24 Declassified: 01 - Operation Hell Gate Read online

  “Oh.”

  “And Frankie is pretty old, too. I started building him when I was in junior high school.”

  “What? Last week.”

  Doris paused, pushed up her oversized glasses. “Ha-ha. You’re a real laugh riot.”

  She shook her head and went back to work. Milo Pressman was supposed to be helping her, but all he was doing was asking questions—when he wasn’t arguing with his girlfriend. Frankly Doris didn’t know what was worse, Milo’s stupid questions or the stupid one-sided conversations with his stupid girlfriend he’d been having all night.

  Suddenly the workspace reverberated with the theme from the movie Titanic. Ugh, thought Doris. Tina’s land line again. At least Milo had programmed Green Day to ring when his girlfriend called on her cell. But for the last few hours Doris had been subjected to that nauseatingly insipid “Sad Boat” song. She rolled her eyes as Milo flipped open his phone.

  “Tina? I can’t believe you’re still awake? ...What do you mean you’re crying ...Of course I didn’t hang up on you. I told you what happened . . .”

  Doris tried to block out the conversation, focus on the stream of data she had just managed to separate from the rest of the memory bits. This one looked promising.

  “Don’t cry, Tina...I can’t stand it when you cry.”

  Doris pretended to gag, then silently mimicked Milo’s and Tina’s insufferable conversation. Something happened on her monitor, and Doris stared at the screen.

  “A time code? What’s a time code doing in here?”

  “What?” said Milo, suddenly interested.

  “I found a time code—date specific, too. It’s in the heart of the program. The start time is twelve hours ago. The time code runs out—well, let me see . . .”

  Milo leaned forward, to gaze at Doris’s monitor. “Word. You’re right. It is a time code...”

  Tina, meanwhile, continued to speak over the phone, her voice a tiny squeak. Deciphering the data, Milo, not for the first time, forgot about the conversation with his hysterical girlfriend, closed the phone.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  “The entire sequence is a long series of instructions. For what I don’t know—yet. But from this time code one thing is certain. Today, this afternoon at five

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  p.m. Eastern Daylight Time to be precise, something really big is going to happen.”

  5:50:59 A.M.EDT Hoyt Street Subway Station

  Liam was still shaking when the Brooklyn-bound train pulled into the station, bringing with it the possibility of help from a motorman or conductor. The three punk muggers ran for the stairs, giving up on the case. Liam slumped down on a wooden bench, panting, in a cold sweat. His left arm throbbed. In a few hours, he’d probably have a bruise the size of Staten Island, but he could move it, so he knew bones hadn’t been broken.

  After the train closed its door and pulled out again, Liam began to search for the lost attaché case. It had fallen onto the tracks, he knew, and he was worried the train had run over it. Then he’d really be in the shitter. He walked to the very edge of the platform, scanned the tracks below. There was no debris, no sign of the case, though its silver finish should have made it visible even in the shadows of the subway tunnel.

  Liam figured the drop from the platform to the tracks was about six feet—about six inches taller than he was. He could get down easily enough, but would have to pull himself back up again using upper body strength alone. For a moment, he hesitated, his mind jumbled. He thought about the money he’d lose if he didn’t retrieve the case. But what panicked him more was the money he might owe.

  Shamus had done a lot for him, for his sister, but the man could be a real tool. He’d either take the cost of the lost case out of Liam’s hide or make him work off the debt for months—or both. Earning three hundred was one thing, but owing thousands or more for a lost computer part, or whatever was in that bloody attaché, scared Liam shitless.

  No matter what, he had to find that case and deliver it to Taj.

  He leaned over the edge, gazing into the tunnel, listening for the sound of an approaching train. Liam heard nothing, so he sat down, his legs dangling over the edge of the platform. Then he lowered himself to the tracks, careful to avoid the electrified third rail.

  Oil and layers of filth covered everything at track level. Rats scurried around him, one ran over his foot. Liam yelped and shuddered. Then he exhaled and began to search the area, keeping one ear cocked for an approaching train.

