24 Declassified: Trojan Horse

2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 A.M. AND 7 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

One ambulance departed with Jack Bauer’s prisoner strapped to a stretcher, while two paramedics worked on Jack. He let them strip away his shoulder armor, Kevlar vest, knee and elbow pads. He sat in cooperative silence while they patched up his arm and stanched his bleeding nose. But trouble started when one paramedic tried to put Jack on a stretcher, too. He refused, became argumentative. Finally a female emergency worker stepped forward and tried to reason with him.

“I don’t care how hard that helmet is, or how tough you think you are, Officer Bauer. You most likely have a concussion and you ought to get it checked out.”

“Listen. ” Jack checked the woman’s ID tag. “Ms. Besario…Inez. I’m fine. Really. I’m not feeling drowsy. I’m not going into shock. My vision’s fine and I don’t even have a headache.”

Her eyes were large and round and very dark. From her set expression Jack could see Inez Besario was as stubborn as he was. “You have a lump on your head and your nose has barely stopped bleeding.”

Jack smiled, touched her shoulder. “I’ll have the docs check me out after I get back to headquarters. Thank you for your concern.”

She stared up at Jack through long lashes. Then she flashed him a sly smile. “You cops are all alike. You think you’re supermen.”

Jack noticed the wedding band on her finger. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“Special Agent Bauer. Over here.”

Jack turned at the call. Agent Brian McConnell didn’t wait for Bauer to follow. He turned on his heels and walked back to the white van parked near the blown-out door to studio nine.

“Excuse me,” Jack told the paramedic.

She nodded. “Better go, Special Agent Bauer.”

Inez Besario joined the other emergency workers administering first aid to Chet Blackburn’s leg. Jack hurried across the parking lot. He spied Agent Avilla, tightening the flex-ties on one of the cholos who’d worked him over the other day. Finally Jack caught up with Angel One at the door to the battered van. McConnell slapped the dirty side panel twice with the palm of his hand.

“Come,” a muffled voice called from inside.

McConnell jerked the handle and slid the door open. Inside the command center, Jason Peltz sat in a chair bolted to the van’s floor. The man was surrounded by computers, flickering monitors and banks of communications equipment. There was even a small chemical lab inside. A technician with gloved hands was working with vials, testing a sample of the narcotic found inside Utopia Studios. Peltz powered down his station, yanked off his headset, and stepped out of the cluttered van.

“Good job, Bauer. And you can pass on my thanks to Agent Blackburn and his people. Through intraagency cooperation, we shut down the largest methamphetamine laboratory on the West Coast and captured those responsible—”

“Wait a minute,” Jack interrupted. “Did you say methamphetamine lab? This lab was supposed to be producing Karma.”

“It appears our intelligence was faulty,” Peltz said. “My forensics people can’t find evidence this lab was used for anything more than the production of high quality crystal meth.”

Peltz frowned. Like his smile, the mask of expression never reached the man’s eyes. “I’m really sorry, Jack.”

Bauer was angry, but he couldn’t show it. He looked at Brian McConnell, but the man would not meet his gaze. Jack didn’t know if Angel One was suffering from disappointment or guilt — which meant that Jack didn’t know if this was just another DEA snafu, or if he and CTU were being played.

Reflexively, Jack massaged his throbbing temple. “That’s a bad break,” he said evenly. “Where does that leave us, Peltz?”

Peltz sighed, slapped his thigh. “Right now, we say goodbye.”

“What?”

“This is a pretty big bust, and my bosses in Sacramento wanted to make some hay out it.” Peltz paused. “The press is being alerted, Jack, even as we speak. The cameras will be here any minute. I’ve already ordered my men out. You’d best get your team out of here if you don’t want to see the faces of your undercover operatives on the network news.”

Seething, Jack turned and crossed the parking lot. He found Chet Blackburn leaning against an ambulance, studying the bandage around his leg.

“Assemble your team and get them out of here. The press is on its way.”

Blackburn blinked. “That was fast.”

Bauer looked at the white van. “Someone tipped them off. I’ll ride back to headquarters with you.”

“Don’t you want to say hello to your old pal first?”

Jack turned. Chet was grinning. Behind him a man leaned against a blue, late-model Lexus. About the same age as Jack, he wore khaki pants and a polo shirt. His arms and face were deeply tanned under light brown, thinning hair.

“Frank! Frank Castalano.” Jack grabbed the man’s hand.

“Good to see you, Jack.” Castalano slapped his arm and Jack winced. “In the shit again, eh?”

“As I recall, Frank, you were never far from the stink yourself.”

