“That’s where the attache case is headed,” Jack replied. “I’m sure of it.”
“I agree,” said Nina. “I’m sending Khan Ali Kahlil’s New York driver’s license photo to your PDA, along with the most recent photos of Omar Bayat and Taj Ali Kahlil that we have in our database. Also some intelligence on the neighborhood.”
Jack ended the conversation, checked his PDA. The photo of Taj Ali Kahlil was not much more than a blur. The driver’s license photo of his brother Ali was almost a decade old and out of focus. The image of Omar Bayat, however, was crystal clear. It was taken by German intelligence agents in Libya in 1996. Bayat had blond hair, probably dyed, and could pass as an American.
Road construction slowed his progress so Jack reviewed the data Nina had sent him. After a few minutes waiting for traffic to proceed, Caitlin broke the silence. “What was that conversation about?” she asked.
“We may have found where your brother is taking the attache case,” Jack informed her. “A delicatessen on the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Clinton Street.”
He could tell from Caitlin’s blank stare that the address did not trigger any memories. Traffic began to move, and they passed a massive ditch in the roadway, heavy equipment moving tons of broken pavement.
“Caitlin, try to remember if Shamus mentioned anyone else in connection with his business. Anyone at all.”
The young woman massaged her forehead. “He once mentioned a man named Tanner. A big client, he said. Had a funny first name, like Oscar or maybe— no! I remember now. It was
Jack nodded. “How well did Shamus know Taj?”
“I’m pretty sure they never met. Shamus told my brother he did all his business with Taj over the phone.”
Ahead, Jack saw the sign for the Atlantic Avenue exit and pulled off the highway. Five minutes later, they were on the avenue itself. From the intelligence Nina sent him, Jack knew this area — called Cobble Hill — featured the largest concentration of Middle Eastern shops and businesses in the city. The area was occupied by Yemenis, Lebanese, Palestinians, and other immigrants from Muslim countries.
“That’s the place,” said Jack. Caitlin saw the sign: kahlil’s middle eastern foods.
Face grim, Jack studied the shop, which sold groceries and prepared foods, exotic spices, Arabic newspapers and magazines.
“I’m going to circle around and park.”
Jack located a spot almost in front of the delicatessen. The store took up the ground floor of a century-old, three-story brownstone. The security gate was up, and a
“I want you to hold this stuff,” said Jack.
He handed Caitlin his cell phone, the PDA, and the revolver Georgi had given him. Jack reached into his jacket and gave Caitlin his CTU ID, too. After a moment’s hesitation, Jack slipped off his wedding ring and added it to the pile. He kept the wallet he’d taken from Shamus Lynch, slipped it into his hip pocket. Then Jack popped the door.
“Where are you going?” Caitlin asked.
“Inside,” he told her. “I’m going to try to pass myself off as Shamus Lynch. If Liam shows up, stop him from delivering the case — and don’t open it, no matter what.”
Caitlin touched Jack’s hand. “What about you.”
“If I don’t come out of there in two hours, I want you to call 911.”
9. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 A.M. AND 6 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Tony Almeida ran through the empty loading dock and up the concrete incline. Exhaust fumes from the Dodge cargo van still lingered, though the vehicle and the missile launcher it carried were long gone. Half expecting a sniper’s bullet to cut him down, Tony felt his skin prickle as he moved without benefit of cover. He found the supervisor lying at the top of the ramp, dead eyes staring at ducts that crisscrossed the ceiling.
He found the AK–47 on the ground, popped out the banana-shaped magazine, and thrust it into his pocket. Then he checked the assault rifle’s chamber for an extra round. Finally he tossed the empty weapon into a Dumpster, satisfied no one could use it against him now.
Tony moved to the door, but before he entered the factory he used his cell phone to call for backup. Ryan Chappelle was unavailable to authorize direct action, so Nina Myers dispatched the Special Assault Team on her own authority as Chief of Staff. Estimated time of arrival: eight minutes.
Tony wasn’t happy about calling out Blackburn’s men — Ryan Chappelle had been against using the assault team — but neither he nor Nina could see any other way to go. The LAPD weren’t equipped to handle potential terrorism, and would ask for things CTU could not provide — like a warrant to enter the premises.
Tony ended the call, pocketed the cell phone. From somewhere inside the factory a shot boomed. Two followed in reply. Tony gripped his P228 with both hands and burst through the factory doors, startling the only occupant — an elderly Chinese woman with skin like old parchment, trembling beside an overturned bucket and fallen mop. She threw her hands in the air when she saw Tony.
“Relax! I’m not going to hurt you,” Tony said in what he thought was a reassuring tone. The woman calmed for a moment, then spied the 9mm in Tony’s hand and began to scream.
“Look, I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Tony said, lowering the weapon.
He quickly moved into a maze of cubicles and workstations. The area was lit by overhead fluorescent lights, crammed with gutted computers, loose motherboards, wire bundles in rainbow colors, dangling circuits, soldering irons, and tools.
Progress through the factory was slow because Tony feared ambush. After a thorough search of each cubicle he finally found someone else. An Asian man with a long ponytail, perhaps twenty-five years old, was lying facedown on the concrete floor, blood pooling around two holes punched into his abdomen. A.45 was still clutched in the man’s right hand. Tony kicked the weapon into a corner, cautiously checked for a pulse, found none.
Then Tony discovered a staircase partially hidden behind a large bulletin board. He took the steps two at a time. At the top he pushed through a steel fire door, into a suite of offices. The area was large and dimly lit by recessed fixtures in the ceiling, the space broken up by cramped cubicles, sparsely furnished. A bank of chipped and dented metal filing cabinets ran along one wall. The carpet was stained and shabby.
Down a short hallway Tony found glass double doors; beyond that, a brilliantly lit, spotless, air-conditioned, air-scrubbed space dominated by a massive mainframe computer and two large workstations. Captain Schneider was in one of the stations, looming over a young Asian man slumped in an office chair. She gripped him by the scruff of his chic sports jacket, the barrel of her service revolver pressed against the back of his skull.
When Tony pushed through the doors, captor and captive looked up. Captain Schneider’s relief was evident, though she quickly tried to hide it.
“About time,” she said.
“I had to call for backup.”
Tony drew a pair of plastic cuffs from his jacket, slapped them on the prisoner’s wrists. The man was missing the little finger of his left hand; on his forearm the edges of a purple tattoo were visible below the cuffs.
“Watch the material, daddy-O,” the man complained. “This is an Italian suit. The jacket alone costs more than an American flatfoot earns in three whole months of taking bribes.”
Tony leaned close to the man’s face. “Tough guy, eh?”
“His name is Saito,” Captain Schneider said. “A visitor to our shores, from Japan—”
She was interrupted by a crashing sound, loud voices. Seconds later, Agent Chet Blackburn and another member of the assault team — clad in head-totoe helmets and body armor, assault rifles raised and ready — hustled into the computer room, their chukkas scuffing the polished floor.
Blackburn put up his weapon, flipped the visor open. “Nice assault, Almeida. You, too, ma’am. Doesn’t look
