24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse

by Marc Cerasini

  Standing steel and glass partitions separated the twelve-bed hospital ward, where Jack waited, from the triage unit and intensive care facility down the hall. Farther along the blast-resistant concrete corridor sat

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  a glass-enclosed surgical theater, a biohazard treatment unit, and a state-of-the-art biological isolation and identification facility.

  Dr. Brandeis had brought Jack here, sent him through the CT scanner, then the MRI. Alone now, Jack waited for the test results, and for the painkillers he’d hastily swallowed to knock his raging headache back down to a dull, manageable throb again.

  Jack glanced at his watch, grimaced, and reached for the secure telephone on a buffed aluminum night-stand beside his bed. He tapped in his personal code for an outside line, then dialed his home phone. Teri answered on the second ring.

  “Teri? It’s me.”

  “Hello, Jack.” He could feel the chill in her voice. Well, she has a good reason to be upset.

  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. There’s a situation—”

  “Another crisis. I thought as much. Don’t worry about it.”

  There was a long silence. “Is Kim home from school yet?”

  Teri sighed. “Since I didn’t hear from you, I sent her over to my cousin’s house. She’s going to watch the Silver Screen Awards with Sandy and Melissa.”

  Jack blanked for a second. “The Silver Screen Awards?”

  “Yes, Jack. Her mother is going to be in the audience tonight, remember?”

  Their early morning conversation came flooding back: how Teri had received that call from her old boss, got the last-minute invitation to attend the awards show, was excited about seeing some of her old friends.

  “Of course, that’s why I called,” Jack lied. “I wanted to tell you to have a good time. What did you decide to wear?”

  Jack could almost feel Teri melt a little. “My black Versace,” she told him. “You know the one...”

  “I remember,” whispered Jack. “And I remember the last time you wore it.”

  They’d spent a long weekend in Santa Barbara. The first night, she’d worn it to dinner. The second and third nights, dressing was the last thing on their minds. But that was nearly six months ago. They’d had few romantic moments since.

  “I’ll bet you look great,” said Jack.

  “You can see for yourself.” Now Teri’s voice was as soft as Jack’s. “Tonight, when I get home. Probably around midnight.”

  “I’m looking forward to that,” Jack replied, but he tensed up the moment he’d said it. Although he hoped his work would be over by midnight, he honestly couldn’t be certain. “Look, about tonight, I’m really sorry—”

  “Jack, don’t apologize. We both know what you do is important...more important than I probably realize. . . . It’s just that sometimes—”

  “Teri, listen—”

  “Oh, the limousine is here. I have to go.”

  Jack checked his watch. “So soon?”

  “Yes, it actually starts in an hour. Dennis says they stage it early so they can broadcast it during prime time on the East Coast. Look, the driver’s honking. I have to leave. Bye.”

  “Have a great time,” Jack said. “I love you—”

  But Teri had already hung up. Jack listened to the electric hum for a moment, then dropped the receiver in its cradle. He lay back in the bed, closed his eyes

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  and massaged his temples. When he opened them again, Dr. Brandeis and Ryan Chappelle were approaching. Jack sat up and slipped his shirt over his head—more to hide the patches, bandages and bruises than out of modesty.

  “How are you feeling, Special Agent Bauer?” Dr. Brandeis asked, his eyes scanning, assessing.

  “The headache is almost gone,” Jack said. “The vision’s pretty much cleared up. The rest did me good.”

  From the doctor’s pinched expression, Jack knew the man wasn’t buying it. Ryan spoke next.

  “Dr. Brandeis tells me you have a concussion. That you’ve been walking around with it for most of the day.”

  “The MRI revealed potentially dangerous swelling of the brain,” said the doctor, addressing his remarks to Chappelle. “I’ve given Special Agent Bauer something to treat the pain and swelling already. There’s nothing more I can do. He requires rest and time to heal. I’m recommending he be relieved of active duty for five to seven days—”

  Jack cut him off. “I can’t do that. We’re in the middle of a crisis. A terrorist attack may be imminent.”