Chet sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any stink on him, Jack. He sure isn’t kicking down doors anymore. All this heat and he hasn’t even broken a sweat.”

Jack grinned. “That’s because he’s Detective Frank Castalano of the Los Angeles Homicide Bureau now. So what are you doing here, partner?”

Frank caught Jack’s eye. “Actually, I wish this were a social call, but it’s not.”

“Chet, you can go ahead back to headquarters and file your report,” said Jack. “I’ll find my own way back.”

Blackburn had caught the exchange. Now he was feeling the chill. “Okay then,” he said “It was nice seeing you, Frank. Keep in touch.”

After Chet and the rest of his tactical assault team piled into a black CTU tactical van and drove away, Detective Castalano opened the passenger side door of his Lexus.

“Let’s go for a ride, Jack.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Frank laughed, moved to slap Bauer’s arm again then checked himself. “Thirty minutes of your time, Jack. That’s all I ask. Then I’ll take you home. You still live in Santa Monica, right?”

They’d made it to the border crossing on Route 5 with seconds to spare. Tony eased the van through the second gate from the right, as per his briefing. The border guard recognized the car and Tony’s disguise and waved the van right through the checkpoint.

The area around the border crossing resembled a war zone, with layers of chain link fences topped by curls of barbed wire, blades glinting in the sun. No plants grew in this no-man’s land. The only movement were the tiny tornadoes of dust that swirled over the scorched stretch of rocky desert.

Along the last few miles, they’d seen more and more bilingual signs. Now everything — the road signs, the advertisements, everything — was in Spanish. Tony steered the van to the bridge. They really weren’t in Tijuana until they crossed the Tijuana River Canal. Because of the drought, the “river” more resembled a muddy creek, and the entire town seemed to be coated with a fine, powdery dust.

Tony rolled down the window to pass a slow moving truck. Fumes filled the cab and Fay’s nose curled. “Somebody ought to Midasize it.”

“That’s leaded gasoline. It’s legal down here. Get used to it,” said Tony.

On the other side of the river, Tony drove a few blocks through a market area, then turned onto Revolucion. Though early, some of the bars and restaurants were open for business. Already the food carts were filling the hot dry morning with the smell of burned charcoal and seared meat.

“Is the whole town like this?” Fay asked.

“This is the tourist area.”

She smiled knowingly. “I get it. This is the sleazy part of town.”

“No. This is the nice part.”

Tony stayed on Revolucion, right through Centro — Tijuana’s downtown — until the avenue ended. He turned left at Amacusac, then made another left on winding Murrieta. On Juan Escutia Tony pulled up in front of a three-story brick building with rickety balconies fronting the structure on the second and third floors. The sign above the single door read la hacienda. Tony cut the engine.

“We’re here,” he said. He released his seatbelt. Fay Hubley reached for the door handle. Tony stopped her.

“Remember your instructions. Use first names only, but remember your cover. I’m Tony Navarro. You’re Fay Kelly. Best not to get into any conversations, and don’t look anyone in the eye. And remember, if we get separated or if something happens to me—”

“Go directly to the United States Consulate and tell them who I am.”

Tony nodded. “All right. Let me activate the security system, and we’ll go.”

He reached under the dash, to a small laser lens hidden under the upholstery near his left foot. Tony flatted his thumb against the glass eye, pressed. His thumbprint verified, Tony heard a beep resembling a seatbelt warning tone. That sound told him a half-dozen devices had been activated, making the van impenetrable and immobile. The engine was impossible to start, even if the ignition was bypassed, and the wheels locked with a built-in system that worked like a traffic cop’s car boot. Even a tow truck would have trouble hauling the van away

While Tony secured the vehicle, Fay stared through the tinted windshield at the neighborhood. The area was mostly composed of ramshackle two- and three-story wooden or brick buildings. Single-story shops were squeezed between more durable buildings, mostly produce markets and food stalls. Laundry waved like banners from dirty ropes strung between the buildings. The few trees Fay could see were brown from the persistent drought.

“God, I can’t believe we’re staying here.”

Tony understood the woman’s jitters. This was the first time Fay Hubley was doing field work, and she wasn’t technically even a field agent. Her training was limited to several briefings in the past twenty-four hours. And on top of that, Fay Hubley probably had never even walked into a dive like La Hacienda, let alone spent the night there.

“Look. I’ve stayed at this inn before. It’s not as bad as it looks,” Tony told her in a tone meant to be reassuring. “I’m recognized here, but not known. No one should mess with us. We’ll be fine.”

