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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 A.M. AND 11 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

10:01:01 A.M.PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

The eight-man crew representing the Stage Carpenters and Craftsmen Union, Local 235, had gathered inside the union-mandated break area—in this case a large silver recreational vehicle parked on the street outside the mammoth Chamberlain Auditorium.

Not a hundred yards from the RV’s door, the red carpet was being rolled out for the Silver Screen Awards Ceremony. In less than eight hours, celebrities would be strutting down that carpet and into the pavilion. Fans and ranks of paparazzi were already staking claims to the choicest locations—behind well-guarded police barricades.

Inside the air-conditioned RV things were more relaxed. The workers lounged on couches and chairs and some took advantage of the microwave oven and coffee maker. Others smoked—strictly against Los Angeles County regulations—and watched television.

The men had been at it since 6 a.m., putting together the stage props for tonight’s awards show. Everything was in place now, except an elaborate replica of the award itself, and a large wooden podium to set it on. These props were to be placed at center stage, and the prefabricated structure was on its way over from a construction contractor in El Monte. This final piece of the set would arrive within the hour, with plenty of time to set it up before the curtain rose on the live broadcast.

Even if the parts had arrived, the union contract stipulated that after four hours of work, a meal break was mandatory. Of course, the team was supposed to stagger their breaks so that someone was always available for carpentry work. But Pat Morganthau—the team’s regular foreman—had not shown up for work and could not be found at any of his usual haunts. Meanwhile the instructions issued by the substitute foreman the management company had dispatched to the site— a twenty-something guy named Eddie Sabir—were being pretty much ignored by the union men.

In the middle of a cable sports report, the RV door opened.

“Heads up, the Teamsters have arrived,” yelled one of the carpenters. Boos and catcalls followed.

A Middle Eastern man stood in the doorway. He waved a greeting with one hand, the other held a bright blue plastic storage container.

A portly fellow watching ESPN from a lounge chair slapped his forehead. “Shit, Haroun, why’d you have to show up now?”

The man in the doorway offered the union men a broad smile.

“Good morning, good morning,” said Haroun. “The bad news is that the props are in the truck and the truck is here, which means we all have work to do. But the good news is that my wife has made honey cakes again.”

A burly carpenter with a long ponytail whistled. “Man, bring ’em on.”

The portly man muted the sportscast. “Come on in, Haroun, sit down. We just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

Haroun set the plastic container on the table, shook his head. “No, no, I must get the truck into the loading dock. Please be my guest. I shall return in a few minutes and join you.”

“Better hurry,” said the carpenter with the ponytail. “The last time you brought honey cakes they were gone before the foreman got any! And boy did Morganthau bitch.”

Haroun hurried out the door. Ponytail Man helped himself to one of the tiny nutty cakes dripping with sweet honey. He passed the container to the others. “Man, these hit the spot,” he gushed after a hearty first bite.

Before he took another, a groan came from the couch, out of the mouth of the youngest man in the room. He was slumped on the couch beside the portly worker. The lanky, twenty-two-year-old had shaggy blond hair and a deep surfer’s tan. He groaned again and clutched his stomach.

“What the fuck is wrong with him,” the portly man asked before sampling the sticky pastry.

“Dickhead here went to that new strip club out by the airport,” Ponytail Man replied. “He drank till three a.m., then came to work.”

“He ain’t gonna be worth shit,” opined a middle-aged, muscle-bound worker with a shaved head. He leaned back in his armchair and licked his gooey fingers.

The sick young man couldn’t take it anymore—all the eating, the smacking lips, the smells. He jumped up and raced to the john, slammed the door and locked it behind him. He hung his head over the toilet, waiting.

“Another worshipper of the porcelain god,” quipped Ponytail Man. The others laughed.

Inside the cramped head, the young man gagged a few times, but nothing came up despite his nausea, the wracking cramps. He wasn’t surprised. He’d lost the contents of his stomach a long time ago, and wondered now when the agony would subside. Vowing never to drink to excess again, he ran water, washed out his mouth, rinsed his face. After he toweled off, he felt a little better, so he took a deep breath and opened the door.

At first he thought the whole thing was a twisted joke.

Ponytail Man was slumped over the table, head lolling to one side, eyes wide and unblinking, lips blue. The portly sports fan’s eyes were wide and staring at the television broadcast, but he could no longer see. Another man was sprawled next to him on the couch, mouth gaping, tongue black and distended.

The big, bald dude lay dead on the floor, fingers curled and clutching the carpet. The youth whimpered, felt more than saw movement behind him. Then something hard and cold touched the back of his head. The young man froze, knees suddenly weak.

“You really should have eaten the cakes,” said Haroun. The sound suppressed Colt bucked in his hand. The young man’s head burst like a melon; his body jerked and tumbled limply to the floor.

Haroun grunted as blood sprayed across his face. “As Hasan commands, so it shall be,” he murmured.

The muffled sound of the shot had hardly faded before eight men in jeans and T-shirts entered the RV. Unlike Haroun, not one of these men was of Middle Eastern origin. All were Caucasians with brown or black hair, three were blond with fair skin and gray or green eyes. Their appearance easily fit the names and identities of the dead men around them.

Silently, the newcomers stripped the tool belts, ID tags, wallets, vests, clothes, keys and watches from the dead men. Meanwhile Haroun gingerly lifted the box of cakes and gathered up the fallen pastries, careful not to touch the tainted confections with his bare flesh. He dumped the poisoned food into a garbage bag, tossed the sound suppressed handgun in with it, then joined the others.

For the past two weeks, Haroun—obeying the instructions of the mysterious Hasan—had worked side-by-side, and socialized with the murdered men who lay at his feet. On three previous occasions Haroun had brought honey cakes baked, he said, by his dutiful and obedient Muslim wife. In truth Haroun had no wife, nor would he ever have one— except perhaps in Paradise where he would have many. Each time, the cakes had been delivered to him by an operative of Hasan, and Haroun was advised to share them with these men.

But not today. This time Haroun was told not to touch the pastries on pain of death. As always, he obeyed his master’s instructions to the letter.

It was the least he could do for the man who showed him the Gate of Paradise, granted him a tantalizingly brief vision of the world beyond this one.

Haroun did not know what deadly poison his master had used to kill these men. Nor did he care. All that mattered was that at last the plan had been set into motion. Nothing could stop the tide of blood to come. The dead men scattered around him were but the first of many who would fall. But unlike the quiet, anonymous deaths of these foolish pawns, the massacre to come would be seen by hundreds of millions all over the world.

10:12:41 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

The pop tune ringtone shook Fay Hubley out of her monitor trance. She saved her work, reached for the cell in her leather bag, dangling off the back of the chair

“Hello.”

“Fay? It’s Jamey. I tried to reach Tony but—”

“He turned his phone off. He hooked up with some smelly snitch down here and he’s following a lead or something.”

“He should have passed that information on to Nina.”

“Tony told me to make the call,” said Fay. “I was just about to—”

“What’s the name of this snitch?”

“The guy’s last name’s Dobyns. His first name is Ray.”

“Can you spell his last name?”

“No, but Tony said he knew the guy from before so it’s probably in one of his after-action reports.”

“And where did Tony go?” asked Jamey.

Fay exhaled with distaste. “Some ho’ house. A place called El Pequeños Pescados on Albino Street.”

Jamey noted the information in the mission log, pumped Fay for more and came up dry. She was concerned about Fay. The girl sounded distracted. “Listen, Fay, I want to give you a heads up. We found a Trojan horse. It’s an attractive download for people with the right equipment—a movie that hasn’t been released yet. Milo Pressman matched the hidden virus with the protocols you isolated and he says it has Lesser’s fingerprints all over it.”

Fay chewed her lip. “That’s bad. If Lesser’s launched something in the last five days, he did it from a server we know nothing about. That means he’s at least one step ahead of us.”

“Ryan Chappelle is sending Milo Pressman down there to back you up. He should arrive in a few hours. I’ll update you when I know more.”

“Cool,” said Fay. “That will be fun. Milo’s cute.”

“Listen up, girl. You’re not on vacation. Stay alert. Stay wary. Tony’s an ex-Marine, and he has good field experience. If he left you with instructions, follow them. This mission is heating up and a lot can go bad down there.”

Fay laughed. “Take it easy, Jamey. I’m not in Afghanistan. I’m just across the Mexican border. Really, what can happen to me in the middle of the day?”

10:18:37 A.M.PDT Albino Street Tijuana, Mexico

Ray and Tony took a cab to the choked streets of Centro, but Tony made them get out in front of Planet Hollywood.

“Why are we switching cabs?” Dobyns asked nervously. “Are we being shadowed or something?”

“We’re walking from here, that’s all,” said Tony.

It was apparent from his girth that Ray Dobyns didn’t like walking. All the way to Albino Street the man complained about his sore feet, the uneven pavement, the crowds, the heat, the exhaust fumes.

The neighborhood surrounding the tavern and brothel called El Pequeños Pescados had decayed since the last time Tony had been to Tijuana. Perhaps in its heyday Albino Street had aspired to genuine middle class status, but things had obviously gone to seed. Now there were too many bars nestled between ramshackle storefront churches, fortune tellers in street stalls, pawnshops, liquor stores and check cashing businesses. There were also unmistakable signs of criminal activity—gang graffiti, street whores, pickpockets visible to those who knew how to spot them. A battered shell of a car, windows shattered, interior looted, sat next to a crumbling curb.

Ray Dobyns described Number Five Albino Street as a warehouse, but it was obvious to Tony that the building had been an ice house in the 1940s and ’50s before it was converted to industrial use. The warehouse was a flat-roofed, windowless rectangle of dingy red brick. A three-story wooden clapboard tavern and inn had been built against the older brick structure sometime in the 1950s. Over the rough wooden porch that fronted the tavern, a faded billboard for Azteca beer and a neon Cuervo sign in the window were the only indication this place was more than another tenement. A battered Ford van was parked in front of the building, locked tight. No one was visible on the porch, or on either of the narrow wooden balconies fronting the second and third floors.

“Do we go in?” Tony asked.

Dobyns shook his head. “Listen, Navarro. I don’t want to blow this deal—I need the money bad. Let me go in first and check the place out. I’ve been here before. They know me. I’ll be back in five minutes or less. You can time me.”

Tony considered the man’s plan. While he didn’t trust Dobyns, Tony knew the con man would gain nothing by double-crossing him. Above all, Dobyns loved money, and he seemed to be in desperate need of some right now.

“Okay,” grunted Tony. “I’ll meet you right here in five minutes.”

Dobyns waddled across the street, pushed through the wooden screen door and into the seedy tavern. Tony watched for a moment, then went into a tiny store and purchased a cold bottle of Jarritos. Sipping the sugary Mexican soda, he waited, glancing at his watch from time to time.

Dobyns reappeared exactly five minutes later. But instead of crossing the street, he motioned to Tony from the porch.

Tony chugged his drink, tossed the empty bottle into a garbage can and crossed the dusty street.

“It’s Lesser, all right,” said Dobyns. “He’s upstairs on the third floor. He’s not even hiding. The bartender spilled when I slipped him an Andrew Jackson.”

“Is he alone?”

Dobyns nodded. “Come on. The faster you find him, the faster I get my money.”

Tony hesitated. As tactical situations went, this whole set up stunk. He was heading into an unknown environment armed with only the Gerber Mark II serrated combat knife in his boot. On the other hand, Lesser was small potatoes and had no clue anyone from the U.S. government was looking for him, and he was not a violent felon. He was, in fact, a computer nerd. Plus Dobyns had nothing to gain and everything to lose if the deal fell apart.

“Lead the way.”

Dobyns grinned and pushed through the screen door.

The interior was dim and nearly empty. Behind the bar, a squat bartender nodded at Dobyns, then went back to watching the jai alai match on the television above the bar. At a corner table far from the door, two middle-aged men were partying with two young prostitutes. The men were hang-dog drunk, the women clinging. Two more women sat in the corner, gossiping and polishing their nails. They looked up when the door opened, but when they saw Tony was with Dobyns, they returned to their conversation.

“The stairs are back here.”

Dobyns led Tony across the bar to a narrow hallway. Beyond the single rest room another door opened into a stairwell. A trio of leaping silver-gray fish, stuffed and lacquered, were mounted above that door, which gave the brothel its name, El Pequeños Pescados—“Little Fishes.”

Dobyns, in the lead, squeezed through the narrow doorway and slowly lumbered up the steep staircase to the second, then third floor.

Through another door, another narrow hallway flanked by peeling wallpaper, a floor of stained, avocado-green linoleum. From somewhere behind a wall, a man grunted, a woman laughed.

They went to the wooden door at the end of the hallway. Dobyns knocked twice. “Come,” a muffled voice called from within. Dobyns winked at Tony and opened the door.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn, but Tony could see two computer monitors flickering brightly, a figure seated in a chair facing them, his back turned to the door. Computers and components were scattered about on tables and chairs, even on the floor.

