“Jack Bauer followed up a promising lead in the Hasan investigation earlier today, a tip from a former colleague in the Los Angeles Police Department. Jack went to interrogate someone who may have had actual physical contact with the terrorist leader.”

Ryan frowned. “Why am I learning about this now, and not three hours ago?”

“Jack felt the lead was questionable, that he was on a wild goose chase. He didn’t want to bother you. Then, when things worked out, events happened too fast to keep you apprised. Jack made a major breakthrough once he contacted Omar al Farad—”

“The Saudi Deputy Minister of Finance?”

“The Deputy Minister’s son, Ibn al Farad, had met with Hasan, became a disciple, perhaps even a member of his terrorist cell. Jack hoped Ibn might be able to describe the man. Ibn al Farad did give Jack one promising lead before he was murdered—”

“Murdered. The Deputy Minister’s son was killed?”

“Along with the Deputy Minister and his sister, Nareesa al-Bustani.”

Ryan placed his hands on the table. They were shaking. “Please tell me Jack had nothing to do with these deaths. That he was somewhere else.”

“Jack was at the al-Bustani home when it was attacked by a team of professional assassins,” Nina coolly replied. “CTU’s Tactical Unit arrived too late

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to save them. The assassins were unfortunately killed in the assault, so we have no immediate knowledge of who they were, why they wanted the Saudis dead.”

“On whose authority was the Tactical Unit mobilized?”

“Jack’s,” said Nina. “He felt he would need back up in case of trouble. He was right. CTU was monitoring the woman’s home through the mansion’s own security cameras. When Chet Blackburn’s unit observed the van enter the property, detected the sound of gunfire, they moved immediately. They were inside the house within three minutes, but they were still too late to save the minister and his sister.”

Ryan closed his eyes for a moment, fighting down his anger. When calm finally returned, he shifted his attention to Jamey Farrell. “I see you called in Doris Soo Min to help. Doris still has her Level Three security clearance from the Hell Gate incident?”

Jamey flinched when he’d first addressed her. She nodded timidly and Chappelle shifted his gaze to the younger woman. “Welcome back, Doris...”

“Er...Thank you, Mr. Chappelle.”

“I hope you’ve made some progress isolating Lesser’s virus.”

Jamey and Doris exchanged nervous glances. “Well—” said Jamey.

“Actually—” said Doris.

“Just give me the facts so I can deal with them,” Ryan said, his control slipping again.

“Well, actually this Trojan horse is a tough little bug,” said Doris. “It’s nearly impossible to separate it from the program it’s embedded in—you know, the movie download. Anyway, Frankie—”

“Who’s Frankie?”

“Frankenstein. A reverse-engineering program I created,” Doris explained. “Frankie’s on the job, and he’ll sort it all out eventually, but it will take hours, maybe days—”

“We don’t have days,” Nina said. “Time is running out.”

“What now?” Ryan asked.

“Milo Pressman made contact with Richard Lesser, who told Milo that an attack on the computer infrastructure of the world will be launched at midnight. Since Jack’s not here, I’ll need your permission to activate the Threat Clock—”

“I need to hear more,” Chappelle said.

“Richard Lesser has agreed to cooperate with CTU in exchange for protection from Hasan, who is masterminding the attack. Lesser is even providing a copy of the virus that will be launched—”

“That’s the first good news I’ve heard. Where’s Lesser now?”

“Milo refused to leave Tijuana without at least trying to rescue Tony Almeida, who’s been captured by the Mexican gang Seises Seises.”

“But Milo’s not a field agent,” Chappelle cried, losing it now. “He’s not even armed!”

“Milo’s getting help from a United States citizen named Cole Keegan,” said Nina, lifting a file from the stack on the table. “I’ve run Keegan’s name through the Pentagon computers. Cole Randall Keegan was a sergeant in the Army Rangers during the First Gulf War. He hasn’t held a job, or paid taxes since he received an honorable discharge from the military in 1992. Keegan’s last known associates are the Lords of Hell motorcycle gang out of Oakland, California.”

“So Milo and some expatriate biker are going to rescue an experienced field agent from the very people

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who outsmarted and captured him?” Ryan paused. “People, I am not hopeful. Get Milo on his cell now. If he wants to play hero, he can do it on his own time. But he’s got to send Lesser and a copy of that virus back with Fay Hubley—”

Nina cleared her throat. “Milo asked for two hours and I gave him the time. Milo feels Tony’s life is in danger. You see, Fay Hubley was murdered by the same men who captured Tony. Milo verified her death.”

Fay’s murder was news to Jamey. Though she remained outwardly calm, her lip trembled, her eyes misted when she heard the news.

“Does the virus embedded in the movie download have any connection to the virus that will be launched at midnight?” asked Chappelle.

“We don’t know,” said Nina. “Either way, we’ll need Richard Lesser’s expertise to prevent the imminent attack.”

“And he’s still down in Mexico—”

“He’ll be here in two hours, Ryan. Milo swore he would pull it off and I trust him,” said Nina.

Ryan nodded. “Okay, start the Threat Clock. Zero hour, twelve a.m.” Next he focused on Doris. “What do you need to isolate that virus. To speed up the process?”

“That’s easy,” Doris replied. “A copy of the virus program independent of the download. Just the execute file. But—”

“I know,” grunted Ryan. “It’s still down in Mexico with Milo Pressman.”

2:54:34 P.M. PDT El Pequeños Pescados Tijuana, Mexico

The room was not much bigger than a walk-in closet. A bed, a nightstand, a chair and a dresser with a flyspecked mirror above. In the corner a chipped, rust stained enameled sink trickled cold running water, the faucet long broken. There was no window in the air-less space, the fan above the door only sucked hot air from the narrow hallway into the cramped room. A single lamp burned in the corner, offering a constant, dim glow day and night.

A tall, tattooed man who said he was a married truck driver from Portland sat on the edge of the bed, scribbling in a small notebook.

“I figure the CTU operatives will try to cross the border in the next two hours,” said Brandy, “just as soon as they rescue their agent.”

“You’re absolutely certain they don’t suspect you?”

Brandy nodded. “Positive. Cole Keegan bought my cover story and sold it to the others. With luck they’ll whisk me across the border, and all the way back to CTU headquarters.”

The man rose, tucked the notebook into his frayed denim jacket and sauntered to the door. “I’ll deliver your report. Take care of yourself.”

Brandy smiled. “Always.”

When the man was gone, Brandy crossed the rough wooden floor to the dresser. She popped the cork on a fifth of Soberano, poured some of the liqueur into a lipstick smeared glass, and swallowed it in a single gulp. The brandy was as warm as the day and burned her throat.

She glanced at the watch on her wrist. Almost time.

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The woman crossed the room, grabbed the bottle of warm brandy. Then she tore the sheets off the bed, piled them up on the mattress. On top of the pile she tore up a box of tissues. Then she sprinkled brandy over the whole mess. In the hot room, the fumes became overpowering—all the better to guarantee a fire.

Finally, Brandy reached under the pillow where she’d stashed her last john’s disposable plastic lighter. She grinned before she struck the lighter, realizing that the cowboy with the wedding ring he’d tried to hide and the breath that stank like too many beers was indeed her last john—forever.

She struck the lighter and put the flame against the tissue. The mass ignited immediately, the flames leaping up to the ceiling much faster than she’d anticipated. Brandy slipped into her sandals and crossed the room. When she ran into the hallway, she left the door behind her wide open. Amazingly fast, smoke was filling the second floor of the brothel. Brandy heard alarmed voices from another room. Time to start screaming. So she took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

“¡Vaya! ¡Funcione! ¡El edificio se arde!”

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 3 P.M. AND 4 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

3:01:07 P.M. PDT Ice House Tijuana, Mexico

Cole decided they would climb onto the roof of the old brick building using a vertical fire escape “hidden” in an alley off Albino Street, while Richard Lesser waited in Milo’s car a few blocks away. Initially Milo objected to the plan, distrusting Lesser to stick around long enough for them to rescue Tony. Cole eventually pulled Milo aside and smoothed things over.

“Lesser’s scared,” Keegan said while the computer genius was out of earshot. “I’ve been with him for a year and he’s never been this antsy. He needs protec

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tion from this Hasan guy and he knows I ain’t enough. As long as CTU can defend him from Seises Seises, the Chechens, Hasan, you can trust Lesser to do the right thing.”

