24 Declassified: Vanishing Point

PROLOGUE

The door opened without a knock. Jack Bauer looked up from the daily threat assessment file to find his former boss standing over his desk.

“Busy, Jack?”

Christopher Henderson hadn’t been on this coast in over a year, not since he’d become CTU’s Director of Covert Operations. The promotion required a temporary move east, to CIA headquarters in Virginia.

Jack rose and shook the man’s hand. “Christopher. How are things at Langley?”

His old mentor had arrived sans jacket. The sleeves of his starched white shirt were rolled up to expose sinewy biceps. A platinum Rolex glittered on his knobby wrist.

Outwardly the man hadn’t changed much since being cast into Washington’s bureaucratic vortex. Still tall and lanky with dead gray eyes, he’d obviously staved off an administrator’s bulge by making use of the Company’s gym. Then again, his early years in the Agency had earned him the nickname “Preying Mantis”—although that had as much to do with his rangy physique as his ability to convert vulnerable hard targets into Agency assets.

“I read about the biological threat you neutralized in New York,” Henderson said. “Exposing a renegade FBI agent didn’t endear you with the boys in the Bureau.”

Jack tensed, still chafing over the lack of follow up on his recommendations. “Frank Hensley was more than a renegade. He was a mole with ties to—”

“I’m not here to talk about Operation Hell Gate or Hensley’s Middle Eastern puppet master — although the official assessment is that your conclusions are shaky at best, your theories unsubstantiated.”

“Unsubstantiated? But the evidence we gathered—”

Henderson raised a hand. “I came here on another matter. I have a critical situation down in Colombia, and I need a favor…”

Jack’s momentary defensiveness dissolved into curiosity. He studied Henderson’s expression, even though there wasn’t much to read beyond a relaxed confidence, which was typical Henderson.

“Go on,” Jack said, settling back behind his desk.

Henderson pulled up a chair. “Three days ago, one of my agents, Gordon Harrow y Guiterrez, went missing. For the past six months, he’s been posing as a gadget guy for the Rojas brothers.”

The Rojas family — a father and three sons — ran cocaine out of South America. They were a successful and ruthless gang, but not yet the top of the food chain among Colombia’s many drug cartels.

“I don’t understand,” Jack said. “Guiterrez didn’t call in a code red? Request emergency extraction?”

Henderson shook his head. “He just vanished. Went black without warning, ditching the false identity Central Cover created for him. We only learned he’d gone missing through intercepts. From what we gleaned eavesdropping on cartel chatter, Guiterrez had stolen something the Rojas family feared he would sell on the black market.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “And is that what really happened?”

“I wasn’t sure at first. Within twenty-four hours, all chatter ceased inside the cartel. Even the loquacious Señora Rojas stopped calling her mother in Bogotá, so we knew something was up. After forty-eight hours, Guiterrez still hadn’t made an appearance at the CTU safe house in Cartegena. So we assumed the worst.”

“Was Guiterrez executed?”

“He’s alive and for a very good reason. He knew something we didn’t. The Cartegena safe house had been compromised. Yesterday it was attacked.”

Jack frowned. “I saw the alert on that. Six dead, one wounded…. but Intel said the attack was a reprisal for a raid on a cartel factory last month.”

“A cover story. The raid was staged by the Rojas family. They knew about our safe house, how many agents and staffers worked out of the facility, the daily schedule… the works.”

“I see.” Jack exhaled, knowing the implications for a hit like that. “I assume the attack compromised more of the Agency’s operations in Colombia?”

Henderson nodded. “You’ll see the reports soon enough.”

“Reports of…?”

“The hits, Jack.” Henderson’s easygoing mask momentarily slipped. “CIA and DEA operations in Cartegena, in Medellin, in Cali and in Barranquilla… They’ve all been quietly taken out in the past several hours,” he said.

Jack took a few seconds to process this. He leaned forward, resting his forearms over the threat assessment file. “Christopher, that can’t be the work of the Rojas gang. They’re too small time to hold sway in Cali, Bogotá, or Barranquilla. They couldn’t act on rival turf without cooperation. A deal of some kind must have been made…”

Henderson nodded but hesitated before saying more.

