24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse (15 page)

Omar al Farad shook his head. “My son conspired with no one. He is not a terrorist.”

“I never called him a terrorist, But your son had committed multiple murder. He must face justice—”

“You see! You speak of justice for crimes that were not Ibn’s fault.”

“That is exactly right,” said Jack, his voice even. “Your son is not responsible for his crimes. I believe he was drugged and brainwashed by a man named Hasan. It is Hasan I seek. If your son can lead me to him, it will do much to prove his innocence.”

Again, the man’s anger faded as abruptly as it came, replaced by confusion and uncertainty. Beneath the immaculate London-tailored clothing, the passionate outrage, Omar al Farad was a man in crisis, a man on the verge of collapse.

“Talk to me, Deputy Minister,” Jack continued. “Tell me what happened to your son. How he became involved with this man Hasan.”

Omar al Farad glanced at his sister. She closed her eyes and nodded once.

“Very well,” said Omar. “But not here.”

Nareesa led the two men to a small library packed with books in English and Arabic. They sat across from one another, a café-sized table between them. A maid appeared, served them tea and honey cakes. When Jack looked up again, he and Omar were alone.

“My first mistake was marrying an American wife,” Omar began. “She loved the boy too much, spoiled him until he was seven years old—”

“What changed?”

“She died, Mr. Bauer, at our home in Riyadh. Cancer of the brain. First she was confused, then her madness became violent, finally she succumbed. There was nothing anyone could do. After an appropriate mourning period, I married again—this time someone more suitable, a member of the Saudi royal family.”

“I see.”

“My second wife did not approve of my first marriage or the product of that marriage. So when Ibn was eleven, I sent him to Andover, the same boarding

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school I’d attended. I tried to give him a good educa
tion, make him wise, but when he was of college age, Ibn demanded to be sent to the University of Southern California. He wished to become a filmmaker.”

The man sighed heavily. “He’d been polluted by the filth he’d been exposed to.”

“Filth?”

“The rap music, the movies full of wanton harlots and venal men, sin and degradation. Of course, I disapproved of Ibn’s choices, but there was little I could say to dissuade him. To my shame, I finally relented.”

Omar’s features darkened, his fingers clawed at the cup. “In his first year, he met a girl. An American girl. My son, he was not sophisticated in the ways of the world, and he was weak. Because he was robbed of his mother’s love early on, he craved the attention of women. This...whore...She took advantage of him—”

“She hurt him?”

“She
used
him, Mr. Bauer. Like an evil sucking harpy. And what was left was not my son. He stopped going to the mosque, dropped out of school, he took drugs, even drank liquor. Then, six months ago, he vanished. My lawyers could not find him. He did not touch his trust fund for we watched the account. I feared my son was dead—until today, when Major Salah told me Ibn had been found by your police. That he was about to be charged with terrible crimes.”

More than anything else, Jack wanted to throttle Major Salah, demand to know what made the rogue officer think he could stage a covert operation inside the United States with impunity. But he was forced by circumstance to hold his tongue. Silently, Jack vowed to bring Major Salah, his men, and even Deputy Minister al Farad to justice for the policemen they maimed and murdered—but only after he’d gotten what he needed. The priority at the moment was interrogating the fugitive. A reckoning would come later.

“Your sister said your son is awake,” said Jack. “Let me speak to him.”

“Why? What can be gained?”

“Ibn has had contact with Hasan. When I find Hasan I will make him confess to his crimes. What he did to your boy. The faster I find Hasan, the faster I can clear your son’s name.”

Omar’s eyes appeared haunted. Finally he nodded. “Very well, Mr. Bauer. But my son does not leave this house.”

1:13:37
P
.
M
. PDT Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills

“If that were me I’d just die! But not the Material Girl. No, that woman is a force of nature.”