Cole eventually convinced Milo to trust Lesser, but the plan itself was another matter. Milo looked around nervously as Cole led him into the alley. He felt curious eyes following them down the narrow byway, making Milo very uncomfortable. As it was, the gringo biker stuck out like a neon beer logo in a convent—dirty blond beard and ponytail, leather vest, tattoos, he was at least a head taller than everyone else around him. Even worse, Cole had donned a dun-colored duster to hide the sawed off shotgun strapped with duct tape across his broad back—a fairly obvious ploy to conceal a weapon, especially in near onehundred-degree weather. Trying to break into the headquarters of a Mexican gang and their Chechen cohorts in broad daylight seemed the height of insanity to Milo.

Yet brazenly, without a backward glance, Keegan walked up to the wrought iron ladder and began to climb. From Albino Street, a crowd of children on their way home from school gathered to point and watch them.

“Jeez, Cole. It’s broad daylight. Everyone can see us.”

Already four rungs up the ladder, Keegan peered over his big shoulder to reply. “I know, dumb ass. That’s why we better look like we belong here, capeesh? Now hurry up and climb.”

Milo took hold of the rusty ladder and placed his foot on the first rung. Groaning under their combined weight, the steel ladder rattled with every step they took.

“I hope this thing holds,” carped Milo.

“Don’t worry, we just have to get to the top. We ain’t coming back this way.”

Cole reached the roof, three stories above the street. He pulled himself over the low wall, turned and offered Milo a lift to the top. The dusty expanse of roof was flat and covered with black tar paper, peeling in places. There was a single chimney and Milo could see the recessed skylight Brandy told him to find. Beyond the edge of the building he spied the rickety, sloped roof of the wood-framed brothel that abutted the brick structure on Albino Street.

Near the chimney a chemical stench was overpowering—a reek like nail polish remover with an ammonia taint.

“God,” gagged Milo, covering his mouth.

“Vapors from the meth lab underneath us,” said Cole. “Somebody’s been cooking pills.”

“For what they’re doing to the environment alone, these guys should go to jail.”

“We’re on a rescue mission, not a campaign to stamp out evil.” Cole removed his duster, tore free the shotgun taped to his back. He drew a pair of Colts from his belt, handed one to Milo.

“Can you shoot?”

“I’ve had training, but I haven’t practiced in a long time.”

“This ain’t no fancy James Bond gun. It kicks like a sonovabitch,” Cole warned.

Milo hefted the steel-gray weapon, tucked it into his belt between the two bottles of water he’d brought. Milo glanced at his watch. “Let’s go.” He took a step toward the barred window; Cole dragged him back by the scruff of his neck.

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“Look where you’re walking—away from the sun. You’re casting a shadow that’s gonna fall right across that grill.”

Milo bristled. “So?”

“Ever been in a dark room when someone walked past the only source of light?”

Milo’s shoulders sagged. There was so much he didn’t know about this field agent stuff. “Okay. You do it.”

Milo waited near the ladder while Cole Keegan circled the barred window, then got down on his belly and crawled to the edge of the window to peer inside. He backed away a moment later, returned to Milo’s side. “All I see is some guy tied to a box spring and a generator. Hispanic, longish black hair, goatee—”

“It must be Tony. He grew the goatee and hair for field work—”

“He’s alive, but he isn’t in great shape and he ain’t alone down there. I heard voices.”

Milo grabbed the Cole’s arm. “Look!”

From somewhere inside the brothel, wisps of smoke began to rise. A few lazy white puffs, followed by billows of darker smoke. They heard voices—first a woman’s hysterical screams, then many excited voices calling out in anxious fear. Smoke rolled across the tarred expanse, choking Milo, burning his eyes.

Cole didn’t hesitate. He dragged Milo to the window, kicked the iron bars once, twice. The grill didn’t budge. “You gonna help?” Cole asked.

Covering his mouth, Milo stepped forward and slammed his booted foot down on the grill with all his might. To his stunned surprise, the steel grate gave way under his weight and Milo plunged helplessly through the hole, into the dark, smoky interior of the burning building.

3:07:23 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

The impromptu meeting had broken up already, but Jack Bauer found Nina Myers and Ryan Chappelle in the conference room, still debating the best course of action. The Threat Clock had already been activated, and Jamey Farrell had been ordered to reestablish contact with Milo Pressman in Mexico by Ryan himself, who had taken over the operation.

“Sorry for the delay,” said Jack. “I waited for the CTU Autopsy Team to arrive. They’re bringing the bodies here.”

“Sit down, Jack. You look like hell,” said Ryan. He keyed the intercom built into the table. “We need a doctor in the conference room.”

“I’m all right, Ryan,” Jack protested.

“You’re a mess,” Chappelle replied, “and the doctor’s going to have a look at you.”

Jack slumped into a chair and tried to compose his thoughts. He told them what transpired at Nareesa al-Bustani’s Beverly Hills home, about Major Salah’s treachery, the death of Omar al Farad, the Saudi Deputy Minister, and about the murders of producer Hugh Vetri and his family. The only thing Jack left out was the disk with his CTU personnel file burned on it, found in Hugh Vetri’s computer. Jamey was still working on analyzing that disk, and Jack didn’t want to mention the data leak until he knew where it came from.

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Dr. Darryl Brandeis arrived with a young African-American medical technician. The woman grimaced with concern when she saw Jack.

A former member of the Special Forces, Brandeis was forty-five, completely bald, and in constant need of a shave. He took one look at Jack Bauer’s condition and shook his head. Brandeis checked Jack’s pupils while the technician worked on the glass cuts on his arms.

Jack spoke to Nina. “Tell Ryan what you learned about the original Hasan.”

Nina opened the file in front of her. “Hasan bin Sabah was an eleventh-century Muslim holy man. Taking advantage of the schism in the faith at the time, Hasan created a sect called the Nizari. He soon converted the servants of a prince’s castle to his own violent form of Islam, and one morning the prince awoke to find himself dispossessed, his servants faithful to a new master. Hasan renamed the fortress the Eagle’s Nest—”

“Eagle’s Nest,” interrupted Chappelle, “as in Hitler’s mountain retreat?”

Nina nodded. “After that Hasan ruled the region like a despot. In 1075, in an effort to increase his political power, Hasan hit upon a brilliant new tactic to strike terror into his enemies. Using hashish, a form of cannabis, Hasan brainwashed disciples by convincing them they had visited Paradise.”

“And how did he do that?”

“He built a secret garden inside of his castle, stocked it with willing harem girls who fulfilled the subject’s every desire. When the drugs wore off, Hasan told these dupes that if died in his service they would return to Paradise forever.”

“That worked?”

“Quite effectively. Hasan’s suicidal assassins were the world’s first terrorists. For the next two centuries, they struck fear into the rulers of the Muslim world. No king or prince was safe because there was no protection from a killer who didn’t care if they lived or died, an assassin who was willing to trade his life for the deaths of others and a promised spot in Paradise.”

“Okay, so what happened after Hasan died? Did the terrorism end?”

“No, the violent Nizari sect continued to flourish. Its most public success was the murder of Crusader Conrad of Montferrat in 1192. Scholars believe that the sect continued to brainwash its subjects until its eventual extermination centuries later.”

Nina closed the file. Ryan crossed his arms. “So obviously you believe this new Hasan is emulating the methods and tactics of the original?”

“It fits the facts,” Jack replied, wincing as the doctor extracted a shard of glass from his forearm. He winced again when Brandeis sprayed on instant skin to stop the bleeding. “Ibn al Farad was hunting for someone he called the Old Man on the Mountain when he was captured in the Angeles National Forest. I believe the youth was brainwashed using the methamphetamine Karma, which he had in his possession when he was captured. And don’t forget. I witnessed a loyal member of the Royal Saudi Special Forces Brigade turn on his own soldiers, and then murder the minister he swore an oath to serve.”

Ryan shook his head. “But brainwashing? Mind control? It sounds impossible.”

“Not so.” It was Dr. Brandeis who spoke.

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“Enlighten us, Doctor,” said Ryan.

Brandeis continued to work on his patient as he spoke.

“While there are several ways to exercise control over another human mind, drugs can be very effective. In the 1950s a CIA black operation called MKULTEA experimented with LSD, psilocybin, scopalamine, sodium pentothal and a combination of barbituates and amphetamines, in an attempt to control the minds of test subjects.”