Dobyns opened his mouth to speak; Tony silenced him, stepped over the threshold.

“Richard Lesser? I need to speak—”

Tony never saw the truncheon that came down hard on the back of his head. Mercifully, he never felt the blow, either.

That pain, and more, would come later.

10:34:09 A.M.PDT LAPD Central Facilities, Los Angeles

Jack Bauer observed the suspect through a one-way mirror. The Middle Eastern youth was locked in an interrogation room in the LAPD’s Central Facilities. Routine prisoners were taken to one of the city’s jails and booked there. But celebrity criminals—or soon to be celebrity, as was the case with this man—were often brought here because the press had not yet tumbled upon the existence of cells and interrogation rooms in what was basically a garage and repair facility a block away from the Los Angeles bus station.

The interrogation room was dim, the man pinned in a single column of bright white light as he sat immobile on a restraining seat, staring straight ahead, arms and legs shackled. His torn, bloodstained clothing had been collected as evidence. Now the killer wore virgin white overalls, white tube socks sans shoes. He’d been scrubbed clean, too. Blood samples and bits of human flesn had been collected from his skin, from under his fingernails, from between his teeth. His raven-black long hair was still damp.

Detective Frank Castalano stood at Jack’s shoulder, his partner Jerry Alder a discreet distance away.

“I might have called you in even if this wasn’t personal, Jack,” Castalano was saying. “This man’s a Saudi national. He’s been talking jihad, praising Allah, and claiming he was doing the will of a terrorist named Hasan. When we ran his fingerprints, his education visa gave him away, and his name turned up on a Department of Homeland Security memo as a person of interest.”

Jack took the file from Castalano’s hand, flipped through it.

“His name is Ibn al Farad, twenty-two years old,” Castalano continued. “His father is Omar al Farad, a millionaire vice president of the Royal Saudi Bank of Riyadh and a Deputy Minister in the government. He sent Ibn to America to study at the University of Southern California, but the boy vanished a year ago. The Saudi Arabian Consulate is looking for this kid and they may get word of his capture at any time...”

Jack’s studied the suspect. “So now Ibn al Farad has resurfaced, this time as the suspect in a heinous multi-murder.” Bauer shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. Has he given any sort of statement?”

Castalano frowned. “He was ranting when we caught him, babbling in the helicopter, and chattering all the way down here to the interrogation room. But as soon as we started asking real questions, taping his words, the suspect stopped talking.”

“You say he spoke of a man named Hasan,” said Jack, recalling that same name had cropped up in the past twenty-four hours in connection with the fugitive Richard Lesser.

“He kept referring to this Hasan as ‘the old man on the mountain.’ Claimed that’s what he was doing driving like a madman all over the San Gabriels— trying to find the old man.”

Bauer frowned. The reference to the old man on a mountain jogged something in Jack’s brain, but he could not isolate the memory thread and gave up. “You said he was high on some drug?”

Castalano showed Jack the vial he pulled out of the wrecked Jaguar. “I thought it was methamphetamine, dyed blue for street marketing, maybe a gang marking. But it’s not meth, which might explain the color.”

Jack held the vial up to the light and his frown deepened. “This is a new drug called Karma,” he said hoarsely. “This stuff makes meth look like NoDoz.”

Jack handed the vial back to Castalano. “Did he have anything else on him? A murder weapon? A copy of the Koran?”

“He had a note. It’s in Ibn al Farad’s own handwriting—we matched it with university records. But the note doesn’t make much sense, it just seems like ravings scrawled when this guy was under the influence.”

Castalano opened another file, showed Jack the handwritten document now sealed in a Mylar evidence bag. The handwriting alternated from tiny and cramped to expansive, the language lapsed between

English and his native Arabic.

“Crazy stuff,” muttered the detective.

But from what Jack could understand from scanning the man’s writings, it was not all that crazy—not to a newly converted Muslim fanatic who claimed to have experienced a powerful vision of the afterlife, as Ibn al Farad did in this document. The man also vowed to purge the Islamic world of the satanic and pervasive influence of American culture.

Could that have been the reason why Hugh Vetri and his family were murdered? Because he made movies?

Much of the document was unreadable and Jack gave up trying. Perhaps CTU’s Language and Document Division could make more sense of it.

Bauer turned his back to the prisoner, faced Detective Castalano.

“Frank, I need to move Ibn al Farad to CTU Headquarters for a thorough interrogation. As a suspect in a homicide, there are limits to the means the L.A. police can use to break him. But as the obvious perpetrator of the brutal terrorist act, the assassin of Hugh Vetri, a prominent and influential U.S. citizen, CTU can push his interrogation to the limit using methods you don’t want to know about.”

He could see the war behind Castalano’s eyes. “Believe me, Frank,” Jack continued. “I can break this man, but not here. Police methods are inadequate in the face of this man’s fanaticism.”

Castalano’s features darkened. “A couple of years ago, the loss of basic civil liberties you’re talking about would have scared the hell out of me...But that was before I saw the horrors in Hugh Vetri’s home this morning.”

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The detective paused, thought of that van full of innocent kids, thought of his own. He swallowed hard. “If the Chief of Police signs off on the transfer, then this bastard’s yours. But I’m going with you, Jack. I’m going to sit in on this man’s interrogation and I’m going to hunt down any accomplices he names, no matter who they are.”

10:49:12 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

Fay Hubley heard a sound in the hall outside the door of her hotel room. Heavy footsteps, then whispering. She quietly saved her work, put the computer to sleep and slipped out of her chair. Silently she crept across the room. Remembering Tony’s instructions, she placed her ear against the door rather than open the peephole—a move that only served to alert anyone lurking outside that the room was occupied.

Fay held her breath, listened for a long moment. She heard nothing. Relieved, she took a step toward the bathroom. The knock exploded like thunder in the tiny room and the noise made her jump.

What do I do? What do I do?

Tony had told her that if someone knocked, she was to pretend she wasn’t there, that the room was empty. With the chain lock in place, even with a key, it would be difficult for someone to get inside without making a whole lot of noise and attracting undue attention.

Fay stifled a gasp when she noticed she’d neglected to fasten the chain lock after Tony left with Dobyns. The knock came again. Louder and more insistent this time.

Fay remembered the gun Tony had given her, telling her to have it in her hand if anyone tried to gain entry to the room. There’d been two Glocks hidden in their van outside and he’d brought one of them up, shown her how to fire it—but she had told herself the entire time she didn’t want to fire it, never intended to, wouldn’t have to. So she’d shoved it beneath a pillow on her bed.

Now she’d have to choose—run for the gun or fasten the chain.

The chain. That’ll be enough, she told herself.

Practically leaping to the door, she fumbled with the metal links, barely got it fastened into place before the door reverberated from a powerful blow that knocked her backward. The frame splintered, the lock and chain gave way, and the door flew open.

Fay opened her mouth to scream, but the first of three men was too fast. His hand closed over Fay’s mouth, even as he dragged her to the bed. Two other men followed the first one into the room, slammed the broken door behind them.

She struggled helplessly, her muffled cries reaching a frenzy when the man’s rough hands fumbled under her blouse, groped her soft flesh.

10:57:59 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Jamey Farrell had finished updating the Lesser file with information she culled from her conversation with Fay Hubley. Now she was ready to analyze the CD-ROM disk Jack had given her. But when she turned away from the monitor to retrieve it, she found Ryan Chappelle silently hovering over her shoulder.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

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“I was looking for Jack Bauer,” said Chappelle. “Have you seen him?”

“He was in his office a half an hour ago. I’ve been busy since.”

Chappelle made a sour face. “So you have an analysis of the virus for me?”

Jamey blinked. “Excuse me?”

“An analysis of Lesser’s Trojan horse. I promised the Cyber-Division Headquarters in Washington that I’d have something for them today.”

“If that’s what you wanted, you probably shouldn’t have sent Milo—our encryption expert—to Mexico on a wild goose chase.”

Ryan’s frown intensified. “So you’re saying you can’t do it?”

“I’m saying I’m the head programmer. Mayhem-ware is not my specialty.”

“Well contact Division and get someone—pronto. We need to know what systems and programs the Trojan horse targets, and what it does.”

“But—”

“Now, Jamey.”

Ryan turned and walked away. Jamey cursed under her breath. What was she supposed to do now? Pull an expert out of her butt?

Jamey was about to make what she knew to be a futile call to the Cyber-Unit in D.C. for help, when she suddenly remembered the name of someone who might be available to do the job on short notice. Jamey opened her Filofax and flipped through it. She found the name and phone number she was searching for on the first pass.

Lifting the receiver, Jamey punched up an outside line and dialed the number of Doris Soo Min.

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THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 A.M. AND 12 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

11:03:17 A.M.PDT LAPD Central Facilities, Los Angeles

Jack Bauer opened his cell phone, tapped the speed dial with his thumb. Nina Myers answered on the first tone.

“Jack? Ryan was just in my office, he’s looking—”

“Listen, Nina, I don’t have much time. I just sent you a data dump from the LAPD Central Facilities computer. Cache 32452.”

He heard Nina tapping the keyboard. “Got it,” she said.

“That file contains everything we know about a Saudi national named Ibn al Farad and the multiple murders he committed last night—”

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Nina’s breath caught, and Jack knew she’d opened the crime scene folder.

“Listen, Nina. Ibn al Farad claims to be a disciple of Hasan. He may have even had personal contact with the terrorist leader.”

“If this is true, this man is our first real lead—”

“There’s more. The suspect was under the influence of Karma when he was captured. The LAPD recovered a vial of the substance from the car he’d totaled.”

“Then the DEA was right,” said Nina. “The drug is on the street.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I think something else might be going on.” Jack stroked his temple with his thumb and index finger. His head was beginning to throb again. “I’m bringing the suspect in for interrogation. I should be there in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll get things ready on this end.”

“One more thing.” Jack paused, gulped down two Tylenol capsules. “Detective Frank Castalano told me that after Farad was captured, he used an odd phrase several times. The old man on the mountain, or maybe the old man in the mountains. Find out what that means, if anything. Check our current databanks. Check MI-5, Interpol. And search the historic databanks, too.”

“I’ll do that myself,” Nina replied. “Do you need Chet Blackburn’s tactical squad to escort you back to headquarters?”

“There’s no time,” said Jack. “The Saudi Arabian Embassy probably knows the police have Ibn al Farad. His father is a powerful and wealthy man. I want to stay one step ahead of his lawyers. We’re out of here in two minutes.”

“Understood.”

11:14:27 A.M.PDT Ice House Tijuana, Mexico

Tony tasted metal, smelled cat piss. A persistent roar battered his eardrums as air rushed over him, as if he were trapped inside a wind tunnel.

He opened his eyes and saw a dirty ceiling, faded industrial green paint peeling. The only illumination came from a shaft of sunlight pouring through a small, barred vent in the roof. He moved his head and felt a lance of pain jab the base of his neck. Tony tried to massage the area, discovered his hands were cuffed behind his back. He shifted position—a move that caused sluggish agony as blood slowly returned to his numb arms, wrists and hands. His feet, at least, were not shackled, but his boots were gone. So was his combat knife, the empty sheath still strapped to his calf.

Using his legs and shoulders, Tony sat up, a move which caused black jets of agony to explode behind his eyes. He’d been sprawled on an uneven wooden floor, now he’d propped himself up against a stack of packing crates. In the corner, an ancient box spring, stripped down its metal innards, leaned against the dirty brick wall. The rusty metal was burned black in some places, scorched white in others. Tony realized its purpose and shuddered.

He took a deep breath and found that the stench was worse sitting up. A chemical reek was carried by a blasting hot wind that rippled his long hair, now half freed of its ponytail. A sharp smell like nail polish remover burned his nostrils, mixed with an eye-stinging blast of ammonia. Tony wanted to cover his

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mouth, but it was impossible. Not only was he bound, but his fingers had swollen like sausages. When he could finally move them a few moments later, he found he’d been shackled with old-fashioned metal handcuffs that were too small, too tight. Recreational cuffs for the kinky set, most likely a prop from the brothel where he’d been snatched.

Tony heard voices speaking Spanish, lolled his head to the side. Peering between boxes, he saw three men working around a bank of identical white kitchen stoves where a dozen clear glass beakers bubbled with fluids. Vapors rose, filling translucent plastic tubes with dark brown sediment. The tubes, the beakers, were connected together with duct tape and wires.

He realized with alarm that he was inside an illegal methamphetamine lab—one of the largest he’d ever seen. Most illicit labs could fit into a large suitcase, and cost only a few hundred dollars up front to obtain the parts. But this lab was churning out the stuff like an assembly line.

Two of the three men were clad in blue plastic Tyvek suits, rubber gloves, oversized galoshes on their feet in lieu of chemical-proof environmental boots. They wore air filters around their noses and mouths, carpentry goggles over their eyes. The third man, thin to the point of emaciation, was wrapped head to toe in black plastic garbage bags, wearing what looked like a beekeeper’s hat on his head. Behind the gauze veil he wore a vintage World War II gas mask.

