“I’m pretty sure they never met. Shamus told my brother he did all his business with Taj over the phone.”
Ahead, Jack saw the sign for the Atlantic Avenue exit and pulled off the highway. Five minutes later, they were on the avenue itself. From the intelligence
135
Nina sent him, Jack knew this area—called Cobble Hill—featured the largest concentration of Middle Eastern shops and businesses in the city. The area was occupied by Yemenis, Lebanese, Palestinians, and other immigrants from Muslim countries.
“That’s the place,” said Jack. Caitlin saw the sign: kahlil’s middle eastern foods.
Face grim, Jack studied the shop, which sold groceries and prepared foods, exotic spices, Arabic newspapers and magazines.
“I’m going to circle around and park.”
Jack located a spot almost in front of the delicatessen. The store took up the ground floor of a century-old, three-story brownstone. The security gate was up, and a New York Post truck rolled up while Jack parked, delivered a stack of the morning edition hot off the presses.
“I want you to hold this stuff,” said Jack.
He handed Caitlin his cell phone, the PDA, and the revolver Georgi had given him. Jack reached into his jacket and gave Caitlin his CTU ID, too. After a moment’s hesitation, Jack slipped off his wedding ring and added it to the pile. He kept the wallet he’d taken from Shamus Lynch, slipped it into his hip pocket. Then Jack popped the door.
“Where are you going?” Caitlin asked.
“Inside,” he told her. “I’m going to try to pass myself off as Shamus Lynch. If Liam shows up, stop him from delivering the case—and don’t open it, no matter what.”
Caitlin touched Jack’s hand. “What about you.”
“If I don’t come out of there in two hours, I want you to call 911.”
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 5 A.M. AND 6 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
5:00:01 A.M.EDT Green Dragon Computers, Los Angeles
Tony Almeida ran through the empty loading dock and up the concrete incline. Exhaust fumes from the Dodge cargo van still lingered, though the vehicle and the missile launcher it carried were long gone. Half expecting a sniper’s bullet to cut him down, Tony felt his skin prickle as he moved without benefit of cover. He found the supervisor lying at the top of the ramp, dead eyes staring at ducts that crisscrossed the ceiling.
He found the AK–47 on the ground, popped out the banana-shaped magazine, and thrust it into his pocket. Then he checked the assault rifle’s chamber for an extra round. Finally he tossed the empty
137
weapon into a Dumpster, satisfied no one could use it against him now.
Tony moved to the door, but before he entered the factory he used his cell phone to call for backup. Ryan Chappelle was unavailable to authorize direct action, so Nina Myers dispatched the Special Assault Team on her own authority as Chief of Staff. Estimated time of arrival: eight minutes.
Tony wasn’t happy about calling out Blackburn’s men—Ryan Chappelle had been against using the assault team—but neither he nor Nina could see any other way to go. The LAPD weren’t equipped to handle potential terrorism, and would ask for things CTU could not provide—like a warrant to enter the premises.
Tony ended the call, pocketed the cell phone. From somewhere inside the factory a shot boomed. Two followed in reply. Tony gripped his P228 with both hands and burst through the factory doors, startling the only occupant—an elderly Chinese woman with skin like old parchment, trembling beside an overturned bucket and fallen mop. She threw her hands in the air when she saw Tony.
“Relax! I’m not going to hurt you,” Tony said in what he thought was a reassuring tone. The woman calmed for a moment, then spied the 9mm in Tony’s hand and began to scream.
“Look, I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Tony said, lowering the weapon.
He quickly moved into a maze of cubicles and workstations. The area was lit by overhead fluorescent lights, crammed with gutted computers, loose motherboards, wire bundles in rainbow colors, dangling circuits, soldering irons, and tools.
Progress through the factory was slow because Tony feared ambush. After a thorough search of each cubicle he finally found someone else. An Asian man with a long ponytail, perhaps twenty-five years old, was lying facedown on the concrete floor, blood pooling around two holes punched into his abdomen. A .45 was still clutched in the man’s right hand. Tony kicked the weapon into a corner, cautiously checked for a pulse, found none.
