Doris called up the bundle again, checked the cache size — the same as before. But before she pressed delete she kick-started the dumping process by opening another bundle for the data to flow into. Sometimes that trick worked for stubborn programs that refused to go away.
Again there was a long lag time before she got a response.
“Failed again!”
Doris called up the cache — but found that all but approximately five percent of the program had indeed been eradicated. A stubborn subset of data remained in the cache, however. Doris suspected it was some remnant of an interfacing program, something that allowed the data she’d erased to be used in another program. Setting the problem aside for the moment, Doris moved on to the next bundle of data.
But five cache deletes later it happened again — a stubborn five percent of the memory cache refused to be deleted no matter what she tried.
Doris issued a tiny squeal of frustration.
Yuri appeared at the office door, jerked his head. Georgi rose and roused Jack Bauer, who had fallen asleep in his chair after a long phone conversation with someone named Almeida.
“Your car has arrived, Mr. Bauer.”
Jack rubbed sleep out of his eyes. “What time is it?” He blinked when he saw the weapons and ammunition on Georgi Timko’s desk.
Jack ignored the shotgun, but lifted the Heckler & Koch Mark 23 USP, the.45-caliber self-loading version of the smaller, lighter USP Tactical, which Jack had used during his stint at Delta Force. The standard Mark 23 lacked the bells and whistles of the Tactical model — including the O-ring barrel that allowed the use of a KAC suppressor, and the rear target sight adjustment. But more important to Jack, the Mark 23 had the same ambidextrous magazine release just behind the trigger guard as the high-end Tactical. This allowed ejection of the spent magazine using the thumb or index finger without having to readjust one’s grip on the weapon — an essential feature for quick reloading and accurate fire.
“The best I could do in such short notice,” Georgi said apologetically.
Jack checked the pistol’s extractor, which doubled as a loaded chamber indicator. The magazine was full, but to satisfy himself the readout was accurate, Jack pulled the slide back slightly and looked inside. There were additional magazines on the desk— twelve of them — each loaded with a dozen.45caliber slugs.
Jack was accustomed to using 9mm rounds, not the bigger.45-caliber slugs. But with the Mark 23’s recoil- reduction system, which featured a spring within a spring, Jack knew the felt recoil would be dampened enough for him to switch to the harder-hitting ammunition without difficulty.
Offering sincere thanks to Timko, Jack engaged the safety and slipped the weapon into his shoulder holster. Then he pocketed the extra ammunition in his pants, shirt, and jacket pockets.
“Take the shotgun as well, Mr. Jack Bauer,” Georgi insisted. “You never know when you might have to shoot something bigger than a man.”
Jack snapped up the double-barreled, sawed-off weapon and rested it on his shoulders. Then he followed Georgi outside. They avoided the bar area, where the sounds of construction continued, to exit through a back door hidden between the tavern’s outdoor Dumpsters.
“My escape hatch,” Georgi explained.
Emerging from behind the smelly garbage bins, Jack found himself in Tatiana’s parking lot. Outside the night had cooled somewhat, but the humidity level remained high, much higher than LA. The sky was clear and cloudless, the parking lot nearly empty. Yuri was waiting for them, leaning against a 1998 cherry-red Ford Mustang Cobra convertible. He tossed the keys to Jack.
“I’ve given you directions to The Last Celt. Sadly I could not provide the proper paperwork for the automobile, so I advise you not to get stopped by the New York Police. They may ask some embarrassing questions. ”
Jack slid behind the wheel. “I’ll try to get the car back to you as soon as I can,” he said.
“Do not worry about it,” Timko replied with a dismissive wave. “The car is not mine.”
Jack inserted the key into the ignition and the 305horsepower V8 engine roared to life. A moment later Georgi Timko and Yuri watched as Jack sped into the night. When Jack was gone, Georgi shook his head. “I certainly hope the real owner of that superb automo
bile has taken out plenty of insurance. With Mr. Jack Bauer behind the wheel, he’ll need it.”
“The serial number on the bus port of the memory stick matches one manufactured in Shanghai and imported by a Swiss firm called Abraxsus-Gelder LLC,” Captain Jessica Schneider began. “The shipment it came in passed through United States customs in May of last year and this particular component was purchased by a Green Dragon Computers store in Little Tokyo, right here in Los Angeles.”
While she spoke, Captain Schneider tapped the blue folder that lay closed on the conference room table. She’d compiled the data herself, so she didn’t have to refer to her notes to know what they said. Her update to the Crisis Management Team was concise and informative.
“Who owns this Green Dragon outfit?” asked Tony.
The woman turned to face Special Agent Tony Almeida. “A conglomerate out of Taiwan, with Abraxsus- Gelder as a partner. But a man named Wen Chou Lee holds controlling interest in the computer store franchise. They’ve been giving chains like Computer Hut and Cyber-Store a run for their money.”
“Does this Wen Chou Lee have any ties to international terrorism? The Chinese Nationalist Movement, perhaps?” Nina asked.
“No,” said Captain Schneider, still facing Tony. “But a 1995 report compiled by Interpol claims Wen Chou Lee was formerly the leader of a triad in Hong Kong. He was forced to move his business interests to Taiwan just before the Communist Chinese government regained control of the island.”
“I doubt a triad would have much interest in shooting down U.S. cargo planes,” said Tony. He swiveled his chair to face Jamey Farrell. “Any luck tracing those license plates?”
“The Mercedes is registered to Griffin Lynch, which we knew already. The SUV was licensed to a company in Manhattan. ” Her voice trailed off as Jamey searched the file in her hand for the printout. Jamey nearly groaned out loud when she realized she didn’t have the information and must have left it at her workstation. She continued to fumble through the file even after she felt Tony’s eyes on her, heard Nina’s impatient sigh.
A knock interrupted them. The door opened before Nina could warn the visitor away. The conference room was off limits to everyone except members of the Crisis Team and unless the caller was Ryan Chappelle — who wouldn’t bother to knock — he shouldn’t have been there.
Doris stuck her head through the door. “Oh, there you are,” she said, pushing up her oversized glasses. “I’ve been looking all over for you guys.”
If Nina was impatient, she didn’t let on. “Come in,” she said. “And close the door behind you.”
Suddenly shy, Doris stepped through the door. Milo wondered if he was the only one to notice the young woman wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“Excuse me. I found something I think is important.” Doris stepped forward and handed a printout to Nina, who glanced at it, then passed it to Milo and Jamey.
“There’s a second layer of inscription that was buried inside the memory stick software.”
Milo tapped a pen to his nose. “A watermark? Maybe a manufacturer’s protocol?”
Doris shook her head. “This is a real program, and a big one. It’s buried deeper and guarded better than the primary program data, which makes me think the whole first layer was a ruse, that the real important information is encrypted somewhere inside this buried code.”
“Encrypted?” said Nina. “You mean you haven’t cracked it yet?”
Doris brimmed with confidence. “Not yet, but Frankie’s working on it, so it’s only a matter of time.”
Milo blinked. “Who’s Frankie?”
Liam stood on the raised platform, four stories over Roosevelt Avenue. A cool, humid breeze wafted in from the ocean, cutting the heat of the day. With a groan of impatience, he glanced at the cheap plastic watch on his arm.
It was nearly 3 a.m. He’d been waiting close to an hour for a subway. He knew service was bad late at night, especially on a weekday. But this was ridiculous. Only three trains had come in the time he’d been waiting. Two