“What do you know?” Jack pressed. “I need all the facts before I can help. Are the Rojas consolidating power? Going national? International? Is this a political situation?”

Henderson moved to the edge of his chair. “The target of these raids was my agent. The Rojas family and its rivals are desperate to find him. They’re trying to recover what Gordon stole from them.”

“But you don’t know what he has,” Jack assumed.

“That’s not… precisely… true.” Henderson stared at Jack, unblinking. The mask was back. “Guiterrez contacted me again last night, through a… back channel connection.”

Jack didn’t care for Henderson’s sudden vagueness of wording. It smacked of legalese. “What kind of ‘back channel’ connection?”

Henderson lowered his voice. “He called me on a sat phone I maintain privately.”

Jack didn’t know why Henderson was sidestepping Agency monitoring, but he didn’t ask. If anyone understood the occasional need to violate protocol, Jack did.

“Gordon told me what he’d grabbed, and I understood why he had to get out, and take it with him. He snatched a prototype of a portable electronics device that can render an airplane virtually invisible to conventional radar.”

Jack blinked. “Is that possible? I thought an aircraft’s stealthy characteristics came from its shape… along with the composite materials used in its construction?”

Jack knew all about the Hopeless Diamond configuration of the F–117 Stealth fighter, and the flat-surfaces, angular design and non-reflective fuselage of the Raptor. The shape and materials of both aircraft were engineered to deflect radar, rendering them practically invisible.

Henderson nodded. “Our advanced fighters do rely on materials and shape, but they also have electronic sub-systems that can generate a field around the aircraft. This field effectively absorbs, deflects, or dissipates radar waves. Guiterrez claims the prototype he snatched can make any aircraft appear to vanish— even one without the stealthy materials or shape.”

“My god…” Jack rubbed his neck as he considered the possible uses of a handy little package like that one. “If smugglers can use this technology to fly across America’s borders undetected, then so can terrorists. Only they’ll be delivering weapons of mass destruction, not nose candy.”

“That’s affirmative.”

“No cartel could have invented something like that.” Jack stared at Henderson, waiting for him to say more, but he simply shrugged. “Where did it come from, Christopher? The Pentagon? A foreign defense lab?”

“We’ll know more once we get hold of the device. We can take it apart, analyze its components, reverse engineer the little sucker if necessary—”

Jack considered pressing harder, but instead took another tack. “Do you know where Gordon Guiterrez is now?”

Henderson shook his head. “On the run, somewhere in Colombia… I had to come up with an extraction plan on the fly. Guiterrez is paranoid — not that I blame him — but he gave me less than five minutes before he broke off communication and went dark, this time for good.”

“A rural extraction would be best,” Jack noted. “Far away from the urban areas a strike team could move without detection. We wouldn’t need much.

A Delta squad, a Pave Low helicopter, a Little Bird, maybe a reconnaissance team on the ground to secure the perimeter—”

Henderson waved aside Jack’s suggestions. “No can do. Security all over Colombia has been compromised. Half our agents are dead or on the run, the rest we can’t trust for fear they’re under surveillance — or on the cartel’s payroll.”

Jack released a breath. He wanted to help his old mentor, but… “This is a job for Delta, Christopher.”

“If we send a big team into Colombia — or anywhere down there for that matter — word will get out in a minute. Anyway, Guiterrez isn’t prepared to hump the boonies like you and me. He spent his childhood in Colombia, but he was educated at Princeton before coming to us. Nineteen years ago he won a collegiate fencing title, and he’s had our standard weapons training, but that’s the extent of his martial arts skills. In other words, Gordon Harrow y Guiterrez wouldn’t last two days in the jungle.”

“What did you tell him?”

“He claimed he had a safe way to get out of Colombia, so I told him to go to Nicaragua, to the capital. There’s a construction site on the corner of Bolivar Avenue and Calle De Verde in Managua. The site is managed by Fuqua Construction, which is really a CIA shell company.”

“Why Nicaragua?”

