24 Declassified: Operation Hell Gate

16. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 P.M. AND 1 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

The Acela had rolled into New York’s Penn Station at 11:57 a.m., four minutes ahead of schedule. Exiting onto the cavernous underground platform, Special Agent Carlos Ferrer shifted his heavy suitcase, followed the tide of passengers to the escalator and up to Penn Station’s main concourse.

When Ferrer departed Washington that morning, he had been told that CTU Los Angeles had not made contact with Jack Bauer in more than four hours. Reestablishing communication was Ferrer’s first priority. He paused under the massive hanging sign that displayed arrival and departure times and track numbers of trains with names like the Yankee Clipper, the Metroliner, the Pennsylvanian, and the Washingtonian. Agent Ferrer doubted that finding Bauer would be as easy as making a phone call, but he had to give itashot.

Unfortunately he could not acquire a signal— probably because he was beneath massive Madison Square Garden. Agent Ferrer turned, searching for an exit when he saw a man approaching him. The stranger had a dark tan, deep brown eyes, and sun-streaked yellow-blond hair. He grinned as he stepped into range, extended his hand in greeting.

“Special Agent Ferrer? I’m Jack Bauer, CTU.” The man flashed his ID. “I just got word you were on your way in from D.C., so I came to meet you.”

The FBI’s Los Angeles headquarters was one of a cluster of Federal buildings on the corner of Wilshire Drive and Veteran Boulevard, between the UCLA Medical Center and Westwood Park. Despite rush hour traffic, Tony Almeida and Captain Schneider drove there in thirty minutes. They displayed their false IDs to security and were immediately cleared.

Jeffrey Dodge, the Los Angeles District Administrator of the FBI office in Los Angeles, met them at the elevator. A balding, heavy-set man of middle age, Dodge displayed the instant affability of a trained bureaucrat. “Ms. Van Dyne, Mr. Newsom, welcome to the Bureau. I had no idea you were coming.”

Tony smiled, shook the man’s beefy hand. Then Jessica stepped forward, brushed aside her windblown, straw-blond hair. “Things have been just a whirlwind since Senator Baxter accepted a chair on the Senate Intelligence Committee,” she said breathlessly. When they shook hands, Jessica’s lingered in his.

“Please, follow me.” Dodge ushered the pair into his spacious corner office, closed the door behind them. He had trouble keeping his eyes off Jessica Schneider, who wore a black pin-striped jacket over a matching mini-skirt and stiletto heels that emphasized her tanned, athletic legs. Under the jacket, her wispy blouse was open to display the Captain’s other attributes.

While Dodge escorted Jessica to a chair, Tony studied his surroundings. The Bureau Chief’s office was spacious, its faux wood-trimmed walls decorated with framed diplomas, portraits of his two adolescent children, along with vacation snapshots. Images of the former Mrs. Dodge were noticeably absent, suggesting a bitter split. There was a photo of Bureau Chief Dodge posing with the current President. On a large, polished oaken desk, Tony spied what he was looking for — Dodge’s keyboard and monitor. The computer was idle; on-screen the FBI insignia floated on a red, white, and blue background.

Dodge took position behind his desk, waited politely for Jessica to sit down. She did — directly in front of him, crossing her long, naked legs.

“Well,” Dodge said, visibly nervous, “how can I help California’s esteemed Senator?”

Jessica leaned forward, smiled. “I’ll just get right to the point, Mr. Dodge. During her long political career, Senator Bonny Baxter has been unfairly cast as a politician who is hostile to our nation’s law enforcement and intelligence services—”

“Oh, now I wouldn’t go that far,” said Dodge.

“No, no, Mr. Dodge, it’s true. My boss is fully aware of her reputation; that’s why I came here today. You see, Senator Baxter would like to show America that she can forge strong relationships with America’s premier law enforcement agencies, starting with the FBI.”

“I think that’s a fine idea.”

