behind them.
She struggled helplessly, her muffled cries reaching a frenzy when the man’s rough hands fumbled under her blouse, groped her soft flesh.
Jamey Farrell had finished updating the Lesser file with information she culled from her conversation with Fay Hubley. Now she was ready to analyze the CD-ROM disk Jack had given her. But when she turned away from the monitor to retrieve it, she found Ryan Chappelle silently hovering over her shoulder.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I was looking for Jack Bauer,” said Chappelle. “Have you seen him?”
“He was in his office a half an hour ago. I’ve been busy since.”
Chappelle made a sour face. “So you have an analysis of the virus for me?”
Jamey blinked. “Excuse me?”
“An analysis of Lesser’s Trojan horse. I promised the Cyber-Division Headquarters in Washington that I’d have something for them today.”
“If that’s what you wanted, you probably shouldn’t have sent Milo — our encryption expert — to Mexico on a wild goose chase.”
Ryan’s frown intensified. “So you’re saying you can’t do it?”
“I’m saying I’m the head programmer. Mayhem-ware is not my specialty.”
“Well contact Division and get someone — pronto. We need to know what systems and programs the Trojan horse targets, and what it does.”
“But—”
“
Ryan turned and walked away. Jamey cursed under her breath. What was she supposed to do now? Pull an expert out of her butt?
Jamey was about to make what she knew to be a futile call to the Cyber-Unit in D.C. for help, when she suddenly remembered the name of someone who might be available to do the job on short notice. Jamey opened her Filofax and flipped through it. She found the name and phone number she was searching for on the first pass.
Lifting the receiver, Jamey punched up an outside line and dialed the number of Doris Soo Min.
7. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 A.M. AND 12 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
Jack Bauer opened his cell phone, tapped the speed dial with his thumb. Nina Myers answered on the first tone.
“Jack? Ryan was just in my office, he’s looking—”
“Listen, Nina, I don’t have much time. I just sent you a data dump from the LAPD Central Facilities computer. Cache 32452.”
He heard Nina tapping the keyboard. “Got it,” she said.
“That file contains everything we know about a Saudi national named Ibn al Farad and the multiple murders he committed last night—”
Nina’s breath caught, and Jack knew she’d opened the crime scene folder.
“Listen, Nina. Ibn al Farad claims to be a disciple of Hasan. He may have even had personal contact with the terrorist leader.”
“If this is true, this man is our first real lead—”
“There’s more. The suspect was under the influence of Karma when he was captured. The LAPD recovered a vial of the substance from the car he’d totaled.”
“Then the DEA was right,” said Nina. “The drug
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I think something else might be going on.” Jack stroked his temple with his thumb and index finger. His head was beginning to throb again. “I’m bringing the suspect in for interrogation. I should be there in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll get things ready on this end.”
“One more thing.” Jack paused, gulped down two Tylenol capsules. “Detective Frank Castalano told me that after Farad was captured, he used an odd phrase several times. The old man on the mountain, or maybe the old man
“I’ll do that myself,” Nina replied. “Do you need Chet Blackburn’s tactical squad to escort you back to headquarters?”
“There’s no time,” said Jack. “The Saudi Arabian Embassy probably knows the police have Ibn al Farad. His father is a powerful and wealthy man. I want to stay one step ahead of his lawyers. We’re out of here in two minutes.”
“Understood.”
Tony tasted metal, smelled cat piss. A persistent roar battered his eardrums as air rushed over him, as if he were trapped inside a wind tunnel.
He opened his eyes and saw a dirty ceiling, faded industrial green paint peeling. The only illumination came from a shaft of sunlight pouring through a small, barred vent in the roof. He moved his head and felt a lance of pain jab the base of his neck. Tony tried to massage the area, discovered his hands were cuffed behind his back. He shifted position — a move that caused sluggish agony as blood slowly returned to his numb arms, wrists and hands. His feet, at least, were not shackled, but his boots were gone. So was his combat knife, the empty sheath still strapped to his calf.
Using his legs and shoulders, Tony sat up, a move which caused black jets of agony to explode behind his eyes. He’d been sprawled on an uneven wooden floor, now he’d propped himself up against a stack of packing crates. In the corner, an ancient box spring, stripped down its metal innards, leaned against the dirty brick wall. The rusty metal was burned black in some places, scorched white in others. Tony realized its purpose and shuddered.
He took a deep breath and found that the stench was worse sitting up. A chemical reek was carried by a blasting hot wind that rippled his long hair, now half freed of its ponytail. A sharp smell like nail polish remover burned his nostrils, mixed with an eye-stinging blast of ammonia. Tony wanted to cover his mouth, but it was impossible. Not only was he bound, but his fingers had swollen like sausages. When he could finally move them a few moments later, he found he’d been shackled with old-fashioned metal handcuffs that were too small, too tight. Recreational cuffs for the kinky set, most likely a prop from the brothel where he’d been snatched.
Tony heard voices speaking Spanish, lolled his head to the side. Peering between boxes, he saw three men working around a bank of identical white kitchen stoves where a dozen clear glass beakers bubbled with fluids. Vapors rose, filling translucent plastic tubes with dark brown sediment. The tubes, the beakers, were connected together with duct tape and wires.
He realized with alarm that he was inside an illegal methamphetamine lab — one of the largest he’d ever seen. Most illicit labs could fit into a large suitcase, and cost only a few hundred dollars up front to obtain the parts. But this lab was churning out the stuff like an assembly line.
Two of the three men were clad in blue plastic Tyvek suits, rubber gloves, oversized galoshes on their feet in lieu of chemical-proof environmental boots. They wore air filters around their noses and mouths, carpentry goggles over their eyes. The third man, thin to the point of emaciation, was wrapped head to toe in black plastic garbage bags, wearing what looked like a beekeeper’s hat on his head. Behind the gauze veil he wore a vintage World War II gas mask.
Industrial strength fans on tall metal stands did their best to clear the toxic miasma of cooking chemicals out of the air, but Tony knew every breath he took in this place was deadly. Methamphetamine labs were among the
