24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse

by Marc Cerasini

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  “I beg your forgiveness, Major,” Sergeant Raschid said, eyes forward.

  “At ease,” the Major replied with a hint of a smile. “I only meant to alert you that a vehicle is approaching, in case you had not noticed.”

  Sergeant Raschid hefted his M-16 as the electronic gate swung open, and a white Dodge van swung into the driveway.

  “It is probably a routine delivery,” said Major Salah. “But see what they want.”

  Sergeant Raschid and Corporal Hourani turned their backs on their commander as the van approached the gazebo. Eyes on the approaching vehicle, the soldiers did not see Major Salah slip two six-inch black stilettos out of hidden sheaths. And their deaths were so quick the two men barely felt the simultaneous thrusts that plunged the cold, hard steel blades deep into their brains.

  The van rolled to a halt in front of the gazebo a moment later. The passenger door opened. Major Salah stepped over the dead men and climbed into the cab next to the blond-haired, blue-eyed driver. Behind them, a half dozen armed, masked men huddled inside the van’s cargo bay.

  “I have observed the American intelligence agent and learned that CTU knows nothing. Once Ibn is dead, their only connection to Hasan will be severed.”

  “So we strike?”

  Salah nodded. “The way is open. We will kill the minister, his son, and his sister. And I will take care of Jack Bauer personally.”

  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 2 P.M. AND 3 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  2:00:56 P.M. PDT Free Trade Pavilion Russia East Europe Trade Alliance Los Angeles

  Sweeping in among the very first wave of reporters to enter the Free Trade Pavilion since its opening last month, Christina Hong, KHTV Seattle’s twentyeight-year-old entertainment reporter, could not help but be impressed. The Pavilion was designed by Saudi-American architect Nawaf Sanjore, and featured a vaulted glass ceiling and three lofty steel and glass ziggurats of various heights, the tallest of which reached eighteen stories into the Los Angeles skyline.

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  Christina knew from her extensive research that the Pavilion was just one wing of the Russia East Europe Trade Alliance headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard, a twelve-story office building that housed the international trade organization. REETA had been established to promote mutually beneficial economic and political associations among the members of the former Soviet Union. The governments of these new republics were often at odds with one another, yet REETA had been instrumental in forging trade pacts that revived, modernized or transformed old industries into profitable new ventures.

  The area of most interest to Christina Hong—who enjoyed covering the business side of the entertainment industry and harbored dreams of hosting her own cable news show—was the phenomenal resurrection of the Eastern European film industry in the last five years. Thanks to an infusion of capital from REETA, the movie business was alive and thriving in places like Prague, Budapest, Belgrade.

  Yet this sea change in the film industry had gone virtually unnoticed by most media types. Christina Hong would not have known herself, except that two months ago her station manager had sent her to do an up-tempo story on American actors and extras who moved to Montreal from California or New York City for better acting jobs. Instead of finding happy and fulfilled character performers, she interviewed people who were suddenly strapped for work. The reason? Because so many so-called Hollywood productions were being shot in Eastern Europe.

  The term outsourcing sprang immediately to mind and Christina realized that her producer had sent her to cover the wrong story. From long nights spent doing research on the Internet, or with the Lexis/Nexis search engine, Ms. Hong discovered that the Russia East Europe Trade Alliance was the catalyst for the change. She also learned that the organization itself was the brainchild of a single visionary man— financier and internationalist Nikolai Manos, a sometimes controversial figure who earned great wealth and power through his shrewd dealings on the international currency markets.

  Suddenly the crowd surged around her, shaking Christina out of her thoughts. She saw people approach a raised stage at the opposite end of the hall and ordered Ben, her cameraman, to stake out a choice position before the press conference began.

  “Let me know if you spot Nikolai Manos in this mob,” she said. “I’d like to corner him with a few questions if I get the chance.”

  Ben brushed a tumble of brown bangs away from his face. “What’s your fascination with this guy? I’d rather be over at the Chamberlain taking red carpet footage of the stars than watching a bunch of suits pat one another on the back.”

  “Manos is a billionaire.” Christina chuckled. “Every girl is interested in a billionaire.”

  “You probably know more about this guy than you know about yourself.”

  “Go. Shoo,” Christina commanded.

  In her heart-of-hearts, Christina knew Ben was right. She did know an awful lot about Manos—he was born in Prague, the son of a Russian physician and a Greek freight tycoon, and orphaned at an early age. After the death of his parents, Manos inherited the bulk of his father’s modest wealth, and multiplied it several times. Then, five years ago at the age of

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  fifty, Nikolai Manos altered his life trajectory, to become something of a philanthropist. He established REETA with a large chunk of his personal fortune, in a seemingly altruistic effort to benefit the overall economy of Eastern Europe. Nikolai Manos’s stated goal in creating the organization was peace through prosperity, and Manos was doing his part to bring about a measure of understanding to one of the bitterest political situations in the region—the feud between the Chechen people and Russia, their much resented masters.

  All that, Christina knew, could be found in a REETA press release. Digging deeper—much deeper—she had discovered that Nikolai Manos had made enemies in his years of speculation in the money markets.

  From the archives of the Wall Street Journal, she learned that among his business rivals Nikolai Manos had a ruthless reputation. In an interview with a former high-level employee in Manos’s money market fund, it was revealed that the financier had knowingly pushed legal boundaries in his quest for profit.

  Some of Nikolai Manos’s activities even bordered on the criminal—at least in the view of certain foreign governments. In Singapore he was a wanted criminal because of a scheme he allegedly devised to undermine that nation’s currency. Speaking off the record to a government official, Ms. Hong also learned that Manos was the subject of an ongoing Securities and Exchange Commission investigation in the United States.

  But today, as she looked around at all the happy faces, the glamorous stars and producers, the media tycoons and business leaders who came out for this event, it was clear to Christina that the tycoon’s checkered past and current woes did not seem to trouble the elite in this town. For them, the celebrity they turned out to see was Marina Katerine Novartov, the attractive and popular wife of Russian President Vladimir Novartov. Russia’s First Lady was in America to attend the Silver Screen Awards, and meet with America’s President and First Lady in Washington later in the week.

  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 anxiously 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 before 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 shoulder 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, p
ierced 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.”

  “What are you going to do?” Milo asked.