“The Senator thought you’d feel that way.”

“She did?”

“She even mentioned you by name. And I can see why she chose you, Mr. Dodge. You’re quite… photogenic.”

Dodge grinned shyly, fumbled with his tie. Tony noted how pronounced Jessica’s Texas drawl had become. He smiled to himself. Obviously that whole debutante thing was something she could turn off or on at will — and, he had to concede, a fairly handy little tool for undercover work.

“Well, Ms. Van Dyne—”

“Call me Tandi, Mr. Dodge.”

“Well, Tandi. What can I do to help?”

“The Senator was thinking a photo opportunity, right here at FBI headquarters, with its director. A nice dramatic shot, with a really interesting background.”

“How about our new training facilities? They’re located right here in the basement. We just opened the newly renovated wing last week.”

“Why that would be simply delightful, Mr. Dodge. Could you possibly show me around?”

“By all means.” Jeffrey Dodge rose, placed a hand on Jessica’s shoulder. On their way out Dodge completely ignored Tony — and that was the plan.

While Jessica kept the man distracted, Tony leaned across the desk and flipped the keyboard upside down. He slapped the tiny self-adhesive device in the palm of his hand onto the bottom of the keyboard, then put the keyboard down. In less than three seconds the job was done.

Tony knew that a routine security sweep would immediately uncover the CTU spyware device, but such measures were taken only once or twice a week. In the meantime the tiny transmitter would broadcast every keystroke on the FBI director’s keypad back to CTU headquarters. The next time Jeffrey Dodge logged onto his computer, Jamey Farrell would have his password. Using it, she could then download the classified FBI files on Frank Hensley from the Bureau’s own database.

Wexler Business Storage was housed in a dreary six-story brick building on Houston Street in the West Village. The chipped, over-painted cornerstone revealed the date of construction as 1908. A cast-iron fire escape climbed the front of the red-brick edifice. The arched windows had once admitted sunlight, but were now shuttered with dense black glass.

An SUV identical to the one Dante Arete had perished inside was parked at the curb. Behind it, a New York City police car with three officers gathered around it.

Jack dragged Caitlin back, peered around the corner.

“What’s the matter, Jack? Don’t you want to go in there?”

“I can’t. Thanks to a corrupt FBI agent, the police are looking for me. I can’t risk being spotted.”

Caitlin peeked around the corner, studied the building for a moment. “Why don’t I go?”

“That’s crazy.”

Caitlin faced him. “Look. There’s a help wanted sign on the door. I’ll pretend to apply for the job. Maybe I can check the place out. If you tell me what you’re looking for I can—”

“No,” said Jack. “I have a better idea…”

“I’ve got Jeffrey Dodge’s password,” Jamey said, her fingers poised over the keyboard. She typed the code into a secure data line. “Okay, I’m in.”

Five minutes later, Nina was scanning Special Agent Frank Hensley’s personnel file on screen. She learned that Hensley had many Bureau citations, most earned for undercover assignments. But as they thought, Hensley’s most recent investigation centered on Dante Arete’s Brooklyn gang, the Columbia Street Posse.

The case had not gone well; at least that’s what Hensley reported to his superiors. The Posse outsmarted the FBI at every turn, rooted out informants, and when Hensley’s partner tried to take extraordinary means to get a conviction, he was murdered by Dante or his lieutenants — at least that’s what Hensley told his bosses. But Nina knew Hensley was a liar, so he might be lying about his partner’s death, too.

Going back through his personnel file, Nina discovered Hensley was a 1991–92 Gulf War veteran of the

U.S. Army. He had been a prisoner of war, too. A captive of the Iraqis in Baghdad for nearly three months.

The capture took place when Hensley had been on routine patrol along the border of Occupied Kuwait. His men had been killed by an elite Iraqi unit, but since Hensley was the highest-ranking officer, his life had been spared and he was spirited to Baghdad to act as a human shield. Hensley was released at the end of hostilities, along with all the other American and Coalition prisoners. He left the Army, finished earning his law degree, and took a job with the Bureau.