  His sneaker caught on a switching circuit and he stumbled and fell. His hand came within an inch of touching the electrified third rail. Liam carefully pulled his hand back. As he began to rise, he spied a bit of shiny silver metal—the attaché case. It had ended up under a cluster of signal lights, hidden from view above.

  Liam moved quickly to the case, picked it up, and examined it in the station’s dim light. Except for a few scratches and dents, it appeared to be fine. He was tempted to open the case, check the contents for damage—but Shamus had commanded him not to open it under any circumstances. Figuring there might be some sort of alarm or something, he decided to leave the case shut.

  With a rush of relief, Liam stepped to the edge of the still-deserted platform. Boosting himself up wouldn’t be easy. And there was no way he could do it

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  while holding the case. Reluctantly, he swung the case over his head, heard the attaché land with a hollow clatter. Then Liam jumped and grabbed for the platform’s edge. His fingers slipped almost immediately and he dropped back to the tracks.

  Liam spit into his palms and rubbed his hands together. Under his scuffed tackies, the ground began to rumble. This time he put all his strength into the leap. He caught the platform’s cold concrete edge with a firm grip and hung on tight. Legs kicking, he pulled himself up until one elbow rested on the platform. A few feet in front of his face, the attaché case lay on its side. Under him, Liam could feel the platform vibrate, hear the roar of the approaching train.

  He kicked his legs again, rose a few inches—and then stopped. Something sharp had caught the pocket of his Levi’s. No matter how he squirmed, he could not free himself. Lights appeared at the end of the tunnel, reflected off the dirty beige tiles.

  At the opposite end of the tunnel, a Number 2 train roared into view.

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

  6:05:08 A.M.EDT Hoyt Street Subway Station

  The motorman sounded the train’s horn, activated the emergency brake. A shrieking squeal filled the subway station, but the train was too fast and too heavy to stop on a dime. Its continuous forward motion bore down on the terrified boy dangling off the platform.

  Liam kicked wildly but couldn’t free himself from whatever had snagged his clothing. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...” In seconds the train would cut him in half. Liam closed his eyes. “Jesus, God, help me.”

  Strong brown hands gripped his forearms.

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  “Come on!” a deep voice boomed over the roar of the approaching train.

  Liam felt someone pulling him upward. There was a tearing sound and he was suddenly freed. The man who’d tugged on his arms stumbled backward, dragging Liam onto the platform and out of the path of the steel monster a split second before it crushed him.

  Trembling, Liam lay on the platform, hugging the concrete. From what seemed like very far away, he heard the train stop, then a voice over the chugging noise of the idling motor.

  “You okay, son?”

  In mild shock, Liam lifted his head, stared blankly at the black man speaking. The Transit Authority policeman took Liam by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. The officer’s brown eyes were wide with concern. Sweat stained his bronze-colored, pockmarked cheeks.

  “I’m okay.” Liam’s voice was strained, even to his own ears.
<
br />   “He okay?!” called the train’s conductor from the open window in the middle of the Number 2.

  “Yeah,” called the cop. “Kid’s okay.” The officer turned his attention back to Liam. “Man! For a second there I thought we’d have to scrape you off the wall.” The policeman smiled, his relief evident.

  “Thanks ...thanks for helping me,” Liam muttered, knowing full well how inadequate his words sounded.

  “What the hell were you doing down there? Did you slip? Or did somebody push you?” The transit cop glanced around the deserted platform.

  “I lost my case and I had to get it back.” Liam pointed.

  The officer saw the scuffed and dented case lying on its side. He brought the case to Liam. The boy snatched it back, hugged it to his chest.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said quickly.

  He felt the cop’s searching gaze, refused to meet his eyes.

  “What the hell’s so important about that case that you’d risk your life for it?” the officer demanded.

  Liam could hear the peeler’s tone was a little less friendly now. Still dazed, Liam searched for an answer, but his mind drew a blank. Finally, he stammered, “It . . . it’s my laptop computer.”

