24 Declassified: Trojan Horse

5. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Langley’s in Virginia.”

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

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

“You need any help with that?”

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

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

Milo gaped. “Richard Lesser.”

Jamey looked up. “How did you know?”

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

“The Goddess Silica?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you isolate it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you give me an update, Captain?”

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

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

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

“What’s your plan, Captain?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I heard about those kids in the bus.”

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

“Is he armed, Detective?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Detective Castalano drew his service revolver, his vow to capture the man alive forgotten in the savagery of the attack. A wall of State Troopers closed around the thrashing men on the ground, more Tasers flashed. Castalano saw pops and sparks, heard a sharp cry of anguish. The stench of ozone stung his nostrils, mingling with a raw smell of sweat, the metallic stench of blood. Sharp copper tips pierced flesh, electricity crackled and the suspect jerked and howled, yet continued to fight.

Castalano pushed through the wall of muscle and black leather. His foot came down on the pavement and he slipped in a pool of blood — the Trooper’s carotid artery had been ripped open. Twitching, eyes wide in astonishment, the man poured his life on the ground while the maniac tore at him. Finally a booted foot crashed down on the back of the attacker’s head. The man grunted, went limp. Captain Lang followed with a second kick that sent the blood-soaked fugitive rolling off the Trooper and across the concrete. The other Troopers descended on the struggling man like vultures, punching and kicking.

“No!” Castalano yelled, “take him alive.”

More angry cries. Someone jerked the suspect to his feet. Though blood poured from his nose and his head lolled to one side, the man was still conscious. For the first time, Castalano got a good look at the suspect. He was five-nine or ten, maybe twenty-five, Middle Eastern. His clothes, his face were caked with gore. Fresh rivulets of blood rolled down his chin, his neck. Some of it was his. Most belonged to the State Trooper. There was old blood, too. Caked and brown. Hugh Vetri?

The man’s eyes remained unfocused. Then he caught Castalano watching him. Helpless, his arms cuffed behind him, a dozen hands restraining his hands and legs, the man spat a mouthful of hot blood in Castalano’s face.

“Hasan bin Sabah! The old man on the mountain! He sees all and when he moves his hand, no infidel will be safe.”

The man spoke through battered lips and broken teeth, his eyes wild. Yet the words were spoken clearly, precisely, in an Oxford-educated accent.

What followed his pronouncement was an incoherent scream. The man’s eyes glazed once again and he struggled anew. His cries were in another language now. Castalano figured it was some form of Arabic because the words Allah Akbar were repeated many times — never a good sign.

“Get him into the chopper,” said Castalano in disgust. “I’m flying this bastard back to headquarters for interrogation.”

As the suspect was hauled away to the clearing to await the helicopter, Detective Castalano stumbled suddenly, leaned against the hood of the smashed Jaguar. Gagging, he yanked a handkerchief out of his pants and wiped the gore off his face.

He peered inside the Jaguar. The tan leather seats were brown with dried blood, but he could see no knife or any kind of murder weapon. He did notice several empty glass vials on the floor of the car. They looked like crack vials. Then Castalano saw a vial that was still full. It contained a blue crystalline substance, definitely not crack cocaine or crystal meth— he’d seen enough of both to know the difference. The crime scene unit from L.A. had not yet arrived and Castalano decided not to wait. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, reached into the vehicle and fumbled for the vial, which he quickly pocketed.

When he was finished, Castalano looked up to find Captain Lang looming over him.

“Good job,” the detective said hoarsely. “How’s your man doing?”

A shadow fell across Lang’s face. He shook his head.

Jack Bauer entered the conference room, clad in char-coal-gray slacks with a knife-sharp crease, a newly pressed cobalt-blue shirt. Ryan Chappelle, presiding over the hastily assembled meeting, looked up from his chair at the head of the table.

“Good of you to join us, Jack.”

Jamey Farrell sat tapping a pencil. Next to her Milo Pressman shuffled the pages of a print out. Nina Myers was there, too. She offered Jack a warning look.

“Sorry about the mix-up Ryan. I should have returned to headquarters after the raid—”

“That would have been nice,” Chappelle interrupted. “Then I wouldn’t have heard the bad news from the television report.”