“How successful were they?” Nina asked.

Brandeis shrugged. “Results were mixed. Drugs alone were found to be ineffective. Control was better achieved if certain psychological techniques were also applied.”

Jack tested his wounded arm. “Such as?”

“Effective methods of mind control were outlined in the 1960s and codified in what’s called the Biderman’s chart of coercion. The methods include isolation, threats, degradation. But the chart also lists monopolization of perception, induced debility, and demonstrations of omnipotence by the master controller—”

“I don’t follow,” said Ryan.

“Well. A subject in isolation only sees one other human—the controller, the interrogator, whatever. The subject becomes dependent on that controller, longs for the contact after long stretches of isolation. A relationship is established—a first step. Threats and degradation follow. If used judiciously—and arbitrarily—the subject slowly accepts his helplessness.”

“Sounds like battered wife syndrome,” said Nina.

“An abusive spouse instinctively uses these very same methods,” Brandeis replied.

“But Hasan’s primary lure is spiritual, if Jack is correct.”

The doctor nodded. “True, Mr. Chappelle. That’s where the other methods come in. If you control a person’s perception, you can convince them of any truth—bad guys try to control the media, use propaganda to that end. But drugs can also exert a powerful control over one’s perceptions. And drugs can also be used to induce debility and exhaustion, deepen the subject’s a sense of isolation. The controller can even demonstrate his omnipotence through the manipulation of the subject’s emotions by the use of hallucinogenic drugs.”

Ryan scratched his chin. “And once the subject’s will is broken?”

“The controller rebuilds it,” said Brandeis. “In the case of religious fanaticism, a sense of exclusivity is fostered—the subject is saved, everyone else is damned, that kind of thing.”

“Ibn al Farad was searching for Paradise. He believed himself among the elect.”

Brandeis nodded. “These are all techniques outlined by Biderman.”

“Okay, let’s say that Hasan has found a way to control the minds of his subjects. How does this connect to the midnight cyber attack on the World Wide Web’s infrastructure, or Richard Lesser’s Trojan horse?”

“I didn’t say I had all the answers yet,” Jack replied. “We need to know how the Trojan horse works, what it does before we know its purpose and intended target. Anyway, I’m not convinced Hasan’s only endgame is an attack on the West’s computer infrastructure. Those kind of attacks have been defeated before.”

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Chappelle sighed. He pumped the pen in his hand, tapped it on the conference room table. “Unfortunately we seem to have hit a dead end. With Ibn al Farad murdered, Major Salah and his Chechen hit team dead, we don’t know where to turn.”

Jack nudged the medical technician aside, leaned forward in his chair. “Ibn al Farad whispered a name to me before he died. He could have been trying to reveal the true identity of Hasan, or perhaps he was naming another disciple. Either way, we have to check out this new lead right away.”

Dr. Brandeis interrupted them again. “I’m sorry, Special Agent Bauer. You’re not going anywhere without further tests.”

“I don’t have time for tests.”

Brandeis folded his arms. “You probably have a concussion, Jack. You have the symptoms.”

“I’m fine.”

“You have a constant throbbing headache, don’t you? Maybe blurry or double vision...”

“No,” Jack lied.

Nina turned to her boss. “Give me the name, Jack,” she urged, plastic wand poised over a PDA screen. “You go with the doctor down to the infirmary, I’ll run the name through the CTU database, see if we come up with a match, an address or phone number.”

Jack shook his head. “You won’t have to do that, Nina. This man will be easy to find. Architect Nawaf Sanjore is quite well known around the world. His firm has an office in Brentwood, and the man resides in a luxury high-rise he designed and built near Century City.”

3:11:57 P.M. PDT Ice House Tijuana, Mexico

Milo felt a strong grip on his arm, then a familiar voice. “Get up kid, you did good.” He opened his eyes, saw Cole Keegan standing over him. Behind the biker, the iron grill lay on top of a heavyset bald man wearing a sweat-stained leather apron and rubber gloves.

“Jesus, what about Tony!” Milo cried. He tried to stand, nearly toppled. His leg burned with agony.

“Settle down, you probably sprained something in that fall.” Cole checked his leg. “Nothing broken. Try to walk it off.”

Milo coughed, hobbled over to the man strapped to the rusty box spring. Limp, shirtless, Tony Almeida’s wrists were bound with wire, the flesh scorched around the coils. Milo saw the ancient crank generator and knew Tony’d been subjected to electric shock.

“Here.” Cole thrust a pair of wire cutters into Milo’s hand. “Hurry up. They’re putting out the fire. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Tony groaned as soon as the cold metal touched his burned flesh. His eyes fluttered, then opened wide. Milo cut the wires and gently eased Tony to the floor.

“Milo?”

“Don’t look so incredulous. You’ll hurt my feelings. Drink this.” Milo helped Tony to a sitting position and thrust a bottle of water into his numb, shaky hand. Almeida gulped it down, choking once or twice. Tony noticed the fat man crushed under the iron grate. “Did you do that?”

Milo nodded. “Pressman to the rescue.”

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“His name was Ordog,” said Tony.

“Now he’s Dead Dog.” Keegan grinned.

“He a friend of yours?” Tony asked Milo.

“Meet Cole Keegan. Richard Lesser’s bodyguard.”

“You found Lesser?” Tony asked, gingerly flexing his arms.

Milo nodded. “Lesser decided to give himself up, come back home,” said Milo. “He was looking for you when—”

“When the Chechens found me first.” As he spoke, Tony dribbled some water on the burns on his wrists. The sting jolted him. “How’s Fay?”

Milo didn’t answer. Instead, he used tatters of Tony’s shirt to wrap the burns. Cole Keegan kept an eye on the door at the opposite end of the lab. Tony watched Milo work, waited for a reply to his question. Finally Tony caught Milo’s eye.

“Milo? Fay Hubley?”

“The Chechens found her, Tony...she’s dead.”

Tony closed his eyes, grunted as if punched. He dropped the plastic bottle, stumbled to his feet with Milo’s help. “We’ve got to get out of here. Track them down.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Cole, moving to Almeida’s side. “At least that ‘let’s get out of here’ part.” He handed Tony his duster. “Put this on.”

Tony slipped the long coat over his muscled shoulders.

“Come on,” Milo told Tony. “Richard Lesser’s waiting for us in a car a couple of blocks from here, and an extraction team is meeting us across the border at Brown Field.”

“The exit’s over here,” called Cole. He clutched his shotgun, cocked and ready.

When they kicked open the door, the alley off Albino Street was deserted save for one. Brandy leaned against the wall, tapping her booted foot impatiently. She wore long black jeans, a Sunday church pink ruffled blouse, and clutched a small cherry-red suitcase in one hand.

Seeing her, Keegan froze in his tracks. “I knew this was too easy,” he muttered.

Brandy jerked her head toward the opposite end of the byway, where a crowd had gathered around the still-smoking brothel. The hoot of sirens signaled the not-exactly-timely arrival of the local fire department.

“Don’t worry,” she told them. “The gang guys went north for some kind of score, and the Chechens are holed up on the other side of town with that slob Ray Dobyns. Something big is up—”

Tony met her eyes. “Dobyns. You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Brandy replied. “I heard all about how Dobyns sold you to the Chechens from Carlos—”

“I see.” Tony’s voice was tight with barely contained rage. “Who’s Carlos?”

It was Keegan who replied. “Her pimp. The guy behind the bar.”

Brandy ignored Keegan, stepped up to Tony. “Listen, if you want Dobyns’s head I’ll tell you where the pig is, but you gotta visit him later. I want to be across that border and on my way to my sister’s house in Cleveland before Carlos figures out I’m gone. Otherwise I’m a dead ho’ walking.”

Tony nodded. “Don’t worry. I promise we’ll get you across the border. But first we have a stop to make.”

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3:16:21 P.M. PDT South San Pedro Street Little Tokyo

“Samurai? Samurai, where are you, man? This is Jake. You remember. Jake Gollob? Your boss? Pick up the phone and talk to me. Where the hell are ya? I’m here, with a tape recorder in one hand and my dick in the other. Why? Because I don’t have my photographer here, that’s why. In an hour they’re going to seal off the press area and you won’t get in. If you’re in your apartment, pick up. I’m begging you—”

The message machine cut off after thirty seconds. Lonnie went right back to work, moving the cursor and isolating another section of the photograph, enhanced it to the limit. He studied the disappointing results on his computer monitor, wondering if another photo shop program would do a better job of enhancing the image without pixelation. With the Mohave program all he got was a blurry mess—a silhouette of Abigail Heyer sitting in the back of the limousine, sure—but the details he was looking for were gone, faded into a soft blur.

