24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse (4 page)

6:23:44
A
.
M
.PDT Tijuana, Mexico

They’d made it to the border crossing on Route 5 with seconds to spare. Tony eased the van through the second gate from the right, as per his briefing. The border guard recognized the car and Tony’s disguise and waved the van right through the checkpoint.

The area around the border crossing resembled a war zone, with layers of chain link fences topped by curls of barbed wire, blades glinting in the sun. No plants grew in this no-man’s land. The only movement were the tiny tornadoes of dust that swirled over the scorched stretch of rocky desert.

Along the last few miles, they’d seen more and more bilingual signs. Now everything—the road signs, the advertisements, everything—was in Spanish. Tony steered the van to the bridge. They really weren’t in Tijuana until they crossed the Tijuana River Canal. Because of the drought, the “river” more resembled a muddy creek, and the entire town seemed to be coated with a fine, powdery dust.

Tony rolled down the window to pass a slow moving truck. Fumes filled the cab and Fay’s nose curled. “Somebody ought to Midasize it.”

“That’s
leaded
gasoline. It’s legal down here. Get used to it,” said Tony.

On the other side of the river, Tony drove a few blocks through a market area, then turned onto Revolucion. Though early, some of the bars and restaurants were open for business. Already the food carts were filling the hot dry morning with the smell of burned charcoal and seared meat.

“Is the whole town like this?” Fay asked.

“This is the tourist area.”

She smiled knowingly. “I get it. This is the sleazy part of town.”

“No. This is the
nice
part.”

Tony stayed on Revolucion, right through Centro—Tijuana’s downtown—until the avenue ended. He turned left at Amacusac, then made another left on winding Murrieta. On Juan Escutia Tony pulled up in front of a three-story brick building with rickety balconies fronting the structure on the second and third floors. The sign above the single door read la hacienda. Tony cut the engine.

“We’re here,” he said. He released his seatbelt. Fay Hubley reached for the door handle. Tony stopped her.

“Remember your instructions. Use first names only, but remember your cover. I’m Tony Navarro. You’re Fay Kelly. Best not to get into any conversations, and don’t look anyone in the eye. And remember, if we get separated or if something happens to me—”

“Go directly to the United States Consulate and tell them who I am.”

Tony nodded. “All right. Let me activate the security system, and we’ll go.”

He reached under the dash, to a small laser lens hidden under the upholstery near his left foot. Tony flatted his thumb against the glass eye, pressed. His thumbprint verified, Tony heard a beep resembling a seatbelt warning tone. That sound told him a half-dozen devices had been activated, making the van impenetrable and immobile. The engine was impossible to start, even if the ignition was bypassed, and the wheels locked with a built-in system that worked like a traffic cop’s car boot. Even a tow truck would have trouble hauling the van away

While Tony secured the vehicle, Fay stared through the tinted windshield at the neighborhood. The area was mostly composed of ramshackle two- and three-story wooden or brick buildings. Single-story shops were squeezed between more durable buildings, mostly produce markets and food stalls. Laundry waved like banners from dirty ropes strung between the buildings. The few trees Fay could see were brown from the persistent drought.

“God, I can’t believe we’re staying here.”

Tony understood the woman’s jitters. This was the first time Fay Hubley was doing field work, and she wasn’t technically even a field agent. Her training was limited to several briefings in the past twenty-four hours. And on top of that, Fay Hubley probably had never even walked into a dive like La Hacienda, let alone spent the night there.

“Look. I’ve stayed at this inn before. It’s not as bad as it looks,” Tony told her in a tone meant to be reassuring. “I’m recognized here, but not known. No one should mess with us. We’ll be fine.”

Outside, the heat hit them like a hammer. It was already close to one hundred degrees, and the day would only get hotter. Gas fumes and cooking smells filled the air, mingling with the ever-present dust. As soon as they exited the vehicle, the pair was mobbed by nearly a dozen children—beggars. Tony moved through the horde as if he were wading through the surf. Fay grinned at the children, and Tony shot her a warning look.

“Ignore them,” he barked. “And the flower girls over there, too. They’re probably pickpockets.”

“What is this,
Oliver Twist
?”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“I’m from
Ohio
, Tony. I told you I’m from Ohio.”

“Forget it.”

