floor. Jack seized Shamus by the ankle and yanked. Legs jerked out from under him, the man hit the steps with his jaw, but still fought back. Jack grabbed the man’s red hair as Shamus clawed at his face. Holding the man steady, Jack laid a hard right on the man’s already bruised face—then another. He
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raised his fist for a third blow but Shamus went limp.
Jack hauled the man up the rest of the stairs and into the cramped apartment. He tossed him onto the floor. Using cords ripped from a phone, radio, and lamp, Jack hog-tied Shamus Lynch and muffled his mouth with some electrical tape he found in a drawer. When he was satisfied the
man wasn’t going anywhere, Jack ran back downstairs to check on the woman.
She had yet to stir when Jack got to her. He stepped over her limp body and closed the door, then he searched her clothing for a weapon. All he found was a wad of money in her blouse, some change in an apron pocket. The woman moaned softly. Jack hurried back to the bar and filled a glass with water, wrapped a cloth around a chunk of ice, and brought them back to her.
“Here, drink this,” he said softly, cradling the woman’s head and tipping the glass to her lips. “Can you talk?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“What’s the name of this pub?”
“The Last Celt.”
“Do you know what time of day it is? Before midnight or after?”
“After.”
Jack checked her eyes. Her vision didn’t appear glassy or vacant and her voice sounded strong, her answers comprehensible. So it didn’t appear she’d suffered a concussion, but there was a nasty bump growing on her head. He placed the icy cloth against it and she winced.
“Do you feel nauseated? Dizzy?” Jack asked.
The woman waved him off. “You almost killed me, you did. All to get to Shamus. I hope you found him. Now what? You’ll murder us both?”
“My name is Bauer. I’m a Federal agent. You are...?”
“Caitlin.” She clutched her head. “Help me up.”
Jack lifted the woman off the floor, guided her across the tavern. Chairs and tables were overturned, strewn about. “Ohh,” Caitlin sighed when she saw the mess. “I just cleaned this place.”
Jack helped her into a booth. “Do you live in the apartment upstairs?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“Do you live upstairs?”
“Yes. With my brother, Liam.”
“You’re Shamus Lynch’s girlfriend.”
Caitlin pressed the icy cloth against the bump on the back of her head, winced again. “He thinks so.”
“What does Shamus do for a living?”
“Owns a computer store. Surely you know that, if you’ve come lookin’ for him.”
“And you know nothing about his other activities? His ties to international terrorism?”
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