Then Tony discovered a staircase partially hidden behind a large bulletin board. He took the steps two at a time. At the top he pushed through a steel fire door, into a suite of offices. The area was large and dimly lit by recessed fixtures in the ceiling, the space broken up by cramped cubicles, sparsely furnished. A bank of chipped and dented metal filing cabinets ran along one wall. The carpet was stained and shabby.
Down a short hallway Tony found glass double doors; beyond that, a brilliantly lit, spotless, air-conditioned, air-scrubbed space dominated by a massive mainframe computer and two large workstations. Captain Schneider was in one of the stations, looming over a young Asian man slumped in an office chair. She gripped him by the scruff of his chic sports jacket, the barrel of her service revolver pressed against the back of his skull.
When Tony pushed through the doors, captor and captive looked up. Captain Schneider’s relief was evident, though she quickly tried to hide it.
“About time,” she said.
“I had to call for backup.”
Tony drew a pair of plastic cuffs from his jacket, slapped them on the prisoner’s wrists. The man was
139
missing the little finger of his left hand; on his forearm the edges of a purple tattoo were visible below the cuffs.
“Watch the material, daddy-O,” the man complained. “This is an Italian suit. The jacket alone costs more than an American flatfoot earns in three whole months of taking bribes.”
Tony leaned close to the man’s face. “Tough guy, eh?”
“His name is Saito,” Captain Schneider said. “A visitor to our shores, from Japan—”
She was interrupted by a crashing sound, loud voices. Seconds later, Agent Chet Blackburn and another member of the assault team—clad in head-totoe helmets and body armor, assault rifles raised and ready—hustled into the computer room, their chukkas scuffing the polished floor.
Blackburn put up his weapon, flipped the visor open. “Nice assault, Almeida. You, too, ma’am. Doesn’t look like you guys needed our help.”
“Wasn’t me, Chet. Captain Schneider’s the gung-ho jarhead.”
Chet chuckled. “Maybe CTU should sign the lady up.”
Tony couldn’t hide his irritation. Captain Schneider holstered her weapon, helped the prisoner out of the chair. Blackburn noticed a long decorative chain dangling from the man’s belt. He reached out and tore it off, rolled the silver links around his leathery black hand.
Saito studied the faces around him, then displayed an arrogant smirk. “This has been a lot of fun and all—” He winked at Jessica. “Especially meeting you, missy. But right now I need to confer with legal counsel.”
5:11:54 A.M.EDT Kahlil’s Middle Eastern Foods
Hands in his pocket, eyes downcast, Jack entered the grocery store. Brass bells chimed as he pushed through the door. The interior of the store was surprisingly small and cramped. Narrow aisles and far too many goods piled one atop the other made the place feel claustrophobic. There was a vast array of products jammed into a limited space, but unlike most New York delicatessens, which copiously stocked beer, wine, and malt liquor in their refrigerator cases, no spirits of any kind were here—only soft drinks and dairy products. Jack wasn’t surprised since alcohol was forbidden to Muslims.
Behind refrigerated glass at the deli counter, Jack saw tubs of water-soaked feta; trays of black, brown, and green olives; st
uffed grape leaves; hummus; mast—a kind of Afghan yogurt—flat nan breads; and other foods Jack didn’t recognize.
Somewhere a radio was playing, the volume low. The announcer spoke Dari, a common language in Afghan cities. From his quick reading of the CTU dossier in his PDA, Jack knew the Khalil brothers were nomadic Pashtuns by birth, so their first language was Pashto. Nomadic Pashtuns were raised according to an ancient tribal code called Pashtunwali, which stressed honor, courage, bold action, and self-reliance. They were also warriors by tradition, and
141
undoubtedly by bitter experience, given the recent Soviet actions in Afghanistan.
Behind the register, a tall, thin man with a gray-streaked beard and an Afghan turban sat on a high stool. Jack waited patiently until a Hispanic man in a security guard’s uniform paid for a copy of the Post and a cup of coffee. Jack noticed a well-thumbed copy of the Koran at the man’s arm. Finally the security guard was out the door, and Jack approached the proprietor.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for Taj. Is he here now?”