“It’s a quiet assignment since the Sandinistas were tossed out of office in 1990. I doubt the Colombian cartels have a reach long enough to touch someone in Managua.” Henderson paused, leveled his gaze. “I want you to go down there and bring Guiterrez back. I’ve already cleared it with Walsh.”

Nodding, Jack reached toward the keyboard of his computer. “I’ll assemble a team immediately—”

“No team. I told you, a large group will attract unwanted attention. Take one agent besides yourself— someone you trust. But don’t mention the stealth device. Let your partner think your mission is a simple extraction from hostile territory.”

“What do I tell the case officers in Managua?”

“Concoct some cover story as the reason for your visit. You’ll think of something. But, again, I can’t stress this enough. Don’t mention the device — not even to other Agency personnel. It’s small enough to hide in a suitcase or backpack. Chances are nobody will even notice Guiterrez has it with him when you bring him in.”

Even before he opened the dented cab’s squeaking door, Gordon Harrow y Guiterrez sensed he was being watched. He clutched the attaché case just a little bit tighter. Under the sweat-stained band of a worn baseball cap, perspiration painted his forehead.

More than anything, Guiterrez wanted to shift his gaze and check his six. That would, of course, be a fatal error. If he really was being tailed, turning around would alert his pursuers that he was on to them— which would no doubt force their hand. They’d take him out right then and there, before he had a chance to get near the CIA safe house.

Feigning indifference, the undercover agent paid the driver with a fistful of córdobas, exited the vehicle and melted into a loud and festive lunchtime crowd. Among the throng of Nicaraguan office workers, Guiterrez began to wonder.

Am I really being tailed?

His senses were jangling from the amphetamines he’d been swallowing like candy for far too many days, and Guiterrez realized he could no longer trust his judgment. Lifting his bloodshot eyes, he squinted at the hazy blue sky. Strong sunlight shimmered above the ten- and twelve-story structures that flanked this commercial street. Almost all of Managua had been rebuilt since the mid ’70s, after an earthquake killed tens of thousands and leveled ninety percent of the Nicaraguan capital. Unfortunately, the graceful precolonial buildings were replaced by boxy, utilitarian structures that made much of the city resemble a particularly decrepit American strip mall.

Even worse, this time of year Managua’s air was hot and sticky under a scorching sun. Moving through the crush of office workers, food vendors and street merchants was painfully slow — made worse by blue-gray puffs of car exhaust fumes, and clouds of charcoal smoke, redolent with the scent of charred meat.

On busy Bolivar Avenue, a long thoroughfare between Lake Managua and the muddy Ticapa Lagoon, the humidity was especially thick and uncomfortable. Buffeted by the crowd that hemmed him in, Guiterrez had trouble catching his breath. His grimy, unshaven neck itched, and the cotton shirt clung to sweat that trickled down the small of his back. Perspiration dampened his scalp as well, but Guiterrez dared not take off his cap.

His Anglo features had helped him with the Rojas family. They’d more willingly bought his cover story — that he was a pissed off software engineer who’d gotten sick of his American company passing him over for promotion. But he was on the run now, and his shock of light blond hair would stick out in this homogenous crowd like a sabana in a Mexican prison. At least his deep tan disguised his fair skin and helped him blend with the environment.

Sun glare blazed off a shop window. Guiterrez’s eyebrow twitched uncontrollably. The simmering heat, his lack of sleep, the drugs, days of constant movement and ceaseless vigilance were finally taking their toll on the overweight agent. Even worse, the amphetamines no longer kept Guiterrez alert or focused — only twitchy and paranoid

But at least he’d gotten out of Colombia, with the device intact. Now that he’d reached Managua, the odyssey was nearly over. Guiterrez was almost home. Five days ago he’d stolen a pleasure boat in the Colombian seaport town of Barranquilla and sailed up the Atlantic to the shores of Panama. He scuttled the engine and sunk the boat in a lagoon, then hiked to Panama City where he hot wired a car. Guiterrez drove north, across the Costa Rican border, all the way to Nicaragua.