  Brandeis refused to meet Jack’s gaze. Speaking only to Chappelle, he argued, “Surely there are other agents who can handle this situation—”

  Again, Jack cut him off. “I’m going to see this through to the end. No matter what you say.”

  Ryan Chappelle faced Jack and folded his arms. “Is that how you really feel? Think about it carefully before answering.”

  Jack opened his mouth to speak, then paused to consider the Regional Director’s offer, because that’s exactly what it was. Chappelle was giving Jack an out, a chance to dump this operation onto somebody else. Jack could sign himself out of the infirmary, drive over to Teri’s cousin’s house and pick up Kim. They could watch the awards show, and greet Teri when she got home.

  Jack visualized the moment before he banished it from his mind. He could see Kim’s happy face. His wife in that killer dress. But then another image interceded: Hugh Vetri and his entire family brutally murdered.

  Jack remembered the disk that was in the dead man’s possession. The disk that contained his CTU personnel file, home address, the names of his immediate family.

  “I can’t go, Dr. Brandeis,” said Jack. “I have to see this operation through to the end. Who knows how many lives are at stake.”

  With obvious frustration, Dr. Brandeis turned away from his patient and faced the Regional Director. “It’s your call, sir. You can keep this agent on active duty and risk killing him. Or you can order Bauer to stand down, place himself on medical leave under medical supervision.”

  Ryan Chappelle shook his head. “I understand the dangers, Dr. Brandeis, and I thank you for bringing them to my attention. But there’s a crisis looming, one we don’t even have a handle on. It’s a threat that could have far reaching implications.” He turned to look Jack squarely in the eye. “Unfortunately, I need Special Agent Bauer. I don’t have time to get another manager up to speed. I have no choice but to return this man to active duty immediately.”

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  4:07:21 P.M. PDT Outside La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

  Before he sent Milo on his way north with Richard Lesser and the rest, Tony Almeida relieved Cole Keegan of his sawed off shotgun and thirty rounds of ammunition. After they drove away, he climbed into the battered white van, unlocked the secret compartment in the cargo bay and opened the cover.

  Tony paused when he saw the empty cradle that had held one of the two Glocks. He remembered giving Fay that gun so she could protect herself. From the look of the crime scene, she hadn’t used it.

  Frowning, Tony tucked the remaining Glock into Keegan’s borrowed duster, dug deeper into the compartment for the eight 17-shot magazines, which he stuffed into the pockets. Then he placed the shotgun and shells into the compartment and locked it again.

  Tony hefted the unfamiliar weapon in his hand. The Glock was a Model 18C, a brand-new variation with a fully automatic mode capable of spitting out eleven hundred rounds per minute. Restricted and not available to civilians, the model had a left side, slide-mounted fire control selector switch; a barrel that extended past the front of the slide; and three horizontal and diagonal cuts that ran across the top of the barrel to act as compensators.

  With the weapon and the van’s first aid kit stuffed into his coat, Tony went back up to the hotel’s second floor. He entered room six, cleaned and bandaged his electrical burns, and donned fresh clothes. He spent the next thirty minutes sweeping the room of all evidence that he and Fay had ever occup
ied it.

  The computers were dismantled and tossed into the back of the van, along with his and Fay’s luggage, the stolen credit cards and card readers. The second CTU handgun was nowhere to be found, but he gathered up the water bottles they’d drunk from and even the empty plastic glasses. Those went into the van too. When the room was empty, he used a cloth to wipe down all the surfaces, hoping to eradicate or smear any usable fingerprints.

  Next, Tony sat on the edge of the hotel bed and studied the road map for Tijuana, mentally choosing the best route across town. According to Brandy, Ray Dobyns and the Chechens were hiding out in a house on the Avenue de Dante, on the southern edge of the city.

  When he was done, Tony rose, folded the map and stuffed it into his pocket. He loaded his Glock, slipped it into the duster, and without a backward glance left the room where Fay Hubley had died.