Lonnie cursed and saved the image. It was just habit, the picture was useless. He moved to the next digital photograph in the sequence he’d snapped earlier that day, at Abigail Heyer’s mansion. This picture was taken just a split-second after the previous one. He expanded the picture until it filled the screen, then cropped off the driver’s shoulder and head, making the actress the central figure.

Before he tampered further, Lonnie studied the photo for a long time, absorbing every detail. He stared long enough for the phone to startle him out of his cyber trance. He ignored the call and on the third ring the machine answered.

“Nobunaga you son of a bitch! You’re fired. That’s what you are you bastard. You’re fired!”

Lon tried to ignore the stream of obscenities that followed his boss’s threat.

Sorry, Jake, thought Lon. I’ll get to the Chamberlain Auditorium tonight, but on my own time. Anyway, I might just have the celebrity photograph of the year right here, and if you want it you’re going to have to be much nicer to me in the future.

The message machine clicked off. In the silence that followed, Lon exited Mohave Photo Shop and activated a similar program from a software rival. To test the resolution, he selected an image from much later in the sequence, the best of which was a shot of Abigail Heyer crossing the stone patio to her front door, looking very pregnant under her voluminous slacks and pink cashmere maternity blouse.

A good photo, Lon decided. Crisp. Clean. Perfect composition. Jake Gollob would be proud to put it on the cover of his rag, with a banner headline announcing the pregnancy, and pondering the identity of the father. A Midnight Confession exposé. It would boost the weekly circulation by thirty percent.

But it would be a lie.

Lon went backward, through the photo sequence to the very first picture he’d snapped, a photo of the interior of the limousine taken the moment the driver opened the door. He isolated a section of that image, Abigail Heyer’s torso as she leaned forward to exit the vehicle. This time, he reversed the image before he expanded it, so the dark lines would be light, the light sections dark, like a photo negative.

The computer churned and the results appeared on

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his screen. Lon contemplated the image without

blinking.

There it is. Plain as day.

He saved the enhanced image, printed out several copies. Then he copied all of the digital photo files from the Heyer mansion shoot onto a pen drive dangling from his key chain.

Lon rose, grabbed one of the photos of Abigail Heyer that he’d just printed out and literally ran to his bedroom. He scanned the DVD collection packing his bookshelf, found his copy of Abigail’s film, Bangor, Maine, and dropped it into the player. He remembered a passage on the DVD extras. After thumbing through the interviews and deleted scenes, he finally found it in the director’s commentary.

“It was very hard to get just the right angle, especially in the long shots,” said Guy Hawkins, the film’s British director. “In several scenes, perfect shots were ruined because the pregnancy harness was clearly visible under Abigail’s clothes. Most of the time, when this happened, we used digital effects to clean things up, but this blooper got past us...”

Lon froze the image. For a long second the harness she wore was clearly visible under the flannel shirt, just as the director had said. He compared the image on the television screen with the photo in his hand.

“Abigail Heyer is no more pregnant than I am,” he murmured. “She’s wearing a goddamn pregnancy suit!”

Lon gaped at the screen, absolutely certain he’d discovered Abigail Heyer’s secret. The international star was pretending to be very pregnant. The only question was—

“Why?”

3:27:01 P.M. PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

Tony crossed the inn’s deserted lobby, cradling the blanket-wrapped corpse in his arms. He moved through La Hacienda’s tiny kitchen in the rear of the building where he found the innkeeper, his wife, and a housekeeper had been herded, and then murdered, by the Chechens.

In the narrow alley behind the inn, Milo stood waiting beside the car. Keegan, Lesser, and Brandy sat inside.

When Milo saw Tony coming, he popped the trunk. Tony placed the body inside, marveling at how light Fay felt in his arms, as if much of her substance had faded away with her life.

Milo gently closed the trunk, faced Tony. “Ready?”

“Take Lesser, Keegan, and Brandy back to the United States. Rendezvous with the extraction team. And make sure forensics gets Fay’s body—”

“What about you?”

Tony peered down the alley to the busy street beyond. The white van in which he’d driven across the border was still parked on the street where he’d left it. “I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to secure the equipment up in the room, erase all evidence of CTU involvement.”

Milo stared hard at Tony. “You’re going after this guy Dobyns, aren’t you?”

Tony nodded, short and sharp. “The Chechens might have information we need, too—”

“But Tony, you’ll be alone. Don’t you think—”

Tony’s cold, lethal gaze met Milo’s anxiety-ridden

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eyes. “I’ll make sure I ask them a few questions before I finish them off.”

Milo sighed, giving it up. “What do I tell Chappelle?”

“Tell him I’ll be right behind you. ...Tell him to send another extraction team. That’s all he needs to know until it’s finished.”

A horn blared. Milo jumped. “Damn!”

“Hurry up,” Brandy cried from the passenger seat. “We ain’t got all day.”

Milo frowned, tried one last time. “Tony. Reconsider. Come back with us. A follow up strike team can take care of this—”

“You know that won’t happen.” Tony glanced away. “Chappelle doesn’t like to make waves ...he’ll consider the international issues, probably balk. This is something I’m going to have to do myself.”

“But—”

“Go, Milo,” Tony snapped. “That’s an order.” Then his voice softened. “I’ll see you back at headquarters in a couple of hours.”

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

4:00:51 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Stripped to the waist, lying flat on his back in a hospital bed, Jack Bauer gazed at the bomb-proof concrete ceiling. The CTU’s L.A. headquarters more resembled a military bunker than a federal office, and its infirmary reflected the same utilitarian style—windowless concrete walls, exposed ducts snaking along the ceiling or between banks of medical equipment.

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 occupied 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.

On an HDTV monitor at a large workstation, Nawaf Sanjore called up the crucial schematics he’d just loaded onto a micro disk—the blueprints for the Chamberlain Auditorium. He had provided Hasan with these plans while the facility was being built. Under Hasan’s orders he’d made secret alterations to the original blueprints, adding a secret land line accessible only by the terrorists once they took control of the auditorium. Now the day had come. Three years of planning and preparation were coming to fruition, yet still Nawaf Sanjore harbored secret doubts.

Could such an audacious plan succeed?

The architect bowed his head, shamed by his lack of faith. Hasan was wiser than he, Sanjore knew, and to lose faith in the man who had brought him enlightenment was worse than a betrayal—it was madness. Before he met Hasan, Nawaf Sanjore did not believe that Paradise was real. Hasan had showed him the light

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and the way and now he was a believer. All Hasan asked in return was absolute obedience, unquestioning faith. A small price to pay for eternal bliss.

“When the hard copies and paper files are destroyed, I want you to purge the mainframe’s memory—all of it,” Nawaf commanded. “I don’t want the authorities to recover anything.”

“Yes sir—”

A chime sounded, interrupting them. The architect turned back to the monitor, switched it off. “Sanjore here...”

The voice recognition program built into the apartment’s elaborate intercom system identified the speaker’s location and piped the message through.

“This is Lobby Security, sir. Two CTU agents are here. They wish to speak with you. They say it’s an urgent matter of national security.”

A large man with a substantial black beard emerged from the living room, his expression alarmed. “What do they want?” he whispered.

Sanjore shot the man a silencing look. “I will meet with these agents,” he told the voice on the intercom. Send them up to the thirty-fifth floor, please. I’ll have someone greet them there.”

“Roger, Mr. Sanjore.”

The intercom faded. Saaid spoke. “It is madness to speak to these Americans. They must have learned something. The whole plan might be unraveling. They could be here to arrest us all—”

“Two of them? I doubt it.” Sanjore clapped his hands on the other man’s shoulders. “Have faith, Saaid! All is not lost. And if it is, then we shall meet again in Paradise.”

Nawaf’s words calmed his colleague. Still, Saaid spoke in worried tones. “They suspect something. Why else are they here?”

“It was the youth, Ibn al Farad,” said the architect. “He was weak and he was foolish. Most likely it was the Saudi who gave us away. It is good that Hasan moved the evacuation schedule forward. He must have sensed the danger.”

