24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse

by Marc Cerasini

When Tony first arrived and saw the residence, he did a double-take, figuring that hooker Brandy had played him for a fool. But after he drove around the neighborhood a few times, and past the house once or twice, Tony finally spied Dobyns waddling into the backyard like some suburban fat cat. The man was wearing shorts, his bulk settling into a lounge chair next to a small built-in pool while he sipped tequila and puffed on a thick cigar. Now that he knew he’d found the right place Tony parked the van across the street and watched the house.

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  After twenty minutes Tony determined that the Chechens were probably somewhere else, and Dobyns was alone. Tony’s fists crushed the steering wheel. That just won’t do, he mused. I want everyone to be here for the party I have planned.

  5:20:47 P.M. PDT Rossum Tower Century City

  The data mining team had arrived and Nawaf Sanjore’s office was a high-traffic area. The noise was so thick Jack could not hear his cell phone when it rang, only felt its tremble.

  “Bauer.”

  “Jack? Jack . . . Is that you?” The voice was Frank Castalano’s. “You’re going to have to speak up, my ears still aren’t so good.”

  Jack remembered the RPG hitting Castalano’s vehicle, knew the man had been lucky to walk away with only diminished hearing. “It’s me, Frank,” Jack loudly replied, eliciting stares. “How’s your partner?”

  “What?”

  “How’s Jerry Alder?”

  “Still in surgery. His wife’s at the hospital now... What a mess.”

  “How are you?”

  “Cuts and bruises. The docs say my hearing will improve in a couple of days. Meanwhile, I’ve got the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral ringing in my head.” A pause. “Jack, about an hour ago we found a cell phone Hugh Vetri hid under some papers in his desk. Turns out he bought it with a fake ID just eight days ago—”

  “Vetri must have thought he was being watched.

  Wiretaps, maybe. Any sign of unauthorized surveillance?”

  “Not yet. But we did find out that Vetri made three calls with that phone. All of them on the night of his murder, all to the same number—the office of Valerie Dodge, CEO of the Dodge Modeling Agency.”

  5:22:42 P.M. PDT Highway 39 Angeles National Forest

  The helicopter swooped low over the San Gabriels, skimming a section of thick forest until it located a particular stretch of deserted roadway that had once been part of Highway 39. The aircraft descended to the road’s cracked pavement in a cloud of dust, fallen leaves, and parched pine needles. The wheels had hardly touched down when a door opened and Nawaf Sanjore jumped out. Crouching to avoid the whirling blades, the architect hurried across the concrete to the narrow shoulder of the road.

  Shielding his face from the aircraft’s hot blast, Nawaf watched the helicopter lift off and soar away, the sound of its beating blades quickly fading. With mounting trepidation, Nawaf Sanjore scanned the empty road and the thick curtain of foliage on either side. Wind rustled the trees. A raptor cried out in the distance. Surrounded by wilderness, he felt quite vulnerable. He nearly cried out when he heard the sound of rock scraping against rock. He turned toward the sound and saw what appeared to be a section of ground opening up. Revealed in the gap was a narrow set of concrete stairs leading underground.

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  Nawaf heard footsteps. A bearded man in the black robes of an imam climbed the stairs to greet him.

  “Please follow me.”

  Inside the tunnel, the air was cool and scented. The robed man led Nawaf down the long corridor, into an underground maze of natural caves that led ultimately to a huge chamber deep inside the mountain. The hollow in the center of the earth had been transformed into a kind of paradise. Recessed electric lighting illuminated the breezy chamber with the colors of a fairyland. Hidden speakers filled the space with the gentle sound of wind chimes. Nawaf Sanjore estimated the cave’s ceiling was seventy or eighty feet above his head. It dripped with delicate icicles of stone—stalactites bathed in a rainbow of shifting lights.

  On one end of the massive cave, a tumble of chilled mountain water plunged over a rocky ledge, into a rippling pool with underwater lights that glowed phosphorescent blue. On the other side of the cave, perhaps three hundred yards away, a three-tiered glass and stone structure had been constructed against the cave wall. Lights gleamed behind glass walls, where Nawaf Sanjore saw luxurious rooms filled with modern furnishings. The uneven stone floor under his feet glistened with bits of quartz, sparkling granite, crystals shards embedded in the stone.