Industrial strength fans on tall metal stands did their best to clear the toxic miasma of cooking chemicals out of the air, but Tony knew every breath he took in this place was deadly. Methamphetamine labs were among the most toxic environments on the planet. The process of cooking pseudoephedrine pills—over-the-counter cold medicine—into a powerfully addictive drug known in the states under street names like crank, crystal, zip or hillbilly heroin produced lethal by-products. For every pound of the manufactured drug, six pounds of toxic waste was created. Tony saw drains in the floor, the concrete bleached white around them, and knew these men were simply dumping their poisonous leftovers like benzene, hydrochloric acid, and sodium cyanide into the sewer system.

Studying his surroundings, he realized he was inside the brick ice house behind the brothel. He wondered why he’d been grabbed. Had he been double-crossed by his “old pal” Ray Dobyns, or was the con man a victim, too? Was Tony just a gringo kidnapping and extortion victim of a Mexican gang? Or was his capture related to CTU’s pursuit of Richard Lesser?

Most of all, Tony wondered if Fay Hubley was safe back at the hotel.

11:32:11 A.M.PDT South Bradbury Boulevard and Clark Street Los Angeles

There had been an accident on the freeway. A jackknifed truck was now sprawled across three lanes. All traffic going the same direction as the LAPD prisoner transport vehicle and its escorts was at a standstill.

Fortunately Jack Bauer, in the lead vehicle, received a timely warning from the pilot of the police helicopter providing aerial surveillance. He steered the con

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voy off the highway at the next ramp, before they got tangled up in the bottleneck. They were only a few miles from CTU Headquarters, so rather than risk the choked main streets, Jack directed the three-vehicle caravan through a lightly traveled industrial area where the traffic consisted mostly of trucks and commercial vehicles.

The streets were congested around the freeway ramp, but as soon as the convoy reached Clark Street they made up for lost time.

Glancing at his watch, Jack cursed the delay. Back at Central Facilities, Detective Castalano insisted Jack ride in the lead vehicle along with a uniformed driver and a fully outfitted member of the LAPD Special Weapons and Tactics team. His logic made sense. Jack would have to get the parade through CTU gate security, and that would be easier if he were at the head of the convoy. But Jack felt he was losing valuable time. If he’d ridden in the same vehicle as the prisoner, he might have gotten an early start on his interrogation.

But at least the LAPD had supplied enough men to get them to CTU safely, even though resources were stretched because of the Silver Screen Awards ceremony scheduled for that evening. Beyond the armored van Jack rode in, there was a second armored vehicle containing two SWAT team members bringing up the rear—both members of the D Platoon of the Metro Division. Sandwiched between the two vans was an LAPD prisoner transport truck containing Detective Castalano, his partner Jerry Alder, two uniformed officers and the prisoner, Ibn al Farad. Above, a police chopper monitored their movement and directed them around obstacles.

But Jack was still not sufficiently satisfied with the security arrangement. Before they left the Central Facilities, he insisted on tagging the prisoner as an added precaution. While Castalano and Alder located an ankle bracelet and attached it to the young man, Jack removed one of the stems on his wristwatch. Unseen, he rested his hand on the suspect, pinning the tiny transmitter to the collar of Ibn al Farad’s white jumpsuit, effectively double-tagging him.

At the time Jack though he might be overcautious— even paranoid—when he double-tagged the Saudi national. But since the sudden traffic jam on the highway, his suspicions had returned. So far they appeared to be unfounded.

As they rolled past the intersection of South Brad-bury Boulevard and Clark Street, the convoy moved out of an area of chain link fences and truck parks, entering a two-lane canyon flanked by block-long rows of flat, two- and three-story industrial buildings. Noting their location, Jack opened his cell phone, intending to contact Nina for an update on tracking down a reference for the “old man on the mountain.” Instead Jack was thrown against his shoulder harness when the driver slammed on the brakes. A long trailer truck had backed out of a garage, directly in the path of the convoy. Tires squealed, but there was no collision.

“Stupid son of a bitch could have killed us!” cried the policeman at the wheel. While Jack retrieved his fallen cell, the driver rolled down his window to yell at the trucker.

“Once a traffic cop, always a traffic cop,” grunted the tactical officer in the backseat.

Still stooped over and fumbling for his phone, Jack heard the voice of the chopper pilot on his headset. “Code Red. Code Red, there are men on the roof. Repeat—”

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But Jack wasn’t listening. He’d spied the driver’s open window and cried out. “No! That glass is bulletproof. Don’t expose—”

Almost simultaneously Jack heard the sonic boom and the thwack of the bullet as it struck the driver in the throat. Hot blood sprayed the window, coating it. Two more shots ricocheted through the vehicle. A grunt, and the tactical officer slumped forward in his seat, left eye dripping from its socket. More bullets riddled the vehicle, chipping—but not penetrating— the bulletproof glass. Jack stayed close to the floor, realizing that reaching for his fallen cell phone was the only thing that had saved him.

“Officers down,” he shouted into his headset. “We are under fire. Officers down. Repeat, officers down.”

A voice crackled in his ear—the chopper pilot, but Jack could not make out his words. Outside, he heard the chatter of automatic weapons and guessed the helicopter was under attack.

Still on the floor of the cab, Jack reached out and closed the passenger side window. More shots bounced off the reinforced windshield. Jack pocketed the cell phone and took a deep breath. Then he leaped into the backseat. More shots struck the window, cracking the windshield down the middle.

Jack landed next to the SWAT team officer. Like the driver, the man was gone, his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun still in his hands. Jack pried the weapon loose, collected a pair of XM84 stun grenades from the dead man’s vest, looted clips of gore-soaked ammo from his belt. The voices on the police net had reached panic level, screaming into Jack’s ear. Lifting his head above the seat, he scanned the vehicles behind him.

The armored van bringing up the rear sat with its doors hanging open. Though protected in their bullet-resistant van, the tactical officers had attempted to respond to the attack. Now they both lay in the street, rivers of blood pooling around them on the hot pavement. So far, the prisoner transport vehicle did not seem to have been breached, though the driver was hunched, unmoving, over the steering wheel.

Jack flipped onto his back. Sprawled across the backseat, he scanned the rooftops. He could see armed, masked, black-clad figures on the edge of the buildings. They were on both sides of the street, four on each building, eight in all—then a ninth rose into view. The man held a dull gray tube on his shoulder, aimed the weapon at armored transport.

“Frank!” Jack screamed into his headset. “If you can hear me, get out of there now—”

Trailing fire and hot smoke, the shoulder-fired antitank missile slammed into the prisoner transport vehicle. Jack watched helplessly as the blunt tip of the shape-charged projectile punched a hole into the side of the truck, filling the vehicle with a fiery jet of molten plasma. The interior of the cab lit up like a strobe light as the windows and doors blew out. The dead driver was flipped like a rag doll over the steering wheel and into the street.

The echo of the blast had not yet faded when a half-dozen men burst out of the doors of the trailer truck that had veered into their path. Jack heard footsteps pounding as the men ran past his van, heading toward the shattered transport. Jack knew they were after the prisoner—to rescue Ibn al Farad or silence him forever. Either way, Jack had to stop them.

He set the weapon to its sustained fire setting, took

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a deep breath and toggled the door. As soon as it opened, Jack tumbled to the street, rolling under the van. He aimed the MP5 at three men clustered around the door to the transport, squeezed the trigger. The weapon would spew bullets as long as the trigger was depressed.

Two figures danced as hot steel shells ripped them apart. Jack saw their weapons clatter to the pavement—an M-16 A2 assault rifle and a Remington M870 shotgun.

Slithering across the hot, oily pavement, Jack moved to the other side of the van. He rolled out from under the vehicle, tossing a non-lethal stun grenade into a second knot of men. The explosion sent the men reeling. One figure turned, aimed a shotgun. The MP5 bucked in Jack’s hands and he stitched a bloody path up the man’s torso.

Three men emerged from the smoking interior of the shattered transport truck—two attackers dragging a stunned Ibn al Farad between them.

Jack took aim, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a steel-toed boot crashed against his head, knocking him aside. Jack bounced off the van with a hollow thud; the weapon flew from his grip.

Dazed, Jack opened his eyes to see the muzzle of a Remington shotgun just inches from his face. He stared past the gun, into the eyes of the man behind the mask, and he saw his own death.

Then Jerry Alder stumbled out of the wreckage, his service revolver blazing. The man standing over Jack jerked once, twice, then sprawled across him, the shotgun clattering on the pavement. Jack struggled under the dead man’s weight, watching helplessly as the assassins tossed Ibn al Farad into another vehicle.

More shots, and Alder was knocked backward in a fountain of blood. Engines roared, tires squealed on hot asphalt and the assassins raced away. In seconds the chaotic battlefield fell silent. Jack threw the corpse aside and stumbled to his feet. Reeling unsteadily, he lurched toward the transport.

Detective Castalano was there, beside the smoking vehicle. Blood oozed from his nose, mouth. He held his partner in his arms. Alder was alive, too, and alert. His jacket was open, white shirt ripped. A sucking chest wound bubbled black arterial blood.

“Frank! Are you okay?”

The man didn’t respond, so Jack touched his arm. Frank whirled on him, revolver aimed at his face.

“I called for backup,” Jack told him. “Help is on its way.”

Frank lowered his weapon. He shook his head. “I can’t hear you, Jack...”

Jack realized his friend had been deafened by the blast that had torn the vehicle open. Jack realized something else, too. The ankle bracelet with the tracker embedded inside was lying in the truck. It had been cut away by the men who took their prisoner.

In the distance, Jack heard sirens. He swung around. Eyes scanning, he noted the van that had brought up the rear was still in working order. The driver and passenger were dead on the pavement, but the engine was still idling. Jack grabbed Frank’s arm, squeezed it until the man looked up again.

“I’m going after them,” Jack said slowly, hoping Frank could read his lips. “I’m going to get the men who did this. Do you understand me, Frank?”

Castalano nodded. Beside him, his partner’s eyes were etched with pain, his breath came in choking coughs.

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“I’ll get them, Frank. I promise.”

Jerry Alder jerked convulsively, and Frank took his partner’s hand. “It’ll be okay, Jerry, hang on.” His partner settled back, face ghastly white.

When Castalano looked up again, Jack Bauer was gone.

11:46:32 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Nina Myers’s initial search of United States intelligence service databases yielded little of value. After several false leads and dead ends, she finally located Federal Bureau of Investigation files pertaining to a secret inquiry conducted at the behest of the Governor of New Hampshire.

The FBI was asked to determine if a nationally famous landmark called the Old Man of the Mountain—a stone formation featured on the state seal and the official New Hampshire quarter issued by the U.S. mint—had been destroyed by vandals or terrorists in 2003. The FBI, with the help of geologists, eventually concluded wind and water erosion and the winter/summer freeze and thaw cycle had been the true culprits and the case was quietly closed.

Within fifteen minutes, Nina had completed a search of all current intelligence databases and came up empty. Then she recalled that Jack had requested a search of CTU’s historical archives. It was an odd directive, considering the negligible amount of useful information a search of that particular database usually yielded. And yet, in working with Jack for the past several years, Nina had discovered that Special Agent Bauer’s instincts were often on the mark— another factor that made the man such a dangerous and unpredictable adversary.

On Jack’s cue, Nina called up the link to the historical archives and typed in the phrase “old man in/on mountain.” To her surprise she immediately received a hit. The phrase “Old Man on the Mountain” turned up in a scholarly paper published in 1998 by Dr. A. A. Dhabegeah, Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. The title of the dissertation jumped out at Nina: Hasan bin Sabah and the Rise of Modern Terror.

Hasan! A name regularly turning up in terrorist chatter over the past several months. A shadowy figure CTU had been tracking without success.

Nina called up the PDF file and paged through it. With each click of the mouse, the loose threads of the past few months slowly began to come together. Jack had been correct. Clues to their present mystery lay in the past.

Minutes later, a three-toned chirp broke Nina’s concentration. She snapped up the receiver. “Myers.”

“Nina!” The voice was breathless, excited.

“Jack, what’s the matter?”

“The convoy was ambushed, shot to pieces. The attackers grabbed Ibn al Farad.”

“Terrorists?”

“I don’t think so,” Jack replied. “They were using NATO small arms and equipment. Their tactics were straight out of the Special Forces training manual.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m driving an unmarked LAPD van, in pursuit of the suspect’s vehicle. Before we left Central Facilities, I planted a locator on Farad. I’m tracking his signal right now with the GPS device in my watch. The vehicle

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Farad’s riding in is approximately three blocks ahead of me. I’m giving his kidnappers plenty of space so they think they got away clean.”

Jack gave Nina his location, speed, and direction. “In case of trouble, I want the Tactical Unit on alert and ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

“I’m on it,” Nina replied, instantly alerting Blackburn’s unit via computer.

“Listen, Jack. I found a reference to the Old Man on the Mountain—in the historical archives, just like you said.”