  The policeman studied the boy’s expression, then the attaché case. “Is that right? Okay, then maybe we should open that case up and see if your ‘laptop’ is damaged.”

  6:08:36 A.M.EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Tony Almeida handed his prisoner over to an armed detention team.

  “Take him to room eleven. Prepare him for interrogation.”

  “What’s with the third degree, man? So my visa expired. So what?” Saito cried, squirming against his cuffs. “This is America. Even illegal aliens have got rights.”

  Captain Schneider fell into step with the guards. “I’m going with them. I don’t want to let Saito-san here out of my sight.”

  The Japanese man smirked. “I’ll bet you’ve got great gams under those Hepburns, missy. Put on stiletto heels and you can punish me any time.”

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  The guards dragged the young man away. Tony signed his name on the entry log, then spied Ryan Chappelle approaching. He braced himself for a dressing-down.

  “Good work, Agent Almeida. Great work, in fact,” said Ryan, slapping his back. “You and Captain Schneider are to be commended. I just got off the phone with Chet Blackburn. He told me you two captured a mainframe computer with its database intact.”

  “That’s right, Ryan. Unfortunately we got there too late to stop the transfer of another Long Tooth missile launcher to another location. We don’t know where it’s headed, yet, and that should be our priority. Has Jamey dug up any information on that truck?”

  “She examined the footage you sent her, but even with enhanced imaging filters she couldn’t get a license number off the plate. Nina issued an all-points bulletin, but there are a lot of white Dodge cargo vans in Los Angeles . . .”

  “We should start with the vehicles registered to Green Dragon and all the factory’s current employees. Then we should check the airports. Cargo shippers especially—”

  “Jamey and Nina are on top of it, Tony. It’s more important that CTU gets access to the data on that computer, so I’ve dispatched Milo Pressman with a Cyber Unit.”

  Tony nodded. “Captain Schneider also captured a prisoner. I’m on my way to interrogate him. His name is Hideki Saito, a Japanese national from Tokyo. He came here about eighteen months ago. His visa expired a month ago.”

  Tony displayed his PDA. “I’m going to run his name and picture through the Japanese National Police database. I’m certain Saito is Yakuza, so the

  Tokyo Prefecture will probably have a file on him.”

  Ryan was surprised “Yakuza? You’re sure?”

  “Definitely,” Tony replied. “A member of an old clan, too. Very traditional. Somehow he messed up in the past so maybe I can use that against him during the interrogation. It might be the psychological hook I need to get inside of him.”

  “How do you know all this, if I may ask?”

  “The little finger on Saito’s left hand is missing. As atonement for his mistake—whatever it was—he was compelled to sit in the presence of those he offended, cut his own finger off, and wrap it in silk. Then he presented it to the head of his clan and asked for forgiveness.”

  6:12:52 A.M.EDT Hoyt Street Subway Station

  Liam stared at the policeman. “I can’t go with you, Officer. I have to go to school...”

  “That answer doesn’t cut it, son,” the man replied tersely. “You’ve already broken the law by going down onto those tracks, and I think you’re lying about what’s in that case, too—”

  He was interrupted by the radio on his shoulder. “All available units. Emergency alert. Immediate backup requested. Tactical law enforcement action imminent. All entrances to Atlantic Avenue are to be secured immediately, the avenue to be closed off to all vehicular traffic. All available units respond...”

  The officer keyed his microphone. “This is MTA, Hoyt Street. Moving to respond, over.”

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  He faced Liam, and the man’s expression hardened. “I have no choice but to let you go this time. But if I ever see you again I will find out what the hell you’re up to.”

  6:39:09 A.M.EDT Kahlil’s Middle Eastern Foods

  Four Afghanis in traditional garb led Jack through a maze of partitions under the century-old Brooklyn brownstone. Soon they came to a flat wooden wall with a single door hanging on two shiny steel hinges and ushered him inside.

