Rangers in the Angeles National Forest reported strange lights at night.
Unauthorized helicopter takeoffs and landings were reported to the FAA. A near miss between a light plane and an unauthorized aircraft was reported over that same area six months ago.
A 1977 article from the National Spelunking Institute—now posted on its website—featured an unconfirmed report of a large network of caverns discovered in the San Gabriels. Subsequent expeditions failed to locate the caves. The last one mounted just eighteen months ago ended tragically. The team’s vehicle was found at the bottom of a ravine, everyone dead inside. The incident was judged an accident, at the time.
Jamey Farrell kept narrowing the search until, at precisely 3:33 a.m., the program spit out a longitude and latitude in the San Gabriel Mountains, a threesquare-mile area just four miles from where Ibn al Farad was caught searching for his master.
Fay Hubley’s program had nailed the Old Man on the Mountain.
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3:46:17 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Abigail Heyer was seated in an aluminum interrogation chair. Both hands were strapped to the armrest, the woman’s broken right wrist, swollen and purple, had been treated with no more care than her left. The woman had been strip searched, had endured a thorough cavity check, and all of her clothes, jewelry and personal items had been taken from her. She would not get the opportunity to swallow poison, like Katya or Richard Lesser.
The international star wore an orange prison jumpsuit and nothing else. She stared straight ahead, unblinking, but Jack believed she knew he was right there, on the other side of the one-way mirror.
“Break her, Jack. Get her to confess.” Tony Almeida still wore his undercover clothing—black jeans, sweatshirt stained with blood, steel-tipped cowboy boots. His unshaven face was ravaged by fatigue, his eyes haunted. Jack knew Tony blamed himself for Fay Hubley’s death. Jack knew because he’d been in Tony’s situation himself, more than once.
Nina, still wearing the spangled dress, gazed impassively at the woman in the chair. It was Nina who’d brought Ms. Heyer back to CTU for interrogation. The woman had demanded her lawyers—plural, she had a team of them—and was denied. The actress went silent after that, not even answering Dr. Brandeis’s queries about her condition.
The doctor requested time to set her broken wrist— Jack vetoed that. Then Dr. Brandeis asked permission to administer a painkiller. Jack nixed that too. Brandeis did not ask to witness the interrogation. He already knew the answer.
Jack studied Abigail Heyer through the glass, his jaw moving. Nina touched his arm, leaned close and whispered, “The crisis has passed, Jack. Let the doctor take care of her. Hold her here until she’s willing to talk.”
Jack gently shook off Nina. “This ends now.” He swiped the keycard that dangled from a strap around his neck and entering the soundproofed interrogation chamber.
The woman refused to acknowledge his presence. Jack placed a metal chair in front of her, sat down. Still she resisted his gaze.
There were a number of ways to extract information, Jack knew—torture, drugs, sleep deprivation, the threat of death.
But such techniques wore the prisoner’s will down over time, and Jack was nearly out of it. Hasan had to be stopped. Now. They were never closer to the man than at this moment, and might never get this close again. He had to extract the confirmation he needed from his prisoner as quickly as possible.
Yet Jack knew in this case physical threats would also fail because Abigail Heyer was willing to blow herself up for Hasan, so she was not afraid of death. Which meant that he had to hit her fast and hard— with something she did fear.
“Hasan is dead,” Jack began. Despite herself, the woman winced.
“We knew about his hideaway—that place in the mountains. Five minutes ago we blew it up. Everyone inside perished. We’re assessing the damage now. I can show you the man’s corpse, when we find it.”
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“Hasan will never die,” Abigail Heyer said, a half-smile brushing her full lips.
“You may be right.” Jack nodded. Now was the time to take the chance, make the leap. “Hasan, as a symbol, an ideal, might never die. But Nikolai Manos, the man who called himself Hasan, is dead. I killed him.”
Jack studied the woman’s face. He watched her calm, controlled demeanor crack into a thousand tiny splinters. He saw a black void open up inside of her and swallow the woman whole.
Jack watched Abigail Heyer’s reaction, and he knew.
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 4 A.M. AND 5 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
4:55:01 A.M.PDT Over the Angeles National Forest
Jack had called in every resource he could find for this raid. Chet Blackburn’s overworked Tactical Unit would lead the strike, but elements of the FBI, Captain Stone’s LAPD SWAT team, the California National Guard—even State Troopers under the command of Captain Lang—had been tapped.
Now a dozen helicopters circled the mountain, while CTU specialists used deep ground imaging to locate the hidden entrances to Hasan’s no longer secret underground lair.
“We found two exits, both covered now,” Chet Blackburn told Jack, shouting to be heard over the
329
noise of the beating blades. “All the elements are in place. We’re ready to go once you give the word.”
Jack Bauer nodded, activated his headset. “Begin the assault . . .”
4:59:17 A.M.PDT Under the Angeles National Forest
Hasan’s anger was a physical force that battered everyone and everything around him.
Nawaf Sanjore followed a trail of smashed furniture and broken glass, to the deepest region of his master’s underground headquarters. He found several acolytes cowering in front of a steel door.
“Is he inside?” the architect asked.
The robed men nodded. “The master does not wish to be disturbed.”
Sanjore ignored the warning, pushed the heavy door inward. The chamber beyond was small, and crowded with computers and satellite communications equipment. Hasan sat in his command chair, his back to the door. He stared straight ahead, at a darkened monitor.
“Hasan?”
“Leave me.”
“Master. Such behavior is unseemly. This is a setback, not a defeat.”
The chair spun on its axis. Hasan faced the architect. “I have just learned that the communications center in Tijuana was destroyed hours before the virus was to be unleashed. The authorities have rescued the hostages, and CTU has captured Abigail Heyer—alive.”
“She knows nothing—”
“She knows enough. But I do not care about the
330 24 DECLASSIFIED
woman, only the movement. We have been
wounded—”
“We will survive,” Sanjore cried. “No one knows your true identity. No one could possibly know of this place. Even if that foolish actress implicates Nikolai Manos, who will believe her? The Old Man on the Mountain will endure.”
Hasan seemed mollified by Sanjore’s words, but a shadow of doubt crossed his face. “We have lost assets. Irreplaceable assets . . .”
“A mere setback. We can rebuild. The vision has not died.”
“But if I am exposed?”
“Then you shall continue your operations in secret, from this very base of operations. Do not forget that a great portion of your wealth is intact, unreachable in a Swiss account.”
“But we have lost so much.”
“But not all, never all. You are still alive, Hasan. And alive, you can still fight. The Americans, the Russians, they cannot harm you as long as you remain hidden in this impenetrable fortress. In time, from this secret place, we will again launch an attack.”
Hasan pondered the man’s words. “You restore my faith, Nawaf. Truly you are the most loyal and valuable of my followers.”
Nawaf Sanjore’s heart soared at his
master’s compliment, rarely given. He bowed deeply.
“I live to serve you—”
The architect was interrupted by explosions, screams, gunshots. Then an amplified voice boomed throughout the underground cavern.
“This is CTU. Lay down your weapons. You are surrounded and cannot escape. Surrender now or you will be shot.”
epilogue
Richard Walsh turned off the recorder, sat back in his chair. Jack Bauer stifled a yawn, fought back the throbbing pain behind his eyes. His black battle suit was scorched and he still smelled of cordite hours after the raid had been successfully concluded.
Walsh opened a file on the table in front of him. He leafed through it, shook his head. “There’s evidence that Manos had contact with Hugh Vetri, the murdered producer. They worked together on a number of charities, and last year Vetri accompanied Manos to Eastern Europe to tour some of the refurbished film studios.”
Jack nodded. “I think Manos tried to brainwash Hugh Vetri, but it didn’t take. Maybe because Vetri had a wife and a family, something to live for beyond himself. In that sense Vetri was different than Ibn al Farad, Richard Lesser, Nawaf Sanjore, Abigail Heyer, maybe more grounded in reality. I think Vetri resisted Hasan, and he was murdered.”
“The LAPD found hundreds of personal files in Vetri’s computers,” said Walsh. “At his Summit Studio offices and his home. He was big on investigating the people with whom he intended to do business. That’s most likely why he had that file on you, Jack— he was trying to find someone he could trust to tell the things he’d learned about Manos, about Hasan. Lesser somehow supplied Vetri with the data disk as a way to lure CTU into the case.”
“That makes as much sense as anything,” Jack replied.
“I’m going to debrief Tony Almeida next,” said Walsh. “Chappelle tells me I should reprimand him for disobeying a direct order, staying behind in Mexico for no other purpose than revenge.”
“Chappelle’s got it wrong,” said Jack. “Lesser was sent to us by Hasan to divert our attention away from his operation in Mexico. His plan would have worked if Tony had listened to Chappelle. The midnight virus would have been unleashed from the command center in Tijuana, and Hasan would have been able to coordinate and direct continued assaults against the country from his secret base on the Avenue de Dante.”
Walsh slipped another file from the bottom of his stack. “I have something else here you might find interesting. Washington has run an extensive background check on Nikolai Manos and came up with a dossier. Are you curious about their opinion, Jack?”
Bauer did not reply so Walsh pressed on.
“According to Langley, Nikolai Manos was born somewhere in Eastern Europe, probably Chechnya, but no one really knows. In the chaos following the first Chechen insurgency, Manos was orphaned and became a refugee. At the age of nine, he was discovered by a wealthy Greek family who adopted him. While our knowledge of his adopted family is extensive, we don’t know much about his real parents, except that they were murdered by the Soviets when he was still very
333
young. The analyst who reviewed the data believes Manos was seeking revenge against the Russian people for their crimes against the Chechens. That’s why he wanted their First Lady—to humiliate and intimidate the hated Russians. What do you think?”
“I think the analyst missed the boat.”
“Excuse me?”
“Manos ...Hasan. He’d gone beyond mere revenge. He was setting himself up as a religious leader, a living god. He found his model in the medieval Islamic leader, but he was no Muslim either. Hasan was building a brand new religion, a faith he hoped would outlive him.”
Walsh stroked his moustache. “Did he succeed?”
“Manos refused to surrender—killed himself in the bunker along with Nawaf Sanjore—so I think we stopped him in time. But maybe not. If his disciples survived ...if there is even a single follower left, then his religion lives on as well.”
Walsh shifted, uneasy with this idea. “Well, there were a lot of deaths in that auditorium but CTU saved the lives of most of the hostages, not to mention some of the country’s most beloved stars.”
“There’s only one star on my mind now,” Jack replied.
Walsh understood his meaning. On the wall in the lobby of CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia, there hung more than seventy stars—all of them anonymous—one for each of the CIA operatives who died while serving their country. Behind a glass case, the Book of Honor held some of their names. Other identities were still classified. Though Fay Hubley’s name and her service would probably not be revealed for decades, Walsh had no doubt her star would shine continually in the minds of her colleagues.
Jack yawned, massaged his forehead.
“You know, Jack. It sounds simplistic but I always felt that family was the only thing in this world that kept me grounded in reality, that kept me sane, and this operation certainly doesn’t dissuade me from that notion.”
“Sir?” asked Jack, the endless day finally catching up to him.
Walsh closed the file. “Go home, Jack. Kiss your wife and hug your daughter. Have a nice dinner with your family and play chess with Kim.”
“Thank you sir, I think I will.” Jack rose from the table.
“And Special Agent Bauer . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“Take tomorrow off.”
acknowledgments
The author sends out a hearty “w00t” of thanks to Sharon K. Wheeler, software engineer (and mainframe maven), for her helpful guidance in all things digital. If there are any errors, or if literary license was taken in the depiction of computer technology in this book, the responsibility falls entirely with the author.
Special thanks to Hope Innelli and Josh Behar of HarperCollins for their vision, guidance, and personal encouragement. Thanks also to Virginia King of 20th Century Fox for her continued support.
Without the groundbreaking, Emmy Award-winning “24” creators, Joel Surnow and Robert Cochran, and their talented writing team, this novel would not exist. Special thanks to them and also to Kiefer Sutherland for breathing life into the memorable character of Jack Bauer.
Finally, a personal thank you to my literary agent, John Talbot, for his ongoing support. And a very special thank you to my wife, Alice Alfonsi. A guy couldn’t ask for a better partner—in writing or in life.
About the Author
MARC CERASINI
MARC CERASINI’s writing credits include The Complete Idiot’s Guide to U.S. Special Ops Forces and Heroes: U.S. Marine Corps Medal of Honor Winners and several projects for Tom Clancy, including creating the bible for the Clancy Power Play series, writing the YA action/adventure thriller The Ultimate Escape for Clancy’s NetForce series, and writing a major essay on Clancy’s contribution to the technothriller genre for the national bestseller The Tom Clancy Companion. Among the movie tie-in novelizations Marc has written are Wolverine: Weapon X, based on the popular X-Men series; the USA Today bestseller AVP: Alien Vs. Predator, based on the motion picture from 20th Century Fox; as well as five original novels based on the Toho Studios classic “Godzilla,” and co-authored (with
J.D. Lees) a nonfiction look at the film series, The Official Godzilla Compendium. Marc’s other credits include the book 24: The House Special Subcommittee Investigation of CTU, which he co-authored with his wife, Alice Alfonsi.
www.fox.com/24
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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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SE. Copyright © 2006 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication Page
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse Page 27