Nina heard tires squeal, Jack curse. “Give me the facts in shorthand. I’ve got my hands full right now.”

“The Old Man on the Mountain was a Muslim holy man in the eleventh century. His name was Hasan bin Sabah—”

“Hasan. That can’t be a coincidence.”

“This Hasan was something of a heretic. He went to war against the whole Muslim world. But he only had a small cadre of followers, so he could never win a battle against the armies of the Persians, the Syrians, the Turks. He needed a force multiplier, so he resorted to terrorism. Hasan was, in fact, the world’s first terrorist.”

Jack grunted. “If the enemy you oppose outnumbers you, strike terror into their hearts and they will retreat.”

“I’m not up on my Sun Tzu,” said Nina. “Or is that Machiavelli?”

“Neither,” said Jack. “I was quoting a man named Victor Drazen.”

“There’s more,” Nina continued. “The historical Hasan brainwashed his followers by drugging them with hashish, then spiriting them to a garden filled with plants, perfumes, wine and beautiful women who fulfilled their every desire. After hours of bliss, they were drugged again and awoke in Hasan’s presence. He told them they had glimpsed Paradise, and if they died for his cause they would spend eternity there. Because hashish was used to brainwash them, these followers came to be known as Ashishin—assassins. Using these suicidal fanatics, Hasan bin Sabah carried out a wave of political murders from Syria to Cairo to Baghdad.”

“That explains the Karma,” said Jack. “Hasan must be using the new drug to brainwash his killers. Ibn al Farad was caught with vials of the stuff. That could mean that Hasan is somewhere in this city right now, winning new converts right under our noses.”

“It sounds . . . well it all sounds so crazy,” Nina said doubtfully.

“No,” Jack replied. “It makes perfect sense.”

11:56:43 A.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

Milo crossed the deserted lobby, tapped the bell on the green Formica countertop. He waited a moment but no one showed so he clanged the bell again. Still the inn was quiet, the only sound the constant swish of the ceiling fan.

“Guess everyone’s out to lunch or having a siesta,” muttered Milo. He decided booking a room could wait. Better if he hooked up with Tony Almeida and Fay Hubley right away.

Milo headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He fully expected to be stopped by the manager at any moment, but Milo reached the second floor

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without seeing another human. Room six was at the end of the shabby hallway. He knocked once, and the door swung open.

Though it was almost noon on the sun-washed streets outside, the room was dark, the curtains drawn. Milo slowly peeked his head into the darkness. “Hello...Tony? Fay? Is anyone here?”

He stepped over the threshold, fumbling for the light switch. He found it, switched it on and off but nothing happened. He cautiously took another step, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the dark. Glass crunched under his shoe, and Milo realized he’d stepped on pieces of a smashed light bulb.

“Hello?”

Milo saw the window and yanked the curtains open. A wall a few feet outside the door blocked most of the sunlight, but enough streamed in for Milo to see Fay’s computer network had been set up and was still running, though the monitor had been placed in hibernation mode.

Finally, Milo noticed light streaming from around the door to the bathroom. Over the constant hum of the feeble air conditioner, he listened for running water. He walked up to the door, placed his ear against it. “Tony? Fay?” he called.

Milo touched the brass doorknob, turned it. The bathroom door swung open. There was no window in the bathroom, but the tiny space was lit by fluorescent lights on either side of the cracked mirror. There was no bathtub, but the shower curtains were drawn.

He was about to leave the bathroom when Milo noticed brown spots on the white tiled floor...Lots of them. The big splotches weren’t brown, really. More like a dark red. The trail led to the shower. With trepidation, Milo slowly drew the plastic curtains aside.

Fay Hubley lay in the corner of the shower. Milo knew she was dead. There was no way she could be alive. Not after what had been done to her.

Gagging, Milo whirled, stumbled out of the bathroom and into the powerful grip of a brawny giant in a T-shirt and black leather vest. The man had long sandy-blond hair in a ponytail, a raggedy beard and shoulders as wide as a sports utility vehicle. Milo struggled and the man tightened his grip. Then Milo cursed—only to be silenced when the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun was shoved against the side of his head. When the intruder spoke, his breath stank of stale beer.

“Don’t make a sound, kid, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

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 12 P.M. AND 1 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

12:00:01 P.M.PDT Abigail Heyer’s estate Beverly Hills

The famously wealthy enclave of Beverly Hills was bounded by Robertson Boulevard on the east, Olympic Boulevard to the south, and the communities of Westwood and Century City on the west. Palm-lined streets and palatial mansions dominated the landscape, but all was not glitz and glamour inside this exclusive neighborhood.

An army of housekeepers and service personnel were also a part of this community—albeit a practically invisible part who cooked, made beds, washed clothes, cleaned pools, drove limousines, cut lawns, and nursed the children of the pampered show business elite.

At the moment, Lon Nobunaga was grateful for the service industry’s relative obscurity in this realm of the high and mighty. That, and a lack of vigilance by a member of Abigail Heyer’s security personnel, had allowed the tabloid photographer to climb a power pole that overlooked the front yard and driveway of the actress’s sprawling, Moorish-style mansion. Abandoning his car several blocks away, Lon, clad in his fake Pacific Power and Light overalls and ID tag, lugged a metal case containing his photographic gear to the front gate of Ms. Heyer’s estate.

“I’m here to check the power grid,” he’d told the guard. Without checking Lon’s ID—he had a fake in case—and without searching the toolbox in his hand, the guard simply nodded and swung the steel gate open. It was so easy Lon nearly chuckled. He knew that a second and third line of defense secured the three-story mansion, the patios and pool behind the house. But Lon didn’t need to get anywhere near the residence to snap the photo he was after—not when he could plainly see the driveway that led to the front door from atop this power pole. Not when he had his trusty Nikon D2X and fourteen different lenses to go with it.

Like most professional photographers, Lon was a recent convert to the digital realm. He’d chafed at the limitations of early digital cameras and stuck to the tried and true. But the technology slowly improved until Lon could find no fault with the newer models. Now he shot his pictures, selected the best, cropped and edited them, and then sent them via e-mail to the Sunset Strip offices of Midnight Confes

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sion magazine. His checks were direct deposit, and cleared in his account in less than twenty-four hours. It was fast, efficient, and best of all Lon didn’t have to see his boss Jake Gollob more than two or three days a month.

For the past fifty-five minutes, Lon had pretended to work on the circuit box at the top of the pole. Meanwhile he listened to the all-news radio network, which broadcast Silver Screen pre-show updates every twenty minutes or so. He learned from the broadcast that Abigail Heyer’s plane had landed at LAX about an hour before. The newscaster mentioned Ms. Heyer’s tireless work on behalf of children trapped in the conflict-torn regions of Bosnia, Croatia, Chechnya, Daghrebistan. He added that her work with the United Nations focused the world’s attention on the plight of orphans around the world. But there was no mention of the woman’s pregnancy, which meant that no photographers or television crews had gotten anywhere near Abigail Heyer at the airport.

If the rumors of her impending childbirth were true—and his boss Jake Gollob was almost never wrong—then Lon’s photograph of the suddenly pregnant movie queen would be a major scoop. It would probably make the wire services, too. That meant money in the bank for Lon, and a happy boss at Midnight Confession magazine.

Lon put the pause on his dreams of wealth when he spied a flurry of activity near the front gate. The guard was on the phone, nodding. Another security man rushed to the estate’s entrance. A Rolls-Royce with tinted glass windows rolled through the gate, followed by a black sedan with bodyguards.

Lon tore off his headset and fumbled for his Nikon.

Crouching low behind the circuit box, he pointed the lens at the Rolls as it halted near the front door of the three-story mansion. He began snapping photos as soon as the driver climbed out and opened the back door. Though the interior of vehicle was dim, he hoped the digital camera pierced the shadows for a decent shot, but almost immediately the view was blocked by a security man—a tall giant with white-blond, short-cropped hair who looked like a KGB man in a 1980s political thriller. Lon stopped snapping when he knew all he was getting was the guard’s broad back.

Finally, after a few long moments, Abigail Heyer climbed out of the backseat with help from the driver and security man, who took her proffered hands. She was very pregnant indeed, almost as big as she was in the movie Bangor, Maine, where the star played a working-class single mother struggling to unionize her low-paying workplace. Lon let out a breath, not realizing he’d been holding it. Then he snapped away, getting close to twenty usable shots by his own estimation, before the woman entered the front door and vanished from sight.

Lon quickly closed up the camera, stuffed it into the case meant to hold power tools, and climbed down the pole. He waited until the activity subsided before he walked back to the gate.

“All fixed,” he declared.

The gate guard didn’t reply. He simply buzzed Lon through, not bothering to open the gate himself.

As he hurried back to his car, Lon again marveled at how much the actually pregnant Abigail Heyer resembled the falsely pregnant character she played in Bangor, Maine. Several critics noted that the preg

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nancy suit she wore in that film was contoured to make her look great no matter what!

Amazing how she looks that good now—maybe better, mused Lon. I guess some people are just naturally photogenic, which explains why Abigail Heyer is a movie star ’cause her acting is crap on a stick.

12:06:33 P.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

Milo ceased struggling when he felt the muzzle of the sawed-off shotgun press against his temple. He looked up into the emotionless gray eyes of the Hell’s Angel wannabe.

“Okay, you win,” Milo said, raising his hands. Even in surrender, the CTU analyst couldn’t hide the fear in his voice. He was convinced this man was the same person who’d murdered Fay Hubley.

“Step back against that wall,” the big man said, prodding Milo with the shotgun. Milo backed up until his spine hit the peeling wallpaper. “Now turn around.”

When Milo’s cheek was flat against the wall, the man stepped around him and through the open bathroom door. Still leveling the shotgun at Milo’s head, the man peered into the shower.

“Shit.”

He stepped back, gazed at Milo. “You didn’t do that, did you?”

“Didn’t you?” said Milo. He tried to face the intruder, but the man slammed him flat with a powerful thrust of his tattooed forearm.

“I said don’t move. I meant don’t move.”

“Okay, okay,” Milo’s hands went up higher. “It’s just that you asked me a question.”

“And you had to move to answer it?”

The biker lowered the shotgun, whacked Milo in the gut. Air shot out of his lungs and Milo doubled over. The man crossed the room, opened the front door. Through a haze of pain, Milo heard someone else step over the threshold. The door closed behind the newcomer. The man with the shotgun tried the light switch. It didn’t work. He moved to a bedside lamp, turned it on, knocked the shade off. Milo stood straight again, blinked against the glare.

“Well, well,” said the man who came in. “If it isn’t my old pal, Milo De-Pressman.”

Despite the scruffy-looking armed man still waving a weapon at him, Milo bristled at the sound of his hated college nickname. “Blow it out your ass, Lesser.”

Lesser smirked. “That earring is bad enough. But my God, De-Pressman, what’s with the soul patch?”

A head taller than Milo, Richard Lesser was bone thin, with curly brown hair coiled into a crown atop his high forehead, a sallow complexion, crud-brown eyes, and, in Milo’s opinion, a chin as weak as ever.

“Look, Lesser . . .” Milo tried to step away from the wall but the big man slammed him back again.

“Down, boy. Heel, Cole,” said Lesser. The armed man stepped back, lowered his weapon. “This is my bodyguard, Cole Keegan. Cole, meet my dear old classmate, Milo De-Pressman.”

Lesser turned his back on the pair, examining Fay’s network configuration. “I believe you or your colleagues were monitoring my Internet activities from

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here, am I correct? It’s a nice setup, and the software is something I’ve never encountered before. But you have to have a big mainframe somewhere, feeding you this stuff.”

Lesser gestured contemptuously at the computers linked to the tiny server in the middle of the room. “This Mickey Mouse set up just won’t do. Are you working for a corporation? Boscom perhaps?”

Lesser poked the wireless mouse and the computer came out of hibernation. He blinked when he saw his own Internet accounts, banking records on the screen. “I’d like to meet the individual who invented this search program. Very clever.”

“She’s in the bathroom,” said Milo with contempt. “Why don’t you go in and introduce yourself.”

Cole Keegan shook his shaggy head. “You don’t want to go in there, boss. It’s a mess.”

“Listen, Richard,” said Milo, his tone reasonable. “I was sent down here to bring you back.”

“Sent? By whom? To take me back where? To prison?”

“I work for the CIA’s Counter Terrorist Unit.”

Lesser laughed. “You work for CTU? That’s rich. I see the old saying, ‘good enough for government work,’ still applies if they’re hiring you.”

“And I see you’re still as arrogant an asshole as you ever were, Little Dick.”

“Watch it, Milo. I’ve got the bodyguard and Cole has the shotgun.”

Cole Keegan touched Lesser’s arm. “Remember why we came.”

Lesser sighed. “Yes, of course. You’re right.”

“Why did you come, Lesser?” Milo asked. “To gloat over murdering Fay?”

“I murdered no one,” said Lesser. “I came here to make a deal because someone named Hasan is trying rather hard to murder me.”

