24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse (18 page)

3:07:23
P
.
M
. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

The impromptu meeting had broken up already, but Jack Bauer found Nina Myers and Ryan Chappelle in the conference room, still debating the best course of action. The Threat Clock had already been activated, and Jamey Farrell had been ordered to reestablish contact with Milo Pressman in Mexico by Ryan himself, who had taken over the operation.

“Sorry for the delay,” said Jack. “I waited for the CTU Autopsy Team to arrive. They’re bringing the bodies here.”

“Sit down, Jack. You look like hell,” said Ryan. He keyed the intercom built into the table. “We need a doctor in the conference room.”

“I’m all right, Ryan,” Jack protested.

“You’re a mess,” Chappelle replied, “and the doctor’s going to have a look at you.”

Jack slumped into a chair and tried to compose his thoughts. He told them what transpired at Nareesa al-Bustani’s Beverly Hills home, about Major Salah’s treachery, the death of Omar al Farad, the Saudi Deputy Minister, and about the murders of producer Hugh Vetri and his family. The only thing Jack left out was the disk with his CTU personnel file burned on it, found in Hugh Vetri’s computer. Jamey was still working on analyzing that disk, and Jack didn’t want to mention the data leak until he knew where it came from.

18
1

Dr. Darryl Brandeis arrived with a young African-American medical technician. The woman grimaced with concern when she saw Jack.

A former member of the Special Forces, Brandeis was forty-five, completely bald, and in constant need of a shave. He took one look at Jack Bauer’s condi
tion and shook his head. Brandeis checked Jack’s pupils while the technician worked on the glass cuts on his arms.

Jack spoke to Nina. “Tell Ryan what you learned about the original Hasan.”

Nina opened the file in front of her. “Hasan bin Sabah was an eleventh-century Muslim holy man. Taking advantage of the schism in the faith at the time, Hasan created a sect called the Nizari. He soon converted the servants of a prince’s castle to his own violent form of Islam, and one morning the prince awoke to find himself dispossessed, his servants faithful to a new master. Hasan renamed the fortress the Eagle’s Nest—”

“Eagle’s Nest,” interrupted Chappelle, “as in Hitler’s mountain retreat?”

Nina nodded. “After that Hasan ruled the region like a despot. In 1075, in an effort to increase his political power, Hasan hit upon a brilliant new tactic to strike terror into his enemies. Using hashish, a form of cannabis, Hasan brainwashed disciples by convincing them they had visited Paradise.”

“And how did he do that?”

“He built a secret garden inside of his castle, stocked it with willing harem girls who fulfilled the subject’s every desire. When the drugs wore off, Hasan told these dupes that if died in his service they would return to Paradise forever.”

“That worked?”

“Quite effectively. Hasan’s suicidal assassins were the world’s first terrorists. For the next two centuries, they struck fear into the rulers of the Muslim world. No king or prince was safe because there was no protection from a killer who didn’t care if they lived or died, an assassin who was willing to trade his life for the deaths of others and a promised spot in Paradise.”

“Okay, so what happened after Hasan died? Did the terrorism end?”

“No, the violent Nizari sect continued to flourish. Its most public success was the murder of Crusader Conrad of Montferrat in 1192. Scholars believe that the sect continued to brainwash its subjects until its eventual extermination centuries later.”

Nina closed the file. Ryan crossed his arms. “So obviously you believe this new Hasan is emulating the methods and tactics of the original?”

“It fits the facts,” Jack replied, wincing as the doctor extracted a shard of glass from his forearm. He winced again when Brandeis sprayed on instant skin to stop the bleeding. “Ibn al Farad was hunting for someone he called the Old Man on the Mountain when he was captured in the Angeles National Forest. I believe the youth was brainwashed using the methamphetamine Karma, which he had in his possession when he was captured. And don’t forget. I witnessed a loyal member of the Royal Saudi Special Forces Brigade turn on his own soldiers, and then murder the minister he swore an oath to serve.”

Ryan shook his head. “But brainwashing? Mind control? It sounds impossible.”

“Not so.” It was Dr. Brandeis who spoke.

18
3

“Enlighten us, Doctor,” said Ryan.

Brandeis continued to work on his patient as he spoke.