Valerie Dodge, CEO and founder of Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency, lounged in her contoured leather office chair. She held the silver phone to her ear, tapped the flawless surface of the desk with long, pink enameled fingernails. Her own forty-year-old reflection stared back at her from the polished glass. She had an oval face, framed by long, straight sun-bleached hair. White, perfectly capped teeth flashed against a dark tan. Laugh lines were evident around her light blue eyes and at the edges of her generous mouth. Hardly the same face that had graced the cover of every fashion magazine in the world in the late 1980s.

But not so bad, either,
she mused.
A little too old, a little too tanned, and a little too brassy—but just

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tough enough to parlay a supermodel fame into a lasting career. To conquer the most cutthroat town in America
.

“Yes, darling. Tonight
is
the big night. My girls are ready, the venue’s ready. My Katya’s handled every
thing. She’s a wonder—I’d just die without her. After all the work she’s done these past weeks, Katya will probably want a raise, the ingrate!”

A knock interrupted her laugh. “Here’s Katya, now. I’ll see you tonight, at the wrap party. Remember, Club 100. Midnight—unless that damn awards show runs overtime.”

The office door opened. The woman who entered looked to be in her early thirties. She wore a simple black dress, black leather boots that just touched the bend of her knee. Straw-blond hair in a tight bun, her only jewelry a black choker around her long, graceful, bone-white neck. In her arms she cradled a square box emblazoned with the name of an exclusive Rodeo Drive boutique.

“Come in, darling,” said Valerie Dodge. “Where have you been all morning?”

“I went over to the Chamberlain Auditorium to make sure everything was in order, that our models have the privacy they need.”

“Good girl. Last year half the stagehands were ogling my girls. All they had were canvas cubicles and Japanese screens for a dressing room.”

Katya smiled. “I took care of that, Ms. Dodge. This year they’ll have real rooms, backstage.”

Valerie smiled. Then her eyes drifted to Katya’s desk in the next room. On top of it, a thick red folder stuffed with contracts appeared untouched. Valerie Dodge nearly jumped out of her chair.

“My god, Katya. The models’ contracts! They’re still there on your desk where I left them. The girls can’t appear tonight if those contracts are not filed with the television network, the producers.”

“Relax, Ms. Dodge,” said Katya, fumbling with the box in her arm. “The proper paperwork went to the right people. I made sure of that.”

Valerie leaned back and smiled. “Thank god. For a moment—” She fumbled with a cigarette, a solid gold lighter. “Well, I knew you were on top of everything. Believe me, Katya, without you—”

The woman in black dropped the box, squeezed the trigger. The sound suppressed Walther PBK in her hand bucked once, twice, three times. Valerie Dodge jerked as each shot struck her. With a final moan she sank to the carpeted floor.

Katya lowered the weapon. Ignored the twitching corpse. “I know, Ms. Dodge. You’d just die without me.”

The woman set the weapon on the glass desk. Then she grabbed the dead woman by the ankle and dragged her to the corner of the room, leaving a long crimson trail on the spotless white rug.

Katya dropped the leg and stepped around the corpse. Sitting in the chair, she booted up Valerie Dodge’s computer, then slipped a pen drive into a USB port. It took less than two minutes for the plans, the schematics, the codes to load. Next Katya typed in her call sign—ChechenAvenger066—and sent coded e-mails that activated sleeper agents all over America’s West Coast.

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1:19:16
P
.
M
. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles

The loading dock was guarded by the auditorium’s regular security staff, but supervised by Secret Service Agent Craig Auburn. A twenty-year veteran of the Currency Fraud Division, Auburn had been temporarily—and
inconveniently
—pulled from an in
vestigation of a Pakistani funny money ring in San Diego and dispatched to Los Angeles for the impending visit of the Vice President and his wife.

After he’d already arrived, it was announced that Number Two—the Vice President—would not make the trip, so many of the duties were scrambled. Auburn ended up serving as an entry monitor, which was not much more than a glorified doorman, but he made no complaint. Special Agent Auburn took his job seriously. He also planned to retire in five years with a full pension and no blots on his exemplary record.

Things had been quiet until a Middle Eastern man arrived. He led a parade of carpenters and a half-dozen mechanical dollies piled high with formed steel parts partially or completely swathed by crude wooden crates.