“We had bad intelligence, that’s all—”

“Let’s drop this subject, Special Agent Bauer. Jamey Farrell and Milo Pressman brought me up to speed on that other matter.”

Jack took a seat opposite Nina. “The other matter?” he said.

“The computer you sent us for analysis this morning,” said Jamey. “Your instincts were correct. What we found connects up with another investigation—”

Chappelle stared at Jamey. “Are you saying Jack knew what was on this computer?”

“He reads the daily reports,” Jamey replied. “He knows Richard Lesser is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.”

Jack knew Jamey was trying to cover for him, but he wasn’t having it. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you saying this computer ties in with the Richard Lesser investigation?”

This time it was Milo Pressman who spoke. “It sure does, Jack. There was a pirated movie download inside the hard drive, a copy of Gates of Heaven. I traced it right back to Lesser’s server down in Mexico. If that isn’t enough proof, there’s more. Inside of that download there was a hidden program — a Trojan horse virus.”

“You said it was a pirated copy of Gates of heaven,” said Jack. “That makes no sense.”

Chappelle spoke up. “Enlighten us, Jack. Start with telling us how and where you got this computer.”

Jack told them about Detective Frank Castalano’s visit, the murders at Hugh Vetri’s house — still not public news. He carefully left out the existence of the CD-ROM still in his pocket and the personal information on Bauer and his family the disk contained, hoping no one would ask why an LAPD detective contacted him in the first place.

“I see Jack’s point now. Why would Hugh Vetri download his own movie?” Chappelle asked.

“He knew the film was pirated. Maybe he wanted to see what the thieves really had,” offered Milo. “If he saw the pirate version, he might be able to trace it backward, to the thief who stole the digital file in the first place.”

“Or maybe he knew about the Trojan horse and wanted to stop the virus before it spread,” said Jamey.

“Any clue what this virus does?” Jack asked.

Milo shrugged. “We turned it loose inside an isolated computer. So far, nothing’s happened. The virus is encrypted too well to crack easily. We might have to reverse-engineer the sucker to figure out what it’s designed to do.” Milo paused. “That, or we can catch Little Dick Lesser. If I know the guy like I think I do, he’ll crack pretty easily.”

Jamey closed her eyes and quietly sighed. How stupid can Milo be, she wondered. And instead of shutting up, he just keeps on talking, digging his grave a little deeper with every dumb word out of his stupid mouth.

“Dick Lesser’s fingerprints are all over this program,” Milo declared, throwing his hands in the air.

“This is just the kind of crap he used to pull at Stanford!”

Ryan Chappelle looked at Milo and grinned.

Here it comes, thought Jamey.

“Mr. Pressman. Are you saying you know this Richard Lesser?”

Milo, of course, never saw the hammer. “Yeah, sure,” he said, nodding. “I went to graduate school with him…When I was a TA, I had an office right next to his.”

Chappelle placed the palms of his hands on the table, pushed himself to his feet. “Mr. Pressman, I’m authorizing you to take a helicopter to the Mexican border, pick up a car from CTU’s safe house and head south. I want you to link up with Almeida in Tijuana as soon as possible.”

Milo blinked. “Hey, wait a minute. I don’t do espionage. I’m not a field agent.”

“Neither is Fay Hubley. You’ll join her in Mexico, too. Don’t worry. Tony will be there to handle security while you hunt for Lesser.”

“Me?” Milo cried, hand over his heart. “How am I gonna hunt Richard Lesser?”

“You know this guy,” Ryan replied. “Lesser’s psychology, quirks, things not found in any file.”

“But—”

“Get on it, Milo. Now.”

Chappelle crossed the conference room. He paused at the door. “And Jack — I’ll expect your after-action report on this morning’s botched raid on my desk within the hour.”

When Chappelle was gone, Jamey whirled on Milo. “I told you not to shoot your mouth off in front of Chappelle. You thought Chappelle was your pal. Now he’s sending you into harm’s way.”

Nina rose, waited at the door for Jack. He waved her off, approached Jamey Farrell.

“I need to see you in my office,” Jack said softly. “Twenty minutes.”

“Okay, boss,” Jamey replied with a puzzled expression.

Jack caught up to Nina in the hallway. “Thanks again, Nina.”

