24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse (8 page)

“Hopefully from a discreet distance.”

“You know how that goes,” Alder replied.

Castalano cursed. It was his case, but he was losing control of it. Bad enough Jack Bauer convinced him to turn over the victim’s computer. Though Castalano knew he would get an analysis of the computer’s hard drive and history faster from CTU than from his own department, it was a double bind—Jack or his bosses could also withhold information from the LAPD in the name of “national security.”

“Christ, Jerry,” Castalano moaned, “with so many squad cars and guns around here, the odds for a capture instead of a kill are looking as bad as a Vegas slot machine. And the fucking air dispatcher warned me that word was getting out about the church bus full of kids the perp ran off the road.”

“That was bad,” Alder replied. “But it gets worse.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Nina Vandervorn of TV News Nine just phoned the chief,” Alder said. “The station has got footage of the police cars in front of Vetri’s house, the ambulances coming and going. Says she’s running with the footage on the noon news—”

“Shit.”

“We can’t keep this buried much longer,” Alder warned.

“Noon is a couple of hours away,” Castalano said, his mind racing. “If we can snatch up this asshole in the Jag, we might solve our case. Go ahead and get permission to schedule a news conference for eleven o’clock. We might have our man by then. Either way, we’ll control release of the information—
and
steal Ms. Vandervorn’s thunder.”

8:59:43
A
.
M
.PDT Santa Monica

Jack Bauer opened his eyes the instant Teri’s hand touched his shoulder. He didn’t need to check his watch to know he hadn’t slept long. His hair was still damp from the shower, and his head still throbbed.

Teri stood over him, the cordless phone in one hand. “Sorry to wake you, Jack. It’s Nina Myers.”

Jack sat up, took the phone. He held the receiver to his naked chest until Teri exited the bedroom. Then he put the phone to his ear.

“Nina?”

“What are you doing, Jack?” Nina cried. “Ryan Chappelle flew back from D.C. on the red-eye and hit the roof.”

“I don’t follow.” Jack rubbed his injured arm, now stiff from sleep.

“The raid at Utopia Studios. It was supposed to be a clandestine operation. Now it’s on the morning news.”

“Jesus,” Jack groaned.

“I talked to Chet Blackburn. He told me you took off with some Los Angeles detective. Something personal. Does that computer the Cyber-Unit brought in have something to do with it?”

“Yes.”

“Needless to say, I kept those facts from Ryan. He’s angry enough as it is.”

“Thanks, Nina, I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

“You’d better fly.”

Jack glanced at his watch. “Give me half an hour.”

Nina sighed. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I owe you, Nina.”

“Yes, Jack. You do.”

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 PLAC
E
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
9 A.M. AND 10 A.M.
PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

9:00:35
A
.
M
.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

When CTU’s head programmer, Jamey Farrell, ar
rived at her workstation to start the day, she was surprised to find Milo Pressman at the diagnostics platform. Milo was a network and encryption specialist and head of CTU computer security. Snapped up by CTU just out of Stanford University, he had soulful eyes, black, curly hair, and still wore the earring he’d acquired in graduate school.

Petite, wiry, and Hispanic, Jamey was only two years older than Milo, but as a divorced single mother of a toddler son, she often felt more like a decade older in maturity. Case in point: Milo
never
arrived early for work, yet here he was, downloading the memory from a Dell desktop.

“Welcome home, stranger. Back so soon?” Jamey said, dropping her purse.

Pressmen sat back in his chair. “Miss me?” he teased.

“No,” Jamey declared, popping the lid on her Star-bucks. “It was nice
not
having a man around the house. When did you get back?”

“I took the red-eye from Washington last night. Flew in with Ryan Chappelle—first class. He gave me a ride back to headquarters with him, too.”

“Ohhh, I’m impressed.” Jamey’s tone implied she wasn’t.

“Come on, Jamey. Cut the guy some slack. Chappelle’s not so bad. Looks to me like he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

Jamey waved his comment aside. “You’ve been in Washington too long. You’re talking like a bureaucrat.”

“Langley’s in Virginia.”

Jamey sipped her French Roast—cream, triple sugar—while she eyed Milo’s set up. “What’s all this?”

