24 Declassified: 01 - Operation Hell Gate Page 16

  Five years before, Senator William S. Cheever had been a political dinosaur, an endangered species—just another fading Northeast politician with a penchant for bloated government programs even his constituents no longer favored. His chances for reelection were so bleak that his own party endorsed his rival in

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  the primary campaign. After that blow came, Senator Cheever did the first smart thing he’d done in a decade—he fired his old campaign manager and put Dennis Spain in charge of his reelection.

  As a political strategist, Spain was magic. While still in college, he’d ingratiated himself with New Jersey state politicos and key members of the tristate media. From his decade aiding then running local election campaigns—in New Jersey, then New York— Spain had learned all the simple but effective tricks, and in Cheever’s senatorial race he used every one of them with ruthless precision.

  Most effective were the Sunday morning press conferences Spain had instituted. In the campaign manager’s deft hands, they became a forum to announce programs and initiatives, to spotlight “problems and concerns,” to highlight studies by think tanks that supported his political stands. Whether, in the end, anything truly useful came out of Cheever’s announced agendas was beside the point. The press conferences became a way for Senator Cheever to showcase himself. On a slow news day like Sunday, Senator Cheever always got his mug on the evening news, complete with a pithy sound bite penned by his campaign consultants. Constituents would be left with the impression of the Senator’s diligence and effectiveness, which would be the basis for his next reelection campaign—because, of course, when it came to politics, impressions were always, always more important than results.

  It was Dennis Spain who taught Cheever how to cozy up to the policemen’s union and the professional class of political malcontents and activists at the same time, using the very same tactics with both. “Just tell them all what they want to hear,” Spain advised his boss—and it worked. Within six months of Spain’s coming aboard, with a handpicked advance team, speech writer, and key media contacts, major magazines and newspapers were all publishing stories about “the new Senator Cheever.”

  Under Spain’s tutelage, the former lame duck breezed through the primary and won reelection with a handy two-to-one margin over his rival. Since that time, Dennis Spain had guided Cheever’s political activities as well. Spain drafted legislation for the Senator to propose, wrote policy speeches for the Senator to deliver. More importantly, Spain used the Senator’s years of senatorial service as clout. Using Cheever’s seniority, Spain muscled him onto several important committees and steering commissions. One of them was the newly minted Air Transportation and Travel Committee, established to recommend ways in which the deregulated airline industry could more efficiently operate in a climate of rising oil prices and falling revenues.

  It was a powerful committee, and one that immediately attracted the attention of lobbyists for the airline industry, and through them, the top airline CEOs themselves.

  Dennis Spain reached for his telephone. He would begin today’s frantic schedule by phoning the CEOs of those very airlines, to remind them of a critical video conference on the future of the American airline industry, hosted by Senator William S. Cheever, Chairman of the Air Transportation and Travel Committee, scheduled for four-forty-five p.m. that very afternoon.

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

  9:01:00 A.M.EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Nina dropped her reading glasses onto the desk, rubbed her tired eyes. When she refocused on the monitor she had to fight to keep the lines from blurring. For the past hour she’d been examining the last five years’ worth of state and federal tax records for the Green Dragon Computers store in Little Tokyo.

  Hundreds of digital pages had to be scanned, but no computer could do the job right. Only a human analyst possessed the skill and intuition to find the tiny jewels buried in the reams of worthless data. The process was time consuming and labor intensive, but at the end of sixty minutes, Nina had managed to narrow her search to four promising references.

  During a second pass, two of those items were eliminated immediately. But a third clue produced unexpected results. According to the records, one of the most lucrative customers in Green Dragon’s Little Tokyo store was Prolix Security, a New York City firm with no offices in Los Angeles.

  Nina knew immediately that the facts didn’t compute—why would a Manhattan company do business with a store in LA when there were plenty of franchises in New York City?