The man barely glanced at Jack. His eyes were deep brown, reflective. They were the eyes of an aesthetic, not a terrorist.
“Who is asking?”
“My name is Shamus Lynch. I need to see Taj. I have something for him . . .”
The man’s gaze grew suspicious and he did not reply. The moment stretched, until Jack began to think his masquerade had failed.
“Go to the door at the back of the store,” the man said at last. “Follow the stairs to the basement.”
Jack nodded, walked through the aisles to the rear of the market. When he was out of sight, the turbaned man reached under the register and pressed a button.
A few moments later Jack reached the bottom of the rickety and uneven wooden stairs. The three-story building that housed the market was more than a century old, so the basement walls were made of crumbling sandstone, the floor bare earth, covered here and there with rotting planks. The ceiling was so low, Jack had to crouch a bit to move around. For illumination two glowing bulbs dangled from wires wrapped around the plumbing. The place was dark, damp, and stank of mildew. Instead of a large, expansive area, the basement had been partitioned into sections by walls fabricated from unfinished wood already beginning to rot.
“Hello,” Jack called softly.
From the partition behind him, a fist lashed out, cuffing Jack on the side of the head. The blow was not meant to kill, or even stun him, just put him down. It worked.
The man who’d struck emerged from the shadows, pinned Jack to the floor. He wore an Afghan skullcap, his scraggly beard dangled in Jack’s face. One of his front teeth was missing and his hot breath reeked.
Jack did not struggle, even when a second and third man emerged from the shadows. One was a youth, his face twitching nervously. The other was past middle age, stocky and powerfully built. He also wore a turban, along with a clean if slightly shabby suit and a too-wide-to-be-fashionable tie. This man knelt next to Jack and fumbled through his pockets until he located a wallet. Inside the worn black leather he found cash, several credit cards, and a New York driver’s license, all belonging to Shamus Lynch.
The older man lowered a lightbulb from the ceiling and shined it into Jack’s face. Blinking against the glare, Jack wondered if his passing resemblance to Shamus Lynch—along with the fact that he held the man’s ID—would be enough to convince these men he was the real deal. Though Jack could not see beyond the light in his eyes, he heard footsteps and knew more men had arrived.
“It must be him,” someone grunted.
143
“As I said. Who else could it be?” the older man replied.
The man pinning Jack to the floor rolled off, then stood. He extended his hand, helped Jack to his feet. Jack rubbed the glare out of his eyes, focused hard to pierce the darkness. Soon he discerned five men surrounding him. Two were armed with U.S. Army– issue .45s, a third man had an AK–47 slung over his shoulder. Jack scanned the crude wooden walls around him, but could not figure out where the others had come from.
The older man closed the wallet, returned it to Jack.
“I am sorry for the rough treatment, Mr. Lynch. We had to be sure you are who you say you are.”
5:35:23 A.M.EDT Brooklyn Underground
Liam jerked awake, glanced at his watch. He’d been dozing for nearly thirty minutes. At Times Square there’d been a long delay because of bollixed-up track work. He’d waited forever to transfer from the Number 7 to the 2. Now the subway ride to Brooklyn was moving slower than bottled shite. He sat on a dead-still train in a dark tunnel between two stations. Which stations? He couldn’t be sure since he couldn’t remember when he’d fallen asleep.
Hugging the metal case in his lap, he sat up in the orange plastic seat and stretched his jeans-covered legs. The train started up again, rumbling toward the next station. He rubbed his tired eyes, fighting fatigue. For a long time during the seemingly endless underground journey, Liam had kept himself awake by visualizing all the stuff he was going to buy with the money Shamus was paying him.
New tackies first, he’d decided—not the gacky no-name brand from the discount store. Maybe a pair of Air Jordans, black with blue stripes. And a pair of new shoes for Caitlin, too. She was always complaining about how much her feet ached after working twelve hours in the boozer.
