The officer keyed his microphone. “This is MTA, Hoyt Street. Moving to respond, over.”
He faced Liam, and the man’s expression hardened. “I have no choice but to let you go this time. But if I ever see you again I
Four Afghanis in traditional garb led Jack through a maze of partitions under the century-old Brooklyn brownstone. Soon they came to a flat wooden wall with a single door hanging on two shiny steel hinges and ushered him inside.
Jack scanned his surroundings warily. The basement room was triangular-shaped with crumbling sandstone walls on two sides. Wooden crates were stacked against the stone wall; above them a small, barred window peered onto the street from sidewalk level. A massive water heater ticked in the corner, and the space was hot, dry, and stuffy. The only illumination was provided by a naked sixty-watt bulb mounted in the ceiling, and the tiny glimmer of sunlight that managed to penetrate the decades of grime layering the window.
Someone slammed the door, shaking the cheap partitioned wall. The burly Afghani in a skullcap pushed Jack onto the pile of crates. The older man in the ratty suit nodded to his comrades, spoke a command in Pashto, and the others left without a word. Before the door closed behind them, another man entered the dingy chamber.
This one was tall and wiry, perhaps fifty years old, with long stringy arms and legs under a loose-fitting shirt and cotton trousers. A.45 was slung in the man’s belt; on his knobby feet he wore leather sandals. Though not particularly muscular, the Afghani man seemed to exude strength, and he was tall enough that he had to stoop slightly as he faced Jack. His face was narrow, flesh sallow and leathery. His intelligent eyes burned with fierce intensity. His hair was covered by an Afghan turban; the beard that dangled to his chest was streaked with gray. Under his prominent nose, the man’s yellow teeth protruded slightly.
“Are you Taj?” Jack asked. “My brother Griff sent me here with a package.”
The Afghani stared silently at Jack. It was the man in the ratty suit who spoke.
“Why did you break with protocol?” he demanded. “Why did you come here yourself, instead of sending that boy?”
“You need the case—”
“The boy was supposed to bring us the case,” the man interrupted. “Where is he? Where is the case?”
Jack knew from the man’s response that Caitlin’s brother had not yet made his delivery, which was good news. If the boy
“I was being followed,” Jack lied. “I had to ditch the case in case I was captured.”
Jack sensed the man in the suit was wavering, not yet ready to believe Jack’s story, but willing to be convinced. The silent man’s expression was unreadable, so Jack decided to push the envelope, go for broke.
“Listen,” he said in an urgent tone. “The whole plan may be unraveling. I think the Feds are on to us — that’s who was following me, I’m sure of it.”
The older man raised an eyebrow. “What do you propose to do about it?”
“I have to see Felix Tanner. Tanner has to be warned that the whole plan might be compromised.”
The man in the suit became instantly alarmed. The silent man seemed implacable.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Jack cried. “The whole plan is in jeopardy. I have to warn Tanner now, before it’s too late.”
The silent man spoke at last. His voice was soft, but firm. “We must retrieve the attache case first. Lead me to it, then I will take you to see Tanner.”
“Listen, Taj, we’re all in danger. Just let me speak with Tanner—”
The older man stepped backward, perhaps alarmed by Jack’s urgency. Before he could speak the high window burst inward, showering them all with shards of dirty glass. A dark object landed on the dirt floor. Instinctively, Jack threw himself backward, to land behind the crate he’d been sitting on. But the older man stooped over the object, reaching to pick it up. Jack opened his mouth to cry a warning — then the grenade exploded.
The powerful concussion tossed the man backward, against the wall. Though the older man absorbed the brunt of it, the blast was powerful enough to bowl everyone else over as well. Partially deafened by the noise, Jack could not hear the hissing noise as the gas canister released its noxious contents. But he immediately felt the stinging pain in his eyes, his nose, and he choked against the rising tear gas mist. Through the roaring that still filled his ears, Jack heard a loudspeaker blaring outside.
“This is the FBI. We’ve surrounded the building. There is no way you can escape. Come out with your hands up and you won’t be harmed. ”
11. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
After Jack Bauer had entered Kahlil’s Middle Eastern Foods, the night’s events finally caught up with Caitlin. Alone for the first time, she tried to make sense of what was happening, think through any options.
Caitlin wondered why her brother had not yet arrived at this destination. Had she and Jack missed Liam somehow? Had he delivered the attache to Taj before they arrived, and was on his way back home to Queens? If so, her unsuspecting brother was heading into the waiting arms of a spitting mad Shamus Lynch, still bound and gagged in the dingy room above the pub.
Jack had ordered her to surrender to the police if he did not return within two hours, but that was something she would never do. She and her brother had overstayed their visas and were illegal aliens. Caitlin didn’t even have a bloody green card — Donnie Murphy was paying her off the books — and there would be hell to pay if the Immigration and Naturalization Service ever caught up with them. If Caitlin were to turn herself in to the authorities, and Jack Bauer was telling her the truth about Shamus’s ties to terrorism, then she and her brother would be tainted by association. And if Liam had done something illegal by delivering that case to Taj, then her brother might be facing criminal charges, trial, and imprisonment.
At best they would be branded undesirable aliens and deported back to Northern Ireland. Though Liam would probably end up in the Londonderry Home for Boys. Caitlin was too old to be housed by the state and would end up on the streets. With no job, no home, no skills to speak of, Caitlin was about as useful as a leaky teapot. What future could she have in Ireland?
Caitlin chewed her thumbnail, sweating under the increasing intensity of the early morning glare. Despite her proximity to New York harbor and the Atlantic Ocean beyond, there was no cool morning breeze off the water to stir the still air. The temperature was rising along with the humidity. In the front seat of the car, the sun beat down on Caitlin until heat became intolerable.
She opened the windows, but was unwilling to leave the car or even step outside. Instead, Caitlin searched the backseat for something to fan herself. That’s when she noticed the black, late-model sedan parked across busy Atlantic Avenue, in front of a four-story brick building that housed an Arab meat market. Though the driver’s eyes were shielded behind dark sunglasses, observing the man through the back window soon convinced Caitlin he was watching her.
Caitlin wondered how long he’d been there, if he’d seen Jack enter the Middle Eastern deli. Less than two minutes later that question seemed to be answered when an identical vehicle rolled slowly past her car with another man in a dark suit and sunglasses behind the wheel, trying hard not to stare at her. Shifting nervously in her seat, Caitlin looked around and immediately spied a third vehicle parked across Atlantic, this one along Clinton Street. Then a fourth vehicle pulled up behind the first one. Two men sat inside, behind tinted glass. One of them was speaking into a microphone strapped to his shoulder.
Caitlin began to panic.