  At each turn, a different aroma touched his senses—jasmine, rose, honeysuckle. The placid calm of the mystical location was broken only by the rustle of the imam’s robes as they passed through a stone garden of tall, serrated stalagmites sprouting out of the cave’s floor like bizarre cacti. Crossing a crystal bridge over a small stream, they entered a pathway to the house fashioned from inlaid black quartz illuminated from behind by buried lights.

  The otherworldly beauty and aesthetic perfection of the underground lair awed the architect. As they approached the entrance to the structure, the doors opened with a whispered hiss.

  The robed man halted. “Please go inside. Servants will minister to your needs. Hasan has not yet arrived, but he is expected shortly.”

  5:30:02 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

  Thirty minutes before the curtain rose for the Annual Silver Screen Awards, Teri could not even get to her seat. Dozens of people were bunched up in the lobby, crowding around the arched entrance to the auditorium, where a handful of ushers tried to deal with the mob.

  Teri was about to snake her way to the front of the line when she heard a familiar voice. “Tereeee! Teri Bauer!”

  “Nancy!”

  The women embraced. “You look fantastic! What a great look for you,” Teri cried.

  Nancy Colburn wore a bright red flapper dress, complete with layers of fringe. Her black hair was pressed, pre-Depression era style, and she wore a tiny hat. She’d gained a few pounds, but was happier than Teri had ever seen her.

  “And aren’t you elegant,” cooed Nancy. “Is that Versace?”

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  Terri nodded. “Where is everyone? Why won’t they let us in?”

  A male voice spoke up. “The Vice President’s wife and the First Lady of Russia’s coming through here, ma’am. She’s due any minute.”

  Teri faced the police officer, a handsome, tanned Hispanic man with broad shoulders. She read the name under the badge. “Thanks for the heads up, Officer Besario.”

  He smiled. “My pleasure, miss.”

  “Over here, Teri. Come on!” Nancy called. She was standing with Chandra and Carla.

  “Hey!” Teri cried.

  She hugged her old colleagues. When they’d first worked together, Chandra was barely out of her teens, a gawky African-American garage animator who lived in oversized shirts and clunky glasses. Now she was a confident and successful filmmaker. The glasses were gone and the garage look was replaced with a svelte figure wrapped in blue-violet silk. But it was Carla who turned out to be the biggest surprise.

  “Dennis tells me you’re engaged,” said Teri.

  “And you can see why,” Carla said, rubbing her protruding belly. “Eight months and counting. Here’s the joke. Gary asked me to marry him three hours before the strip turned pink! Dennis said that means it’s true love.”

  Teri laughed.

  “Honestly,” said Carla. “I’m due to have this little bundle in seven days. I wouldn’t even be here except Gary insisted I come. Told me I’d worked on the movie, and I’d only have myself to blame if Dennis won a Silver Screen Award and I wasn’t here to share in the glory.”

  “Speak of the devil. Where is the elusive Dennis Winthrop?” Teri asked, trying to hide her eagerness.

  “He’s a producer. He gets to walk the red carpet,” said Nancy.

  “You’re kidding?” Carla laughed. “I hope he’s wearing something besides those sweat pants of
his. Otherwise Joan Rivers is going to tear him a new one.”

  “Here come the VIPs,” said Chandra.

  The woman watched as the First Lady of Russia and the Vice President’s wife entered the auditorium. Flanked by grave-faced men wearing dark suits and headsets, the ladies swept through the crowd, which parted like a body of water in a Cecil B. DeMille biblical epic.

  Teri noted how much older the Vice President’s wife looked in person, and how tall Russia’s First Lady was—the tallest woman ever accepted to the Bolshoi, she had read somewhere. The dazzling women and their entourage were whisked through the archway and gone in a flash.

  A moment later, a brace of uniformed ushers appeared in the doorway and began escorting singles and groups to their assigned seats inside the auditorium.