Saaid rubbed his hands. “The American intelligence agents are on their way up right now. What are you going to do about them?”

“I’m nearly finished here. These men”—Nawaf gestured to his assistants—“will purge the computers. Go to my room, take the suitcase and my PDA and go to the roof. Tell the pilot to start the engines. I will join you momentarily.”

“You must hurry! The Americans are coming—”

Sanjore raised a manicured hand. “Do not fear, my friend. We will leave this place together. Yasmina will deal with the Americans.”

The view through the glass elevators was spectacular, but Jack hardly noticed. He kept his eyes on the quickly ascending digital numbers above the door. The car began to slow on the thirty-first floor. On the thirty-fifth, the burnished steel doors opened.

The woman who greeted Jack and Nina was so petite Jack thought for a moment she was a child. A second glance revealed her age to be at least twenty-five. Slim, with a dark complexion and wide, black eyes, her tiny, perfectly proportioned frame was wrapped in a tight, sky-blue sari. Her small feet were encased in jeweled slippers. Her dark hair, piled high on her head and held in place with ornamental silver daggers, added inches to her height.

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Still, she barely topped four feet. Jack doubted the young woman weighed more than ninety pounds.

Graciously, she dipped her head. “Shall I announce you? My name is Yasmina.” Her smile was warm, her voice light and melodious as wind chimes.

“I’m Special Agent Jack Bauer of the Counter Terrorist Unit. This is Nina Myers, my partner.”

“Mr. Sanjore is eager to help you if he can. Please follow me.”

The woman turned and walked in short, measured steps down the carpeted corridor.

After he spoke with the helicopter pilot, Saaid realized he had not retrieved his master’s things from the master bedroom, as commanded. He hurried down the spiral staircase, terrified he’d meet armed American agents around the next corner—or Nawaf, who would realize Saaid’s mistake.

He reached his master’s bedroom, found the Louis Vuitton suitcase on the bed, the PDA on the dresser. Relieved the task was so simple, he grabbed the items and hurried out the door. In the hallway he heard voices, froze.

The Americans.

Saaid stared down the corridor. Someone approached, their shadows dancing on the walls. He had to get out of there! Heart racing, he hurried across the hall to the spiral staircase. On the way he crashed the suitcase against a stone pedestal, tumbling a pre-Columbian sculpture onto the concrete floor. The shattering sound was like an explosion.

Jack and Nina were walking down a hallway when they heard the noise. Jack turned his head toward the sound, but Nina Myers faced the woman Yasmina— and that was what saved them.

As Yasmina whirled, her dainty hand plucked the ornamental daggers out of her thick hair. She hurled one at Jack’s exposed throat.

“Jack!” Nina cried, pushing him against the wall. Her movement put Nina in the path of the dagger. The silver blade sank deep into her shoulder, and Nina cried out.

In an agile and graceful movement, Yasmina spun through the air and landed, legs braced, in front of Jack while he was still regaining his balance. A second dagger slashed his forearm. But the blade caught the bandages already under his shirt, and with a reflexive strike from Jack, the weapon flew out of the woman’s hands.

A heavyset man burst past them and down the hall, barreling like an out-of-control train toward a spiral staircase. He clutched a suitcase in one hand, what looked like a silver revolver in the other. For a split-second, Jack thought it might be Nawaf Sanjore.

Yasmina took advantage of the momentary distraction, aimed a sharp kick at Jack’s knee, slammed his jaw with the palm of her hand, then reached for another pair of daggers secreted in her clothing. She pulled both blades, poised to impale Jack, when a sliver dagger plunged into one side of her throat and ripped out the other. A fountain of blood gushed as Nina tugged the weapon free, cutting through veins, arteries and cartilage.

Yasmina lurched forward, eye glazed, red lips curled back. The daggers dropped from her hands. Then her head lolled backward and she pitched forward.

At the end of the corridor, the heavy man thundered up the spiral staircase. Jack’s head swiveled wildly. “Nina are you all right?”

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Clutching her wounded shoulder, Nina stepped over Yasmina’s corpse. “I’ll be okay, but you’ve got to stop him.”

Jack was up and running for the stairs before she’d finished her sentence. He grasped the handrail with one hand, drew the Tactical with the other. Before he reached the top he thumbed the safety off. The stairs led to a narrow catwalk and a steel door. He slammed his shoulder against it, and pushed it open. Dust and hot wind battered him as a helicopter rose from the flat roof, twisted in the air and soared away.

Jack ran across the roof, aiming his Tactical at the fleeing chopper. He almost squeezed the trigger when he saw the heavyset man. The man was poised on the edge of the roof, the Louis Vuitton suitcase sitting beside him, as he watched the helicopter fade into the bright horizon.

“Do not move!” Jack commanded. “Step away from the edge of the building and turn around.”

The man raised his hands in surrender, but he did not face Jack.

“Step back and turn around!” Jack repeated. In the large man’s hand, he saw the object that he’d thought was a silver revolver. It was actually a PDA, an item that might have belonged to Nawaf Sanjore. Jack knew he had to get it.

“Face me!” Jack commanded, moving forward.

At the sound of Jack’s approaching footsteps, the man lowered his arms, then jumped off the edge of the high-rise.

“Allah Akbar!”

The diminishing volume of the suicidal scream reached Jack’s ears as the big man disappeared from view.

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 P.M. AND 6 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

5:01:55 P.M. PDT Rossum Tower Century City

Jack returned to the corridor where the fatal confrontation had begun. He found the body of Yasmina, but Nina was gone. He dropped the Louis Vuitton suitcase he’d found on the roof, drew his weapon and held it in ready position with both hands.

“Nina! Nina, can you hear me?”

Her reply emerged through hidden speakers. “Jack! There’s a staircase at the end of the corridor. I’m two floors below you, in Sanjore’s office. I think I found something.”

Jack made his way downstairs, found Nina hunched

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over a computer keyboard. She had dressed her shoulder wound with century-old cognac, wrapped it with shreds from a white, Egyptian cotton towel. The puncture wound was deep. Already her bandage was stained with seeping blood.

“I’ve called in the forensics team,” he informed her, snapping shut his cell phone. “They’ll be here any minute. Nawaf Sanjore got away in a helicopter. CTU had the aircraft on radar, but lost it in the ground clutter over Los Angeles. He could be headed anywhere, by now. We’ve lost him.”

Jack secured his weapon. “I managed to corner one of Sanjore’s aides, but the man threw himself from the tower rather than face capture. He had a PDA in his hand, I doubt it survived the fall...”

“The computers have been wiped clean, too,” said Nina, her voice rock-steady despite the stab wound. “But look at this! I found it when I turned on the monitor.”

It was the largest screen in a room filled with them. Jack stared at the color schematic—some kind of plans for a building. But there was nothing to identify the structure.

“Someone forgot to close the program when they wiped the memory. The file is gone, but the contents of this screen can be downloaded into the printer’s memory,” said Nina. “At least I hope so.”

She tapped a few keys. A large printer in the corner fired up and spit out an oversized spread sheet of the plans. Nina and Jack both released breaths they didn’t know they were holding.

“That’s something, at least,” said Nina.

“Good work,” Jack replied. He touched her arm. “And thanks for saving my ass.”

“Jack! You’re bleeding.”

Jack raised an eyebrow as he rolled up his sleeve. “So are you.”

Nina glanced down at the blood staining the strip of towel she’d used to wrap her puncture wound. “But I dressed it already,” she told him.

She indicated the shredded towel on the desk. Jack reached for it. “Yasmina caught me where I had been cut before, at the al-Bustani mansion,” he told her, wrapping a strip of Egyptian cotton around his seeping arm. “I think the blade got tangled with the bandage. It saved me.” He smiled at his second in command. “Neat trick, Nina. Killing her with her own blade.”

Nina smirked. “Well, she stuck the damn thing in my shoulder. The least I could do was return it to her.”

Jack chuckled, but in that brief moment he saw a cruel glint in Nina’s eyes he’d never seen before. It was gone in a flash—so quickly he thought he’d imagined it.

5:07:45 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

Secret Service Agent Craig Auburn accompanied two private security consultants for a final electronic sweep of the entire auditorium. Both men were experts at special event security and brought along their own equipment. One man, about forty with peppered hair, carried a high-speed gas chromatography unit over his shoulder. A younger man, not even thirty, had a silver-gray micro-differential ion mobility spectrometer strapped to his back. The trio started in the

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wings, climbed high into the catwalks above the stage, through the entire upper stage area, then down again.

Auburn, a fifty-five-year-old veteran of a Currency Fraud Division desk job, was huffing and puffing by the time they reached the massive main stage. Briefly he wondered if he’d make retirement, or if his deteriorating heart would kill him before he ever saw his pension.

Concerned, the older rent-a-snoop powered down his unit. “Hey, buddy. You okay? Need a rest or something?”

Auburn rasped a reply. “No, no. Just jet lag.”

The men crossed the stage, which seemed shiny smooth from a distance. Close up, Auburn saw blocking marks, hatches, electric plugs covered by metal hoods dotting the empty expanse.

Dominating center stage was a huge mock up of a Silver Screen Award, modeled after an old-fashioned box camera mounted on a tripod. This stage prop was massive, soaring thirty feet into the air. The box camera itself was the size of a minibus and fabricated from sheets of metal insulated with some type of synthetic construction material. The structure was mounted on a motorized dolly wrapped with burnished aluminum to reflect the footlights. It loomed over the stage, its shadow stretching beyond the orchestra pit to the front row seats.

As the men approached the prop, the ion spectrometer chirped urgently. The operator froze in his tracks, tapped the keypad to recalibrate the detector, but the chirping just became more insistent.

“What have you got?” the older man asked.

“Traces of nitrates, tetryl.”

The older man shook his head. “I have nothing, and your ion sniffer has a lousy false reading rate.”

Auburn studied the stage decoration and realized the huge Silver Screen Award prop was the final, assembled version of the parts the union men had brought in earlier—the team led by the Middle Eastern man.

“Are you sure it’s a false reading?” Craig Auburn pressed, ready to tear the prop apart if either man gave him reason.

The older specialist touched the base of a tripod leg. His hand came up stained with paint. “They just put this stuff together. There’s wet paint, traces of acetylene, fruit in somebody’s lunchbox. Anything like that can set this equipment off.”

“These traces are pretty weak,” the younger men said in agreement.

“Sure they’re weak,” the older man said. “If there was a bomb anywhere around here, this spectrometer would be ringing its head off. My bet. The culprit is wet paint.”

The specialists wandered off to scan another part of the stage. Auburn took one last look at the prop. Something about the prop still bothered him, but he knew very well that a hunch in the face of hard forensic proof was pretty much regarded as a crock of shit by anyone who had a career or cared about keeping it.

“Whatever you say. You guys are the experts.”

5:13:45 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

“Whatever you say. You guys are the experts.”

The words of the Americans were faint. Softer still

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were the footsteps moving away. But Bastian Grost had heard enough to feel great relief. He removed the stethoscope from the wall of the container, exchanged a glance and a nod with his brothers in arms.

Hasan was right.

The part of the stage prop they occupied was airtight. Above their heads, an air scrubber silently refreshed the atmosphere inside the chamber. Hasan had provided the materials, of course. Everyone had been pleased with the look of the large sculpture on the outside, the roominess within. But there was some skepticism among his men about the lining. Lead had always been the best shield against explosive detectors. But a lead-lined stage prop, combined with the weight of the men, would have been far too heavy.

None of them knew whether the specially treated polymer lining would do the job. Clearly, it had. Seven of his men sat around him now in the large box with twenty-five guns and sixty pounds of plastique—and the stupid Americans had failed to detect a thing.

Grost was confident they would also fail to detect the additional weapons inside a much smaller version of the Silver Screen prop he and his men now occupied. That smaller prop was positioned as a decoration at the back of the auditorium. When the time was right, their accomplices would shed their disguises among the audience, grab those hidden weapons, and guard the theater’s exits.

Grost checked the illuminated dial of his watch. Everything had been planned to the smallest detail. In less than two hours it would all come together. In less than two hours, he and his men would begin their journey to Paradise.

5:16:12 P.M. PDT Avenue de Dante Tijuana, Mexico

Ray Dobyns was holed up in an unexpected place—a modest split-level brick and wood-framed house in a quiet upper-middle-class suburb. To Tony, the streets, the houses seemed no different than the sitcom neighborhoods where Beaver Cleaver or the Brady Bunch grew up. The house was nestled in a shallow dip in the landscape, isolated from the other houses on the block by an expansive yard. The building itself was surrounded by shrubbery, now thin and brown and not worth much as cover. There was a large bay window and a garage in the front of the house and plenty of lawn around it, though little grass was green due to the prolonged drought that scorched both sides of the Cal/Mex border.

Tony noticed a large satellite dish on the roof, a microwave transmitter in the back and another dish mounted in a tall tree farther from the house. With all that state-of-the-art communications technology, Tony knew that more than chocolate chip cookies were being baked inside this particular house.

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.”

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Tony contemplated Dobyns’s claims. The man was unreliable at best and likely to say just about anything to save his own life. Glancing around, Tony figured the answers to a lot of questions were probably right here in this room—including evidence of Dobyns’s veracity where Lesser was concerned.

“Please don’t kill me, Tony. I can help you. I can get you out of here, across the border. You’d be crazy to off the only guy who can help you. You know you don’t want to kill me...”

Dobyns kept talking, but Tony had stopped listening. There were a lot of reasons to shoot the man. His betrayal. Fay’s brutal murder. Turning Tony over to be tortured at the hands of the Chechens. His part in whatever scheme of terror was about to go down.

Yeah, Tony had a lot of reasons to kill Ray Dobyns. But in the end, the reason he finally pulled the trigger was to shut him the hell up.

6:29:53 P.M. PDT Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills

Rush hour traffic was heavy on Tinsel Town’s glorified strip mall for obscenely expensive shopping. If you wanted a fifteen hundred dollar pair of shoes or a ten million dollar necklace, Rodeo Drive was the street for you. It was also the address for the lead Frank Castalano had given him.

Six blocks from the Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency, Jack dialed a number. The phone was answered on the first ring.

“Hello,” said Jack. “I need to speak with Ms. Valerie Dodge. It’s a matter of some importance. My name is—”

“Ms. Dodge is unavailable. Please call during business hours.”

The line went dead. The next call Jack made was to Jamey Farrell. “I need to you to check the IRS records for a Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency, CEO Valerie Dodge.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I need to know the name of a supplier. Someone Valerie Dodge’s agency works with often. Maybe the name of a company she uses as a major deduction.”

Jamey paused. “How much time can you give me? Ryan’s on my back. We’re about to run a diagnostic on Lesser’s virus program.”

“I need the information, Jamey, and I need it now.”

“Wait!” she cried. “I can use Fay Hubley’s bloodhound program. With Lesser here, all those megabits are going to waste. Let me just change the search parameters...”

A minute later, Jamey had the files Jack needed. “This program is amazing. ...Okay, I have an A.J. Milne Fashions, on Sepulveda.”

“Can you possibly cross check that company’s records with the overnight carriers, Federal Delivery, that kind of thing?”

“With Fay’s program I can . . .” After a moment’s pause, she said, “Okay, I have a match. Federal Delivery had nine priority packages in Valerie Dodge’s name, all of them delivered today to the Chamberlain Auditorium.”

“Today?”

“Yeah, Jack.”

“That will do. I’ll get back to you.”

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Jack pulled up and parked in front of Valerie Dodge Modeling. The woman’s office occupied the first floor of a faux-adobe building. There were no windows in the front of the building and the door was locked. Jack saw the intercom and pressed the bell. He buzzed three times before a voice crackled from the speaker. Jack recognized the woman’s voice. It was the same person he’d just spoken with on the phone.

“We’re closed,” she said.

“This is Federal Delivery. A delivery to the Chamberlain Auditorium was refused. We’re returning the package to the sender.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Jack moved close to the door, drew his Tactical. A woman walking her poodle saw the gun and moved quickly from the scene. Jack heard the lock click. The knob turned and the door opened a crack. There was no chain in place and Jack kicked open the door. It crashed against a blond woman and she flew backward, striking her head against the wall. Jack moved through the doorway, weapon ready as he scanned the office for threats.

There were two people in the whole place: the blond woman he’d knocked senseless, and a female corpse that had been unceremoniously dumped in a corner. The blond woman was lying still. Jack leveled his weapon at her, kicked the gun out of her hand.

