24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse (19 page)

The message machine cut off after thirty seconds. Lonnie went right back to work, moving the cursor and isolating another section of the photograph, enhanced it to the limit. He studied the disappointing results on his computer monitor, wondering if another photo shop program would do a better job of enhancing the image without pixelation. With the Mohave program all he got was a blurry mess—a silhouette of Abigail Heyer sitting in the back of the limousine, sure—but the details he was looking for were gone, faded into a soft blur.

Lonnie cursed and saved the image. It was just habit, the picture was useless. He moved to the next digital photograph in the sequence he’d snapped earlier that day, at Abigail Heyer’s mansion. This picture was taken just a split-second after the previous one. He expanded the picture until it filled the screen, then cropped off the driver’s shoulder and head, making the actress the central figure.

Before he tampered further, Lonnie studied the photo for a long time, absorbing every detail. He stared long enough for the phone to startle him out of his cyber trance. He ignored the call and on the third ring the machine answered.

“Nobunaga you son of a bitch! You’re fired. That’s what you are you bastard. You’re fired!”

Lon tried to ignore the stream of obscenities that followed his boss’s threat.

Sorry, Jake
, thought Lon.
I’ll get to the Chamber
lain Auditorium tonight, but on my own time. Any
way, I might just have the celebrity photograph of the year right here, and if you want it you’re going to have to be much
nicer
to me in the future.

The message machine clicked off. In the silence that followed, Lon exited Mohave Photo Shop and activated a similar program from a software rival. To test the resolution, he selected an image from much later in the sequence, the best of which was a shot of Abigail Heyer crossing the stone patio to her front door, looking very pregnant under her voluminous slacks and pink cashmere maternity blouse.

A good photo, Lon decided. Crisp. Clean. Perfect composition. Jake Gollob would be proud to put it on the cover of his rag, with a banner headline announcing the pregnancy, and pondering the identity of the father. A
Midnight Confession
exposé. It would boost the weekly circulation by thirty percent.

But it would be a lie.

Lon went backward, through the photo sequence to the very first picture he’d snapped, a photo of the interior of the limousine taken the moment the driver opened the door. He isolated a section of that image, Abigail Heyer’s torso as she leaned forward to exit the vehicle. This time, he reversed the image before he expanded it, so the dark lines would be light, the light sections dark, like a photo negative.

The computer churned and the results appeared on

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his screen. Lon contemplated the image without

blinking.

There it is. Plain as day
.

He saved the enhanced image, printed out several copies. Then he copied all of the digital photo files from the Heyer mansion shoot onto a pen drive dan
gling from his key chain.

Lon rose, grabbed one of the photos of Abigail Heyer that he’d just printed out and literally ran to his bedroom. He scanned the DVD collection packing his bookshelf, found his copy of Abigail’s film,
Bangor, Maine
, and dropped it into the player. He remembered a passage on the DVD extras. After thumbing through the interviews and deleted scenes, he finally found it in the director’s commentary.

“It was very hard to get just the right angle, especially in the long shots,” said Guy Hawkins, the film’s British director. “In several scenes, perfect shots were ruined because the pregnancy harness was clearly visible under Abigail’s clothes. Most of the time, when this happened, we used digital effects to clean things up, but this blooper got past us...”

Lon froze the image. For a long second the harness she wore was clearly visible under the flannel shirt, just as the director had said. He compared the image on the television screen with the photo in his hand.

“Abigail Heyer is no more pregnant than
I
am,” he murmured. “She’s wearing a goddamn pregnancy suit!”

Lon gaped at the screen, absolutely certain he’d discovered Abigail Heyer’s secret. The international star was pretending to be very pregnant. The only question was—

“Why?”

3:27:01
P
.
M
. PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico

Tony crossed the inn’s deserted lobby, cradling the blanket-wrapped corpse in his arms. He moved through La Hacienda’s tiny kitchen in the rear of the building where he found the innkeeper, his wife, and a housekeeper had been herded, and then murdered, by the Chechens.