  “God,” groaned Carla. “I hope they seat me near a bathroom. This close to the big day, I have to go all the time.”

  “You know award shows,” said Nancy. “If this thing goes into double overtime, you might just have your baby right here.”

  5:46:58 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Alerted to their arrival, Ryan Chappelle intercepted Milo Pressman at the security desk. Flanked by four

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  CTU agents who’d met them at the airport, the fugitives were hustled into a waiting area. On the way, a gurney rolled by carrying the shrouded figure of Fay Hubley to CTU’s morgue.

  “Where’s Tony?” Chappelle demanded.

  Milo cleared his throat. “He’s still down in Tijuana, following up some leads on Hasan.”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Tony’s down there playing John Wayne.” Ryan eyed the gurney rumbling down the corridor. “What he’s doing is fine with me, as long as I don’t have to read about it in the morning papers—or get a call from the State Department.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be discreet,” said Milo.

  Ryan’s gaze shifted to the newcomers. “Introduce me to your friends.”

  “This is Richard Lesser—”

  “You’re Chappelle, right? Milo’s told me all about you.” Lesser offered his hand. Ryan ignored it.

  “This is Cole Keegan, Lesser’s bodyguard. And this young woman is Brandy—”

  The woman stepped forward, offered Ryan her hand. “Pleased to meet you Regional Director Chappelle. My name is Special Agent Renata Hernandez, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I was on an undercover mission in cooperation with the Mexican government, investigating a string of kidnappings of young girls in Texas and California, when I met up with your agents.”

  Milo blinked in shock. Cole Keegan’s jaw went slack. Even Richard Lesser’s typically confident demeanor appeared stunned by the revelation.

  “I told my contact down in Mexico that I’d be crossing the border this afternoon. I’ll like to contact my superiors in the San Diego office,” the woman continued.

  “Of course,” said Chappelle, examining her identification.

  “My compliments on the quality of your personnel,” Agent Hernandez continued. “Though obviously not a field agent, Mr. Pressman did what he had to do to rescue his colleague. I could not have acted alone and I frankly didn’t trust Cole Keegan here to get the job done.”

  “Hey! That’s cold,” Cole whined.

  “Thank you, Special Agent Hernandez. You can contact the FBI from my office.” Ryan faced the guards. “Take Mr. Keegan to the interrogation room for debriefing. He’s to remain here incognito until further notice.”

  “Damn! That just ain’t right!” cried Cole.

  “No, Mr. Keegan, but that’s how it is.” Ryan faced Milo next. “A Threat Clock is already running. I want you to take Mr. Lesser down to Jamey Farrell’s work station. She and Doris Soo Min are eager to ask this man some questions about his Trojan horse.”

  Lesser smirked. “Government workers?” he muttered with disdain. “I’m not surprised they’re baffled.”

  “We’re also eager to get a first-hand look at the second virus in your possession. We would appreciate it if you would help us find a cure for it before it is launched.”

  Lesser nodded, smirk still in place. “Consider it done...as part of my immunity agreement, of course.”

  Ryan matched Richard Lesser’s wry expression with one of his own. “We’ll talk terms later, Mr. Lesser ...Or, if you prefer, I can turn you over to the CTU Behavioral Unit for extensive interrogation. You’ll find their methods are quite effective—for ‘government workers.’ ”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  6:01:01 P.M. PDT Avenue de Dante Tijuana, Mexico

  The Chechens finally arrived. Three big men in a black Ford Explorer. They swung into the driveway, but not the garage. Dobyns, dozing in his lounge chair near the pool, heard them coming. He got up and disappeared from view, presumably to go through the house to let them in the front door.

  From his vantage point in the van, Tony could see Dobyns in the back yard, the Chechens in front. Watching the men through microbinoculars, he wondered which one of them molested Fay Hubley, who cut her throat. Fair skin, blond or brown hair, blue or green eyes, the men were interchangeable as they laughed, traded jibes in their native tongue. Two of them carried cases of beer. A third clutched an open bottle in his fist, drank deep—Miller time.