Milo shrugged. “Found it wrapped in plastic on the table. The directive clipped to it said Jack sent the PC over for analysis. Arrived this morning, according to the manifest.”

“You need any help with that?”

“I got it under control,” Milo replied. “Where’s Fay?”

“She’s in the field with Tony Almeida. Down in Mexico looking for some guy named Lesser.”

Milo gaped. “
Richard
Lesser.”

Jamey looked up. “How did you know?”

“Let’s say I’m not surprised. I knew ‘Little Dick’ Lesser at Stanford. He was a total asshole then. Called himself the Goddess Silica’s gift to programming.”

“The Goddess Silica?”

Milo shrugged. “Some gaming shit. Let’s backtrack a bit...Did you say Fay’s looking for Lesser in Mexico?”

“It’s all in the daily update. Red file seven.”

“Who’s got time to read the update? I just got here after two weeks at the Puzzle Palace, and another week spent almost entirely in an emissions-proof and windowless cave at Foggy Bottom. I haven’t slept for twenty hours. Anyway, I’ve—”

Suddenly Milo was on his feet. “What the hell? I just got an unknown virus warning.”

Jamey heard the warning tone a moment later, and nearly dropped her coffee. “Where did it come from?”

“I was downloading the memory from this desktop and my security protocols went crazy. How long has it been since the archives were updated?”

CTU’s computer security archives stored a copy of every worm, virus, spyware, and adware program released onto the World Wide Web as soon as it made an appearance. The ongoing collection and analysis of computer “mayhem ware” as Milo dubbed it was one of CTU’s mandates, and the Cyber-Unit’s most important tasks. Jamey was scrupulous about updating the system at least twice a day and Milo knew it.

“Listen, Milo...I updated the archives last night at nine o’clock, before I went home. You can see the update log right on the screen.”

“Calm down. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“Can you isolate it?”

“W00t!” cheered Milo “I already have.”

Milo stroked his keyboard as he quarantined the virus in a secure file, assigned the data a PIN, then dispatched it to the archives. He kept a copy isolated in his own system, too, for analysis.

While Milo was hunched over his computer, typing away, Jamey lifted Jack Bauer’s directive from the top of a ball of clear plastic wrap the Dell had been swathed in.

“The virus is in one mother of a file—a Trojan horse. It’s hidden inside a movie download,” said Milo.

“That makes sense,” said Jamey. “This computer belongs to Hugh Vetri. He’s a movie producer.”

“Cool,” said Milo. “How did you know?”

Jamey waved the directive under his nose. “Because I actually read this memo past page one.”

Milo blinked. “This download. The file’s called
Gates of Heaven
. Isn’t that the name of a new movie?”

“If it doesn’t star Brad Pitt or Vin Diesel, I don’t pay any attention,” said Jamey after a gulp of caffeine.

9:18:40
A
.
M
.PDT Route 39 Near the Morris Reservoir

Detective Castalano popped the door and leaped out of the chopper. His feet hit the rocky ground before the helicopter’s skids touched down. Crouching under the whirling rotors, he raced across the roadway toward a cluster of California State Police cars and Parks Department vehicles.

Castalano almost had his man—almost. The tricky part was yet to come. The roadway in front of him consisted of two narrow lanes, pitted and cracked, a faded yellow line down the middle. About two hundred yards before the roadblock, the road vanished around a sharp curve. The shoulder of the road was raised on both sides and topped with thick tangles of trees and brush. The State Troopers had chosen their spot well. It looked perfect.

Across the road, the helicopter lifted off again, kicking up dust and blades of sere scrub grass. Castalano ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, combing it back into place as he approached the phalanx of official vehicles. A California State Policeman stepped forward to greet him.

“Castalano? Frank Castalano? I’m Captain Lang.”

They clasped hands. The state policeman was as broad as a linebacker and at least a head taller than the LAPD detective. He had a sunburned hide, iron-gray hair, and deep lines around his eyes. His black boots shined like mirrors, and Castalano would bet the farm the man had scared the bejesus out of more than a few California motorists over the years.

“Can you give me an update, Captain?”

Lang steered Castalano toward an emerald-green Parks Department Hummer. Hanging out the door, a Park Ranger in a dun-colored uniform held a large topographical map of the area around them. Another man standing over his shoulder spoke through the vehicle’s radio.

“With the help of a helicopter pilot hovering out there somewhere, these two Rangers are tracking the Jaguar’s movements, which you can see on the chart,” Lang explained. Castalano studied the map.

“The fugitive was wandering aimlessly for a while,” the Captain continued. “Then he managed to find the old access road that connected 39 to the Angeles Crest Highway. Using this service road, he came to this stretch of Route 39. But the road’s been closed for years, and he’s got himself bottled up. He can’t turn around and go back the way he came—it’s blocked by a hundred police cars by now. And back this way”—Lang jerked a meaty thumb over his shoulder—“road’s blocked by a landslide.”

“What’s your plan, Captain?”

Lang gestured toward the point on the horizon where the deserted highway vanished around the curve.

“The fugitive can’t see the roadblock until he’s right on it. We have tire shredders spread out at the base of the curve. Another set fifty yards ahead of the first. One second after he comes around that corner he’ll be cruising on rims, I guarantee it.” Lang faced the detective. “If the plan’s okay with you, that is.”

“You’re in charge here, Captain Lang. All I ask is that your men do everything they can to take this fugitive alive.”

The Captain stared at the vanishing point. “I’m afraid that’s not really up to my men, Detective. With all those tire shredders on the road, the suspect’s overall health will depend on how fast he comes around that corner.”

“He’s a suspect in a multiple murder investigation—”

“I heard about those kids in the bus.”

“Not only them,” said Castalano. “He also killed a family in Los Angeles. And he may not be acting alone. I need to bring him back to L.A.
alive
and interrogate him.”

“Is he armed, Detective?”

“No firearms were used in the murders.” Castalano knew that wasn’t an answer. As far as anyone knew, the perp could have a fifty-caliber machine gun for a hood ornament.

The Ranger on the radio gestured for silence, listened intently. “He’s less than two miles away, coming up fast,” he said at last. “Ninety seconds, maybe less.”

Lang faced his men. “Everyone in position,” he bellowed loud enough to be heard without a bullhorn. “Get behind those vehicles. The suspect is probably not armed. Repeat, the suspect is probably
not
armed. Use Tasers to subdue him if you must, but no deadly force. I want this man taken
alive
.”

Castalano nodded his thanks to Captain Lang, studied the faces of the other men. The State Troopers were keyed up, ready to go. The Rangers looked worried as they moved behind the steel wall of vehicles.

In less than thirty seconds everyone was in position, listening. For a long moment, the only sound they heard was the winds whistling through the mountains, the rustling of trees.

Far up the road, near the curve, a State Trooper acting as an advance spotter popped out of his camouflaged position near the curve. He waved to Lang, then ducked out of sight.

The Captain touched the handle of the .357 Magnum in its holster. “He’s almost here,” Lang warned in a voice like muted thunder.

The roar of the Jaguar’s high-performance engine rapidly rose in volume and lowered in pitch, a blur of chrome and crimson raced into view. Then came the explosive blast as the two front tires blew at the same instant. Castalano winced, fearing for a moment that some trigger-happy State Trooper had opened fire. Two more sharp pops followed, and the Jag dropped to the cracked concrete. Shredded rubber rolled free, and the engine’s rumble was replaced by a terrible scraping squeal. Sparks erupted as the undercarriage hit the pavement. The Jag fishtailed, leaning so far to one side that Castalano thought the hurling steel projectile would flip over. Instead, the vehicle careened into the raised shoulder of the road, to slam to a halt in a cloud of dust and a shower of sparks and rocks.

Feet instantly pounded the ground. Castalano followed the State Troopers as they burst from cover and ran toward the car. The first helmeted trooper who reached the Jag extended his arms, aiming a Taser with both hands.

The passenger side door swung wide. A chunk of chrome clanged to the ground.

“Do
not
move!” the Trooper cried. “Keep both hands on the steering wheel and remain seated or I will shoot.”

Castalano was still fifteen feet away when he saw a figure leaping out of the shattered automobile like a wolf vaulting toward its prey. The Trooper fired the Taser. It struck the man squarely in the chest, but the momentum of the driver’s attack carried both men to the ground. That’s when Castalano saw the driver’s teeth buried in the State Trooper’s neck, blood rapidly pooling on the weathered roadway.