Nina cursed. The files revealed nothing. They were the history of an exemplary citizen — war hero, law enforcement officer, dedicated civil servant.

“He’s divorced,” said Ryan Chappelle, startling Nina. She turned to find him staring at the monitor. “It says so right there. He was married for three years. Her maiden name was Katherine Elizabeth Felloes and she was born in Los Angeles, attended Beverly Hills High School.”

Jamey cross-referenced the name on a dozen databases. The New York files came up without hits, so she widened her search parameters.

“Got her,” Jamey declared a moment later. “Mrs. Katherine Hensley returned to Los Angeles a year ago. She lives in Brentwood now. Runs an art studio out of her home.”

The silence was cut by a gentle chirp. Hensley swung his chair away from the window and its view of Foley Square, placed the cell phone to his ear.

“My brother is dead.” The voice on the other end was flat, emotionless.

“I know. I just received word,” Hensley replied. “You said your brother could handle Bauer. Apparently you were wrong. Do you want me to take care of him myself?”

“No,” Taj replied. “Thanks to Felix Tanner and our mutual friend in Washington, Bauer will die very soon.”

Taj Ali Khalil ended the conversation. Hensley cursed, tossed the cell on his desk.

Since Dante Arete’s capture by CTU, things had become increasingly more complicated, until he was forced to sacrifice the entire Atlantic Avenue cell just to stop Jack Bauer. Taj went along with the plan, confident his brother could finish Jack Bauer. But somehow the CTU agent managed to escape the trap they had set for him.

Now it was up to Taj and his personal assassin, Omar Bayat.

Shoeless, Doris walked into Jamey’s workstation and plunked down on a chair. Jamey and Milo had been surfing through the FBI database. They both looked up.

“I cracked the final code,” Doris said. “This new-type North Korean security software is tough, but with Frankie’s help I broke down the last firewall two minutes ago. I’ve got all the data on screen right now.”

“What did you find?” Milo asked.

Doris waved the question aside. “It’s, like, instructions, I’m sure. But I can’t read them.”

“Why can’t you read them? Are they in some kind of code?”

“It’s in Korean. I just need a translation program.”

Jamey and Milo were both puzzled. “Aren’t you Korean?” Jamey asked.

“Duh, I was born in California,” Doris replied.

“But it says on your profile you’re a linguist.”

“I am a linguist. I speak fluent French and Russian. I wanted to be a ballerina when I was a little girl, so what’s the point of learning Korean? Have you ever heard of any great Korean ballet companies?”

Jamey passed Doris a zip drive. “Here’s a translation program. Let me know when you’re finished…”

Caitlin crossed the sidewalk, walked in front of the squad car parked at the curb. Only one officer was there now, sitting behind the wheel. He offered Caitlin a polite smile as she passed.

A bell rang when Caitlin entered the waiting room of Wexler Business Storage. Sunlight streamed through the streaked plate-glass window; rickety steel chairs lined the dirty beige walls. A large poster listed storage bin sizes and rental fees, on a monthly and yearly basis. The waiting room was deserted, so she approached the counter.

She leaned over the scratched and dented surface, to peer behind the counter. Caitlin noticed a door, completely papered over with a huge five-year calendar. Next to that Caitlin saw a small office through a window in the interior wall.

The door opened and an elderly, heavy-set black woman emerged. On the jacket of her pantsuit a plastic nametag identified the woman as Mamie Greene. A blue cap with the Yankees logo topped her short, tightly curled white hair. She smiled at Caitlin. “Bin number?”

Caitlin blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“What’s your bin number, miss?”

“Oh, I’m not here about a storage bin. I saw the help wanted sign on the door and, well, I—”

The woman made a face. “You’ll have to fill out an application. Follow me.”