“What’s this?” Auburn demanded, stepping in front of the column.

“Stage prop,” said the Middle Eastern man, waving a manifest. Auburn took the clipboard, scanned it with one eye on the man who gave it to him.

“Who are you?” Auburn asked, handing the clipboard back to the man.

“I am Haroun. It was my truck that brought these sculptures in from the fabricator.”

“Let me see your identification.”

Smiling, Haroun handed Auburn his driver’s license, union card, and security pass. Everything seemed in order, but there was something about the man, these crates, that set off Auburn’s internal alarms. His colleagues said he could always spot a phony when he saw one, and Haroun felt like a ringer.

Auburn pushed past Haroun, paced down the line of dollies, circling one after the other. The crates were sizable—the smallest taller than a man, the largest nearly the size of an automobile. Finally, the horn honked on one of the mechanical dollies in the rear of the line.

“What’s the hold up?” barked its operator.

“Who cares,” said another. “We get paid by the hour.”

Just then, the auditorium’s crew chief arrived. He spied the crates and threw up his hands. “About god-damn time. Get those dollies in here. I got an empty stage up there.”

“I am coming,” Haroun called back. “As soon as this man lets me pass.”

The crew chief shook his head, approached Special Agent Auburn. “
Please
don’t tell me you’re harassing Haroun just because he’s Middle Eastern. He’s worked here for a couple of years, right Haroun?”

“That is correct.”

“How’s the wife, by the way?” asked the crew chief. Haroun grinned. “She baked honey cakes. I am sorry they are all gone. I would have liked to save one for you.”

“Maybe next time.” The crew chief turned to Auburn. “Come on, guy. We’re running late here. Save the double-oh-seven stuff for the bad guys. Unless this really is a case of racial profiling.”

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Auburn stepped aside. “Go on,” he said, waving the men through.

One by one, the dollies began to move. Under Spe
cial Agent Auburn’s watchful eye, the Chechens carefully maneuvered the mechanical dollies through the tight loading dock and up the ramp to the stage. They were exceedingly careful not to bump the crates, or send them tumbling onto their sides. The men moving the crates knew that those hidden inside were martyrs—armed and highly trained members of the faithful who were willing to die for the cause of Chechen independence, and for jihad.

This was the primary reason the phony union workers moved the props into attack position with reverence and respect. They did not want to disturb such heroes more than necessary on their final day on Earth.

1:34:07
P
.
M
. PDT Ice House Tijuana, Mexico

Despite the chemical stench and the cuffs cutting off the circulation to his swollen hands, Tony Almeida had fallen into a fitful sleep. Someone had erected a plastic screen around the corner where he’d been thrown and on the other side of it, men continued to cook pills, separating the deadly and addictive narcotic from its component parts.

Tony had no idea how long he’d slept when two men approached him and hauled him to his feet. They were fair-skinned giants with light hair cropped close to their scalps. Each wore a surgical mask.

“Hey,” Tony yelled, the moment they’d touched him, “what the hell do you want with me!”

The men responded with stony silence. They freed his arms, tore away his shirt. Then they slammed Tony against the wire box spring propped upright against the wall. When he realized what was happening, Tony struggled frantically, but his hands were useless, completely numb, and his elbows were poor substitutes for fists. The men easily bound him against the cold metal.

When they finally moved back, another man stepped up. He wore overalls, stained with sweat, thick rolls of fat bulging around a tight collar. His eyes were small and close set, over a flat nose and wet pink lips. While the other two men rolled the friction generator into the room and connected the electrodes to the bedsprings, the fat man watched, arms folded, until they were finished. Then he moved his face within inches of Tony’s.

“Mr. Dobyns tells me you pass yourself off as a credit card cheat, a petty criminal. But he believes you are more than that. So do I.”

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Tony was appalled at the note of panic in his voice, but he couldn’t control it, or the fear mounting inside him.

“MynameisOrdog. WhatIwantfromyou areanswers. If you give them to me, you will be spared much agony. If you do not, you will suffer before you die.”