24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse (5 page)

Jack tamped down his revulsion enough to study the corpse without touching it. Of particular interest was the positioning of the body, the binding wounds on the arms and legs, the bright bruise on the cheek, under the right eye. Most revealing was the expression on the dead man’s face—one eye open, the other closed, mouth gaping and blood flecked, tongue black and distended. This man’s death was deliberately prolonged. He’d experienced hours of torture before being released.

Detective Castalano broke the silence. “His wife, Sarah, is in the master bedroom. Her throat was cut. Vetri’s daughter is in the bathhouse. Whoever did this found her while she was taking a midnight swim. She was the first to die, but it was mercifully quick, unlike this poor bastard.”

“Anyone else?” Jack’s voice was brittle.

“The live-in nanny and an infant son. They’re both in the nursery. Want to see those crime scenes?”

“No.”

“That’s smart. Their murders were savage enough, Christ knows. But whoever did this saved their real fury for Hugh Vetri.”

“How did the murderer get in?”

“That’s the funny part,” Castalano replied. “The alarm company says the alarm was activated at eight p.m., then turned off again around midnight. The code was used. Whoever did this may have been an insider. We’re checking out that angle now, along with some others.”

Castalano glanced at the corpse, looked away. “It’s like fucking Charles Manson all over again. I thought hippies were extinct.”

Jack began to back out of the room. Castalano caught his arm. “Sorry. There’s more you have to see, Jack.”

The detective crossed the room to the computer still sitting on the corner of the desk. The keyboard had been knocked on the floor, but the wireless mouse was lying on its pad near the dead man’s head.

“Hugh Vetri was using his computer when he was murdered,” Castalano said. “He was viewing the information from a CD-ROM.”

Using a gloved hand, Castalano reached out and touched the wireless mouse. The screensaver vanished and the computer jumped to the last file on display. Jack stifled a shocked gasp when his own face appeared.

To go with the picture there was an accurate profile of Jack, complete with the names of his family members, his home address, and all of his numbers, including his home phone, his cell, and the office telephone at CTU Headquarters. Jack leaned closer to the monitor. On second glance, it appeared this file came right out of CTU’s own database.

“Where did Hugh Vetri get this information?”

Castalano shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the experts can tell us both, once they data mine the dead man’s hard drive.”

Jack studied the monitor. “Who found the bodies?”

“We’re thinking the killer called it in,” Castalano replied. “911 received an anonymous tip five hours ago. We’ve got some leads; the call came from a pay phone and we traced it. Nothing definitive yet, though.”

There was a pause. “Jack. I have to ask you this.”

Jack nodded. “Shoot.”

“Do you know any reason why Hugh Vetri would be interested in you or any member of your immediate family?”

“Not a clue,” Jack replied.

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLAC
E
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
7 A.M. AND 8 A.M.
PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

7:05:11
A
.
M
.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

Tony dragged the remaining backpack out of the cargo bay, set it on the hot pavement. Music blared on the street. Not a traditional Mexican ballad or even brassy mariachi music—just raucous urban hip-hop chanted in Spanish. Men, old and young, headed to jobs or to look for work. Children traipsed off to school in groups, darting among the cars as they raced across the crowded streets, while stalled traffic continued to pump noxious fumes into an already smog-choked atmosphere.

The back of the van was empty now. This would be Tony’s final trip. Upstairs, Fay Hubley had already gotten the satellite interface up and running. The computer system would be next.

Before he closed the driver’s side door, Tony con
sidered pocketing one of the two Glock C18s hidden in a secret compartment in the floor—then changed his mind. Guns were trouble and the fugitive they hunted wasn’t prone to violence. Tony hoped he could get through this mission without resorting to weapons.