“What happened this morning, Jack?” she asked.

“You mean the raid? Like I told Chappelle. Bad intel, that’s all. It was a meth lab. Nothing more. Still haven’t found the Karma lab.”

“Well the DEA is making hay over the bust anyway. I saw the district head on the news ten minutes ago.”

Jack frowned.

“Stroke of genius bringing in that computer,” Nina continued. “Nothing like a diversion to redirect Ryan Chappelle’s attention away from a major snafu. I’m impressed. You’re starting to play bureaucratic politics like a chess master.”

Jack sighed. “I just want to do my job, Nina. That’s all.”

The curtains were drawn, the room was dark, the hum of the air conditioner a constant, white noise. When the knock came, a single rap, Tony rose from the bed and looked through the peephole.

Ray Dobyns stood on the other side of the scarred wood, rocking on his heels. The portly man wore a smug smile that told Tony the informant had found something.

Tony opened the door. Dobyns didn’t enter. Instead, he stood on the threshold, gazing past Tony at Fay, her face illuminated by the light from the monitor.

“Hey, old buddy. I was wondering if I might have a word with you. In private.” As he spoke, Dobyns’s eyes lingered on Fay, who pointedly ignored them both.

Tony slipped into the hallway, closed the door behind him. “What’s up?” he asked in a low voice.

“I think I may have a lead on Lesser,” Dobyns replied. As he spoke, he dabbed beads of sweat from his upper lip with a stained handkerchief. “Ever hear of a bar called Little Fishes? The address is Cinco Albino, just west of Centro.”

Tony shook his head.

“Yeah, well, Little Fishes is more than a bar. There’s a brothel upstairs. They deal drugs there, and stolen goods move through the warehouse behind the whorehouse. The whole set up is reputedly run by the SS.”

SS was short for Seises Seises. A Mexican outfit named after the prison cellblock—66 — where the gang originated. The SS was the most recent criminal gang to spring from the corrupt and brutal Mexican penal system. So far their activities had been confined to Northern Mexico and the Baja, but like all cancers, Tony knew their contagion was bound to spread.

“What’s this got to do with Lesser?”

Dobyns shifted uneasily. “Word is a gringo came to the Little Fishes about a week ago. Brought a lot of computer shit with him. Been holed up on the third floor of that dump ever since. Sound about right to you, Navarro?”

Tony nodded.

“The bad news is the guy’s about to bolt,” Dobyns continued. “Been packing all day. He might be gone already.”

“Take me there now,” Tony commanded.

Dobyns nodded. “I thought that would be your reaction. But messin’ with the SS is gonna cost a bit more.”

“I’ll up the ante to twenty thousand. That’s the limit.”

Tony could see the war behind the man’s eyes, caught the moment when greed won over survival instinct.

“Can I trust you, Navarro?”

Tony met the man’s gaze. “If we find Lesser, then we both make out. If he gets away, we both get nothing.”

Dobyns nodded. “Okay. But we leave now, before our mark goes underground.”

9:59:11 A.M.PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Jack Bauer had just handed over the disk to Jamey Farrell for analysis and sent her on her way — after exacting a promise that she would divulge her findings only to him.

He was about to tackle the after-action report on the morning raid when his phone warbled. “Bauer.”

“Special Agent Bauer? This is Detective Jerry Alder, LAPD. I’m Frank Castalano’s partner.”

Jack sat up. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“Frank wanted you to know he’s captured a suspect in the Beverly Hills murder.”

“Where? When?”

“The Angeles National Forest, about fifteen minutes ago. Listen. The man is a Saudi citizen here on an education visa. He’s high on some kind of drug and talking jihad against all infidels—”

“Don’t say anything more over this line. Where’s Frank taking the suspect?”

“Central Facilities between Fifth and Sixth Street, near the bus terminal. We can control access to the prisoner better there than at the Court House.”

“That’s smart.” Jack knew controlling access to the prisoner was a euphemism for keeping him away from a lawyer for as long as possible. Jack glanced at his watch.

Chappelle would hit the roof if he didn’t see the after-action report on his desk in thirty minutes, but instincts told Jack this was more important than composing a futile exercise in bureaucratic double-speak.

“Tell Frank I’m on my way.”