  Jack scanned his surroundings warily. The basement room was triangular-shaped with crumbling sandstone walls on two sides. Wooden crates were stacked against the stone wall; above them a small, barred window peered onto the street from sidewalk level. A massive water heater ticked in the corner, and the space was hot, dry, and stuffy. The only illumination was provided by a naked sixty-watt bulb mounted in the ceiling, and the tiny glimmer of sunlight that managed to penetrate the decades of grime layering the window.

  Someone slammed the door, shaking the cheap partitioned wall. The burly Afghani in a skullcap pushed Jack onto the pile of crates. The older man in the ratty suit nodded to his comrades, spoke a command in Pashto, and the others left without a word. Before the door closed behind them, another man entered the dingy chamber.

  This one was tall and wiry, perhaps fifty years old, with long stringy arms and legs under a loose-fitting shirt and cotton trousers. A .45 was slung in the man’s belt; on his knobby feet he wore leather sandals. Though not particularly muscular, the Afghani man seemed to exude strength, and he was tall enough that he had to stoop slightly as he faced Jack. His face was narrow, flesh sallow and leathery. His intelligent eyes burned with fierce intensity. His hair was covered by an Afghan turban; the beard that dangled to his chest was streaked with gray. Under his prominent nose, the man’s yellow teeth protruded slightly.

  “Are you Taj?” Jack asked. “My brother Griff sent me here with a package.”

  The Afghani stared silently at Jack. It was the man in the ratty suit who spoke.

  “Why did you break with protocol?” he demanded. “Why did you come here yourself, instead of sending that boy?”

  “You need the case—”

  “The boy was supposed to bring us the case,” the man interrupted. “Where is he? Where is the case?”

  Jack knew from the man’s response that Caitlin’s brother had not yet made his delivery, which was good news. If the boy had made the drop, these Afghanis would probably have killed Jack on the spot. Instead they hesitated, despite their obvious suspicions. Jack knew it was because they were so desperate to take possession of the contents of that case they were willing to take the risk that Jack was an impostor.

  “I was being followed,” Jack lied. “I had to ditch the case in case I was captured.”

  Jack sensed the man in the suit was wavering, not yet ready to believe Jack’s story, but willing to be con<
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  vinced. The silent man’s expression was unreadable, so Jack decided to push the envelope, go for broke.

  “Listen,” he said in an urgent tone. “The whole plan may be unraveling. I think the Feds are on to us—that’s who was following me, I’m sure of it.”

  The older man raised an eyebrow. “What do you propose to do about it?”

  “I have to see Felix Tanner. Tanner has to be warned that the whole plan might be compromised.”

  The man in the suit became instantly alarmed. The silent man seemed implacable.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Jack cried. “The whole plan is in jeopardy. I have to warn Tanner now, before it’s too late.”

  The silent man spoke at last. His voice was soft, but firm. “We must retrieve the attaché case first. Lead me to it, then I will take you to see Tanner.”

  “Listen, Taj, we’re all in danger. Just let me speak with Tanner—”

  The older man stepped backward, perhaps alarmed by Jack’s urgency. Before he could speak the high window burst inward, showering them all with shards of dirty glass. A dark object landed on the dirt floor. Instinctively, Jack threw himself backward, to land behind the crate he’d been sitting on. But the older man stooped over the object, reaching to pick it up. Jack opened his mouth to cry a warning—then the grenade exploded.

  The powerful concussion tossed the man backward, against the wall. Though the older man absorbed the brunt of it, the blast was powerful enough to bowl everyone else over as well. Partially deafened by the noise, Jack could not hear the hissing noise as the gas canister released its noxious contents. But he immediately felt the stinging pain in his eyes, his nose, and he choked against the rising tear gas mist. Through the roaring that still filled his ears, Jack heard a loudspeaker blaring outside.

  “This is the FBI. We’ve surrounded the building. There is no way you can escape. Come out with your hands up and you won’t be harmed . . .”

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