  Tony’s eyes narrowed when he saw a gun tucked into one man’s belt. It was the Glock he’d given to Fay for protection. Tony watched the man until the front door opened and they went inside. They entered without bothering to check their surroundings. If they had, they might have spotted the CTU van. The Chechens were already sloppy, but Tony decided to give them a few more minutes of hard drinking before he started the party—it would make things go down that much easier.

  While he waited, the heat seemed to abate a little as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Shadows stretched across the lawns, lights went on and curtains closed in the tidy houses up the block. Appetizing smells, familiar to Tony from his youth, saturated the air from the neighborhood kitchens.

  After twenty minutes, Tony slipped the duster over his shoulders, the shotgun under his coat. With the Glock tucked in his belt, a universal key tucked between the fingers of his right hand, Tony climbed out of the van and crossed the empty street. As he approached the house, he heard slurred voices, peals of laughter, some kind of sports programming playing on a television. He walked up to the door and slipped the serrated metal prod into the lock, quietly jiggled it a few times, heard the tumblers click.

  Tony left the key in the door, turned the knob and stepped inside. The foyer had desert-pink walls, a large bullfighting poster. A flight of polished hardwood stairs led to the second level, the arched doorway to his right opened into the living room. It was

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  there the Chechens laughed and talked, oblivious to the arrival of their uninvited guest.

  Tony felt no fear, only cold, calculating calm. Cautiously he approached the doorway, saw the men sitting in a circle around a large-screen television, watching a European soccer match. Dobyns was not in sight, but Tony knew he was the least dangerous of the bunch.

  Tony quietly slipped the shotgun out from under his arm and gripped it in his right hand. With his left he pulled the Glock out of his belt. Then he stepped into the room.

  The men looked up at once, but only one of them moved. The man’s fingers actually closed on the handle of Fay’s Glock before the shotgun blast did a Kurt Cobain to his head. The nice thing about a shotgun at close range, thought Tony, no second shot needed.

  Gore spattered the other men, rattling them. With his left hand Tony aimed the Glock and fired six times—methodically assassinating the drunken men where they sat with a shot to the heart, two to the head.

  The near-silence that followed was eerie because Tony knew it wasn’t real. The soundlessness was an illusion induced by temporary deafness from the noise of the
shots. In reality, there were always sounds in the aftermath of violence. Cries of shock or surprise, moans of pain, blood splattering on the floor.

  Tony dropped the shotgun, empty now, and shifted the half-empty Glock to his right hand. It was time to find Ray Dobyns. A quick check of the rest of the floor turned up nothing. The kitchen was empty save for beers in the refrigerator, the garage was full of stolen goods—mostly electronics, factory sealed, with some luxury items like furs and leather coats hanging on a rack in the corner.

  Tony found Dobyns on the second floor. The man was cowering in the upper portion of the split-level ranch, which had been transformed into one large room filled with computers. There was so much equipment, the place resembled a miniature version of CTU’s command center. Dobyns had tried to dial someone on his cell, but his hands were shaking too hard to manage it. Now the phone slipped from his grasp, bounced off the carpeted floor.

  “They don’t have 911 down here,” Tony calmly informed him.

  “Don’t kill me, Navarro! Please, please don’t,” Dobyns whined. His fat pink knees were shaking.

  “What is all this?” Tony asked, waving his free hand at the network of computers.

  “I don’t know,” Dobyns sobbed. “Your friend Lesser set it up for Hasan. Me and the Chechens were supposed to guard it. In a couple of hours some technicians are gonna take over. Honest. I don’t know what they’re up to!”

  Tony waved the Glock. “Speaking of set ups, why did you sell me out to the Chechens?”

  “I...I knew that story about Lesser you told was a lie,” said Dobyns. “I knew you were some kind of Federal agent, too. Within days of your last disappearance, the cops swooped down on everyone who ever worked with you. I just put two and two together—”

  “You know Richard Lesser’s flipped. He wants immunity.”

  Dobyns shook his head. “It’s an act. He’s still working for Hasan.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Nobody crosses Hasan and lives. There’s no ‘protection’ from him. If Hasan wanted Lesser dead, he’d be dead. You couldn’t do anything about it, and Lesser knows it.”