Outside, the heat hit them like a hammer. It was already close to one hundred degrees, and the day would only get hotter. Gas fumes and cooking smells filled the air, mingling with the ever-present dust. As soon as they exited the vehicle, the pair was mobbed by nearly a dozen children — beggars. Tony moved through the horde as if he were wading through the surf. Fay grinned at the children, and Tony shot her a warning look.

“Ignore them,” he barked. “And the flower girls over there, too. They’re probably pickpockets.”

“What is this, Oliver Twist?”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“I’m from Ohio, Tony. I told you I’m from Ohio.”

“Forget it.”

Tony led the way as they pushed through a flyspecked screen door. Fay heard a persistent and angry buzzing, looked up. Her nose wrinkled in disgust when she saw a long strip of orange flypaper covered with writhing black bodies. The pest strip was dangling above her head. Fay hurried through the door.

It was ten degrees cooler inside La Hacienda’s small lobby. The floor consisted of multicolored tiles, some of them chipped and stained. The peeling walls were pale blue, a large ceiling fan turned in lazy circles high above them, and near the door sat several empty chairs, newspapers scattered on the floor around them.

Tony stepped up to a wooden partition covered with scratched green Formica. A door opened, and a young man greeted them in Spanish. Tony replied in kind. Tony booked the room, paid in U.S. dollars, and signed the registry. Then they climbed a flight of shabbily carpeted stairs to the second floor. At the top of the steps, a portrait of Mexican President Vicente Fox grinned at them beneath the flag of Mexico.

“Room six, here we are.”

Tony turned the key, pushed the door open.

The room wasn’t as bad as Fay feared it would be. Two curtained windows, a dresser, a small battered desk, two rickety-looking beds, a lumpy armchair, and a telephone. A tiny bathroom next to a walk in closet. Enough room for a shower but not a bathtub.

The room was hot and stuffy. Fay opened the heavy curtains to find the windows were barred. She reached around the iron barrier and unlocked the window, but she could only slide it open about six inches before a security bolt stopped her.

Tony dropped his backpack on the bed near the window. The springs squeaked like irritated mice. He opened the curtain blocking the other window, found the air conditioner. It rattled so much when he flipped it on, he thought it might fall out the window. But the unit soon settled down and began pumping outcoolair.

“Fay, start setting up. I’m going back down to the truck to bring up the rest of the equipment. When I get back, we’ll contact CTU — we’re going to need an update on Lesser’s activities over the past four hours before we can start our operation here.”

Detective Castalano drove southeast on north San Fernando Road, toward Fletcher Drive, then headed south on California Route 2. Traffic was heavy already, and the going was slow. The police radio inside the Lexus crackled once. Frank turned it off.

“It must be nice, living so close to the ocean,” Castalano said. “Do much surfing these days?”

Jack Bauer shook his head. “Nah. Too busy with work. The family. Been teaching Kim to surf, though. Sometimes she even pretends to enjoy it.”

Castalano chuckled. “Yeah, family time can be far more complicated than the job. How’s Teri?”

“Itching to get back to work, full time. That’s fine with me, but she’s not having much luck finding work that suits her. How’s Rachel, and Harry?”

“Rachel’s great, still teaching. Harry’s twelve now and a holy terror. Second year in Little League—”

“No kidding?”

“The team sucks, they haven’t won a game yet but he loves it. Nat Greer is the coach. You remember Nat?”

“Sure. How’s he like retirement?”

“Forced retirement due to injuries. He’d be the first to clarify that, which tells you all you need to know about how Nat’s enjoying his golden years.”

Castalano merged onto U.S. 101, heading north. Traffic was thick, but moving.

“I would ask you if you missed the excitement of the old days, Jack, but I can see your life is still full of thrills. What was going on back there on Andrita Street?”

“My agency was working with the DEA on a drug bust. It will be all over the evening news, apparently.”

“Still kicking down doors.”

Jack stared at the road ahead, rubbed his temple. “When I have to.”

“I always got the impression the LAPD was holding you back,” Castalano said. “Too many drills, too many training sessions, not enough real-time action. The rest of us were humping to keep up with the training, the missions — shortchanging our families and burning our candles at both ends. Meanwhile you were bored.”

“I was younger then.”

The traffic stopped moving suddenly. Castalano braked and the Lexus rolled to a halt. The detective turned to face Jack.

“Nat Greer told me you were always a thrill seeker. Says you were a biker, a surfer, back in high school. before the military. He said you got into some secret shit, too. Special ops stuff.”

“Nat talks too much.”