Liam’s biggest dream was to own one of those new MP3 players. Two of his friends from St. Sebastian’s had them, and they were downloading free music from their computers all the time. Liam thought that was bleedin’ deadly. Of course, he didn’t even own a computer so for now, having an MP3 would only work if he used his friends’ machines. But if Shamus let him work the summer in his store, who knows? He might be able to afford a used PC and an MP3 before school started in the fall. That would be bloody brilliant.
Soon the train began to slow; the metal-on-metal screech of the brakes drowned out the garbled station announcement that simultaneously crackled over the intercom. Liam sat up, gazing through the window to see which station they were pulling into. Finally he saw the platform, the dirty beige ceramic tiles lining the walls. Then a strip of black tiles spelling out the name of the stop: Hoyt Street.
The train slowed as the conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom.
“Attention passengers, attention passengers. This train is going out of service. Hoyt Street is the last stop on this train. Anyone wishing to continue on to Atlantic Avenue, exit here and wait for the next available train. We are sorry for the inconvenience.”
145
Bloody hell, thought Liam. One stop away and I gotta change trains.
Liam stood, still groggy. Clutching the overhead rail, he moved to the door as the train squealed to a stop. The doors slid aside and Liam stepped onto the concrete platform. No one else exited the train, and he saw no one else on the platform. He discovered he was far from the nearest exit—two or three subway car lengths, at least.
The doors closed again. With a hiss the brakes were released and the train lumbered forward, gaining speed as it moved into the tunnel. Finally it disappeared, a steady blast of air in its wake. When the noise of the subway receded, Liam heard footsteps behind him.
As he began to turn, a hand snatched the case swinging at Liam’s side. A powerful tug nearly yanked him off his feet. Liam quickly shifted his weight and pivoted to face the mugger. There were three. Black kids. Maybe two years older than he, one chubby, two lean. They wore oversized, dark blue jogging clothes, sneakers, baseball hats. Their eyes were focused on the metal case. But Liam refused to let it go. Gripping it with both hands, he began a tugging match with the fat git who’d grabbed it. For the moment, the two skinny ones held back, letting the big homey do all the work.
The chubby mugger was pulling hard, but Liam surprised him. Instead of tugging back harder, he pushed the case forward, thrusting it into the git’s round face. With a crack the case smashed the kid’s nose and cheek. He stumbled backward and r
eleased the attaché, then doubled over howling and groping his battered face with both hands.
Liam turned to flee, but a movement caught the corner of his eye. Something flashed close to his head, then connected with his upper arm. He stumbled under the impact. His arm went limp and the case clattered to the concrete.
One of the skinny kids stood over him with a nightstick while the other rushed forward to pick up the case. But the stupid plonker approached it too fast, kicking it forward.
“Shit—”
Time stopped as they all watched the case slide over the edge of the platform. The git with the nightstick swung it again. This time Liam saw it coming and dodged the blow. Sensation was coming back to his left arm along with throbbing pain. But Liam swung out with his good arm, determined to drive off his attacker.
The plump kid with the battered face was kneeling on the platform now, coughing. A stream of blood flowed from his nose and he cried out in alarm at the sight of it. The wanker who’d kicked the case glanced back to check on his friend, then freaked when he saw the blood.
“Shit—” he yelled again.
The git with the nightstick stared at the place where the attaché case plunged over the side. He took a half step in that direction when they all felt a breeze, heard a distant roar. A Brooklyn-bound train was coming, rolling along on the very same tracks where the case had fallen...
147
5:45:13 A.M.EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
“Hey, that code sequence doesn’t make any sense.” Milo gestured toward the sequential stream of letters and numbers on the screen.
Doris stopped typing. “You’re reading it from left to right. It’s Korean. Read it backward.”
Milo sat back. “Yeah, that’s right. You said that before.”
“Uh-huh,” Doris replied, her fingers again tapping the keyboard.
“Why does Frankenstein—”
“Frankie.”
“Why does your program depend on such old protocols?” Milo asked.
“Lots of reasons. North Korean programmers aren’t always up to speed and they build their programs on top of preexisting computer models. Most of them are pretty old.”
24 Declassified: 01 - Operation Hell Gate Page 12