Milo stared. “Gee, I can’t imagine why.”

12:11:21 P.M.PDT Palm Drive Beverly Hills

Jack Bauer followed Ibn al Farad and his captors to Beverly Hills. As he hoped, the kidnappers assumed they’d made a clean getaway. The farther away they got from the shootout, the more they relaxed their guard. By the time the kidnappers rolled through West Hollywood, Jack was less than a block away.

The vehicle finally swerved into a gated estate on Palm Drive, just a few doors down from Jean Harlow’s mansion, and the house Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe shared during their ill-fated marriage. Jack cruised past the three-story Spanish-style house and down the street.

When he was around a curve and out of sight, Jack rolled to a halt under a knot of palm trees. Here in the hills, he was just five miles from the ocean, yet no cooling breezes reached even this elite enclave. The lawns may have been greener in Beverly Hills, the air conditioners more expensive, but even the wealthy had to step outside sometime and nothing could save them from the punishing heat now scorching all of LA.

Head throbbing, Jack called Jamey Farrell. He reported his position and asked for the property records of the house on Palm Drive. Jamey had an answer for him in less than three minutes.

“The home belongs to Nareesa al-Bustani. She’s

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the widow of a Saudi billionaire named Mohammed

al-Bustani.”

“What’s his background?”

“He went missing during a recent purge of political dissidents.”

Jack chewed on that a moment. In recent months the Royal Saudi intelligence service had begun to investigate citizens suspected of funding terrorism. During the course of their inquest, the secret police rounded up dozens of businessmen, government ministers, imams, and prominent citizens. Most were never seen again. There were no public trials, they just disappeared— tortured to death or shot, or dumped in the desert to perish. Mohammed al-Bustani had been one of them.

“Do the files contain any intelligence to suggest why al-Bustani was arrested?”

“Nothing.”

“What about Mohammed’s wife?”

“Naressa was living in her Beverly Hills home at the time of her husband’s disappearance in Saudi Arabia. The couple’s been estranged for decades, according to CIA intelligence.”

“If that’s true, then why is she helping a known terrorist now? And could Nareesa al-Bustani have a connection to Hasan? Or is there some connection to Ibn al Farad that we don’t know about yet? Maybe he’s a member of the woman’s family—”

Jamey interrupted his verbalized speculations. “Nina’s here. She wants to know what you plan to do next.”

“Tell her to dispatch Chet Blackburn’s team to Olympia Boulevard, but no closer than that. They’ll be minutes away. I’ll call if I need them.”

“Jack? What are you going to do?” It was Nina’s voice on the phone this time.

“The al-Bustani mansion has a man at the gate, armed. Otherwise the home security doesn’t seem particularly daunting. I’m going to break in.”

“But the kidnappers are still in there,” Nina countered. “They’re trained and armed.”

“They think they’ve won. I’m sure they’ve let their guard down.”

“But—”

“I can’t wait, Nina. I’ve got a feeling time is running out.”

12:19:07 P.M.PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

“At first it sounded pretty good. Rip off the digital files of a yet-to-be-released tent pole film from a secured server at a special effects studio in San Francisco. A piece of cake, and money in the bank for me and Cole here.”

Lesser leaned back on his chair, a self-satisfied grin on his narrow face. “Secured server! What a joke. The studio’s computer system was easier to crack than that lockout code you put on your computer back in grad school.”

The two men spoke in Tony and Fay’s darkened hotel room. Milo sat on the edge of one of the two narrow beds, Lesser on the wobbly desk chair. Cole Keegan stood near the only exit, shotgun in hand, ear pressed to the door.

Milo narrowed his eyes. “Let’s not relive our old school days, Dick. You’re still not telling me about the virus you created, and why you chose to stick it in the movie download file.”

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“Don’t be so impatient. Have you no sense of drama?”

Milo folded his arms and waited.

“Well, as I was telling you,” Lesser continued, “I had a copy of the film when suddenly I get a knock at my door. Turns out my former associate Guido—”

“Guido?”

“Guido Nardini,” Lesser replied. “Some folks would call him a mobster. I, however, prefer to speak of Mr. Nardini as a folk hero comparable to Robin Hood or the Scarecrow of Romney Marsh, immortalized—”

“Cut to the chase,” Milo snapped.

“So, anyway, Guido mentioned to certain parties that I had the Gates of Heaven download and not so very long after that I had a visit from a representative of an ethnic organization based right here in Tijuana.”

“The criminal gang Seises Seises?”

Lesser nodded. “The double-six boys had a proposition for me, and since a Federal indictment was being handed down along with a warrant for my arrest, I decided to take them up on their kind offer of asylum south of the border in exchange for pirating more Hollywood blockbusters.”

“So why did the Mexicans turn on you?”

“Who said they turned on me? I had no trouble with the banditos. Give them a couple of downloads they can turn into knockoff DVDs, teach them a few computer games and they’re happy as clams in a paella. The trouble came when the Chechens arrived.”

Milo blinked. “Chechens? Like from Chechnya?”

“Da, comrade,” said Lesser. “These guys were real self-starters, not like the laid-back Mexicans. Pretty soon the cholos were taking orders from the Chechens and their leader, some guy named Hasan.”

“Did you meet this Hasan?”

“No. But I took his money. Lots of it. Hasan asked me to develop a Trojan horse program that would target a specific auditing program used by the Hollywood studios.”

“Do you know why?”

Lesser shrugged. “I assumed they wanted to rip off the studios with bogus wire transfers of money or something. But the execute file Hasan had me create worked more like a security override program—there were all kinds of protocols to seal or unseal doors, disable alarms and stuff. It seemed more like he was going to knock-off a bank vault than steal currency the easy way—electronically.”

“If you created the program he wanted, then why did Hasan turn on you?”

A shadow crossed Lesser’s face. “Two days ago, Hasan’s agent, a Chechen named Ordog—”

“Ordog?”

“That’s what he calls himself. It means devil or something like that. Anyway, Ordog comes to me clutching a four-gigabit thumb drive. Says it contains a virus that he wanted me to unleash tonight, at midnight, local time.”

“Isn’t that your thing, Lesser. Mayhem and anarchy?”

“Listen, Pressman, ripping off movies is one thing, and I’ve got nothing against ripping off some greedy multinational communications conglomerate, either. But destroying the World Wide Web is where I get off the train. I mean, the Web is my bread and butter, why would I burn my toast?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I took a hard look at Hasan’s little virus while the

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66 boys were busy playing computer games. This virus is a monster. The most irresponsible hacker in the world wouldn’t unleash this bug—not unless he never wanted to hack again in this lifetime.”

“What does the virus do?”

“Remember the Rock’em Sock’em Robots’?”

“That kids’ toy?”

“Two robots beating each other until one of them gets his block knocked off. That’s what Hasan’s virus would do—turn every infected computer against every other computer, every infected server against every other server in the Battle of the Network Mainframes.”

“How fast does the virus reproduce?” Milo asked.

“This virus propagates like government-subsidized soybeans. The infected networks would attack the healthy ones, then they would attack one another with overwhelming service requests, confounding data loops, on/off protocols, suicide codes, the works. The only cure would be to shut down the entire system, purge it, or rebuild the system from scratch. I doubt eighty percent of the world’s data would be retrievable.”

“Holy shit, Lesser. Recovery from that would take years—”

“Decades, Pressman. Meanwhile all Internet commerce, all electronic mail and business transactions would be history. We’d be back to doing our work on paper. Hello 1960s.”

“And this virus is going to be unleashed at midnight?”

Lesser shook his head, drew a length of the hemp necklace draped around his skinny throat. A shiny black plastic oval dangled on the end.

“I’ve got the thumb drive right here. According to Ordog, it contains the only copy of the virus. That’s why Hasan and his crew are out to get me. They need this thumb drive, and they need my expertise, to launch the cyber attack.”

“So why did you come here, to this hotel? This room?”

“Cole overheard a conversation among the Seises Seises hermanos about some gringo named Navarro and his bitch, who were staying at this hotel, making noise about looking for me.”

“Where did they get that information?”

Cole Keegan spoke up, his ear still pressed to the door. “From a fat lowlife named Dobyns. Ray Dobyns sold them out, led this guy Navarro into a trap. The Mexicans grabbed him so the Chechens could interrogate him. They’re holding Navarro at El Pequeños Pescados, the brothel I’ve been holed up in for the past couple of weeks.”

“If you were planning to bust out, why didn’t you do something earlier, before Fay...”Milo’svoice trailed off, he swallowed. “Before Tony got captured?”

“I tried to get out of there, warn this Navarro guy—”

“His name’s Almeida. Tony Almeida,” said Milo, breaking protocol.

“Well, I tried to slip away and warn Agent Almeida they were coming for him, but it appears I arrived too late.”

Milo glanced back at the bathroom door. “You were too late, all right, Lesser,” he said bitterly. “Too late for Fay.” Then he turned and met Lesser’s eyes. “But we can still get Tony out of there.”

Lesser adamantly shook his head. “Are you crazy? I just got away from those crazy Chechens, I’m not about to go back—”

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“I’ll go with you, Pressman,” Cole Keegan spoke up. “I’ll help get your guy out.”

“Oh, no you don’t, Keegan,” Lesser protested, rising to his feet. “Don’t forget you work for me.”

Cole Keegan shrugged. “I do work for you, and I have your best interests in mind, so I’ll give it to you straight. If you want to get out of Tijuana and across that border alive, we’re gonna need help. And when we get across the border, we’re going to need a few bargaining chips or we’ll end up in a Federal penitentiary. Returning their agent to CTU would signal our good intentions and a willingness to cooperate.... Don’t you think?”

Lesser’s bony body sagged back down onto the wobbly desk chair. Instead of answering Cole’s question, he turned to Milo. “Now you see why I pay this guy a million dollars a year to watch my ass.”

9:47:53 A.M.EDT Admiral House, The Naval Observatory Washington, D.C.

“Because of a legislative deadlock in the Congress, the

Vice President is unable to attend—”

“Regretfully unable to attend.”

Megan Gleason looked up from the monitor, rolled her gold-flecked green eyes. A resident of the Vice President’s home state, she was the very pretty daughter of a very wealthy and generous political contributor with strong ties to the state party.

“I always forget that regretfully part,” Megan said, her pale, delicate features reddening.

Standing over her, Adam Carlisle smiled patiently.

“That’s why you’re the intern and I’m the internturned-almost-staff member.”

“You’re the ‘almost-staff member’ because you graduated in June and can take the job in the fall. I’ve got another two years before I’m sprung.”

“But you can still enjoy the perks.”

Megan frowned, curled straight brown hair behind an ear. “Perks? What perks? My pay is nonexistent. I live in a two bedroom Georgetown apartment with three roommates, and I work twelve hours a day.”

“Oh, the humanity,” said Adam. He removed the blue blazer from his athletic frame, hung it on the back of the chair beside Megan, then sat down and pointed to the document on the screen. “And let’s not use the word deadlock. It has negative connotations.”

“But aren’t the President and Vice President having a problem getting their legislation passed?”

“Yes, but we never, ever admit something like that,” Adam replied.

“Why not?”

Adam shook his head. “So young, so naïve.”

“I’m only two years younger than you, Adam.”

“In the ways of the world, you are a mere babe.” He pointed to the computer screen. “Let’s say ‘because of a legislative impasse.’ That sounds nice and diplomatic. You can smooth over anything—even gridlock in Congress—with a word like impasse.”

Megan retyped the line. “It’s amazing how much disputation can go into a simple press release.”

“Welcome to Washington,” said Adam. “Nothing inside the Beltway is ever simple. You cannot just say ‘the Vice President is stuck here and can’t make the Silver Screen Awards so his wife is going without him,’ even though that’s exactly what’s happening.”

“Why not? I mean really. I’d like to know.”

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“There are so many reasons.” Adam ticked them off with his fingers. “One: by not going, the VP could appear to be snubbing the wife of the Russian President, even though both she and her husband will attend a White House State Dinner in two days’ time—which is why we’re going to make a little joke about the Russian President’s wife and our VP’s wife having ‘girl time’ without their husbands. But just a little joke because we don’t want to offend the feminists.”

“Why don’t we say the two wives can go to Chippendale’s together?”

Adam raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re being flip, but that joke actually worked at the annual Correspondents Dinner. It’s a little too raw for a presidential press release, however. Still, if you come up with more like that, let me know. I’ll have someone feed it to the writers over at The Tonight Show.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

Adam stared.

“Okay, okay, give me another reason for your release rhetoric,” said Megan.

“Reason two: we don’t want to tell the Hollywood community—which was so generous during the President’s campaign—that a stalled farm bill is more important that the Veep showing his face at their annual awards show—”

“But it is true!”

Adam shook his head again. “You can never, never tell wealthy people they are not important. Especially wealthy movie stars. That just won’t do.”

Megan rubbed her tired eyes. Adam checked his watch. “Let’s get back to work. We have to finish this in the next hour.”

“What’s the rush?” Megan asked.