In the narrow alley behind the inn, Milo stood waiting beside the car. Keegan, Lesser, and Brandy sat inside.

When Milo saw Tony coming, he popped the trunk. Tony placed the body inside, marveling at how light Fay felt in his arms, as if much of her substance had faded away with her life.

Milo gently closed the trunk, faced Tony. “Ready?”

“Take Lesser, Keegan, and Brandy back to the United States. Rendezvous with the extraction team. And make sure forensics gets Fay’s body—”

“What about you?”

Tony peered down the alley to the busy street beyond. The white van in which he’d driven across the border was still parked on the street where he’d left it. “I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to secure the equipment up in the room, erase all evidence of CTU involvement.”

Milo stared hard at Tony. “You’re going after this guy Dobyns, aren’t you?”

Tony nodded, short and sharp. “The Chechens might have information we need, too—”

“But Tony, you’ll be alone. Don’t you think—”

Tony’s cold, lethal gaze met Milo’s anxiety-ridden

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eyes. “I’ll make sure I ask them a few questions be
fore I finish them off.”

Milo sighed, giving it up. “What do I tell Chappelle?”

“Tell him I’ll be right behind you. ...Tell him to send another extraction team. That’s all he needs to know until it’s finished.”

A horn blared. Milo jumped. “Damn!”

“Hurry up,” Brandy cried from the passenger seat. “We ain’t got all day.”

Milo frowned, tried one last time. “Tony. Reconsider. Come back with us. A follow up strike team can take care of this—”

“You know that won’t happen.” Tony glanced away. “Chappelle doesn’t like to make waves ...he’ll consider the international issues, probably balk. This is something I’m going to have to do myself.”

“But—”

“
Go
, Milo,” Tony snapped. “That’s an order.” Then his voice softened. “I’ll see you back at headquarters in a couple of hours.”

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9
10 11
12
13 14 15 16 17
18 19 20 21 22 23 24

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLAC
E
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
4 P.M. AND 5 P.M.
PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

4:00:51
P
.
M
. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Stripped to the waist, lying flat on his back in a hospi
tal bed, Jack Bauer gazed at the bomb-proof concrete ceiling. The CTU’s L.A. headquarters more resembled a military bunker than a federal office, and its infirmary reflected the same utilitarian style—windowless concrete walls, exposed ducts snaking along the ceiling or between banks of medical equipment.

Standing steel and glass partitions separated the twelve-bed hospital ward, where Jack waited, from the triage unit and intensive care facility down the hall. Farther along the blast-resistant concrete corridor sat

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5

a glass-enclosed surgical theater, a biohazard treatment unit, and a state-of-the-art biological isolation and identification facility.

Dr. Brandeis had brought Jack here, sent him through the CT scanner, then the MRI. Alone now, Jack waited for the test results, and for the painkillers he’d hastily swallowed to knock his raging headache back down to a dull, manageable throb again.

Jack glanced at his watch, grimaced, and reached for the secure telephone on a buffed aluminum night-stand beside his bed. He tapped in his personal code for an outside line, then dialed his home phone. Teri answered on the second ring.

“Teri? It’s me.”

“Hello, Jack.” He could feel the chill in her voice.
Well, she has a good reason to be upset.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. There’s a situ
ation—”

“Another crisis. I thought as much. Don’t worry about it.”

There was a long silence. “Is Kim home from school yet?”

Teri sighed. “Since I didn’t hear from you, I sent her over to my cousin’s house. She’s going to watch the Silver Screen Awards with Sandy and Melissa.”

Jack blanked for a second. “The Silver Screen Awards?”

“Yes, Jack. Her mother is going to be in the audience tonight, remember?”

Their early morning conversation came flooding back: how Teri had received that call from her old boss, got the last-minute invitation to attend the awards show, was excited about seeing some of her old friends.

“Of course, that’s why I called,” Jack lied. “I wanted to tell you to have a good time. What did you decide to wear?”

Jack could almost feel Teri melt a little. “My black Versace,” she told him. “You know the one...”