He was almost finished when he suddenly felt his sweat-dampened skin prickle. Someone was observing him. He could feel it. Without looking up, he reset the van’s security system and slammed the door. While adjusting the backpack on his shoulders, Tony casually glanced around. A policeman leaned against a squad car on the opposite side of the street. His gray uniform appeared crisp, despite the melting heat; his face was impassive, unreadable; his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

Tony considered the possibilities. He could be eyeing the van for towing later. Though the vehicle was legally parked, auto extortion was common enough in Tijuana, especially cars with U.S. license plates. Vehicles disappeared only to be returned after a hefty “towing fee” was paid to the
policia
.

On the other hand, the guy could be watching out of natural curiosity, the need to know what’s happening on his beat. Tony hoped it was the latter. Among other things, the CTU pre-mission briefing reminded him and Fay that criminal gangs did, on occasion, kidnap Americans and hold them for ransom. Corrupt police had been known to get a piece of that action as well.

With a final yank on the strap, Tony circled the van and walked through the doors of La Hacienda. With every step he could feel the cop’s eyes boring into his spine.

Back in room six, things seemed suddenly cluttered. Several laptop computers, interconnected with a small server to form a network, were now spread out across the small desk and one of the two beds. Lights blinked and disk drives whirred, but Fay was nowhere in sight. Tony saw the closed bathroom door and heard water running. He peeled the pack off his shoulder and set it down next to five others just like it—all empty now.

With a tired groan Tony sank into a lumpy chair and pulled off his boots. Leaning into the seat, Tony crossed his arms, propped his legs on the edge of the laptop-covered bed and closed his eyes. The persistent rattle of the air conditioner had nearly lulled him into sleep when he heard the bathroom door open. Fay bounded out in a cloud of steam, swathed in nothing more than a towel. Her hair was pinned up and she smelled of citrus. Tony shifted position to let her pass, uncomfortable with the woman’s choice of attire—or lack thereof.

“Any word on Lesser?” Tony asked.

Fay sat down on the edge of the bed, across from Tony, and crossed her long legs. “He hasn’t logged onto the Internet yet, but we’re watching for him,” she replied. “Of course, Richard Lesser may have some fake identities, servers and accounts we don’t know about, but he can’t launch any attacks without using his signature protocols, and when he does that we’ve got him.”

As she spoke Fay undid her hair. Blond locks tumbled down around her pale shoulders. Though she clutched the towel to her breasts, the terrycloth had dipped low enough for Tony to see the dragonfly tattoo on her lower back. He looked away, his gaze settling on the computers scattered all over the hotel room.

“Back at CTU, your boss Hastings said you required a half-million dollars worth of stuff to find Lesser,” said Tony. “But all I see are a few laptops, a server, a satellite hookup, and some network connections.”

Fay laughed. “Most of the expensive stuff is back at CTU,” she told him. “I’m sure Hastings was talking about the cost of allocating all of CTU’s resources for a single manhunt. This stuff here just interfaces with the systems and protocols running back at CTU’s cyber division.”

Tony leaned forward, glanced at one of the monitors. Data scrolled along the flat screen. Though he was hardly a novice, Tony could make no sense of the information being displayed.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Well,” said Fay, sliding across the bed to the largest monitor. “As you know, originally CTU used two separate computer systems to gather intelligence information. One system mined data from unclassified but secure sources—credit card companies, airline logs, banking records, state and federal bureaus, chemical supply stores, stuff like that. Since your average terrorist lives in the real world, they have to do everyday things like eat, buy things, go places, work at jobs and pay the rent. By utilizing an algorithm similar to the mathematical model employed by Able Danger—”

Tony rubbed the black stubble along his jawline, scratched his new goatee. “You’re talking about the clandestine DOD project to hunt al-Qaeda?”

“That’s the one. By using a similar system, algorithms and protocols, CTU has had some success in locating and capturing terrorists within our borders.”

“Using CTU’s random sequencer, right?”

Fay nodded. “We also have a second system which mines data, but this one collects its intelligence from closed, or even classified sources. With it CTU can access private accounts, trace secured transactions, search classified CIA and DOD files, the State Department and Commerce Department files, telephone logs, corporate computers, secure medical data—even Interpol files. In the case of Richard Lesser, we’re running protocols that will even let us know if he phones his bank for a balance. Any electronic activity at all will show up on our radar.”

“That still doesn’t tell me what you’re up to with this setup.”

Fay tossed long blond curls over her shoulder. “Using the random sequencer, I’ve managed to set up a third system. This one mines data from the World Wide Web, all of it—including a lot of stuff once considered secure.”

“What, like a super search engine?”

Fay grinned, her pride evident. “More like a super
bloodhound
. Once I know who I’m looking for, what computer, server or ISP is being used, then my program and CTU’s mainframe working in tandem with my magic fingers will hunt them down.”

Tony was skeptical. “How close can you get?”

“From this laptop I can trace a subject’s activity to a specific server, then on to a specific phone number or Wi Fi zone. If I’m on top of my game—which is, like,
always
—no matter how many times Lesser washes his system or tries to cover his tracks, he’s mine. With the warrant we have, I can legally access all kinds of data that the government was barred from collecting before.”

Tony folded his arms. “Funny how extending the RICO Act makes some people crazy. But if we can use these laws to prosecute drug dealers, why not apply the same laws to stopping terrorists, too?”

“Yeah, strange how no one complains about the IRS knowing every single financial transaction a citizen makes in a given year, but knowing what book a suspect borrows from the library is suddenly a problem.”

“It’s the theoretical versus the real world,” said Tony. “Most people aren’t lying awake at night worrying whether the Feds know what book they borrowed from the library. They’re worried red tape is going to prevent the government from failing to stop a terrorist attack like Beslan, or Bali, or London.”

Fay fumbled with one of the laptops, almost losing her towel. “Here, check this out.”

She rose, tiptoed over to Tony and set the portable PC in his lap. Fay moved behind him, leaned over his shoulder to point at the screen. He could feel her breasts pressing against his shoulder, long hair tickling his nose.

“Richard Lesser has two other identities that we know of, only he doesn’t know we know because he thinks he’s covered his tracks. Those identities are represented by these two graphs right here. Of course, he might just use his real name—he’s not a fugitive down here, so I’ve covered that with this box right here...As you can see, there’s no activity yet, from any of the three protocols CTU is running, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Time?”

“Remember what I said about living in the real world,” Fay replied. “Sooner or later, Richard Lesser is going to write a check, withdraw cash from one of over a dozen accounts, use a credit card, or turn on his computer. I’ll trace the activity back to the point of origin and we’ll know where he is—or where he was in the past thirty minutes or so, anyway.”

Tony rubbed his stiff neck. “I’m impressed.”

Fay brushed Tony’s short, newly grown ponytail aside, moved her hands over his neck and shoulders, kneading his aching muscles. He allowed the intimacy for a minute—mainly because it felt so damn good.

Finally, Tony leaned forward, out of Fay’s reach, while pretending to study the activity on the monitor. “So how do you know Lesser hasn’t launched another worm or some kind of cyber-attack, like the one against Boscom?”

Fay stepped around the chair, sat on the bed and crossed her bare legs. “The folks at Boscom Systems found Richard Lesser because he got lazy and left some errant codes buried in his invader virus. I did a little research and found out he tried a similar stunt on Microsoft when he was still at Stanford. Jamey Farrell got me a copy of Lesser’s bug from an old friend at MS security. True to form, that virus has the same code buried inside. It’s like his signature, a fingerprint.”

“So you think he’ll make the same mistake again?”

Fay nodded. “Sure. Richard Lesser is smart, maybe a genius, but he’s impatient or he wouldn’t be a criminal. He wants results
now
, which means he takes shortcuts.
And
he’s a creature of habit.”

Fay adjusted the hotel’s threadbare towel. “So what do you want to do now, Tony?...” She smiled. “I mean, we can’t go out because I have to stick around here and monitor these computers, but...”

Tony swallowed. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Fay Hubley’s feelings. For starters, hard feelings might compromise the mission. But then so would having casual sex with her in a Tijuana dive. Bottom line, for the duration of this mission, Tony was her supervisor. Any sort of intimacy would be completely inappropriate.