  A cross-check of Prolix Security records produced a revelation, and a clear connection to terrorist activities. In the last eighteen months, huge sums of money had been funneled from Prolix’s Security to several Banque Swiss accounts in Zurich, Switzerland. Other transactions involved the Iraqi government—though

  U.S. businesses were restricted from trade with Sad-dam Hussein except through the United Nations Oilfor-Food Program.

  But Nina knew those weren’t the real leads.

  The important discovery involved the ownership of the firm. Though the company had been established in 1986, Prolix had just recently been acquired by a former insurance executive named Felix Tanner—the same name Jack’s female informant Caitlin had mentioned during an interrogation about the Lynch brothers.

  Putting aside her other tasks, Nina Myers concentrated on finding out everything she could about Felix Tanner.

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  9:18:54 A.M.EDT The Last Celt

  Griffin Lynch tramped on the gas. Tires shrieking, the Mercedes swung around the lumbering delivery van, then swerved in front of it. The Boar’s Head meats truck skidded to a halt, the driver bellowing a curse at what looked like the typical New York asshole businessman—silver hair, well-dressed, and in a hurry. In seconds the black Mercedes was gone, zooming down Roosevelt Avenue under the shade of the elevated train tracks.

  The day was already hot. With the window down, the clattering subway rolling overhead drowned out almost everything else. Cars double-parked along the busy avenue made vehicular progress slow. Griff clutched the steering wheel impatiently, even though the pub was only a few blocks away.

  He was more than a little bit cheesed at Shamus. Bloody brilliant of the boy not to show at the shop, this morning of all mornings, thought Griff. With so much to do, so many loose ends to tie up and final decisions to be made, Shamus was behaving like a tool. Bad enough he’d been more interested in fast-money deals with the local swains than taking care of their real business. Now the boyo’d vanished, along with the pub sketch he’d been shagging. Griff had been calling Shamus repeatedly since eight-thirty, but no one at The Last Celt would answer the bloody phone. With zero hour less than half a day away, Griff had no choice but to get in the car himself and drive to the pub.

  It was bloody reckless of Shamus to act so irresponsibly, but Griff wasn’t all that surprised. He’d noticed changes in his brother over the past few months. At first Griff assumed it was Caitlin. Since the explosion that maimed Griff so badly, the joys of women were denied him, but he hadn’t forgotten the power of the mating urge. Griff indulged his younger brother’s need to get his hole now and then—but when he compared his brother’s professional attitude in Somalia to his fuck-ups lately, he realized Shamus hadn’t been the same since they’d set up shop in New York City.

  It was the seductive lure of the fast-money American way that warped him, Griff knew. Shamus would rather remain in New York and exploit the opportunities at hand than go for a really big score and retire in a banana republic with a fat bank account. Not that his little brother had directly challenged Griff’s plans. But it was obvious enough to Griff that Shamus wanted to stay.

  The boy just didn’t understand. Living in America was an impossible dream. It hadn’t taken Frank Hens-ley very long to track them down. The fact that the FBI agent was as crooked
as a turf accountant was a bit of luck. Griff had been able to make a deal with Hensley, but sooner or later another FBI agent—an honest one—or someone from the police department, the DEA, or CTU would find them and the bomb would explode in their faces.

  Griff understood that there was no future for them anywhere in America or Europe. He and Shamus had already done too many things for the Cause to turn back now. In that sense, the Duggan brothers had already made their choice, back when they became Provos.

  Griff topped a small rise, and The Last Celt was in sight. Luck was with him—he spied an empty spot on

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  the corner, right in front of the pub. As he parked, he calmed down a bit. Most likely Shamus got royally flustered and had simply slept in. He’d be hungover this morning, but after coffee, food, and a bitch slap from his elder bro, Shamus would be up to the task at hand—and not so crazy over Caitlin’s melt that he’d balk when the time came to say adieu. Griff would off the ninny and her brother himself if it came to that.

  Griff exited the car and crossed the sidewalk. He halted mid-stride when he saw the splintered wood on the pub’s door. Reaching into his linen sport coat, Griff eased the 9mm Beretta out of its shoulder holster before he touched the knob. No surprise the door was unlocked. Griff pushed through it and slipped inside. In the tavern’s dim interior he saw toppled tables, overturned chairs, the phone ripped out of the wall.