The car died outside the town of Upala, so he ditched it and paid off some farm workers to stow away in a vegetable truck. Guiterrez bailed at Galpa, a tiny Nicaraguan fishing community transformed into a housing development for middle-class government workers. There the agent mingled with the workers’ morning rush hour to board a rusty commuter ferry, which crossed Lake Managua.

Once in the capital, Guiterrez lingered near the harbor until lunchtime, waiting for the streets to be filled with traffic so his movements would be less noticeable. When lunch hour rolled around and the sidewalks were jammed, he hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to Bolivar Street.

The car deposited him a block from the CIA safe house. Over the heads of the crowd, Guiterrez could see the steel-girded skeleton of a building, a large white sign halfway up that read Constructores De Fuqua in black block letters. Guiterrez’s grip tightened on the briefcase — a movement that sent pain signals up his arm and caused his shoulder muscles to ache. The agent shrugged off the discomfort, increased his pace. Just a few more minutes and his sleepless nights and days of running would be over.

Guiterrez limped down Bolivar until he was just across the street from the construction site. Near the corner, the door to a small bistro opened, blocking his path. Two women emerged, laughing and talking. Guiterrez paused as the giggling young women stepped around him. One flashed Guiterrez a smile, but the agent didn’t notice. His eyes were locked on the glass door, at its reflection of the crowded street and the sidewalk directly behind him.

In the instant before the door closed, Guiterrez spied a familiar face — Francesco Rojas, the youngest member of the crime family he’d betrayed. Rojas was the cartel’s enforcer and murderer, and he never missed his target. The assassin was standing behind him, not twenty feet away, his eyes black pools focused on Guiterrez’s back.

Instinctively, the agent’s free hand reached for the weapon he no longer possessed — he’d been forced to ditch the handgun he carried at the border crossing at Costa Rica or risk arrest. Now his futile gesture, made out of fear, surprise and exhaustion, had been spotted by Rojas. The cartel enforcer reached into his jacket and drew an Uzi. In one smooth motion, Rojas dropped to one knee and opened fire.

As a stream of bullets shattered the restaurant’s door and windows, showering the sidewalk with sparkling shards, Guiterrez leaped between two parked cars. The two women were caught directly in the Uzi’s deadly spray. Grotesquely, they seemed to dance under the impact of the high velocity shells, their colorful skirts billowing as they tumbled to the pavement. A waiter dropped limply through the restaurant’s window, the top of his head a shattered, blood-filled cavity.

Feeling no bullet impact, no jolt of pain — and not quite comprehending his good fortune — Guiterrez stumbled into the middle of the busy street, crossing against the light. But as he attempted to weave between passing cars, Guiterrez’s legs suddenly felt weighted, a pounding throbbed in his ears, and he realized he had been hit. He was losing blood fast.

“The target is down. Repeat. The target is down. I’m moving out.”

CTU Field Agent Tony Almeida reached behind his back, grabbed the handle of the Glock tucked into the belt holster of his black denims. A moment ago, he’d spied Gordon Guiterrez strolling along the sidewalk, but Tony barely had time to report the sighting before the firefight erupted. Two women had been torn apart by the automatic weapon’s fire. Guiterrez had lunged out of the way, but he’d been struck too. Now he was stumbling into the middle of the street, trailing blood.

Tony tried to move quickly through the panicked crowd, pointing his weapon to the ground in case of accidental discharge. The vigil for Guiterrez had been a long one. According to Jack Bauer’s uncharacteristically sketchy briefing, this was to be a simple extraction, complicated by the fact that Guiterrez was being hunted by Colombian assassins.

Bauer maintained that the cartel’s reach probably didn’t extend far enough to cover operations in Nicaragua. The moment the gunman stepped out of the crowd and fired, Tony knew Jack’s assessment had been wrong.

Tony wasn’t completely surprised by the ambush. The CIA’s south of the border security was generally sloppy, and already there’d been numerous security breaches in Central and South American in recent days. What did surprise him were the words of his boss, now coming through the headset.

“Is Guiterrez carrying a backpack or a briefcase?” Jack Bauer demanded.

Almeida spied Guiterrez sloppily dodging moving cars and vans. Jack was right. The man was clutching something. Tony was also aware of the assassin on the sidewalk, still trying to get a clear shot at the injured agent.