“I remember,” whispered Jack. “And I remember the last time you wore it.”

They’d spent a long weekend in Santa Barbara. The first night, she’d worn it to dinner. The second and third nights, dressing was the last thing on their minds. But that was nearly six months ago. They’d had few romantic moments since.

“I’ll bet you look great,” said Jack.

“You can see for yourself.” Now Teri’s voice was as soft as Jack’s. “Tonight, when I get home. Probably around midnight.”

“I’m looking forward to that,” Jack replied, but he tensed up the moment he’d said it. Although he hoped his work would be over by midnight, he honestly couldn’t be certain. “Look, about tonight, I’m really sorry—”

“Jack, don’t apologize. We both know what you do is important...more important than I probably realize. . . . It’s just that sometimes—”

“Teri, listen—”

“Oh, the limousine is here. I have to go.”

Jack checked his watch. “So soon?”

“Yes, it actually starts in an hour. Dennis says they stage it early so they can broadcast it during prime time on the East Coast. Look, the driver’s honking. I have to leave. Bye.”

“Have a great time,” Jack said. “I love you—”

But Teri had already hung up. Jack listened to the electric hum for a moment, then dropped the receiver in its cradle. He lay back in the bed, closed his eyes

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and massaged his temples. When he opened them again, Dr. Brandeis and Ryan Chappelle were ap
proaching. Jack sat up and slipped his shirt over his head—more to hide the patches, bandages and bruises than out of modesty.

“How are you feeling, Special Agent Bauer?” Dr. Brandeis asked, his eyes scanning, assessing.

“The headache is almost gone,” Jack said. “The vision’s pretty much cleared up. The rest did me good.”

From the doctor’s pinched expression, Jack knew the man wasn’t buying it. Ryan spoke next.

“Dr. Brandeis tells me you have a concussion. That you’ve been walking around with it for most of the day.”

“The MRI revealed potentially dangerous swelling of the brain,” said the doctor, addressing his remarks to Chappelle. “I’ve given Special Agent Bauer something to treat the pain and swelling already. There’s nothing more I can do. He requires rest and time to heal. I’m recommending he be relieved of active duty for five to seven days—”

Jack cut him off. “I can’t do that. We’re in the middle of a crisis. A terrorist attack may be imminent.”

Brandeis refused to meet Jack’s gaze. Speaking only to Chappelle, he argued, “Surely there are other agents who can handle this situation—”

Again, Jack cut him off. “I’m going to see this through to the end. No matter what you say.”

Ryan Chappelle faced Jack and folded his arms. “Is that how you really feel? Think about it carefully before answering.”

Jack opened his mouth to speak, then paused to consider the Regional Director’s offer, because that’s exactly what it was. Chappelle was giving Jack an out, a chance to dump this operation onto somebody else. Jack could sign himself out of the infirmary, drive over to Teri’s cousin’s house and pick up Kim. They could watch the awards show, and greet Teri when she got home.

Jack visualized the moment before he banished it from his mind. He could see Kim’s happy face. His wife in that killer dress. But then another image interceded: Hugh Vetri and his entire family brutally murdered.

Jack remembered the disk that was in the dead man’s possession. The disk that contained his CTU personnel file, home address, the names of his immediate family.

“I can’t go, Dr. Brandeis,” said Jack. “I have to see this operation through to the end. Who knows how many lives are at stake.”

With obvious frustration, Dr. Brandeis turned away from his patient and faced the Regional Director. “It’s your call, sir. You can keep this agent on active duty and risk killing him. Or you can order Bauer to stand down, place himself on medical leave under medical supervision.”

Ryan Chappelle shook his head. “I understand the dangers, Dr. Brandeis, and I thank you for bringing them to my attention. But there’s a crisis looming, one we don’t even have a handle on. It’s a threat that could have far reaching implications.” He turned to look Jack squarely in the eye. “Unfortunately, I need Special Agent Bauer. I don’t have time to get another manager up to speed. I have no choice but to return this man to active duty immediately.”

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4:07:21
P
.
M
. PDT Outside La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico