“No, no, Mr. Dodge, it’s true. My boss is fully aware of her reputation; that’s why I came here today. You see, Senator Baxter would like to show America that she can forge strong relationships with America’s premier law enforcement agencies, starting with the FBI.”
“I think that’s a fine idea.”
“The Senator thought you’d feel that way.”
“She did?”
“She even mentioned you by name. And I can see why she chose you, Mr. Dodge. You’re quite…
Dodge grinned shyly, fumbled with his tie. Tony noted how pronounced Jessica’s Texas drawl had become. He smiled to himself. Obviously that whole debutante thing was something she could turn off or on at will — and, he had to concede, a fairly handy little tool for undercover work.
“Well, Ms. Van Dyne—”
“Call me Tandi, Mr. Dodge.”
“Well, Tandi. What can I do to help?”
“The Senator was thinking a photo opportunity, right here at FBI headquarters, with its director. A nice dramatic shot, with a really interesting background.”
“How about our new training facilities? They’re located right here in the basement. We just opened the newly renovated wing last week.”
“Why that would be simply delightful, Mr. Dodge. Could you possibly show me around?”
“By all means.” Jeffrey Dodge rose, placed a hand on Jessica’s shoulder. On their way out Dodge completely ignored Tony — and that was the plan.
While Jessica kept the man distracted, Tony leaned across the desk and flipped the keyboard upside down. He slapped the tiny self-adhesive device in the palm of his hand onto the bottom of the keyboard, then put the keyboard down. In less than three seconds the job was done.
Tony knew that a routine security sweep would immediately uncover the CTU spyware device, but such measures were taken only once or twice a week. In the meantime the tiny transmitter would broadcast every keystroke on the FBI director’s keypad back to CTU headquarters. The next time Jeffrey Dodge logged onto his computer, Jamey Farrell would have his password. Using it, she could then download the classified FBI files on Frank Hensley from the Bureau’s own database.
Wexler Business Storage was housed in a dreary six-story brick building on Houston Street in the West Village. The chipped, over-painted cornerstone revealed the date of construction as 1908. A cast-iron fire escape climbed the front of the red-brick edifice. The arched windows had once admitted sunlight, but were now shuttered with dense black glass.
An SUV identical to the one Dante Arete had perished inside was parked at the curb. Behind it, a New York City police car with three officers gathered around it.
Jack dragged Caitlin back, peered around the corner.
“What’s the matter, Jack? Don’t you want to go in there?”
“I can’t. Thanks to a corrupt FBI agent, the police are looking for me. I can’t risk being spotted.”
Caitlin peeked around the corner, studied the building for a moment. “Why don’t I go?”
“That’s crazy.”
Caitlin faced him. “Look. There’s a help wanted sign on the door. I’ll pretend to apply for the job. Maybe I can check the place out. If you tell me what you’re looking for I can—”
“No,” said Jack. “I have a better idea…”
“I’ve got Jeffrey Dodge’s password,” Jamey said, her fingers poised over the keyboard. She typed the code into a secure data line. “Okay, I’m in.”
Five minutes later, Nina was scanning Special Agent Frank Hensley’s personnel file on screen. She learned that Hensley had many Bureau citations, most earned for undercover assignments. But as they thought, Hensley’s most recent investigation centered on Dante Arete’s Brooklyn gang, the Columbia Street Posse.
The case had not gone well; at least that’s what Hensley reported to his superiors. The Posse outsmarted the FBI at every turn, rooted out informants, and when Hensley’s partner tried to take extraordinary means to get a conviction, he was murdered by Dante or his lieutenants — at least that’s what Hensley told his bosses. But Nina knew Hensley was a liar, so he might be lying about his partner’s death, too.
Going back through his personnel file, Nina discovered Hensley was a 1991–92 Gulf War veteran of the
U.S. Army. He had been a prisoner of war, too. A captive of the Iraqis in Baghdad for nearly three months.
The capture took place when Hensley had been on routine patrol along the border of Occupied Kuwait. His men had been killed by an elite Iraqi unit, but since Hensley was the highest-ranking officer, his life had been spared and he was spirited to Baghdad to act as a human shield. Hensley was released at the end of hostilities, along with all the other American and Coalition prisoners. He left the Army, finished earning his law degree, and took a job with the Bureau.
Nina cursed. The files revealed nothing. They were the history of an exemplary citizen — war hero, law enforcement officer, dedicated civil servant.
“He’s divorced,” said Ryan Chappelle, startling Nina. She turned to find him staring at the monitor. “It says so right there. He was married for three years. Her maiden name was Katherine Elizabeth Felloes and she was born in Los Angeles, attended Beverly Hills High School.”
Jamey cross-referenced the name on a dozen databases. The New York files came up without hits, so she widened her search parameters.
“Got her,” Jamey declared a moment later. “Mrs. Katherine Hensley returned to Los Angeles a year ago. She lives in Brentwood now. Runs an art studio out of her home.”
The silence was cut by a gentle chirp. Hensley swung his chair away from the window and its view of Foley Square, placed the cell phone to his ear.
“My brother is dead.” The voice on the other end was flat, emotionless.
“I know. I just received word,” Hensley replied. “You said your brother could handle Bauer. Apparently you were wrong. Do you want me to take care of him myself?”
“No,” Taj replied. “Thanks to Felix Tanner and our mutual friend in Washington, Bauer will die very soon.”
Taj Ali Khalil ended the conversation. Hensley cursed, tossed the cell on his desk.
Since Dante Arete’s capture by CTU, things had become increasingly more complicated, until he was forced to sacrifice the entire Atlantic Avenue cell just to stop Jack Bauer. Taj went along with the plan, confident his brother could finish Jack Bauer. But somehow the CTU agent managed to escape the trap they had set for him.
Now it was up to Taj and his personal assassin, Omar Bayat.
Shoeless, Doris walked into Jamey’s workstation and plunked down on a chair. Jamey and Milo had been surfing through the FBI database. They both looked up.
“I cracked the final code,” Doris said. “This new-type North Korean security software is tough, but with Frankie’s help I broke down the last firewall two minutes ago. I’ve got all the data on screen right now.”
“What did you find?” Milo asked.
Doris waved the question aside. “It’s, like, instructions, I’m sure. But I can’t read them.”
“Why can’t you read them? Are they in some kind of code?”
“It’s in Korean. I just need a translation program.”
Jamey and Milo were both puzzled. “Aren’t you Korean?” Jamey asked.
“Duh, I was born in
“But it says on your profile you’re a linguist.”
“I am a linguist. I speak fluent French and Russian. I wanted to be a ballerina when I was a little girl, so what’s the point of learning Korean? Have you ever heard of any great Korean ballet companies?”