Almeida spoke into the pinpoint microphone. “Jack, why do you need to know—?”

“Is Guiterrez carrying something? A bag, a parcel?

Anything?”

“He’s got an attaché case—”

“Retrieve that case at any cost. Even if it means aban

doning Guiterrez. Do you understand me, Tony?”

No, Jack. I don’t understand, Almeida thought, but said—

“Roger, Jack… I got it.”

Jack Bauer cursed as he drew his Glock. “Salga de la manera. ¡Muévase! ¡Muévase!” he shouted at the crowd around him. He raised his weapon high enough for everyone to see, barrel pointed to the sky. “¡Muévase! ¡Muévase!”

He pushed through the mass of people. Pedestrians who heard him — or saw the weapon — instantly obeyed his shouted command and got out of the way. Those who didn’t were dodged or elbowed aside.

Jack heard screams, outraged shouts and startled

cries.

“¡Él tiene un arma!”

“¡Ese hombre va a tirar a su arma!”

People dashed into shops, cowered in doorways. Jack kept going. He regretted causing a panic, but at least the civilians were scattering. That’s one break in this whole rotten mess.

Like Tony, Jack had been waiting for hours, lingering near a food cart on Bolivar Street — on the wrong side of the construction site, as it turned out. Feet pounding the pavement, he wondered where he’d screwed up.

When he and Tony had first arrived in Nicaragua, they’d hooked up with Case Officers Ben Burwell and James Cantrel at Fuqua Construction — their CIA shell company cover. But in Jack’s quick estimation, Burwell and Cantrel had been recycling the same reports for some time. The eyes and ears of United States intelligence in Nicaragua were nothing more than career floaters, coasting toward retirement, and their entire Nicaraguan operation had been lax probably since the Sandinistas were voted out of power in 1990.

After observing the two men conduct business, Jack concluded that the “organization” in Managua was riddled with cartel informants, and he and Tony were better off working on their own.

The fact that Rojas assassins were lying in wait for Gordon Guiterrez proved Jack correct on the first count — not that this validation brought him any satisfaction. But at least Jack now understood the reason why he’d been ordered not to tell Tony about the device unless it became necessary.

Christopher Henderson didn’t trust Tony Almeida any more than Jack trusted agents Burwell and Cantrel.

For a few seconds, all Tony could see were people running, all he could hear were fearful shouts and high-pitched screams. As he moved toward Guiterrez, he tried in vain to keep his eyes on the Uzi-wielding assassin, but his path was constantly blocked by panicked civilians.

Screw this.

Without slowing, Tony swerved off the sidewalk and into the street. A horn blared. He spun to see a red Toyota. The driver wasn’t stopping — but Tony wasn’t moving. Instead of dashing out of the car’s path, he threw himself onto the hood. The thin aluminum crumpled under his weight. The vehicle’s momentum slammed Tony’s spine against the windshield, cracking the safety glass.

Glock extended — finger off the trigger — Tony rode the hood as the vehicle continued to veer down Bolivar. When the stunned driver finally slammed on his brakes, momentum threw Tony forward. He landed on his feet, stumbled, then quickly regained his balance.

The assassin was now standing directly in front of Tony. The man still held the Uzi in one hand, but his attention was focused on the retreating Guiterrez.

Unnoticed, Tony took two steps forward, halting behind the assassin’s back. As he raised his Glock, the man whirled. His dark eyes went wide, his mouth opened in surprise. Tony could smell the gunman’s breath as he placed the Glock’s muzzle against his temple.

The assassin lifted his Uzi.

Tony pulled the trigger.

Blood and brains splattered the restaurant wall, the spent shell shattering harmlessly against the bricks. Francesco Rojas jerked once, then dropped to the pavement.

Amid the chaos, Gordon Guiterrez managed to reach the opposite side of the street. Still leaking blood, he’d stumbled through traffic, then dropped to his knees at the curb.

He heard gunfire again, a single discharge from… a Glock?

He dragged across the sidewalk, using his arms, because his lower body had become oddly numb. Chest heaving, daggers of pain traveling up his torso, he braced his spine against the construction site’s rough wooden wall and sat up.