Mamie Greene lifted a section of the counter and Caitlin stepped through to the other side. They went through the door, into the office where the woman ushered Caitlin to a chair in front of a cluttered desk. Mamie crossed the room, rifled through a filing cabinet. When she returned she laid a sheaf of papers in front of Caitlin.

“Do you have a copy of your résumé?”

“My what?”

“Your résumé. You have worked before?”

“Yes, oh yes,” Caitlin replied.

“Can you use a computer? Word processor?”

“No, not really. But I learn quick.”

“Can you use a Xerox machine? We only use Xerox around here. Company policy.”

“I used one once. In a Staples store.”

“You better fill out the form, miss.”

“But I don’t have a pen.”

Mamie Greene threw up her hands. “I’ll give you a ballpoint, we have lots of those. But nobody’s using my felt tip.”

A suitable pen was found, and Caitlin began filling out the application. A moment later the doorbell rang again.

“I’ll be right back,” said Mamie.

Caitlin watched through the window as Mamie Greene spoke with the UPS man. Then she reached into her pocket and took out the lighter Jack had bought for her at a convenience store. She quickly stuffed a bunch of loose papers into the bottom of a nearly empty aluminum trash can, touched them with fire. Flames leaped up immediately, too many.

As per Jack’s instructions, she tossed more paper onto the fire, not quite smothering it but almost. She wanted a lot of smoke and a little bit of fire, nothing more dangerous than that.

She looked for a place to hide the trash can, heard Mamie Greene say goodbye to the delivery man. Hurriedly Caitlin slid the smoldering can into a walk-in closet, too quickly to see what was inside. She only just made it back to her chair when Mamie returned.

“You aren’t done yet?”

Caitlin smiled sheepishly. “There’s a lot of writing.”

“That’s why we have computers.”

“Are you the manager, then? Or is it Mr. Wexler?”

Mamie Greene chuckled. “Mr. Wexler died in 1957. I was working here then, too. I was the assistant office manager when Mr. Wexler was in charge. I was the office manager when his son took over the business. And I’m still the office manager now, after Junior sold the company to that Arab fellow last year.”

“I see.”

Mamie cocked her head, sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke? I smell smoke. ”

The woman spied brown smoke wafting out of the closet. “My stars!” she cried.

With a speed that was impressive considering her advanced age and considerable girth, Mamie hurried across the room and yanked an unwieldy fire extinguisher off the wall. Before Mamie could drag the heavy extinguisher to the fire, Caitlin hit the red emergency button on the wall next to the desk.

Shrill fire alarms echoed throughout the building. Stubbornly, Mamie crossed the room with the bulky extinguisher. But when she yanked the closet door open, roaring hot smoke rolled out, followed by licking orange flames. The woman squawked and dropped the canister. Caitlin peered inside the closet. In the rippling flames, she could see cardboard boxes and reams of papers lining the walls.

“My god!” Caitlin gasped. She wasn’t supposed to set a real fire, only make some smoke. She jumped when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Honey, let’s get out of here,” Mamie cried.

Caitlin raced into the waiting room, hands clutching her head. She didn’t even have to fake panic as she began to scream.

“Fire! Fire! Mother of Mercy, the whole building is on fire!”

Three cups of joe and two Cokes. Liam had to piss but he was still knackered. He’d been up all night, mugged, almost run down by a subway, caught in a police raid, then an explosion — no wonder he couldn’t keep his bleedin’ peepers open!

He swung the stool around, ready to make a trip to the head, when he spied the Lynch brothers’ Mercedes swing into a parking spot in front of the computer store across the road.

Finally.

Liam fumbled in his pockets, dumped money for the bill and a tip on the counter. Then he lifted the metal attaché case and left the diner. He would be glad to get this over with. Tell Shamus about the raid in Brooklyn, and get rid of the case — he’d been carrying the damned thing for nearly twelve hours!