Tony led the way as they pushed through a flyspecked screen door. Fay heard a persistent and angry buzzing, looked up. Her nose wrinkled in disgust when she saw a long strip of orange flypaper covered with writhing black bodies. The pest strip was dangling above her head. Fay hurried through the door.

It was ten degrees cooler inside La Hacienda’s small lobby. The floor consisted of multicolored tiles, some of them chipped and stained. The peeling walls were pale blue, a large ceiling fan turned in lazy circles high above them, and near the door sat several empty chairs, newspapers scattered on the floor around them.

Tony stepped up to a wooden partition covered with scratched green Formica. A door opened, and a young man greeted them in Spanish. Tony replied in kind. Tony booked the room, paid in U.S. dollars, and signed the registry. Then they climbed a flight of shabbily carpeted stairs to the second floor. At the top of the steps, a portrait of Mexican President Vicente Fox grinned at them beneath the flag of Mexico.

“Room six, here we are.”

Tony turned the key, pushed the door open.

The room wasn’t as bad as Fay feared it would be. Two curtained windows, a dresser, a small battered desk, two rickety-looking beds, a lumpy armchair, and a telephone. A tiny bathroom next to a walk in closet. Enough room for a shower but not a bathtub.

The room was hot and stuffy. Fay opened the heavy curtains to find the windows were barred. She reached around the iron barrier and unlocked the window, but she could only slide it open about six inches before a security bolt stopped her.

Tony dropped his backpack on the bed near the window. The springs squeaked like irritated mice. He opened the curtain blocking the other window, found the air conditioner. It rattled so much when he flipped it on, he thought it might fall out the window. But the unit soon settled down and began pumping outcoolair.

“Fay, start setting up. I’m going back down to the truck to bring up the rest of the equipment. When I get back, we’ll contact CTU—we’re going to need an update on Lesser’s activities over the past four hours before we can start our operation here.”

6:54:23
A
.
M
.PDT Beverly Hills

Detective Castalano drove southeast on north San Fernando Road, toward Fletcher Drive, then headed south on California Route 2. Traffic was heavy already, and the going was slow. The police radio inside the Lexus crackled once. Frank turned it off.

“It must be nice, living so close to the ocean,” Castalano said. “Do much surfing these days?”

Jack Bauer shook his head. “Nah. Too busy with work. The family. Been teaching Kim to surf, though. Sometimes she even pretends to enjoy it.”

Castalano chuckled. “Yeah, family time can be far more complicated than the job. How’s Teri?”

“Itching to get back to work, full time. That’s fine with me, but she’s not having much luck finding work that suits her. How’s Rachel, and Harry?”

“Rachel’s great, still teaching. Harry’s twelve now and a holy terror. Second year in Little League—”

“No kidding?”

“The team sucks, they haven’t won a game yet but he loves it. Nat Greer is the coach. You remember Nat?”

“Sure. How’s he like retirement?”

“Forced retirement due to injuries. He’d be the first to clarify that, which tells you all you need to know about how Nat’s enjoying his golden years.”

Castalano merged onto U.S. 101, heading north. Traffic was thick, but moving.

“I would ask you if you missed the excitement of the old days, Jack, but I can see your life is still full of thrills. What was going on back there on Andrita Street?”

“My agency was working with the DEA on a drug bust. It will be all over the evening news, apparently.”

“Still kicking down doors.”

Jack stared at the road ahead, rubbed his temple. “When I have to.”

“I always got the impression the LAPD was holding you back,” Castalano said. “Too many drills, too many training sessions, not enough real-time action. The rest of us were humping to keep up with the training, the missions—shortchanging our families and burning our candles at both ends. Meanwhile you were bored.”

“I was younger then.”

The traffic stopped moving suddenly. Castalano braked and the Lexus rolled to a halt. The detective turned to face Jack.

“Nat Greer told me you were always a thrill seeker. Says you were a biker, a surfer, back in high school. before the military. He said you got into some secret shit, too. Special ops stuff.”

“Nat talks too much.”

Castalano swerved onto the Sunset Boulevard ramp. Traffic was lighter off the highway, and moving pretty steadily along Sunset. The sun beat through the tinted windows. Jack’s head began to throb and he was tired of banalities. “Where are we going?” he asked.