“While there are several ways to exercise control over another human mind, drugs can be very effec
tive. In the 1950s a CIA black operation called MKULTEA experimented with LSD, psilocybin, scopalamine, sodium pentothal and a combination of barbituates and amphetamines, in an attempt to control the minds of test subjects.”

“How successful were they?” Nina asked.

Brandeis shrugged. “Results were mixed. Drugs alone were found to be ineffective. Control was better achieved if certain psychological techniques were also applied.”

Jack tested his wounded arm. “Such as?”

“Effective methods of mind control were outlined in the 1960s and codified in what’s called the Biderman’s chart of coercion. The methods include isolation, threats, degradation. But the chart also lists monopolization of perception, induced debility, and demonstrations of omnipotence by the master controller—”

“I don’t follow,” said Ryan.

“Well. A subject in isolation only sees one other human—the controller, the interrogator, whatever. The subject becomes dependent on that controller, longs for the contact after long stretches of isolation. A relationship is established—a first step. Threats and degradation follow. If used judiciously—and arbitrarily—the subject slowly accepts his helplessness.”

“Sounds like battered wife syndrome,” said Nina.

“An abusive spouse instinctively uses these very same methods,” Brandeis replied.

“But Hasan’s primary lure is spiritual, if Jack is correct.”

The doctor nodded. “True, Mr. Chappelle. That’s where the other methods come in. If you control a person’s perception, you can convince them of any truth—bad guys try to control the media, use propaganda to that end. But drugs can also exert a powerful control over one’s perceptions. And drugs can also be used to induce debility and exhaustion, deepen the subject’s a sense of isolation. The controller can even demonstrate his omnipotence through the manipulation of the subject’s emotions by the use of hallucinogenic drugs.”

Ryan scratched his chin. “And once the subject’s will is broken?”

“The controller rebuilds it,” said Brandeis. “In the case of religious fanaticism, a sense of exclusivity is fostered—the subject is saved, everyone else is damned, that kind of thing.”

“Ibn al Farad was searching for Paradise. He believed himself among the elect.”

Brandeis nodded. “These are all techniques outlined by Biderman.”

“Okay, let’s say that Hasan has found a way to control the minds of his subjects. How does this connect to the midnight cyber attack on the World Wide Web’s infrastructure, or Richard Lesser’s Trojan horse?”

“I didn’t say I had all the answers yet,” Jack replied. “We need to know how the Trojan horse works, what it does before we know its purpose and intended target. Anyway, I’m not convinced Hasan’s only endgame is an attack on the West’s computer infrastructure. Those kind of attacks have been defeated before.”

18
5

Chappelle sighed. He pumped the pen in his hand, tapped it on the conference room table. “Unfortu
nately we seem to have hit a dead end. With Ibn al Farad murdered, Major Salah and his Chechen hit team dead, we don’t know where to turn.”

Jack nudged the medical technician aside, leaned forward in his chair. “Ibn al Farad whispered a name to me before he died. He could have been trying to reveal the true identity of Hasan, or perhaps he was naming another disciple. Either way, we have to check out this new lead right away.”

Dr. Brandeis interrupted them again. “I’m sorry, Special Agent Bauer. You’re not going anywhere without further tests.”

“I don’t have time for tests.”

Brandeis folded his arms. “You probably have a concussion, Jack. You have the symptoms.”

“I’m fine.”

“You have a constant throbbing headache, don’t you? Maybe blurry or double vision...”

“No,” Jack lied.

Nina turned to her boss. “Give me the name, Jack,” she urged, plastic wand poised over a PDA screen. “You go with the doctor down to the infirmary, I’ll run the name through the CTU database, see if we come up with a match, an address or phone number.”

Jack shook his head. “You won’t have to do that, Nina. This man will be easy to find. Architect Nawaf Sanjore is quite well known around the world. His firm has an office in Brentwood, and the man resides in a luxury high-rise he designed and built near Century City.”

3:11:57
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.
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. PDT Ice House Tijuana, Mexico

Milo felt a strong grip on his arm, then a familiar voice. “Get up kid, you did good.” He opened his eyes, saw Cole Keegan standing over him. Behind the biker, the iron grill lay on top of a heavyset bald man wearing a sweat-stained leather apron and rubber gloves.

“Jesus, what about Tony!” Milo cried. He tried to stand, nearly toppled. His leg burned with agony.