Castalano swerved onto the Sunset Boulevard ramp. Traffic was lighter off the highway, and moving pretty steadily along Sunset. The sun beat through the tinted windows. Jack’s head began to throb and he was tired of banalities. “Where are we going?” he asked.

Castalano answered Jack’s question with one of his own. “Do you ever work freelance these days, Jack? Private detective or consulting work, maybe? Special work for some corporation?”

“No. That’s impossible with the job I do now.”

“I knew you guys do spooky stuff at CTU. I didn’t figure there’d be much opportunity for moonlighting.”

Jack was unable to mask his impatience any longer. “Look, Frank, what the hell is this about?”

Castalano’s face was grim, eyes straight ahead. They were climbing the hills now, on a winding road. “I can tell you what this is about, Jack. But it’s better if I show you. And I can do that in another minute or two. We’re almost there.”

Near the crest of a hill, Frank made a sharp right turn. The Lexus pulled into a narrow driveway fairly well masked by the trees around it. Despite the drought, the lawns, the trees were greener, more lush up here.

“We’re in Beverly Hills,” said Jack.

Though the driveway continued on, Frank rolled up to circular-stone structure not much larger than a freestanding garage. The Lexus stopped under an arch, where a small wall fountain trickled. In the cool shade, Frank cut the engine while Jack studied his surroundings.

The building had a large glass door behind a cast iron gate. The gate was wide open, the door ajar. Farther along the driveway, Jack spied several other vehicles huddled together under a copse of spreading eucalyptus trees — two unmarked police cars, two ambulances, and a black crime scene van. Jack also noticed a tan Rolls-Royce convertible with the top down. Except for a plainclothes detective loitering around and trying to look nonchalant, no one else was in sight. All of the vehicles were deep enough inside the grounds to be invisible from the road, and Jack thought that was intentional. The authorities were deliberately trying to hide something.

“Have you ever heard of Hugh Vetri?” Frank asked.

The name jogged something in Jack’s memory. “Maybe. Should I know him?”

“Let’s go,” said Frank. “I’ll introduce you.”

As they climbed out of the car, a member of the LAPD Crime Scene Unit came through the glass door. The man saw Frank with a stranger and frowned. He approached, handed them both latex gloves.

“We’re finished in the bedroom and the study. We’re working on the nanny’s room now,” the forensics man told Castalano. “But I still don’t want anyone going in there who doesn’t have to.”

“We’ll make it quick,” Castalano replied. The other man had more questions so he and the detective huddled for a few minutes. Not wishing to eavesdrop, Jack moved a discreet distance away, pulled on the gloves. The morning sun was already scorching, even in the cool shade. Jack massaged his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut to block out the glare for a moment. Finally, Castalano broke away from the other man, waved Jack through the door.

A moment later, Jack found himself in an air-conditioned glass-enclosed entranceway which housed a wide staircase made of a single steel beam stacked with marble stairs. Hugh Vetri’s mansion had been constructed vertically, down the side of the hill. Each of its three glass-fronted stories shared a spectacular view of the valley below, already swathed in haze and smog.

“Down here, Jack.”

Castalano led Jack down the curved staircase. Modern art and hanging sculptures dominated the walls, the ceiling. The lamps, the furniture resembled the art; it was all made of cold steel, glass and chrome. When they arrived on the first level, Jack heard many voices. The tone was professional, but their voices muted, respectful, whispered. That’s when Jack knew someone had died in this place.

“Who is this Hugh Vetri?” Jack asked, his professional instincts aroused. “A movie star or director?”

“Vetri’s an independent producer,” Castalano replied. “A couple of years ago he made some fantasy movie that turned into the blockbuster of the year. He’s about to release the sequel, or he was.”

“Was?”

Castalano halted in front of an ornately carved oaken door, pushed it open. “Meet Hugh Vetri.”

The smell hit Jack first. Spilled blood, emptied bowels and bladder — the stink of the abattoir. His eyes followed a trail of clotted brown blood that led to a large oak desk. A man was sprawled across it, arms and legs out, like a frog on a dissecting table. Leather belts and silk ties had been used to bind the man’s wrists and ankles, and like some biological specimen, the victim had been eviscerated. Ribbons of entrails lay scattered across the room. On the floor, a chunk of the man’s liver gleamed dully in the sunlight streaming through the glass wall. The organ lay amid the scattered contents of the desk top — only the corpse and a computer monitor remained on the oak surface. The computer was running, on the monitor a screensaver with an ocean view played in an endless loop.

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“How did the murderer get in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did Hugh Vetri get this information?”

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

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

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

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

Jack nodded. “Shoot.”

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

“Not a clue,” Jack replied.