With a rush of triumph, he realized his right hand was still gripping the handle of the attaché case. His misty vision became even hazier, casting a red veil over the world. Still, Guiterrez could see that the sidewalk was nearly empty now… except for one man. A pale Anglo resembling one of Henderson’s CTU men appeared to be running toward him, gun in hand.

Not sure whether Jack Bauer was an illusion, Guiterrez attempted to focus his fading vision when a hard jerk jolted his right arm. Someone was pulling at the attaché case in his grip. He turned his head to find a boy about sixteen in a New York Mets T-shirt, his thick brown forearms mottled by the telltale scars from the coca labs. Behind the boy’s back, an older Colombian chollo, this one wearing a red bandana and holding an Uzi, was obviously watching the boy’s back.

Amid the screams and traffic noise, Guiterrez heard Bauer’s voice. “!Caiga su arma y paso lejos!”

The chollo with the Uzi turned — Jack’s two quick shots tore the top of the chollo’s head off, bandana and all. At the same moment, the handle broke away so suddenly from the attaché case that the teenage boy toppled to the sidewalk.

Guiterrez stared numbly at the handle still clutched in his fist. This shouldn’t have happened, he thought in a cloud of shock and pain. I would have used handcuffs, if I’d had a pair. One cuff around the handle, another around my wrist. No one would have snatched the case away from me then.

Problem was, inside the Rojas compound where he’d been living, handcuffs were hard to come by. Explosives were easier to find. Much easier. So Guiterrez had rigged something up.

The bomb was inside the case, right next to the device he’d stolen. A brick of C4, more than enough to do the job. The handle was the detonator, the timed delay only five seconds — long enough to catch Jack Bauer’s eye, gesture a warning.

The boy tucked the case under his arm, scrambled to his feet.

“No, wait!” Jack cried, backing away.

The C4 detonated in a bright orange flash.

Jack Bauer was surprised by the sheer number of personnel packed into CTU’s soundproofed conference room. Christopher Henderson had cobbled together an impressive operation in under thirty-six hours, one of the largest undercover stings Jack had ever joined.

Along with Agents Tony Almeida and Nina Myers, Curtis Manning, a former member of Chet Blackburn’s strike team, was also at the table. Manning’s quick thinking and initiative during Operation Pinstripe had attracted the attention of Administrative Director Richard Walsh, who immediately moved Curtis over to Field Ops. This would be his first real assignment.

On the communications side, Programmer Jamey Farrell was present, along with the young computer protégé, Doris Soo Min. Jack also noticed the shiny bald head of portly Morris O’Brian, CTU’s cyber-specialist. He’d recently come over from Langley, just ahead of a sexual harassment suit, according to the sealed portion of his personnel file.

What was amazing to Jack was that what had once been a shoestring operation involving only the late Agent Guiterrez and his CIA case officer, Christopher Henderson, had suddenly ballooned into a full-fledged black operation requiring the bulk of CTU’s West Coast resources.

While Jack watched Director Henderson bring those who were just now joining the operation up to speed with past events, Jack realized he was once again working for his old boss — and his feelings about that were mixed.

“Though explosives in the briefcase destroyed the device that Guiterrez had stolen, our team in Nicaragua managed to recover enough of its components to determine the origins of the cloaking device,” Henderson explained. “So if you look at it from a certain perspective, then the Nicaragua mission was a success…”

Tell that to Gordon Guiterrez, Jack thought with self-disgust. From the expression on Tony Almeida’s face, Jack knew he felt the same.

Sleeves rolled, tie tossed over his shoulder, Henderson paced the front of the glass-enclosed conference room. On the opposite side of the window, Jack spotted Ryan Chappelle and George Mason huddled in conversation. Both surreptitiously glanced at the conference in progress. Both wore sour expressions.

Chappelle’s out of the loop, Jack realized, a little surprised Henderson had the clout to stonewall CTU’s Regional Director.

“Through the use of advanced cybernetic forensics techniques, Morris O’Brian gave us our first break.” Henderson focused his expressionless gray eyes on the British-born cyber-technician.