“We have to catch Air Force Two in ninety minutes.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“It’s true. We’re flying with the Vice President’s wife, and we have tickets for the awards show tonight. We’ll be sitting right behind the Russian contingent.”

Megan was gaping. Speechless.

“I told you this job has perks,” said Adam with a flirtatious wink.

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 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

1:01:03 P.M.PDT Palm Drive Beverly Hills

Jack Bauer had patiently reconnoitered the lushly manicured grounds around Nareesa al-Bustani’s estate—the carefully tended gardens, the tall stone fence that completely circled the property—before he set foot into its perimeter. Jack had found no cameras, no motion detectors or sound sensors, yet he knew that many of these affluent homes had invisible motion and sound monitors buried in the ground, or security cameras the size of a plum nestled among the branches of trees. It would take a specialist and a brace of high-tech gear to breach that kind of security without detection, and Jack had no time to summon such help.

After carefully examining the area for tripwires, Jack scaled the fence near an overgrown section of the garden. He came down among a thick tangle of palms trees and razor grass. The vegetation was dry from the prolonged drought and it rustled like crumpled newspaper as he moved through it. He could only hope the swish of the grass in the hot, dry breeze would mask the sound of his footsteps.

Jack emerged from the tangle behind the pool house, where an air conditioning unit hummed. He didn’t want to risk crossing the expansive stone patio, so instead he skirted the adobe wall until he was within reach of the sliding glass doors of the main house.

Peering around the wall, Jack saw that one of the glass doors was ajar. Behind the pane, virgin white curtains rippled in the hot wind. Jack’s instincts bristled. Everything about this entry was too easy, too convenient—the open door was either an invitation or a trap. Whatever it was, he knew he had no choice. If he’d been discovered already, he would soon be stopped. It would be wiser for him to have the confrontation now.

Jack slipped the USP Tactical from its shoulder holster. Though it was heavier than the 9mm version used by most CTU field agents, Jack had recently come to value the stopping power of the .45-caliber model. Right now, however, Jack drew little comfort from the cold weapon in his grip as he moved silently across the sun-baked stone patio and through the door.

The interior was spartan—steel recliner chairs arranged around a curved glass table, a mirrored wall with a recessed bar, stocked with glass sculptures in

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stead of spirits. Near a standing lamp Jack found another doorway that led deeper into the mansion. He’d just stepped over that threshold when someone moved behind him, shoved the barrel of a gun into his kidney.

“Please sheath your weapon, or my men will be forced to take it from you.”

Men emerged from cover, M-16s held shoulder high, trained on Jack Bauer. Their black battle suits were scorched and scuffed, a bloody bandage encircled one man’s forearm. Their masks were gone, to reveal close-cropped hair over steely-calm eyes.

Jack slipped the Tactical under his jacket, raised his arms. The weapon pressed into his torso withdrew and the man clutching it moved to face him. He was as tall as Jack, eyes tree-bark brown, hair as black as an imam’s robes. A deep scar divided the flesh around his right eye, from hairline to cheekbone.

“You may put your arms down, Special Agent Bauer. We mean you no harm. There’s been enough killing today.”

“No, no! You fool. What are you doing?”

The outraged voice came from another room. The men around Jack lowered their weapons, stood at attention when a short, middle-aged man burst into the room, fist shaking.

“I told you to kill the intruder, Major Salah, not capture him. Kill! Kill!”

The newcomer was a head shorter than everyone around him, his flesh the color of untreated leather, hair gray-white and cropped in short bangs across a creased forehead. His eyes were dark and flashing with anger. But the one called Major Salah met the older man’s rage squarely, refusing to back down.

“I have followed your orders up to now, Deputy Minister. But murdering the Special Agent in Charge of the Los Angeles Counter Terrorist Unit would have dire repercussions not even a man of your political power and wealth could ignore.” Major Salah paused, his gaze met Jack’s. “And I will not murder a member of an intelligence service our nation is allied with. It is dishonorable, and there has been enough killing this day.”

Understanding now that he was not dealing with terrorists but a unit of the Saudi Special Forces Brigade, Jack felt some relief. Because of the unusual structure of the Saudi military, government ministers each controlled a unit of the Special Forces, ensuring no individual or branch of the Saudi government had more power than another. It was a byzantine system that kept the royal family safe from betrayal or mutiny, but it also compelled professional soldiers like Major Salah to take orders from men better suited to banking or economic planning.

Sensing the growing tension, Jack stepped between the Major and the diplomat. “I thank you for sparing my life, Major Ja’far al-Salah. I know that you must obey the orders of the Minister—”

“Omar al Farad is but a Deputy Minister—”

“And the father of Ibn al Farad,” Jack added, turning to face Omar. “And as a father, Deputy Minister, you are understandably concerned about the welfare of your son.”

Omar al Farad’s gaze shifted from Jack to the doorway. A regal, middle-aged woman stood there, her dark, gray-streaked hair just brushing the collar of her ivory silk blouse, her long legs clad in matching silk pants. The woman was striking, with large, dark

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eyes and high, brown cheekbones damp with tears. To Jack, the family resemblance was noticeable. This woman was related in some way to Omar al Farad.

“What is it, Nereesa?” asked Omar.

Nereesa al-Bustani, Jack realized, the owner of this estate. He watched her glide across the room, seemingly oblivious to the ranks of armed men bickering around her. With a slender hand, she touched Omar’s arm. “Ibn is awake now, brother, come,” she whispered in flawless English.

As Omar turned to follow his sister out the door, Jack seized his arm—eliciting an alarmed response from the armed men, an angry glare from Major Salah.

“You must let me speak to your son,” Jack urged.

“No,” Omar al Farad replied, yanking his arm away. “Your nation, your evil culture, has done enough to ruin him. As soon as my son is well enough to travel, he is leaving the house of his aunt and going home.”

“Listen to me, for what I am telling you is true,” said Jack. “Your son will never reach Saudi Arabia alive. In fact, he will never leave this city.”

The Deputy Minister glared. “Is this a threat?”

“No,” Jack replied. “When your men attacked our convoy, we were moving your son from a police facility to CTU Headquarters for his own safety. Ibn was in protective custody because we feared those he conspired with now want to silence him forever.”

Omar al Farad shook his head. “My son conspired with no one. He is not a terrorist.”

“I never called him a terrorist, But your son had committed multiple murder. He must face justice—”

“You see! You speak of justice for crimes that were not Ibn’s fault.”

“That is exactly right,” said Jack, his voice even. “Your son is not responsible for his crimes. I believe he was drugged and brainwashed by a man named Hasan. It is Hasan I seek. If your son can lead me to him, it will do much to prove his innocence.”

Again, the man’s anger faded as abruptly as it came, replaced by confusion and uncertainty. Beneath the immaculate London-tailored clothing, the passionate outrage, Omar al Farad was a man in crisis, a man on the verge of collapse.

“Talk to me, Deputy Minister,” Jack continued. “Tell me what happened to your son. How he became involved with this man Hasan.”

Omar al Farad glanced at his sister. She closed her eyes and nodded once.

“Very well,” said Omar. “But not here.”

Nareesa led the two men to a small library packed with books in English and Arabic. They sat across from one another, a café-sized table between them. A maid appeared, served them tea and honey cakes. When Jack looked up again, he and Omar were alone.

“My first mistake was marrying an American wife,” Omar began. “She loved the boy too much, spoiled him until he was seven years old—”

“What changed?”

“She died, Mr. Bauer, at our home in Riyadh. Cancer of the brain. First she was confused, then her madness became violent, finally she succumbed. There was nothing anyone could do. After an appropriate mourning period, I married again—this time someone more suitable, a member of the Saudi royal family.”

“I see.”

“My second wife did not approve of my first marriage or the product of that marriage. So when Ibn was eleven, I sent him to Andover, the same boarding

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school I’d attended. I tried to give him a good education, make him wise, but when he was of college age, Ibn demanded to be sent to the University of Southern California. He wished to become a filmmaker.”

The man sighed heavily. “He’d been polluted by the filth he’d been exposed to.”

“Filth?”

“The rap music, the movies full of wanton harlots and venal men, sin and degradation. Of course, I disapproved of Ibn’s choices, but there was little I could say to dissuade him. To my shame, I finally relented.”

Omar’s features darkened, his fingers clawed at the cup. “In his first year, he met a girl. An American girl. My son, he was not sophisticated in the ways of the world, and he was weak. Because he was robbed of his mother’s love early on, he craved the attention of women. This...whore...She took advantage of him—”

“She hurt him?”

“She used him, Mr. Bauer. Like an evil sucking harpy. And what was left was not my son. He stopped going to the mosque, dropped out of school, he took drugs, even drank liquor. Then, six months ago, he vanished. My lawyers could not find him. He did not touch his trust fund for we watched the account. I feared my son was dead—until today, when Major Salah told me Ibn had been found by your police. That he was about to be charged with terrible crimes.”

More than anything else, Jack wanted to throttle Major Salah, demand to know what made the rogue officer think he could stage a covert operation inside the United States with impunity. But he was forced by circumstance to hold his tongue. Silently, Jack vowed to bring Major Salah, his men, and even Deputy Minister al Farad to justice for the policemen they maimed and murdered—but only after he’d gotten what he needed. The priority at the moment was interrogating the fugitive. A reckoning would come later.

“Your sister said your son is awake,” said Jack. “Let me speak to him.”

“Why? What can be gained?”

“Ibn has had contact with Hasan. When I find Hasan I will make him confess to his crimes. What he did to your boy. The faster I find Hasan, the faster I can clear your son’s name.”

Omar’s eyes appeared haunted. Finally he nodded. “Very well, Mr. Bauer. But my son does not leave this house.”

1:13:37 P.M. PDT Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills

“If that were me I’d just die! But not the Material Girl. No, that woman is a force of nature.”

Valerie Dodge, CEO and founder of Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency, lounged in her contoured leather office chair. She held the silver phone to her ear, tapped the flawless surface of the desk with long, pink enameled fingernails. Her own forty-year-old reflection stared back at her from the polished glass. She had an oval face, framed by long, straight sun-bleached hair. White, perfectly capped teeth flashed against a dark tan. Laugh lines were evident around her light blue eyes and at the edges of her generous mouth. Hardly the same face that had graced the cover of every fashion magazine in the world in the late 1980s.

But not so bad, either, she mused. A little too old, a little too tanned, and a little too brassy—but just

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tough enough to parlay a supermodel fame into a lasting career. To conquer the most cutthroat town in America.

“Yes, darling. Tonight is the big night. My girls are ready, the venue’s ready. My Katya’s handled everything. She’s a wonder—I’d just die without her. After all the work she’s done these past weeks, Katya will probably want a raise, the ingrate!”

A knock interrupted her laugh. “Here’s Katya, now. I’ll see you tonight, at the wrap party. Remember, Club 100. Midnight—unless that damn awards show runs overtime.”

The office door opened. The woman who entered looked to be in her early thirties. She wore a simple black dress, black leather boots that just touched the bend of her knee. Straw-blond hair in a tight bun, her only jewelry a black choker around her long, graceful, bone-white neck. In her arms she cradled a square box emblazoned with the name of an exclusive Rodeo Drive boutique.

“Come in, darling,” said Valerie Dodge. “Where have you been all morning?”

“I went over to the Chamberlain Auditorium to make sure everything was in order, that our models have the privacy they need.”

“Good girl. Last year half the stagehands were ogling my girls. All they had were canvas cubicles and Japanese screens for a dressing room.”

Katya smiled. “I took care of that, Ms. Dodge. This year they’ll have real rooms, backstage.”

Valerie smiled. Then her eyes drifted to Katya’s desk in the next room. On top of it, a thick red folder stuffed with contracts appeared untouched. Valerie Dodge nearly jumped out of her chair.

“My god, Katya. The models’ contracts! They’re still there on your desk where I left them. The girls can’t appear tonight if those contracts are not filed with the television network, the producers.”

“Relax, Ms. Dodge,” said Katya, fumbling with the box in her arm. “The proper paperwork went to the right people. I made sure of that.”

Valerie leaned back and smiled. “Thank god. For a moment—” She fumbled with a cigarette, a solid gold lighter. “Well, I knew you were on top of everything. Believe me, Katya, without you—”

The woman in black dropped the box, squeezed the trigger. The sound suppressed Walther PBK in her hand bucked once, twice, three times. Valerie Dodge jerked as each shot struck her. With a final moan she sank to the carpeted floor.

Katya lowered the weapon. Ignored the twitching corpse. “I know, Ms. Dodge. You’d just die without me.”

The woman set the weapon on the glass desk. Then she grabbed the dead woman by the ankle and dragged her to the corner of the room, leaving a long crimson trail on the spotless white rug.

Katya dropped the leg and stepped around the corpse. Sitting in the chair, she booted up Valerie Dodge’s computer, then slipped a pen drive into a USB port. It took less than two minutes for the plans, the schematics, the codes to load. Next Katya typed in her call sign—ChechenAvenger066—and sent coded e-mails that activated sleeper agents all over America’s West Coast.