  Griff found Shamus upstairs a few minutes later, on the floor of Caitlin’s shabby digs. He ripped the tape away from his brother’s mouth, untied his hands and legs, and dashed cold water in his face. Shamus moaned, then reached for his head. Suddenly he opened his eyes, focused on his brother, bolted upright. “Where’s that bleedin’ CTU agent?”

  Griff scowled. “What CTU agent?”

  “He took her away at gunpoint.”

  “Who, Caitlin?”

  Shamus nodded. “He forced her. Made her go with him.”

  Griff wasn’t so sure. “What about the attaché case?”

  “Liam took off with it.” Shamus glanced at his watch. “Taj should be holding the damned thing by now.”

  “We’ll have to clean up this mess,” said Griff.

  “Caitlin and her brother are liabilities now. So is Donnie. Before this day is over, everyone we ever did business with in the States—everyone who knew us here—must be permanently silenced.”

  Shamus looked away, said nothing. Then they both heard a noise from downstairs in the pub. Tables and chairs being moved, then someone cursed. Shamus spoke. “It’s Donnie. He’ll be real cheesed about the mess.”

  “Shut up and wait here,” snarled Griff. He led with his gun as he silently glided down the stairs.

  9:31:21 A.M.EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Crisis Management Team Alpha, formerly the Crisis Management Team, met in the main conference room at the behest of Ryan Chappelle, who wanted to be brought up to speed on the latest developments.

  Ryan was surprised when Nina Myers arrived— late—and informed him that a second Threat Clock and Crisis Management Team Beta had been established. When Nina closed the door to officially begin the conference, Ryan blinked in surprise. “This is everyone?”

  The only other person at the conference table was Doris Soo Min, who rocked nervously in her chair and played with the cover of the laptop computer on the table in front of her.

  Nina brushed her short dark hair away from her face, sank into a chair. “Milo Pressman is in the field, supervising the Cyber Unit at Green Dragon in Little Tokyo. Tony and Captain Schneider are interrogating

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  a prisoner in holding room three. And I’ve excused Jamey from the meeting because I’ve asked her to follow up on a new lead.”

  Ryan sighed theatrically. “Then why am I here, Nina?”

  Because you called the meeting instead of taking the trouble to read the hourly logs, Nina thought. She said something else. “Actually, Miss Soo Min has had something of a breakthrough.”

  “I thought the memory stick had been pretty much decrypted and mined.”

  Nina shook her head. “Did you know that Doris found a time code encrypted within the aircraft recognition program?”

  “I’m aware of it now.”

  Chappelle swung his office chair to face the young woman. He fixed her with his best managerial gaze. “So, tell me what you found, Doris...”

  Doris cleared her throat, tapped the computer keyboard. In the center of the conference table, the square block of HDTV monitors sprang to life.

  “Along with the time code there was also a series of longitude and latitude points in the encrypted data,” Doris explained. “Watch what happens when I cross-reference that geographical data against a map of the continental United States.”

  On the monitor, the map of America appeared in blue outline. Then a crimson grid appeared superimposed over the image. Six geographical markers blinked, all positioned in or near major metropolitan areas—two around New York City.

  “The exact longitude and latitude pinpoint six locations,” Doris continued. “JFK and LaGuardia airports in New York City, Logan Airport in Boston, Ronald Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C., O’Hare in Chicago, LAX here in Southern California.”

  Ryan Chappelle placed the palms of his hands on the table, leaned closer to the screen. For a long moment he studied the grid in silence.

  “That’s it,” Ryan said at last. “As I see it, there’s no other conclusion possible. The aircraft recognition software in the memory stick, the Long Tooth shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles, the time code, now this. They all add up to one thing—the terrorists are planning to shoot down commercial aircraft all over the United States at the same time, in a nationwide act of coordinated terrorism.”