Castalano answered Jack’s question with one of his own. “Do you ever work freelance these days, Jack? Private detective or consulting work, maybe? Special work for some corporation?”

“No. That’s impossible with the job I do now.”

“I knew you guys do spooky stuff at CTU. I didn’t figure there’d be much opportunity for moonlighting.”

Jack was unable to mask his impatience any longer. “Look, Frank, what the hell is this about?”

Castalano’s face was grim, eyes straight ahead. They were climbing the hills now, on a winding road. “I can tell you what this is about, Jack. But it’s better if I show you. And I can do that in another minute or two. We’re almost there.”

Near the crest of a hill, Frank made a sharp right turn. The Lexus pulled into a narrow driveway fairly well masked by the trees around it. Despite the drought, the lawns, the trees were greener, more lush up here.

“We’re in Beverly Hills,” said Jack.

Though the driveway continued on, Frank rolled up to circular-stone structure not much larger than a freestanding garage. The Lexus stopped under an arch, where a small wall fountain trickled. In the cool shade, Frank cut the engine while Jack studied his surroundings.

The building had a large glass door behind a cast iron gate. The gate was wide open, the door ajar. Farther along the driveway, Jack spied several other vehicles huddled together under a copse of spreading eucalyptus trees—two unmarked police cars, two ambulances, and a black crime scene van. Jack also noticed a tan Rolls-Royce convertible with the top down. Except for a plainclothes detective loitering around and trying to look nonchalant, no one else was in sight. All of the vehicles were deep enough inside the grounds to be invisible from the road, and Jack thought that was intentional. The authorities were deliberately trying to hide something.

“Have you ever heard of Hugh Vetri?” Frank asked.

The name jogged something in Jack’s memory. “Maybe. Should I know him?”

“Let’s go,” said Frank. “I’ll introduce you.”

As they climbed out of the car, a member of the LAPD Crime Scene Unit came through the glass door. The man saw Frank with a stranger and frowned. He approached, handed them both latex gloves.

“We’re finished in the bedroom and the study. We’re working on the nanny’s room now,” the forensics man told Castalano. “But I still don’t want anyone going in there who doesn’t have to.”

“We’ll make it quick,” Castalano replied. The other man had more questions so he and the detective huddled for a few minutes. Not wishing to eavesdrop, Jack moved a discreet distance away, pulled on the gloves. The morning sun was already scorching, even in the cool shade. Jack massaged his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut to block out the glare for a moment. Finally, Castalano broke away from the other man, waved Jack through the door.

A moment later, Jack found himself in an air-conditioned glass-enclosed entranceway which housed a wide staircase made of a single steel beam stacked with marble stairs. Hugh Vetri’s mansion had been constructed vertically, down the side of the hill. Each of its three glass-fronted stories shared a spectacular view of the valley below, already swathed in haze and smog.

“Down here, Jack.”

Castalano led Jack down the curved staircase. Modern art and hanging sculptures dominated the walls, the ceiling. The lamps, the furniture resembled the art; it was all made of cold steel, glass and chrome. When they arrived on the first level, Jack heard many voices. The tone was professional, but their voices muted, respectful, whispered. That’s when Jack knew someone had died in this place.

“Who is this Hugh Vetri?” Jack asked, his professional instincts aroused. “A movie star or director?”

“Vetri’s an independent producer,” Castalano replied. “A couple of years ago he made some fantasy movie that turned into
the
blockbuster of the year. He’s about to release the sequel, or he was.”

“Was?”

Castalano halted in front of an ornately carved oaken door, pushed it open. “Meet Hugh Vetri.”

The smell hit Jack first. Spilled blood, emptied bowels and bladder—the stink of the abattoir. His eyes followed a trail of clotted brown blood that led to a large oak desk. A man was sprawled across it, arms and legs out, like a frog on a dissecting table. Leather belts and silk ties had been used to bind the man’s wrists and ankles, and like some biological specimen, the victim had been eviscerated. Ribbons of entrails lay scattered across the room. On the floor, a chunk of the man’s liver gleamed dully in the sunlight streaming through the glass wall. The organ lay amid the scattered contents of the desk top—only the corpse and a computer monitor remained on the oak surface. The computer was running, on the monitor a screensaver with an ocean view played in an endless loop.