  On street level again, Tony stepped into the scorching afternoon. The street around him was practically deserted. A hot wind kicked up dust. Squinting against the glare of the sweltering sun, he slipped on his heavy-framed sunglasses.

  It was the hottest period of the day and for many traditional Mexicans it was siesta time. They would rest now, when the heat was at its height, then return to work at five or six o’clock, and toil well into the evening.

  Tony sighed, unlocked the van. He had a long afternoon ahead of him, and a long night too. But until this was finished, there would be no rest.

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  4:17:21 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  “You’ve cracked the Trojan horse?” Nina asked. She stood in the situation room, watching sequential data scroll across the computer monitor.

  From her chair in front of the screen, Doris looked up and nodded. “We’re more than halfway there. The clue was in the transcript of Milo’s conversation with you. Milo said that Richard Lesser told him this program targets a software accounting program, but he didn’t say which one.”

  “There’s more than one?” Nina asked.

  “There are dozens, maybe hundreds of accounting programs out there,” Jamey explained. She sat next to Doris, her focus remaining on the screen as she spoke. “Many communications industries use a German software program called SAP, customized for their specific needs, of course—”

  “But Lesser’s Trojan horse didn’t affect SAP,” said Doris, “the program used by publishers and magazine distributors. The movie studios use something different.”

  “The program’s called CINEFI,” said Jamey. “Short for Cinema Finance. It’s a film production payroll and financial management program that has been adopted by the accounting department at virtually every studio.”

  “Lesser’s Trojan horse virus is very specific,” Doris added. “It infects only systems using CINEFI.”

  “Okay.” Nina pulled an empty chair over to the work station and sat. “Tell me why.”

  Doris swiveled her chair to face Nina. “By sabotaging that program specifically, terrorists could do damage to multinational corporations in the entertainment industry. Transfer funds or render security codes inoperative.”

  “So what does this one do? All of the above, or is it just a nuisance virus?”

  “That we don’t know. Not yet,” Jamey replied.

  Doris turned her chair again and directed Nina’s attention back to the computer monitor. “I loaded the CINEFI program into this isolated server, then infected the program with the Trojan horse. As you can see, something is going on. The virus is searching for some sort of protocol, maybe. Or it’s using the CINEFI program as a platform to launch an attack elsewhere.”

  Nina’s expression remained neutral, but her voice cut sharp. “That’s not specific enough.”

  “We did find out there’s a code embedded in the Trojan horse,” Doris quickly noted, “one that launches the virus at a specific date and time.”

  “When?”

  Doris exchanged an anxious look with Jamey, then said, “Three hours ago.”

  Nina’s posture tensed. “Then we’re too late to stop it.”

  “Yet there’s no measurable effect that we can see,” Jamey pointed out. “I secured a warrant to monitor the big studio computers with CTU surveillance software. There’s no reported problem, no delays, no data dumps or anything to indicate the virus was destructive.”

  Doris nodded. “The target specificity explains why this virus hasn’t done major damage hours after its release. It’s just too narrowly focused to worry 99.9 percent of computer users, even if someone downloads the movie Gates of Heaven, their system will be infected, but not affected.”

  “Only the major studios and their computers are in

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  jeopardy,” Jamey said, relief audible in her voice. “But so far, nothing’s happened, even to the studio’s mainframes. Richard Lesser might be an evil genius when it comes to cracking secure systems, but it looks like his Trojan horse is a bust.”

  4:38:54 P.M. PDT Rossum Tower Century City

  Architect Nawaf Sanjore lived on the top five floors of a thirty-five-floor apartment building of his own design on the cusp of Century City.

  Formerly the back lot of 20th Century Fox Studios, Century City had been transformed in the 1980s into a compact and crowded high-rise area of banks, insurance companies, financial institutions, blue chip corporations, shops and cinemas, all tucked between Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. The Sanjore-designed Rossum Tower, with its sleek, sterile appearance and glass-enclosed exterior elevators, perfectly fit the ultramodern aesthetics of this Los Angeles community.