  9:41:21 A.M.EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Captain Jessica Schneider stared across the interrogation table at Saito. The Japanese man was slumped in his chair, his arrogant confidence gone, replaced by exhaustion and anxiety.

  “Listen, miss. I’m telling you the truth.”

  Jessica sighed and shook her head. “I think I liked your Rat Pack persona better.”

  “It was just part of the act.” Saito pushed his slick hair back with his left hand. The gesture displayed the stump of his missing finger.

  The steel door opened. Tony Almeida walked in, slapped a file folder on the desk, slumped down in the chair next to Jessica Schneider. They both fixed their gazes on Saito. Tony spoke.

  “I had a conversation with the Japanese Ambas

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  sador. He confirmed everything. He’s telling the truth.”

  Saito grinned, slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “See, I told you.”

  Jessica’s jaw dropped. “You’re a cop?”

  “Agent Ito Nakajima, Special Assault Team, Tokyo Prefecture.” The Japanese man offered a respectful bow.

  “What are you doing in Los Angeles, Special Agent Nakajima?”

  “As Saito, I infiltrated the Machi-yokko crime clan two years ago, when they began to diversify.”

  “What do you mean by diversify?” Tony asked.

  “For decades the Machi-yokko clan was strictly bakuto—illegal gambling, numbers, some loan sharking. But a couple of years ago the Kumicho of the Machi-yokko clan—”

  Jessica blinked. “Wait a minute, who or what is a Kumicho?”

  “A leader. A clan elder. Think The Godfather, missy,” the Japanese man replied with something of his old bravado. “Anyway, last year this Kumicho made a deal with a Taiwanese businessman named Wen Chou Lee.”

  Tony nodded. “The triad leader who owns the Green Dragon Computers franchise.”

  “Yes.” Agent Nakajima nodded. “Only this deal wasn’t for bootleg computer parts or hot microchips stolen off a Malaysian cargo ship. This deal was the same one the Kumicho made with Shoko Asahara.”

  “The Aum Supreme Truth Cult leader? He’s the man responsible for the sarin gas attack in the Toky
o subway system. Why isn’t your Kumicho behind bars?”

  “The Machi-yokko clan’s contributions and behind-the-scenes activities are very important to a certain political party. That gives the Kumicho and his men a measure of protection.”

  “What did your Kumicho do for the Aum cult?”

  “Helped them build their secret death lab, Satian Six, at the base of Mount Fuji. It was there that the cult’s scientist, Hideo Murai, produced the poison gas. The Aum also fried their political enemies and dissident members of the cult in industrial-sized microwave ovens, dispatched terrorists to murder an innocent lawyer and his family, and ultimately masterminded the worst terrorist incident in my nation’s history.”

  A moment of silence followed the man’s outburst. Finally Tony Almeida asked, “So what’s really going on at Green Dragon?”

  “The Kumicho has taken a lot of money in exchange for smuggling North Korean–made missile launchers, that’s a fact. But lately I’ve heard talk about other things—biological weapons, pandemics, that kind of thing.”

  “Here? In the United States?” The notion seemed to surprise Jessica. Tony was unruffled.

  The man faced Jessica. “I couldn’t tell you for sure if the attacks are going to be here or somewhere else. I’m just a kobun—a soldier. Nobody tells me anything. But I have eyes and ears, and I don’t like what I’m seeing and hearing.”

  “You’re free to go, Agent Nakajima.” Tony Almeida reached into the file folder, handed Agent Nakajima a one-way ticket for a flight back to Japan. “The airplane leaves in an hour. If you’re not on it,

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  you will be arrested and deported by the Immigration and Naturalization Service.”

  Agent Nakajima glowered, snatched the ticket out of Tony’s hand.

  “Fine,” he said. “My cover’s blown anyway.”

  A CTU security man opened the steel door, ushered the Japanese agent out. When they were gone, Jessica faced Tony.

  “Do you think he was right? Do you think some sort of bio-terrorism attack is possible?”