Dazed, Jack opened his eyes to see the muzzle of a Remington shotgun just inches from his face. He stared past the gun, into the eyes of the man behind the mask, and he saw his own death.
Then Jerry Alder stumbled out of the wreckage, his service revolver blazing. The man standing over Jack jerked once, twice, then sprawled across him, the shotgun clattering on the pavement. Jack struggled under the dead man’s weight, watching helplessly as the assassins tossed Ibn al Farad into another vehicle.
More shots, and Alder was knocked backward in a fountain of blood. Engines roared, tires squealed on hot asphalt and the assassins raced away. In seconds the chaotic battlefield fell silent. Jack threw the corpse aside and stumbled to his feet. Reeling unsteadily, he lurched toward the transport.
Detective Castalano was there, beside the smoking vehicle. Blood oozed from his nose, mouth. He held his partner in his arms. Alder was alive, too, and alert. His jacket was open, white shirt ripped. A sucking chest wound bubbled black arterial blood.
“Frank! Are you okay?”
The man didn’t respond, so Jack touched his arm. Frank whirled on him, revolver aimed at his face.
“I called for backup,” Jack told him. “Help is on its way.”
Frank lowered his weapon. He shook his head. “I can’t hear you, Jack…”
Jack realized his friend had been deafened by the blast that had torn the vehicle open. Jack realized something else, too. The ankle bracelet with the tracker embedded inside was lying in the truck. It had been cut away by the men who took their prisoner.
In the distance, Jack heard sirens. He swung around. Eyes scanning, he noted the van that had brought up the rear was still in working order. The driver and passenger were dead on the pavement, but the engine was still idling. Jack grabbed Frank’s arm, squeezed it until the man looked up again.
“I’m going after them,” Jack said slowly, hoping Frank could read his lips. “I’m going to get the men who did this. Do you understand me, Frank?”
Castalano nodded. Beside him, his partner’s eyes were etched with pain, his breath came in choking coughs.
“I’ll get them, Frank. I promise.”
Jerry Alder jerked convulsively, and Frank took his partner’s hand. “It’ll be okay, Jerry, hang on.” His partner settled back, face ghastly white.
When Castalano looked up again, Jack Bauer was gone.
Nina Myers’s initial search of United States intelligence service databases yielded little of value. After several false leads and dead ends, she finally located Federal Bureau of Investigation files pertaining to a secret inquiry conducted at the behest of the Governor of New Hampshire.
The FBI was asked to determine if a nationally famous landmark called the Old Man of the Mountain — a stone formation featured on the state seal and the official New Hampshire quarter issued by the U.S. mint — had been destroyed by vandals or terrorists in 2003. The FBI, with the help of geologists, eventually concluded wind and water erosion and the winter/summer freeze and thaw cycle had been the true culprits and the case was quietly closed.
Within fifteen minutes, Nina had completed a search of all current intelligence databases and came up empty. Then she recalled that Jack had requested a search of CTU’s historical archives. It was an odd directive, considering the negligible amount of useful information a search of that particular database usually yielded. And yet, in working with Jack for the past several years, Nina had discovered that Special Agent Bauer’s instincts were often on the mark— another factor that made the man such a dangerous and unpredictable adversary.
On Jack’s cue, Nina called up the link to the historical archives and typed in the phrase “old man in/on mountain.” To her surprise she immediately received a hit. The phrase “Old Man on the Mountain” turned up in a scholarly paper published in 1998 by Dr. A. A. Dhabegeah, Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. The title of the dissertation jumped out at Nina:
Hasan! A name regularly turning up in terrorist chatter over the past several months. A shadowy figure CTU had been tracking without success.
Nina called up the PDF file and paged through it. With each click of the mouse, the loose threads of the past few months slowly began to come together. Jack had been correct. Clues to their present mystery lay in the past.
Minutes later, a three-toned chirp broke Nina’s concentration. She snapped up the receiver. “Myers.”
“Nina!” The voice was breathless, excited.
“Jack, what’s the matter?”
“The convoy was ambushed, shot to pieces. The attackers grabbed Ibn al Farad.”
“Terrorists?”
“I don’t think so,” Jack replied. “They were using NATO small arms and equipment. Their tactics were straight out of the Special Forces training manual.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m driving an unmarked LAPD van, in pursuit of the suspect’s vehicle. Before we left Central Facilities, I planted a locator on Farad. I’m tracking his signal right now with the GPS device in my watch. The vehicle Farad’s riding in is approximately three blocks ahead of me. I’m giving his kidnappers plenty of space so they think they got away clean.”
Jack gave Nina his location, speed, and direction. “In case of trouble, I want the Tactical Unit on alert and ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
“I’m on it,” Nina replied, instantly alerting Blackburn’s unit via computer.
“Listen, Jack. I found a reference to the Old Man on the Mountain — in the historical archives, just like you said.”
Nina heard tires squeal, Jack curse. “Give me the facts in shorthand. I’ve got my hands full right now.”
“The Old Man on the Mountain was a Muslim holy man in the eleventh century. His name was Hasan bin Sabah—”
“
“This Hasan was something of a heretic. He went to war against the whole Muslim world. But he only had a small cadre of followers, so he could never win a battle against the armies of the Persians, the Syrians, the Turks. He needed a force multiplier, so he resorted to terrorism. Hasan was, in fact, the world’s first terrorist.”
Jack grunted. “If the enemy you oppose outnumbers you, strike terror into their hearts and they will retreat.”
“I’m not up on my Sun Tzu,” said Nina. “Or is that Machiavelli?”
“Neither,” said Jack. “I was quoting a man named Victor Drazen.”
“There’s more,” Nina continued. “The historical Hasan brainwashed his followers by drugging them with hashish, then spiriting them to a garden filled with plants, perfumes, wine and beautiful women who fulfilled their every desire. After hours of bliss, they were drugged again and awoke in Hasan’s presence. He told them they had glimpsed Paradise, and if they died for his cause they would spend eternity there. Because hashish was used to brainwash them, these followers came to be known as
“That explains the Karma,” said Jack. “Hasan must be using the new drug to brainwash his killers. Ibn al Farad was caught with vials of the stuff. That could mean that Hasan is somewhere in this city right now, winning new converts right under our noses.”
“It sounds. well it all sounds so crazy,” Nina said doubtfully.
“No,” Jack replied. “It makes perfect sense.”
Milo crossed the deserted lobby, tapped the bell on the green Formica countertop. He waited a moment but no one showed so he clanged the bell again. Still the inn was quiet, the only sound the constant swish of the ceiling fan.
“Guess everyone’s out to lunch or having a siesta,” muttered Milo. He decided booking a room could wait. Better if he hooked up with Tony Almeida and Fay Hubley right away.
Milo headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He fully expected to be stopped by the manager at any