He searched the office, saw a handbag on a chair. He rifled through it, found a wallet, and ID. The picture of Valerie Dodge matched the face of the corpse.

He noticed the computer on the desk, print outs stacked up around it. On the monitor he saw a schematic similar to the one they’d printed out at architect Nawaf Sanjore’s home. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, saw the woman on the floor shifting, heard her groan.

“What are these plans on the screen?” he called to her. “What are you up to?”

The woman wiped a trickle of blood off her cheek, saw her gun was gone. She seemed to realize she was helpless, trapped.

“Why did you murder Valerie Dodge? What are these plans for?” Jack repeated.

The woman moved to sit up, adjust her clothing.

“Answer me,” barked Jack. He moved toward her, pointing the Tactical.

The woman simply smirked. “You can kill me, but you’re too late to stop us.”

Her smile turned radiant, eyes bright. Suddenly she looked away, bit down on something. Jack saw her jaw move, heard the crunch of the capsule in her mouth. With a gasp, the blond woman began jerking spastically, legs kicking wildly, foam flecking her mouth.

“No!” Jack shouted. He leaped toward her, reached into her mouth to pull out the poison. He found bits of glass on her bloody tongue. The woman’s eyes went wide and she gurgled. With a final spasm, she died. Jack checked for a pulse, found none.

He gazed at her young, lovely face, and the smile of pure ecstasy that remained after all life had fled.

Then Jack stood up, crossed the room. He slumped down in the office chair and studied the computer screen. Within a few seconds, he found the text box that identified the plans he was looking at. Heart racing, he called Ryan Chappelle.

“Ryan. Valerie Dodge is dead—murdered. Someone was in her office, using her computer. There are

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schematics on the monitor, part of the same plans Nina found—”

“We’ve already got a situation here, Jack. Can’t this wait?”

“Ryan. You have to listen to me. These plans. They’re blueprints for the Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium. Whatever is happening there is already in motion. Our time may have already run out.”

6:42:07 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Richard Lesser leaned back in an office chair. He sat at a vacant computer station, behind Jamey, Milo, and Doris Soo Min, observing their activity with detachment.

The three CTU analysts were busy isolating a computer, physically disconnecting it from the mainframe and all other networks so Lesser’s virus could not escape. Ryan Chappelle stood behind them, watching them work. When the team was sure the single server was secure, Doris plugged Lesser’s thumb drive into a USB port.

“It’s loaded,” she said after a few minutes.

The group was about to take their first look at the virus when Ryan’s cell phone chirped. The Regional Director checked the identity of the caller, then answered. He stepped away from the group to talk in private.

Doris decided not to wait for Ryan and punched up the diagnostic analysis program she’d built into Frankie.

“Looks like a pretty straightforward start and stop protocol here,” she said as data popped up on the monitor. “That kind of thing is annoying, but most servers can deal with them.”

“This virus is complex, though. A real mother,” Milo observed as more data appeared.

“Good thing we have a copy,” said Doris. “In the next five hours, I’m sure we can create some kind of firewall. That way the major ISPs will be shielded, at least...”

While the others were busy watching the screen, Lesser turned toward the computer at the vacant workstation—a computer still hooked into CTU’s mainframe. He quietly established a quick link to the CIA’s system in D.C., then smiled to himself.

The more chaos, the better.

He took one last glance around. Chappelle was still on the phone, talking intently. The others were hypnotized by the data unspooling on the monitor.

Reaching into his boot, he found the hidden pen drive. He pulled it out and plugged it into the computer’s USB port. He called up the execute file stored inside the drive and launched it.

With a satisfied grin, he unplugged the drive and tucked it back into his boot. Then Lesser faced the others again. The blind idiots hadn’t noticed a thing.

6:55:01 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

Comedian Willy Diamond finished a hilarious monologue, the highlight of the evening. Special Agent Ron

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Birchwood hadn’t laughed or even smiled. In fact, he had barely uttered ten words since the Silver Screen Awards had begun.

Sitting in the Presidential Box directly behind the Vice President’s wife, he could see she was getting along well with Marina Katerine Novartov, whose English was better in a private conversation than in a public forum. The First Lady of Russia had discussed many topics with the Second Lady of the United States during the long, boring lags in the awards show.

At Birchwood’s side sat his counterpart, Russian security chief Vladimir Borodin. Like Birchwood, he hadn’t laughed at a single joke since the awards ceremony began—and he’d uttered even fewer words. Language wasn’t the issue. Borodin spoke excellent English. Both men were absorbed in their jobs, watching the crowd, listening to the chatter in their earbuds, all channels open.

On stage, Willy Diamond bowed to thunderous applause. Then the orchestra struck up a reprise of the night’s ubiquitous Silver Screen Awards theme, and the event’s broadcast cut to a commercial.

As the audience buzzed with gossip, stagehands guided the giant camera prop to center stage on a motorized platform—the signal that another award was about to be presented after the commercial break.

Birchwood noticed a well-known movie star step out on stage for a moment to check the prompter’s position before returning to the wings. He couldn’t remember the actor’s name—Chad or Chip? That was it, he thought, Chip Manning. His preteen daughter had a poster of the handsome actor on her bedroom wall, next to a popular boy band group and a half-dozen photographs of rainbows.

She’d been so excited to hear that her dad would be at the famous awards show, taking care of security for the Vice President’s wife. He knew she was watching at home in Maryland, right now, with her mother and baby brother. He could just picture them, trying to spot him in the split-second shots of the awards show crowd. For the first time that evening, Ron Birchwood smiled.

The orchestra struck up again. As the broadcast came back from commercial, one of Birchwood’s detail, standing behind him in the Presidential Box, touched his shoulder. “Channel one, sir.”

An outside line? Birchwood thumbed the transmitter, turned up the volume in his headset.

“Special Agent Birchwood? This is Ryan Chappelle, Regional Director, Counter Terrorist Unit, Los Angeles.”

To prove his identity, Chappelle gave the Secret Service agent his authorization code, which Birchwood confirmed on his PDA.

“What can I do for you, Director?”

“We have a credible threat that an attempt is about to be made on the life of the Vice President, or on the wife of the Russian President. Probably both.”

“How credible?”

“In the last hour, a CTU agent killed a terrorist who was in possession of elaborate blueprints of the auditorium you’re in. We have reason to believe the strike is imminent.”

Birchwood turned to Vladimir Borodin. “Sir, I—”

“Yes, I heard,” the Russian said, frowning. “I suggest we move now.”

Birchwood stood up, addressed the agent behind him. Borodin did the same.

“Get the women out of here now,” Birchwood

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commanded. “Orderly evacuation. No panic. Quick as you can.”

6:57:20 P.M. PDT Avenue de Dante Tijuana, Mexico

For nearly an hour, Tony had been investigating the evidence in the room where he’d silenced Ray Dobyns.

He finally managed to crack the security protocol that guarded the system. He couldn’t go very deep into the files—too many of them had secondary security—but a few were not secured and Tony perused them.

He learned Richard Lesser had created the virus he claimed Hasan had given him. He’d done it right here at this console; the set up at the brothel had been a ruse, or a back up system. From some unsecured notebook files Tony found Lesser’s notes. Most of them made no sense, but one file’s title grabbed Tony’s attention: ACTIVE CTU.

Amazingly the file was not locked. Someone had used it recently, and burned this data onto a disk, which was missing—the system was already asking if the user wanted a second disk burned. Tony opened the file and found a comprehensive dossier on Jack Bauer, taken right out of the CIA’s database.

“Son of a bitch.”

Another file, called TROJAN HORSE PART TWO, was also unsecured. Tony scanned the file, and his blood turned to ice.

This was it, the evidence that confirmed Dobyns’s claim was true. He snatched up the cell phone Dobyns had dropped on the carpet, punched in Ryan Chappelle’s number, and got Nina Myers.

“Nina, where’s Ryan?”

“He’s with the Crisis Management Team. I was on my way there when your call was forwarded to me—”

“Richard Lesser is a traitor. I’ve got hard evidence here. He’s only pretending to flip. He’s about to take down CTU’s computers, phones, and electronic communications. Everything. You’ve got to—”

The line went dead. Tony punched redial and got a busy signal. He punched in CTU’s emergency number. It was also busy—which was never supposed to happen.

Tony cursed, realizing his warning had come too late. CTU’s computer system was down. Lesser had unleashed his virus.

