proved the fight was still on. Wasn’t a five-hundred-pound bomb tearing through a small town, killing twenty-eight and injuring hundreds, enough proof that peace under British rule was not a certainty?
But Griff was unyielding. He claimed the real money for arms had dried up. And Shamus realized the real money was all he seemed to be after now.
The red light blinked to green and Shamus gave the Mercedes gas. Listening in on his brother’s cell phone conversation, he maneuvered the sedan along the narrow, congested streets. From what Shamus could deduce, there was some kind of snag — bad news, coming less than twenty-four hours before the whole operation was supposed to go down. By the deferential tone in Griff’s voice, Shamus concluded their associate was not happy, and his brother was trying to fix the problem.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Just like I took care of Dante and his Posse. Tell Taj the delivery will be there by morning. I guarantee it.”
Griff ended the conversation, closed the cell, and stared straight ahead. “There’s been a complication.”
“Is that so?”
“Did you hear our boy Dante mention a lost memory stick?”
“Not a word,” Shamus replied. “I figured it was blown up with the missile launcher.”
Griff sighed in disgust. “That’s the story he told our associate, but I think he has doubts and so do I. I’ll be thinking the Feds got hold of that stick. Not the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but CTU.”
“CTU! Can they crack it?”
“Of course they can…But it might take time.”
“Enough time?”
Griff forced a laugh. “Ah, well…What’s another three-letter word, eh? The SAS, the FBI, the CIA— now CTU — we took on all the others and we always walked away with our hides intact.”
Shamus said nothing. Didn’t smile or laugh. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Pull over, right here,” Griff commanded.
“But the pub’s still a few blocks away—”
“Pull over.” Griff’s voice was tight, the forced levity gone.
On the mostly empty sidewalks, small knots of men and a few women gathered around Irish pubs to smoke, talk, and drink. This area, called Woodside, had for years been a haven for Irish immigrants. It still was, although these days it shared its sidewalks with the vast influx of newer immigrants. The century-old pubs and taverns were now interspersed between Korean greengrocers, Chinese and Filipino restaurants, and Arab-run newsstands and wireless stores.
Shamus guided the Mercedes into a spot in front of a darkened plumbing supply store. In the shadow of the overhead train, he cut the engine, killed the lights. The Number 7 Flushing-to-Manhattan train rumbled overhead.
“Wait here.”
Griff opened the door and went to the back of the car. Shamus watched his brother through the rearview mirror. After the trunk opened, he could feel the weight shifting inside, though he couldn’t tell what Griff was up to. A moment later, the trunk closed and Griff returned. When he sat down, he placed a silver metal attache case on the seat between them — an identical twin of the one he’d handed off to Dante Arete.
Shamus eyed the case suspiciously.
“I took the memory stick out of our missile launcher and put it in here,” Griff explained. “Have Liam deliver this case to the drop on Atlantic Avenue. He’s to give the case to no one but Taj. And no taxis or car services. They keep logs that can be traced.”
Shamus shook his head. “I can do it, Griff. Liam’s just a kid, and it’s one o’clock in the morning. Caitlin will have a frothing fit.”
“I don’t give a damn what your whore thinks. And you can’t go. Neither of us can risk being seen anywhere near that dead drop. Liam’s to do it and that’s that. You were doing much more at his age, as I recall… Besides, he and his sister cost you enough of your money — those charity cases might as well be useful.”
“Liam can take it in the morning—”
“Tonight. Get on it.” Griffin seemed to regret his shortness. His voice became conciliatory as he added, “I know you’ll be wanting to stay the night with Caitlin. Send Liam off and have your fun. Just be at the shop first thing in the morning. We need to close things down, tie up loose ends before our chartered flight takes off.” He slapped Shamus on the shoulder. “Cheer up, brother. I know you don’t much like pullin’ up stakes again. But where we’re goin’, I hear the women are as beautiful as the beaches.”
Attache case in hand, Shamus nodded and climbed out of the car. Griffin slipped behind the wheel, made a fast U-turn, and sped away in the opposite direction. As another elevated train rumbled overhead, Shamus strolled the last few blocks to the corner pub called The Last Celt.
Captain Schneider climbed the metal staircase to the command center’s mezzanine, a classified folder under her arm. She had been directed there by Jamey Farrell, who told her that Nina Myers had set up shop in Jack Bauer’s office until his return.
She knocked twice, then opened the door. “Agent Myers? Can I have a moment of your time?”
Nina looked up, startled. She closed the file she was reading, sat back in the chair. “Come in, Captain Schneider.”
The Marine slid into a chair. Her blond ponytail was unraveling, and there were bags under the woman’s eyes, but Schneider’s expression was alert, her voice strong when she spoke. “I have some progress to report.”
Nina blinked. “On the memory stick. That was fast.”
“When I opened the device up, it was clear the interior circuitry was manufactured in North Korea. The chips were made at their number two microchip plant in Pyongyang, and it was probably assembled there, too. But what is interesting is the fact that this stick was further engineered at a later date. It was retrofitted with the USB port, and inside I found some routers manufactured in Mexico.”
“Any clue who did the retrofitting?”
Captain Schneider shook her head. “Not yet. But I did find this.”
She reached into her folder and took out a digital photograph. “This is the surface of the main bus port, magnified fifty times. Note the serial number…”
Nina took the printout. A sequence of thirteen numbers and letters was stamped in the polymer surface.
“You can trace this?”
Captain Schneider nodded. “Given enough time. There are about five thousand firms in the United States, Mexico, and Canada licensed to manufacture this bus port. Each of these firms have thousands of clients who purchase these ports—”
“So you’re saying it’s impossible?”
“Not at all,” Captain Schneider replied. “The Defense Department, the NSC, the Commerce Department, even the State Department keep tabs on the sale of such technologically sensitive devices. One of them is bound to have this serial number on file, but that’s a lot of information to process, and from a lot of different locations.”
“How can I help?” asked Nina.
“I need access to a computer with a large memory and a random sequencer. That’s the only way I’m going to be able to collate so much data in a short time frame.”
Nina didn’t hesitate. She touched the intercom button.
“Jamey here.”
“I want you to set up Captain Schneider at a station that interfaces with the mainframe. She needs a random sequencer and DSL access,” Nina said.
“Roger. I’ll put Milo on it. The sequencer should be up and running in five minutes.”
“Okay?” Nina said to Captain Schneider.
“That’s great. Thank you,” Captain Schneider said, rising. “I should be able to determine precisely which computer firm did the retrofitting within the next few hours.”