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1:19:16 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

The loading dock was guarded by the auditorium’s regular security staff, but supervised by Secret Service Agent Craig Auburn. A twenty-year veteran of the Currency Fraud Division, Auburn had been temporarily—and inconveniently—pulled from an investigation of a Pakistani funny money ring in San Diego and dispatched to Los Angeles for the impending visit of the Vice President and his wife.

After he’d already arrived, it was announced that Number Two—the Vice President—would not make the trip, so many of the duties were scrambled. Auburn ended up serving as an entry monitor, which was not much more than a glorified doorman, but he made no complaint. Special Agent Auburn took his job seriously. He also planned to retire in five years with a full pension and no blots on his exemplary record.

Things had been quiet until a Middle Eastern man arrived. He led a parade of carpenters and a half-dozen mechanical dollies piled high with formed steel parts partially or completely swathed by crude wooden crates.

“What’s this?” Auburn demanded, stepping in front of the column.

“Stage prop,” said the Middle Eastern man, waving a manifest. Auburn took the clipboard, scanned it with one eye on the man who gave it to him.

“Who are you?” Auburn asked, handing the clipboard back to the man.

“I am Haroun. It was my truck that brought these sculptures in from the fabricator.”

“Let me see your identification.”

Smiling, Haroun handed Auburn his driver’s license, union card, and security pass. Everything seemed in order, but there was something about the man, these crates, that set off Auburn’s internal alarms. His colleagues said he could always spot a phony when he saw one, and Haroun felt like a ringer.

Auburn pushed past Haroun, paced down the line of dollies, circling one after the other. The crates were sizable—the smallest taller than a man, the largest nearly the size of an automobile. Finally, the horn honked on one of the mechanical dollies in the rear of the line.

“What’s the hold up?” barked its operator.

“Who cares,” said another. “We get paid by the hour.”

Just then, the auditorium’s crew chief arrived. He spied the crates and threw up his hands. “About god-damn time. Get those dollies in here. I got an empty stage up there.”

“I am coming,” Haroun called back. “As soon as this man lets me pass.”

The crew chief shook his head, approached Special Agent Auburn. “Please don’t tell me you’re harassing Haroun just because he’s Middle Eastern. He’s worked here for a couple of years, right Haroun?”

“That is correct.”

“How’s the wife, by the way?” asked the crew chief. Haroun grinned. “She baked honey cakes. I am sorry they are all gone. I would have liked to save one for you.”

“Maybe next time.” The crew chief turned to Auburn. “Come on, guy. We’re running late here. Save the double-oh-seven stuff for the bad guys. Unless this really is a case of racial profiling.”

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Auburn stepped aside. “Go on,” he said, waving the men through.

One by one, the dollies began to move. Under Special Agent Auburn’s watchful eye, the Chechens carefully maneuvered the mechanical dollies through the tight loading dock and up the ramp to the stage. They were exceedingly careful not to bump the crates, or send them tumbling onto their sides. The men moving the crates knew that those hidden inside were martyrs—armed and highly trained members of the faithful who were willing to die for the cause of Chechen independence, and for jihad.

This was the primary reason the phony union workers moved the props into attack position with reverence and respect. They did not want to disturb such heroes more than necessary on their final day on Earth.

1:34:07 P.M. PDT Ice House Tijuana, Mexico

Despite the chemical stench and the cuffs cutting off the circulation to his swollen hands, Tony Almeida had fallen into a fitful sleep. Someone had erected a plastic screen around the corner where he’d been thrown and on the other side of it, men continued to cook pills, separating the deadly and addictive narcotic from its component parts.

Tony had no idea how long he’d slept when two men approached him and hauled him to his feet. They were fair-skinned giants with light hair cropped close to their scalps. Each wore a surgical mask.

“Hey,” Tony yelled, the moment they’d touched him, “what the hell do you want with me!”

The men responded with stony silence. They freed his arms, tore away his shirt. Then they slammed Tony against the wire box spring propped upright against the wall. When he realized what was happening, Tony struggled frantically, but his hands were useless, completely numb, and his elbows were poor substitutes for fists. The men easily bound him against the cold metal.

When they finally moved back, another man stepped up. He wore overalls, stained with sweat, thick rolls of fat bulging around a tight collar. His eyes were small and close set, over a flat nose and wet pink lips. While the other two men rolled the friction generator into the room and connected the electrodes to the bedsprings, the fat man watched, arms folded, until they were finished. Then he moved his face within inches of Tony’s.

“Mr. Dobyns tells me you pass yourself off as a credit card cheat, a petty criminal. But he believes you are more than that. So do I.”

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Tony was appalled at the note of panic in his voice, but he couldn’t control it, or the fear mounting inside him.

“MynameisOrdog. WhatIwantfromyou areanswers. If you give them to me, you will be spared much agony. If you do not, you will suffer before you die.”

“I don’t know anything about Lesser, or what he’s doing. Only that he owes me money, and—”

Ordog gripped the handle with a meaty hand, cranked the ancient generator. After a few turns, sparks exploded across the box springs and electric fire burned through Tony’s entire body. He jerked helplessly as volts crackled through him. Then the fat man ceased cranking. Tony sagged against his bonds.

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“Do not delude yourself, Mr. Navarro, or whatever your name is. You will die in this room. It’s up to you to decide if you’ll perish after prolonged agony, or mercifully quick.”

1:39:54 P.M. PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

Milo used his cell phone, connected to the secure and scrambled monitor in Fay Hubley’s computer, to contact Nina Myers at CTU Los Angeles. He reported Fay Hubley’s death and Tony’s capture by Chechens working with Seises Seises. He also told Nina that he’d located Richard Lesser—who was now fast asleep in the hotel bed—and about the computer virus attack scheduled for midnight—an attack that might or might not have been thwarted by Lesser’s defection.

“You’re sure Lesser has the only copy of the virus?” Nina asked.

“I’m not sure,” Milo replied. “But he has a thumb drive with a copy of the virus on it. Working with a sample of the virus, we can find a cure, or work on a way to shield the web servers from its effects.”

“Can you trust him?”

“Lesser is an asshole in so many ways,” said Milo. “But I believe him now. He’s scared of the Chechens, of what they are capable of. He’d rather face charges in the States than let this cyber attack take place.”

Nina contemplated his words. “Then it is imperative that you get Lesser and the data on that thumb drive across the border immediately. I’ll have an extraction team at the border, and a helicopter waiting at Brown Field Municipal Airport to fly you to L.A.”

Milo paused. Nina’s command was sane and rational, and he wanted very much to obey her. “No,” he said at last. “I have to try to rescue Tony first.”

“You’re not a field agent and you’re not even armed.”

“No, but I have someone with me who’s ready to help. Cole Keegan, Richard Lesser’s bodyguard.”

“You can’t do this, Milo. It’s too important we get Lesser back. Tony knew what he was getting himself into—”

“Tony knew, but Fay didn’t. I can’t help Fay, but I refuse to give up on Tony while he’s alive—”

“Listen, Milo—”

“Me and Cole Keegan worked out a plan that we think will work,” said Milo. “It’s a pretty solid plan and if it works I won’t even need a gun. But I will need two hours. I can grab Tony, and we’ll bring out Lesser together. We’ll all cross the border and be at the airport by four o’clock.”

Another pause. Cole, still guarding the door, pretended to ignore the conversation even as he hung on every word.

“Okay,” Nina relented. “Two hours. No more.”

Milo thanked his boss and signed off. Then he faced Cole Keegan. “So, do you have a plan? ’Cause I sure don’t.”

To Milo’s surprise, Cole nodded. “There’s someone who can help us. A woman at Little Fishes, one of the girls. She knows everything that goes on at the brothel and in the old building behind it.”

Cole shot Milo a surprisingly sheepish look. “Her name’s Brandy—at least that’s what she calls herself. I kind of promised her I’d get her out when Lesser and I made our escape, but everything happened so fast I had to leave her behind.”

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“And you think she’ll still help you?”

“Brandy’s pragmatic. She knows the score. If you give her what she wants, she’ll cooperate.”

Milo was skeptical. “So how do I find this Brandy?”

“Meeting a whore ain’t hard in Tijuana. Just go to the brothel and ask to see her.”

“But...But I can’t do that!” sputtered Milo. “Why don’t you go? Brandy knows you.”

“And everyone there knows me, but they don’t know you,” Cole replied. “If I walk into that brothel, those Chechens are gonna ask me a whole lot of questions I can’t answer.”

“But I don’t look like the kind of guy who goes to a brothel, do I?”

“What kind of guy is that?” Cole asked.

Milo thought it over. “Good point,” he said.

“Look,” said Cole, “El Pequeños Pescados is always crowded at lunchtime—gringo truckers, mostly, coming across the border for a freight pickup and a quickie. Keep your mouth shut and your ears open and they’ll just think you’re another road rat.”

“Come on—”

“When you find Brandy, tell her you know me, and that you’re there to help her get out of Mexico, and I guarantee she’ll help you find your missing agent—if he’s still alive, that is.”

1:47:14 P.M. PDT Palm Drive Beverly Hills

Major Salah’s men bristled. They could not believe the American CTU agent had been given permission to interview Ibn al Farad—and by the boy’s own father! The men, members of the elite Saudi Special Forces Brigade, had just fought—and two of them had just died—to prevent the American authorities from capturing the Saudi citizen. Now Jack Bauer was interrogating Ibn al Farad, subjecting the boy to unknown tortures in the back room of his aunt’s home.

Sensing the unrest in his men, Major Salah divided them to quell a potential mutiny. He left several behind to guard the house, and dispatched two others to the front gate to watch for any sign of the American authorities. After that, he further divided his forces, sending the wounded men to their beds, and placing two armed men outside the study occupied by Jack Bauer and the rest. With his unit spread all over the mansion, the Major headed outside to check on the gate sentries posted in a gazebo on the other side of the wall from Palm Drive. Not surprisingly, Major Salah found the two men locked in a debate.

“You cannot trust the American authorities,” Corporal Hourani was saying. “Their injustices are well known.”

“Known by whom?” Sergeant Raschid replied.

“I learned of America’s treachery as a boy in the madrassas. And from the Hollywood movies that truly depict this country’s evil, its racism. Have you never seen Mississippi Burning?”

Sergeant Raschid shook his head. “I only watch James Bond movies. And Jackie Chan.”

“I suggest you both keep your eyes on the road,” Major Salah interrupted. “There is a vehicle approaching the gate.” As the Major stepped into view, his men jerked to attention. “You are supposed to be on sentry duty,” he admonished, “not discussing Hollywood movies.”

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“I beg your forgiveness, Major,” Sergeant Raschid said, eyes forward.

“At ease,” the Major replied with a hint of a smile. “I only meant to alert you that a vehicle is approaching, in case you had not noticed.”

Sergeant Raschid hefted his M-16 as the electronic gate swung open, and a white Dodge van swung into the driveway.

“It is probably a routine delivery,” said Major Salah. “But see what they want.”

Sergeant Raschid and Corporal Hourani turned their backs on their commander as the van approached the gazebo. Eyes on the approaching vehicle, the soldiers did not see Major Salah slip two six-inch black stilettos out of hidden sheaths. And their deaths were so quick the two men barely felt the simultaneous thrusts that plunged the cold, hard steel blades deep into their brains.

The van rolled to a halt in front of the gazebo a moment later. The passenger door opened. Major Salah stepped over the dead men and climbed into the cab next to the blond-haired, blue-eyed driver. Behind them, a half dozen armed, masked men huddled inside the van’s cargo bay.

“I have observed the American intelligence agent and learned that CTU knows nothing. Once Ibn is dead, their only connection to Hasan will be severed.”

“So we strike?”

Salah nodded. “The way is open. We will kill the minister, his son, and his sister. And I will take care of Jack Bauer personally.”

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

2:00:56 P.M. PDT Free Trade Pavilion Russia East Europe Trade Alliance Los Angeles

Sweeping in among the very first wave of reporters to enter the Free Trade Pavilion since its opening last month, Christina Hong, KHTV Seattle’s twentyeight-year-old entertainment reporter, could not help but be impressed. The Pavilion was designed by Saudi-American architect Nawaf Sanjore, and featured a vaulted glass ceiling and three lofty steel and glass ziggurats of various heights, the tallest of which reached eighteen stories into the Los Angeles skyline.

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Christina knew from her extensive research that the Pavilion was just one wing of the Russia East Europe Trade Alliance headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard, a twelve-story office building that housed the international trade organization. REETA had been established to promote mutually beneficial economic and political associations among the members of the former Soviet Union. The governments of these new republics were often at odds with one another, yet REETA had been instrumental in forging trade pacts that revived, modernized or transformed old industries into profitable new ventures.

The area of most interest to Christina Hong—who enjoyed covering the business side of the entertainment industry and harbored dreams of hosting her own cable news show—was the phenomenal resurrection of the Eastern European film industry in the last five years. Thanks to an infusion of capital from REETA, the movie business was alive and thriving in places like Prague, Budapest, Belgrade.