O’Brian’s round face gave a little nod. He adjusted the cuffs of his Joseph Abboud sport coat, then glanced at the open file on the table.

“It’s clear we’re dealing with advanced technology. Classified technology,” he said, the Cockney lilt still evident in his voice. “I was able to trace a partial serial number from the remains of a silicon chip, and the lot number from a tiny data compressor. Both were manufactured by a Japanese firm and imported for use by the United States Air Force. But our big break came when a piece of the motherboard was found at Santa Theresa Hospital in Managua—”

Nina Myers, Jack’s second in command at CTU, cocked her head. “Found where?”

“During an autopsy of one bomb victim, a nine centimeter bundle of silicon and copper wire was found embedded in the corpse…” Morris paused, flipped a page and squinted as he read. “Through a close examination of this component, I surmised that the board was manufactured by Systemantics, a division of the defense contractor Omnicron International.”

Morris closed the file and looked up. “By hacking into Omnicron’s database, I discovered that the motherboard was purchased by and delivered to the Technology Acquisition Department of the Experimental Testing Range at Groom Lake Air Force Base in Nevada, exactly twenty-three months ago.”

Morris raised an eyebrow, his fleshy cheeks lifted in an elfin grin. “To UFO buffs and conspiracy theorists, Groom Lake is known by another name. It’s called Area 51—”

Henderson interrupted him. “Okay, O’Brian, let’s skip the little green men and focus on reality, shall we? Groom Lake is a top secret advanced research facility managed by the United States Air Force. The entire compound, including the runways, testing range and bombing range, is larger than the state of Delaware. The facility, located in the middle of the desert, just fifty miles outside the Las Vegas city limits, is both remote and well guarded…”

Tony Almeida shook his head. “Sounds like this is a problem for Air Force security.”

“If only that were true,” Henderson replied. “Unfortunately, Air Force Intelligence denies it has a problem. Claims this particular motherboard was incinerated six months ago. They have the paperwork to back up that claim, too.”

Agent Almeida shifted in his chair. “But we have the motherboard, which means somebody’s lying — or covering their asses.”

“Once again, Agent Almeida has cut to the chase,” Henderson said with a humorless grin. “And as it turns out, this isn’t the only time the folks at Groom Lake have misplaced classified technology.”

The Director of Covert Operations dropped a sealed Mylar evidence bag in the middle of the conference table. Inside was a black box the size of a cigarette pack, connected to what appeared to be a gold wedding band by a single, thread-thin insulated wire thirty inches long.

“This handy gadget was seized by the Las Vegas police six weeks ago, on the gambling floor at the Babylon Casino Hotel,” Henderson declared. “The wedding band — made of copper, incidentally, with insulation inside to protect the wearer — is worn on the finger. The wire runs to the black box, which contains a classified Air Force digital scrambling chip.”

“And this does what?” Jamey Farrell asked.

“The wearer tries his hand at the slots,” Henderson said, mimicking the movements he was describing. “Our con man puts a coin into the slot, while placing his left hand on the side of the machine, like this. Electronic impulses are sent through the ring, into the slot machine. These impulses override the digital randomizer inside the slot’s software. Suddenly you’re winning one out of every five pulls instead of one in ten thousand—”

“Enough to cheat your way to a luxurious lifestyle. if you’re playing fifty or hundred dollar slots and didn’t get too greedy,” O’Brian interjected.

Tony’s dark eyes narrowed. “You’re saying the chip inside this device came out of Groom Lake?”

Henderson nodded.

“Obviously the guy who was arrested using this device knows where he got it?” Tony demanded. “Why not pump him for the information?”

“Funny thing about that,” Henderson replied. “The cheat’s name was Dwayne Nardino, a small time racketeer out of Reno. Within hours of his arrest, Nardino was bailed out of jail — which cost someone close to fifty thousand dollars in cash. It was an amount they were willing to lose, because Nardino was discovered behind the wheel of his car the next morning, with two thirty-eight caliber slugs in the back of his head.”

“Obviously someone didn’t want Dwayne talking out of turn,” Nina Myers said softly.

