“That worked?”
“Quite effectively. Hasan’s suicidal assassins were the world’s first terrorists. For the next two centuries, they struck fear into the rulers of the Muslim world. No king or prince was safe because there was no protection from a killer who didn’t care if they lived or died, an assassin who was willing to trade his life for the deaths of others and a promised spot in Paradise.”
“Okay, so what happened after Hasan died? Did the terrorism end?”
“No, the violent Nizari sect continued to flourish. Its most public success was the murder of Crusader Conrad of Montferrat in 1192. Scholars believe that the sect continued to brainwash its subjects until its eventual extermination centuries later.”
Nina closed the file. Ryan crossed his arms. “So obviously you believe this new Hasan is emulating the methods and tactics of the original?”
“It fits the facts,” Jack replied, wincing as the doctor extracted a shard of glass from his forearm. He winced again when Brandeis sprayed on instant skin to stop the bleeding. “Ibn al Farad was hunting for someone he called the Old Man on the Mountain when he was captured in the Angeles National Forest. I believe the youth was brainwashed using the methamphetamine Karma, which he had in his possession when he was captured. And don’t forget. I witnessed a loyal member of the Royal Saudi Special Forces Brigade turn on his own soldiers, and then murder the minister he swore an oath to serve.”
Ryan shook his head. “But brainwashing? Mind control? It sounds impossible.”
“Not so.” It was Dr. Brandeis who spoke.
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“Enlighten us, Doctor,” said Ryan.
Brandeis continued to work on his patient as he spoke.
“While there are several ways to exercise control over another human mind, drugs can be very effective. In the 1950s a CIA black operation called MKULTEA experimented with LSD, psilocybin, scopalamine, sodium pentothal and a combination of barbituates and amphetamines, in an attempt to control the minds of test subjects.”
“How successful were they?” Nina asked.
Brandeis shrugged. “Results were mixed. Drugs alone were found to be ineffective. Control was better achieved if certain psychological techniques were also applied.”
Jack tested his wounded arm. “Such as?”
“Effective methods of mind control were outlined in the 1960s and codified in what’s called the Biderman’s chart of coercion. The methods include isolation, threats, degradation. But the chart also lists monopolization of perception, induced debility, and demonstrations of omnipotence by the master controller—”
“I don’t follow,” said Ryan.
“Well. A subject in isolation only sees one other human—the controller, the interrogator, whatever. The subject becomes dependent on that controller, longs for the contact after long stretches of isolation. A relationship is established—a first step. Threats and degradation follow. If used judiciously—and arbitrarily—the subject slowly accepts his helplessness.”
“Sounds like battered wife syndrome,” said Nina.
“An abusive spouse instinctively uses these very same methods,” Brandeis replied.
“But Hasan’s primary lure is spiritual, if Jack is correct.”
The doctor nodded. “True, Mr. Chappelle. That’s where the other methods come in. If you control a person’s perception, you can convince them of any truth—bad guys try to control the media, use propaganda to that end. But drugs can also exert a powerful control over one’s perceptions. And drugs can also be used to induce debility and exhaustion, deepen the subject’s a sense of isolation. The controller can even demonstrate his omnipotence through the manipulation of the subject’s emotions by the use of hallucinogenic drugs.”
Ryan scratched his chin. “And once the subject’s will is broken?”
“The controller rebuilds it,” said Brandeis. “In the case of religious fanaticism, a sense of exclusivity is fostered—the subject is saved, everyone else is damned, that kind of thing.”
“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.”
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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.”
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“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 n
odded. “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.”
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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, making 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
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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 ins
ide, 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
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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.”
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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.
24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse Page 16