Yet this sea change in the film industry had gone virtually unnoticed by most media types. Christina Hong would not have known herself, except that two months ago her station manager had sent her to do an up-tempo story on American actors and extras who moved to Montreal from California or New York City for better acting jobs. Instead of finding happy and fulfilled character performers, she interviewed people who were suddenly strapped for work. The reason? Because so many so-called Hollywood productions were being shot in Eastern Europe.

The term outsourcing sprang immediately to mind and Christina realized that her producer had sent her to cover the wrong story. From long nights spent doing research on the Internet, or with the Lexis/Nexis search engine, Ms. Hong discovered that the Russia East Europe Trade Alliance was the catalyst for the change. She also learned that the organization itself was the brainchild of a single visionary man— financier and internationalist Nikolai Manos, a sometimes controversial figure who earned great wealth and power through his shrewd dealings on the international currency markets.

Suddenly the crowd surged around her, shaking Christina out of her thoughts. She saw people approach a raised stage at the opposite end of the hall and ordered Ben, her cameraman, to stake out a choice position before the press conference began.

“Let me know if you spot Nikolai Manos in this mob,” she said. “I’d like to corner him with a few questions if I get the chance.”

Ben brushed a tumble of brown bangs away from his face. “What’s your fascination with this guy? I’d rather be over at the Chamberlain taking red carpet footage of the stars than watching a bunch of suits pat one another on the back.”

“Manos is a billionaire.” Christina chuckled. “Every girl is interested in a billionaire.”

“You probably know more about this guy than you know about yourself.”

“Go. Shoo,” Christina commanded.

In her heart-of-hearts, Christina knew Ben was right. She did know an awful lot about Manos—he was born in Prague, the son of a Russian physician and a Greek freight tycoon, and orphaned at an early age. After the death of his parents, Manos inherited the bulk of his father’s modest wealth, and multiplied it several times. Then, five years ago at the age of

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fifty, Nikolai Manos altered his life trajectory, to become something of a philanthropist. He established REETA with a large chunk of his personal fortune, in a seemingly altruistic effort to benefit the overall economy of Eastern Europe. Nikolai Manos’s stated goal in creating the organization was peace through prosperity, and Manos was doing his part to bring about a measure of understanding to one of the bitterest political situations in the region—the feud between the Chechen people and Russia, their much resented masters.

All that, Christina knew, could be found in a REETA press release. Digging deeper—much deeper—she had discovered that Nikolai Manos had made enemies in his years of speculation in the money markets.

From the archives of the Wall Street Journal, she learned that among his business rivals Nikolai Manos had a ruthless reputation. In an interview with a former high-level employee in Manos’s money market fund, it was revealed that the financier had knowingly pushed legal boundaries in his quest for profit.

Some of Nikolai Manos’s activities even bordered on the criminal—at least in the view of certain foreign governments. In Singapore he was a wanted criminal because of a scheme he allegedly devised to undermine that nation’s currency. Speaking off the record to a government official, Ms. Hong also learned that Manos was the subject of an ongoing Securities and Exchange Commission investigation in the United States.

But today, as she looked around at all the happy faces, the glamorous stars and producers, the media tycoons and business leaders who came out for this event, it was clear to Christina that the tycoon’s checkered past and current woes did not seem to trouble the elite in this town. For them, the celebrity they turned out to see was Marina Katerine Novartov, the attractive and popular wife of Russian President Vladimir Novartov. Russia’s First Lady was in America to attend the Silver Screen Awards, and meet with America’s President and First Lady in Washington later in the week.

Right now the First Lady of Russia, a former principal dancer for the Bolshoi, stood in the middle of a small stage, swathed in a Diane von Furstenburg dress and grinning at the cameras. As the short press conference began, the woman haltingly answered questions, sometimes with the help of her translator.

Standing beside her on stage was the man who had been Christina Hong’s obsession for the past month or more—Nikolai Manos. A full head shorter than Marina, Manos preferred to hug the sidelines, offering the popular First Lady as the main course for the hungry media. Christina studied the man, going so far as to snap a few photos with her own digital camera, despite the presence of her camera crew.

Manos wore a talc-white London-tailored suit and coal-black silk shirt. At fifty-five he looked a decade younger—beard iron-gray, close-cropped hair more black than white, his square, Slavic face hardly lined with age. His teeth were even and white behind a modest smile, his close-set gray eyes bright and intense as they gazed out at the crowd. Flanking the billionaire bachelor, a brace of blond, blue-eyed men served as bodyguards. All were said to be former members of various Eastern European security forces.

Because the First Lady of Russia spoke slow and

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uncertain English, Christina took the opportunity to shift the topic to the host and yelled out a question.

“Mr. Manos! Mr. Manos! I’m Christina Hong, KHTV Seattle. Is it true you visited the set of Abigail Heyer’s last film in Romania?”

Manos seemed shy and reluctant as he stepped up to the standing microphone. Christina waited anxiously for his reply. She already knew the answer, of course, but was wondering how he would choose to respond.

“I was in Romania, Ms. Hong, visiting a new studio complex my trade organization helped build. I did meet Ms. Heyer. I’m a big fan so it was quite a thrill—”

The philanthropist spoke with a low voice, so low some of the reporters in the back strained to catch his words despite the microphone. He seemed uncomfortable in front of the cameras, and was ready to fade into the background again when Christina bellowed out her follow-up question.

“Mr. Manos. Are you the mystery man Abigail Heyer was spending her free time with during the shoot?”

Nikolai Manos blinked at the question, then focused on Christina Hong. He seemed annoyed somehow, yet managed a polite, if dismissive smile.

“You flatter me, Ms. Hong. I could only hope.”

The crowd exploded with laughter and Nikolai Manos used the interruption as an opportunity to step off the stage. Behind the raised stage, in full view of Christina Hong and the rest of the national press, Manos approached his security head, began a whispered conversation. Christina Hong, who had studied this man for so many weeks, burned to hear his words, strained to read his lips.

***

“Any word?” Nikolai Manos asked, one eye still focused on the persistent reporter from Seattle.

The bodyguard nodded. “Major Salah reports that CTU is flailing. They know nothing. In any case, the hit team has infiltrated the grounds. The men will strike momentarily.”

“Make sure no one is left alive. And kill the CTU agent. I don’t care what Major Salah believes. CTU is getting too close, too quickly.”

2:02:11 P.M. PDT Palm Drive Beverly Hills

Forty minutes into the interrogation, Jack Bauer had obtained no useful information. At the start of the session, he’d placed Ibn al Farad in an upright chair in the middle of the study, the youth’s back to the glass wall, the sun streaming through curtains that were shrouded in white. As Jack began his gentle questioning, Omar al Farad and his sister Nareesa hovered in the background; Omar fretting, Nareesa in tears.

Soon it was apparent Jack’s questions would not be answered. Part of the problem was that his methods of extraction were limited. There was no time for truth serums to be administered, for sleep deprivation techniques or long periods standing in a position of maximum discomfort. And with Ibn al Farad’s father and aunt looking on, more radical physical intimidation was out of the question, though Jack doubted it would work in any case. The youth he interrogated was still in the insidious throes of the amphetamine Karma, and rational replies to hard questions were rare.

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Jack didn’t know how long the effects of the drug would last, or even how much Ibn had absorbed before he’d been captured. Thus far, Ibn had alternated between chanting Muslim prayers and spewing raw, hateful venom at his father. His rational speech came between fits of sobbing, hallucinations, or episodes of trance-like inattention.

Jack began to wonder if shock therapy of some kind would work—either a physical shock, like an electric current or even a dousing in a tub of ice, or perhaps a psychological blow of some kind, one powerful enough to snap the youth back to some semblance of reality. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t know Ibn well enough to know his fears or weaknesses, and his options were running out.

As Ibn lapsed into one of his silent trances, a knock came at the door—an odd knock, Jack noted. Three taps, followed by two, then four more. The Deputy Minister did not react to the strange knock, though he seemed troubled by the interruption. His son Ibn, however, lifted his head and grinned when he heard the staccato knocking, a reaction that concerned Jack.

“What is it?” Omar al Farad demanded, crossing the study to the locked door. “I asked not to be disturbed.”

“It is Major Salah, Deputy Minister,” called Salah through the door. “You have an urgent phone call.”

“Hasan comes,” Ibn muttered, his dazed expression transforming into naked glee.

Jack heard the young man’s words and cried out, “Don’t open the door!”

But Omar al Farad had released the lock already. The door burst open, knocking the small man backward, into the wall.

Nareesa al-Bustani jumped to her feet. “What’s the meaning of—”

Salah’s M-16 shot the elegant woman through the mouth, spraying blood and brains on walls and furniture. Behind the Saudi officer, Jack saw the corpses of two of his guards—obviously killed with a silenced weapon.

Jack drew his Tactical, but had no time to bring the handgun into play before Major Salah leveled the muzzle of his M-16 at Jack’s heart. But just as the man squeezed the trigger, Omar al Farad threw himself on the Saudi officer’s back. The M-16 discharged a spray of bullets, blasting the glass wall behind Jack to shards, showering him with razor-sharp splinters that sliced his flesh in a half-dozen places. While the Deputy Minister struggled with the Major, Jack cut Ibn al Farad loose, intending to drag the young man out of the house. But Ibn was bleeding profusely— he’d been shot by one or more of the M-16’s stray bullets.

With a banshee cry, Major Salah flipped the helpless Saudi minister over his shoulder. Omar landed flat on his back at his son’s feet. Ibn opened his eyes in time to see Major Salah furiously reduce his father’s face to a splattered goo in a long burst of automatic fire. When Omar was dead, the officer again leveled his weapon at Jack. But when he squeezed the trigger, it clicked on an empty chamber. He’d fired on full automatic mode at the fallen Deputy Minister, emptying his magazine.

Jack raised his own weapon and fired twice—a double-tap that sent the Saudi officer’s brains out the back of his head. From another part of the compound, Jack heard smoke grenades pop, more gunfire, and he knew Chet Blackburn and the CTU Tactical Unit had arrived like the cavalry.

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Kicking the M-16 out of Salah’s death grip, Jack bent over Ibn to check his condition. The young man’s lips were white, face pinched with dazed agony. One .22-caliber shot had torn away a chunk of his shoulder muscle, another had entered his left lung and exited through his back. Jack knew the boy didn’t have much time. Through the pain and shock, Ibn stared at the puddle that had been his father’s face.

“Hasan did this to you,” hissed Jack, speaking into the dying man’s ear. “Hasan murdered your family. Betrayed you. Who is he? How did you meet Hasan? Tell me.”

With pale, trembling lips, Ibn al Farad muttered a name. A moment later, Chet Blackburn burst into the room at the head of his assault team, weapon at the ready. He found a bleeding Jack Bauer in a room full of shattered glass and casualties.

Jack looked up. “I have to get back to CTU right away.”

2:11:34 P.M. PDT El Pequeños Pescados Tijuana, Mexico

“Carlos says you’re lookin’ for me.”

Milo glanced up from his warm beer. A woman leaned over him, her back to the busy bar, her long, wine-colored fingernails drumming the chipped table. She smiled but the expression on her full, generous mouth, painted the same dark red, did not extend to her eyes. Her complexion was the color of lightly creamed coffee; her long, blue-black hair danced around her naked shoulders. Her belly-baring halter top, pierced navel, and micro-mini faux-satin skirt

left little to the imagination.

“Are you Brandy?” Milo asked timidly.

The woman moved her long fingernails from the table to the back of his neck. She lightly stroked his skin. “You must have been talkin’ to your gringo friends to hear about me. Hot news travels fast, eh, cowboy?”

“Actually Cole Keegan sent me.”

The woman’s attitude immediately changed. She looked around cautiously, then slid into the chair across the table from him.

“Where is that son of a bitch?!” the woman whispered.

“I’m here to make good on his promise to get you out of here, across the border,” Milo replied. “But first I need your help.”

Brandy shot Milo a sidelong glance. “It’s about the American dude the Chechens are torturing in the lab, isn’t it?”

Milo’s eyes went wide. “They’re torturing him?”

“They emptied out the lab about an hour ago. I knew they brought someone in earlier. Then, when I saw Ordog, I knew...”

“I need to get him out.”

“You need to get me out,” Brandy shot back. “I kicked my drug habit, and I’m ready to split. Only I owe my pimp so much money he’ll never let me go. That’s why I made a deal with Cole. He promised to get me out, across the border where I’ll be safe.”

“I need to get you and my American friend out, or nobody’s going.”

Brandy glowered at Milo as if sizing him up. He

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steadily met her challenging gaze. For a long moment, neither relented. Finally, the girl slapped the table with the palm of her hand.

“Go to the roof of the brick building behind the bar, Cole knows how to get up there. You find a barred window in the roof near Albino Street. Be ready to come through that window at three o’clock, sharp.”