  Jack Bauer steered the black CTU motor pool SUV along the boulevard, toward the entrance to the building’s underground parking garage. In the passenger seat beside him, Nina Myers pulled out her PDA and began reviewing the information she’d stored on the famous architect.

  “Born in Pakistan, Nawaf Sanjore immigrated to Great Britain in 1981. He attended the London School of Design, then graduate school at MIT. He went to work for Ito Masumoto in 1988, left to form his own architectural firm in 1992.”

  “Is he a Muslim? Devout?” Jack asked.

  “He was born a Muslim, and he designed a mosque in Saudi Arabia, but he seems to lead a secular lifestyle. The FBI report cites several long- and short-term affairs with various American and British women.”

  “Is he political?”

  “Not very. He’s involved with several charities and nonprofits, including the Red Crescent, the Russia East Europe Trade Alliance, and Abigail Heyer’s organization, Orphan Rescue. He’s donated to the campaigns of the current mayor and governor.”

  Jack frowned. “Ibn al Farad was secular, until he met Hasan. What other project has Sanjore worked on?”

  Nina called up a new page on the PDA. “Nawaf Sanjore has personally designed sixteen skyscrapers— five here in the United States, the rest scattered across the globe in places like Dubai, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Hong Kong, Sydney. There are three buildings here in Los Angeles. The Rossum Tower, the Russia East Europe Trade Pavilion in Santa Monica—”

  “I’ve seen it,” said Jack.

  “Look at this,” said Nina. “The Trade Pavilion was mentioned in today’s CIA/CTU security alert. The Vice President’s wife was there, along with the wife of the Russian President. The event went off without a hitch. The Secret Service didn’t even request CTU assistance.”

  “Where are the dignitaries now?”

  Nina called up the official itinerary. “The wives are having an early dinner at Spago’s. Then they’re going to attend the Silver Screen Awards.”

  Nina fell unusually silent and Jack glanced in her direction. Her slender form appeared tense. One hand held the PDA, the other moved to massage her forehead in thought.

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  “Nina? What you have found?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The Trade Pavilion event began at the same moment the time code in Lesser’s Trojan Horse activated the
virus.”

  Jack chewed on that fact. “But we still don’t know what it does, correct?”

  “That’s right.” Nina went back to squinting at the tiny text on her PDA screen. “The biggest project Sanjore worked on was the Summit Studio complex, which was built to revitalize a large section of downtown.”

  She looked up. “By the way, Summit is the studio that is releasing Gates of Heaven. Hugh Vetri had an office on the ninth floor of Tower One.”

  “Interesting, although it proves nothing.”

  Jack entered the parking garage and grabbed the paper tag spit out by the automatic dispenser. The gate rose and Jack drove deeper into the bowels of Rossum Tower.

  “There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence here,” said Nina. “But all of it could be discounted as simple coincidence.”

  “Ibn al Farad whispered Nawaf Sanjore’s name to me seconds before he died. It has to mean something.”

  “Do you think Sanjore could be Hasan?” Nina’s tone was skeptical.

  Jack guided the SUV into a space and cut the engine. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  An ebony silhouette in Giorgio Armani, Nawaf Sanjore glided through his thirty-fifth-floor office on Bruno Magli shoes. Outside, the skyscrapers of Century City rose around him, the glass walls of his penthouse apartment affording the architect a magnificent view.

  But Nawaf Sanjore ignored the vista as he moved from computer to computer, dumping megabytes’ worth of data onto micro drives or zip disks. As each storage device became full, Sanjore yanked it out of its drive, its USB port and slipped the item into a fawn-brown attaché case. His intelligent, alert eyes scanned the monitors, checking the contents of each data file before preserving it. He moved with calm, deliberate precision, even white teeth chewing his lower lip in concentration.

  Behind the architect, two assistants burned papers, plans and memos in the crackling flames of his central fireplace—a raised circle of gray slate capped by a horn-shaped steel exhaust vent.