Henderson’s movements became more animated, his gray eyes seemed alive for the first time. “Here’s the interesting part. Two years ago the Drug Enforcement Agency identified Dwayne Nardino as a major distributor of Rojas cocaine. The DEA even has surveillance photos of Nardino meeting with the brothers at their hacienda in Colombia…”

“It’s clear that someone at Groom Lake is peddling classified technology,” said Jack. “Any theories about who or why?”

Henderson placed the palms of his hands on the table, his gaze sweeping everyone seated there. “The why is simple. They did it for money. The theory we’ve come up with is that someone on one of the research teams at Groom Lake, or maybe someone in supply or the classified material disposal unit, has a big-time gambling problem. In order to pay off a large debt, we’re guessing this person passed along classified technology adapted for criminal use. Of course, once a syndicate has their claws into someone who can provide such technology, their debt would never be wiped clean. The mob would naturally squeeze them to supply more and more gadgets, until there’s no juice left.” Henderson’s narrow face flashed a humorless smile. “And that’s how we’ll nail the bastards.”

Pushing away from the table, Henderson strode to the front of the room. “We’re going to use a two pronged investigation to plug this technology leak.” He held up two fingers. “That’s two teams, working at separate locations toward a single goal. One team will operate in conjunction with an undercover agent planted inside of Groom Lake. This agent will be working on one of the research teams conducting experiments at the testing range.”

“Need a volunteer?” Nina asked.

“Agent Almeida will coordinate all surveillance activities with Ms. Farrell and Ms. Soo Min, who will monitor activities from here,” Henderson replied.

“And the second team?” Jack asked.

“We’re placing a three-member team undercover, right in the middle of a crooked casino in Las Vegas,” he declared. “One agent will impersonate a mob lieutenant — that’s you, Jack. Your cover story is that you’re on the payroll of Kansas City mobster Gus Pardo. It’s Pardo who owns the Cha-Cha Lounge.”

Jack folded his arms. “I can tell you now, there’s no way this will fly. What if someone contacts Pardo and asks questions?”

“Gus Pardo will vouch for you and your team, to anyone who asks. Even his own lieutenants.”

Morris O’Brian scratched his forehead. “Why would this criminal help us?”

“Simple. We own him.” Again, Henderson smiled. “Pardo’s college-aged son was arrested for cocaine possession in South America. He’s facing hard time in one of the worst prison systems in the world. If Pardo cooperates, he’ll see his son again, compliments of the U.S. State Department. If Pardo screws us, his kid rots in a Peruvian jail for the rest of his short, miserable life. Naturally, we’re convinced Pardo will cooperate…”

Jack blinked. “What am I supposed to do at this casino?”

“Loan shark. Launder money. Load the dice and water the booze,” Henderson replied. “The one thing you will not do is catch professional cheats. We want the word to get around Vegas that the Cha-Cha Lounge is an easy mark. Sooner or later someone using classified technology to run a scam will walk through the doors, and we’ll have them.”

“And the rest of my team?”

“While you’re watching the dealers, croupiers and pit bosses, Curtis Manning will provide overall security. Meanwhile Morris O’Brian will be up in the catwalk monitoring the customers using CTU’s best surveillance equipment. The next time a cheater shows up with classified technology, we’ll be ready.”

Jack frowned, surprised at the sheer audacity of Henderson’s plan.

“The Director’s approved a three month operation. I’ll petition to renew for another three if we come up empty… but I don’t expect us to come up empty. Get creative, if you have to, but get results. In the next twelve weeks, I want at least one solid lead to take back to the Director. During that time, Jack, you and your team will be surrounded by a criminal element that is completely unaware of your true identities and motives. As far they’re concerned, you’re mobsters working for Gus Pardo’s Kansas City crime syndicate, dispatched to Sin City to operate his casino…”

Henderson paused. “You all know what that means. This is deep cover. If anyone feels they are not up to this assignment, see me after the meeting.”

Jack Bauer sat in silence, processing. He felt Christopher’s hands on his shoulders. “Relax, Jack. How many agents get an all-expenses-paid assignment in Las Vegas?”