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

7:03:00 P.M. PDT Television Control Booth Chamberlain Auditorium

“Cue camera three, pull back camera one. Get ready for a close up, camera five. On three, on two, one...”

From his cushioned chair, director Hal Green watched the main monitor that displayed the feed as it was going out to the network and millions of viewers. He ignored the huge picture windows a few feet in front of him, though they offered a vista of center stage and almost the entire auditorium. He wanted to see what everyone else was seeing on their TV screens.

At the moment, the camera was focused on Chip Manning as he strode into view from stage left and moved toward the main podium. Manning was a popular actor, tall and muscular with dime-a-dozen cover-boy model features capped with hair in a Caesar cut. He’d paired his exquisitely tailored Helmut Lang suit with a white shirt, open at the collar, ostrich-skin cowboy boots and a salon-trimmed five o’clock shadow. The entire look had been carefully calculated by his stylist to accent Manning’s “casually-aloof-yet-elegant tough guy” persona.

“Cue camera five. Two, one...”

The camera focused on Ava Stanton, a long-limbed beauty in a daring fuchsia gown. The eyes of every technician in the control room remained fixed on Ava’s strapless décolleté, riding low on her ample cleavage. As the glammed-up actress teetered on her high heels in a shaky journey from stage right to center stage, the crew braced for a “costume malfunction” with a combination of FCC fear and hopeful anticipation.

“Cue camera one on the podium...”

Hal Green lowered one hand and rested it on the control board. With the other he sipped coffee from a thermal cup. Under bushy gray brows, his alert hazel eyes almost never left the main screen. When they did, it was only to check the view from another camera in one of six secondary monitors.

Ben Solomon, at the next console, groaned. “It’s going to get dicey here. Ava never gets it in one. And she flubbed her lines at both rehearsals. And look who she’s paired with. Chip Manning—”

Hal smiled at the remarks of his sixty-year-old assistant director. He’d heard several like it in the past ninety minutes. But that was Ben. After hiring the

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man for this job consistently for the past nine shows, Hal knew what to expect.

“It’s a crying shame what this business has come to,” Ben muttered. “Chip Manning teaches a couple of government trainees a few karate chops at a Sunset Strip dojo and his press agent calls him ‘a career martial artist who advises members of America’s intelligence community.’ And Ava Stanton is nothing more than a glorified supermodel. She’s no Elizabeth Taylor, that’s for sure.”

“She’s no Elizabeth Berkeley,” Green replied, suppressing a laugh. “But that’s what we’ve got now, Ben. Ava Stanton wiggles her assets on a prime time soap and she’s a star.”

“Please,” Ben muttered in genuine horror. “Don’t use that term with me. I remember the real stars— Bogart, Jimmy Stewart, Bette Davis, Bergman—”

“What the hell is that?” Hal suddenly cried.

Rising to his feet, he lifted his gaze from the monitors to stare through the immense windows overlooking the auditorium. Ben tried to rise but got tangled in his headset. He heard confused cries, shouts, even nervous laughter from the audience.

Chip Manning and Ava Stanton had just launched into their scripted “off-the-cuff-sounding witty banter” when they’d been upstaged by a prop. Behind their backs, the top of the huge Silver Screen Awards sculpture had opened up and eight armed men wearing black masks had slid down short ropes to the stage.

This absurd, ridiculous, almost surreal scene had been greeted by nervous titters of laughter mingled with cries of surprise and alarm. Is this all a part of the show? the audience collectively wondered. Maybe a publicity stunt for Chip Manning’s new movie?

“Clear the stage!” Hal Green shouted into his headset. “Security, get them off, now—”

Obeying the director, several security men rushed onto the stage to intercept the masked invaders. Armed only with nightsticks and electronic stunners, they’d never had a chance. Every trained assassin had dropped to one knee, raised his weapon, and fired into the uniformed ranks.

The explosion of weapons, then the red tracers warbling across the stage to rip through flesh, muscle, and bone had ended any notion that this was some sort of prearranged stunt. People in the audience stumbled into the aisles, trampled over each other, trying to flee the auditorium, only to be turned back at the doors by the handsome ushers and seat escorts provided by the Dodge Modeling Agency. These young men, who’d already donned black headscarves and green armbands, waved submachine guns, firing into the air in an effort to throw back the panicked mob.

Meanwhile, on stage, Chip Manning and his tough-guy five o’clock shadow were giving the world a demonstration of his martial arts skills. With lightning quick evasive maneuvers, he’d managed to flee the attacking gunmen faster than his lovely co-presenter who, hobbled by her high heels, was easily brought down by the butt of an assassin’s gun.

Up in the control booth, the director heard a crash, turned to find a trio of armed men breaking in. Black headscarves covered all but their eyes, and each carried some kind of machine gun with a banana clip and a big ring under its barrel.

The single security guard inside the booth aimed his sidearm. The chatter of a machine gun stopped him,

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eliciting cries of horror from everyone in the small space.

“Put your hands up!” One of the masked men was aiming his short, stubby machine gun at the control booth crew. The invader slapped a gloved hand on Hal’s shoulder and roughly yanked him off his chair, to the floor.

“Bastard,” Ben Solomon spat. He tried to strike back, but the terrorist threw the older man off, hitting him with the butt of his gun.

“Ben!” Hal cried.

Now both men were cowed and down on the floor. The masked man herded them into a corner. The second gunmen pushed the soundman and the rest of the staff into the opposite corner.

The third masked man strode to the center of the control booth, machine gun resting on his elbow. He scanned the room, then spoke.

“This auditorium, this event is now in the control of the United Liberation Front for a Free Chechnya. Cooperate and you may live. Resist and you will most surely die.”

7:05:09 P.M. PDT Security Booth Chamberlain Auditorium

“LAPD respond! Respond!” cried the uniformed dispatcher over the radio. “This is an emergency, the Chamberlain Auditorium is under attack. There’s gunfire, officers down. Repeat. We are under assault.”

Static was the only answer.

Security Chief Tomas Morales squeezed the dispatcher’s shoulder. “The system’s down. Or the signal’s jammed. We can’t talk to the outside. I hope the cops figure out what’s going on. Until then, let’s open up the arsenal.”

Nodding, the young dispatcher stood and hurried to the next room.

“The goddamn phones are out too,” said a woman at the next desk, a bank of security monitors in front of her. Heavyset, with short red hair, Cynthia Richel slammed the receiver into hits cradle. Today was her forty-fifth birthday.

Cynthia turned to the security chief. “I could have predicted this, Tomas. In fact, I did predict this. I told them land lines. Land lines. But the architect ignored me and went wireless. He put control of everything through that goddamn computer. ‘Sanjore’s vision of the future,’ claimed the papers.” Cynthia snorted. “Well guess what? When the shit hits the fan, the future doesn’t work!”

Morales shifted his gaze to the dozens of monitors in front of Cynthia, all displaying scenes of terror and chaos, save one.

“The network has gone to commercials,” noted Morales.

“Someone’s thinking.”

The dispatcher returned, handed out weapons. Cynthia dangled the barrel of a handgun between thumb and forefinger. “What am I supposed to do with this. I’m a computer programmer.”

That wasn’t entirely true and Tomas Morales knew it. Before joining Summit Studios, of which the Chamberlain Auditorium was a part, she’d been an intelligence officer in the U.S. Air Force.

Morales checked his weapon, removed the safety. “Then tell me what’s wrong with the computers.”

Cynthia Richel set the gun onto the desk. “Five

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minutes ago some kind of overlord program took control of our security protocols—”

A succession of strange noises interrupted her. Over the sounds of shots, screams, and thundering feet, the entire auditorium shook from an eerie, rhythmic booming, like dozens of gongs sounding off one after the other.

Cynthia’s full face went pale.

“What’s wrong?” asked the dispatcher.

Morales already knew. “That was the sound of the steel doors closing all over the auditorium. Those doors are meant to be activated in case of fire—after the building has been evacuated—to isolate the damage to one section of the structure.”

“Now they’re obviously being used as jail house doors,” said Cynthia, “to trap all of us inside.”

Morales scanned Cynthia’s computer screen. “Can’t you do something?”

“Sure.” Cynthia Richel picked up the weapon again, this time by the handle. She checked the magazine like a professional, flicked off the safety. “Tell me where to aim.”

Special Agent Craig Auburn had memorized the evacuation route the old-fashioned way, by walking it ten times.