“Settle down, you probably sprained something in that fall.” Cole checked his leg. “Nothing broken. Try to walk it off.”

Milo coughed, hobbled over to the man strapped to the rusty box spring. Limp, shirtless, Tony Almeida’s wrists were bound with wire, the flesh scorched around the coils. Milo saw the ancient crank generator and knew Tony’d been subjected to electric shock.

“Here.” Cole thrust a pair of wire cutters into Milo’s hand. “Hurry up. They’re putting out the fire. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Tony groaned as soon as the cold metal touched his burned flesh. His eyes fluttered, then opened wide. Milo cut the wires and gently eased Tony to the floor.

“Milo?”

“Don’t look so incredulous. You’ll hurt my feelings. Drink this.” Milo helped Tony to a sitting position and thrust a bottle of water into his numb, shaky hand. Almeida gulped it down, choking once or twice. Tony noticed the fat man crushed under the iron grate. “Did you do that?”

Milo nodded. “Pressman to the rescue.”

18
7

“His name was Ordog,” said Tony.

“Now he’s Dead Dog.” Keegan grinned.

“He a friend of yours?” Tony asked Milo.

“Meet Cole Keegan. Richard Lesser’s bodyguard.”

“You found Lesser?” Tony asked, gingerly flexing his arms.

Milo nodded. “Lesser decided to give himself up, come back home,” said Milo. “He was looking for you when—”

“When the Chechens found me first.” As he spoke, Tony dribbled some water on the burns on his wrists. The sting jolted him. “How’s Fay?”

Milo didn’t answer. Instead, he used tatters of Tony’s shirt to wrap the burns. Cole Keegan kept an eye on the door at the opposite end of the lab. Tony watched Milo work, waited for a reply to his ques
tion. Finally Tony caught Milo’s eye.

“Milo?
Fay Hubley
?”

“The Chechens found her, Tony...she’s dead.”

Tony closed his eyes, grunted as if punched. He dropped the plastic bottle, stumbled to his feet with Milo’s help. “We’ve got to get out of here. Track them down.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Cole, moving to Almeida’s side. “At least that ‘let’s get out of here’ part.” He handed Tony his duster. “Put this on.”

Tony slipped the long coat over his muscled shoulders.

“Come on,” Milo told Tony. “Richard Lesser’s waiting for us in a car a couple of blocks from here, and an extraction team is meeting us across the border at Brown Field.”

“The exit’s over here,” called Cole. He clutched his shotgun, cocked and ready.

When they kicked open the door, the alley off Albino Street was deserted save for one. Brandy leaned against the wall, tapping her booted foot impatiently. She wore long black jeans, a Sunday church pink ruffled blouse, and clutched a small cherry-red suitcase in one hand.

Seeing her, Keegan froze in his tracks. “I knew this was too easy,” he muttered.

Brandy jerked her head toward the opposite end of the byway, where a crowd had gathered around the still-smoking brothel. The hoot of sirens signaled the not-exactly-timely arrival of the local fire department.

“Don’t worry,” she told them. “The gang guys went north for some kind of score, and the Chechens are holed up on the other side of town with that slob Ray Dobyns. Something big is up—”

Tony met her eyes. “Dobyns. You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Brandy replied. “I heard all about how Dobyns sold you to the Chechens from Carlos—”

“I see.” Tony’s voice was tight with barely contained rage. “Who’s Carlos?”

It was Keegan who replied. “Her pimp. The guy behind the bar.”

Brandy ignored Keegan, stepped up to Tony. “Listen, if you want Dobyns’s head I’ll tell you where the pig is, but you gotta visit him later. I want to be across that border and on my way to my sister’s house in Cleveland before Carlos figures out I’m gone. Otherwise I’m a dead ho’ walking.”

Tony nodded. “Don’t worry. I promise we’ll get you across the border. But first we have a stop to make.”

18
9

3:16:21
P
.
M
. PDT South San Pedro Street Little Tokyo

“
Samurai
? Samurai, where are you, man? This is Jake. You remember. Jake Gollob? Your boss? Pick up the phone and talk to me. Where the hell are ya? I’m here, with a tape recorder in one hand and my dick in the other. Why? Because I don’t have my pho
tographer here,
that’s
why. In an hour they’re going to seal off the press area and you won’t get in. If you’re in your apartment, pick up. I’m begging you—”