24 Declassified: Trojan Horse

“No, no! You fool. What are you doing?”

The outraged voice came from another room. The men around Jack lowered their weapons, stood at attention when a short, middle-aged man burst into the room, fist shaking.

“I told you to kill the intruder, Major Salah, not capture him. Kill! Kill!”

The newcomer was a head shorter than everyone around him, his flesh the color of untreated leather, hair gray-white and cropped in short bangs across a creased forehead. His eyes were dark and flashing with anger. But the one called Major Salah met the older man’s rage squarely, refusing to back down.

“I have followed your orders up to now, Deputy Minister. But murdering the Special Agent in Charge of the Los Angeles Counter Terrorist Unit would have dire repercussions not even a man of your political power and wealth could ignore.” Major Salah paused, his gaze met Jack’s. “And I will not murder a member of an intelligence service our nation is allied with. It is dishonorable, and there has been enough killing this day.”

Understanding now that he was not dealing with terrorists but a unit of the Saudi Special Forces Brigade, Jack felt some relief. Because of the unusual structure of the Saudi military, government ministers each controlled a unit of the Special Forces, ensuring no individual or branch of the Saudi government had more power than another. It was a byzantine system that kept the royal family safe from betrayal or mutiny, but it also compelled professional soldiers like Major Salah to take orders from men better suited to banking or economic planning.

Sensing the growing tension, Jack stepped between the Major and the diplomat. “I thank you for sparing my life, Major Ja’far al-Salah. I know that you must obey the orders of the Minister—”

“Omar al Farad is but a Deputy Minister—”

“And the father of Ibn al Farad,” Jack added, turning to face Omar. “And as a father, Deputy Minister, you are understandably concerned about the welfare of your son.”

Omar al Farad’s gaze shifted from Jack to the doorway. A regal, middle-aged woman stood there, her dark, gray-streaked hair just brushing the collar of her ivory silk blouse, her long legs clad in matching silk pants. The woman was striking, with large, dark eyes and high, brown cheekbones damp with tears. To Jack, the family resemblance was noticeable. This woman was related in some way to Omar al Farad.

“What is it, Nereesa?” asked Omar.

Nereesa al-Bustani, Jack realized, the owner of this estate. He watched her glide across the room, seemingly oblivious to the ranks of armed men bickering around her. With a slender hand, she touched Omar’s arm. “Ibn is awake now, brother, come,” she whispered in flawless English.

As Omar turned to follow his sister out the door, Jack seized his arm — eliciting an alarmed response from the armed men, an angry glare from Major Salah.

“You must let me speak to your son,” Jack urged.

“No,” Omar al Farad replied, yanking his arm away. “Your nation, your evil culture, has done enough to ruin him. As soon as my son is well enough to travel, he is leaving the house of his aunt and going home.”

“Listen to me, for what I am telling you is true,” said Jack. “Your son will never reach Saudi Arabia alive. In fact, he will never leave this city.”

The Deputy Minister glared. “Is this a threat?”

“No,” Jack replied. “When your men attacked our convoy, we were moving your son from a police facility to CTU Headquarters for his own safety. Ibn was in protective custody because we feared those he conspired with now want to silence him forever.”

Omar al Farad shook his head. “My son conspired with no one. He is not a terrorist.”

“I never called him a terrorist, But your son had committed multiple murder. He must face justice—”

“You see! You speak of justice for crimes that were not Ibn’s fault.”

“That is exactly right,” said Jack, his voice even. “Your son is not responsible for his crimes. I believe he was drugged and brainwashed by a man named Hasan. It is Hasan I seek. If your son can lead me to him, it will do much to prove his innocence.”

Again, the man’s anger faded as abruptly as it came, replaced by confusion and uncertainty. Beneath the immaculate London-tailored clothing, the passionate outrage, Omar al Farad was a man in crisis, a man on the verge of collapse.

“Talk to me, Deputy Minister,” Jack continued. “Tell me what happened to your son. How he became involved with this man Hasan.”

Omar al Farad glanced at his sister. She closed her eyes and nodded once.

“Very well,” said Omar. “But not here.”

Nareesa led the two men to a small library packed with books in English and Arabic. They sat across from one another, a cafe-sized table between them. A maid appeared, served them tea and honey cakes. When Jack looked up again, he and Omar were alone.

“My first mistake was marrying an American wife,” Omar began. “She loved the boy too much, spoiled him until he was seven years old—”

“What changed?”

“She died, Mr. Bauer, at our home in Riyadh. Cancer of the brain. First she was confused, then her madness became violent, finally she succumbed. There was nothing anyone could do. After an appropriate mourning period, I married again — this time someone more suitable, a member of the Saudi royal family.”

“I see.”

“My second wife did not approve of my first marriage or the product of that marriage. So when Ibn was eleven, I sent him to Andover, the same boarding school I’d attended. I tried to give him a good education, make him wise, but when he was of college age, Ibn demanded to be sent to the University of Southern California. He wished to become a filmmaker.”

The man sighed heavily. “He’d been polluted by the filth he’d been exposed to.”

“Filth?”

“The rap music, the movies full of wanton harlots and venal men, sin and degradation. Of course, I disapproved of Ibn’s choices, but there was little I could say to dissuade him. To my shame, I finally relented.”

Omar’s features darkened, his fingers clawed at the cup. “In his first year, he met a girl. An American girl. My son, he was not sophisticated in the ways of the world, and he was weak. Because he was robbed of his mother’s love early on, he craved the attention of women. This…whore…She took advantage of him—”

“She hurt him?”

“She used him, Mr. Bauer. Like an evil sucking harpy. And what was left was not my son. He stopped going to the mosque, dropped out of school, he took drugs, even drank liquor. Then, six months ago, he vanished. My lawyers could not find him. He did not touch his trust fund for we watched the account. I feared my son was dead — until today, when Major Salah told me Ibn had been found by your police. That he was about to be charged with terrible crimes.”

More than anything else, Jack wanted to throttle Major Salah, demand to know what made the rogue officer think he could stage a covert operation inside the United States with impunity. But he was forced by circumstance to hold his tongue. Silently, Jack vowed to bring Major Salah, his men, and even Deputy Minister al Farad to justice for the policemen they maimed and murdered — but only after he’d gotten what he needed. The priority at the moment was interrogating the fugitive. A reckoning would come later.

“Your sister said your son is awake,” said Jack. “Let me speak to him.”

“Why? What can be gained?”

“Ibn has had contact with Hasan. When I find Hasan I will make him confess to his crimes. What he did to your boy. The faster I find Hasan, the faster I can clear your son’s name.”

Omar’s eyes appeared haunted. Finally he nodded. “Very well, Mr. Bauer. But my son does not leave this house.”

1:13:37 P.M. PDT Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills

“If that were me I’d just die! But not the Material Girl. No, that woman is a force of nature.”

Valerie Dodge, CEO and founder of Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency, lounged in her contoured leather office chair. She held the silver phone to her ear, tapped the flawless surface of the desk with long, pink enameled fingernails. Her own forty-year-old reflection stared back at her from the polished glass. She had an oval face, framed by long, straight sun-bleached hair. White, perfectly capped teeth flashed against a dark tan. Laugh lines were evident around her light blue eyes and at the edges of her generous mouth. Hardly the same face that had graced the cover of every fashion magazine in the world in the late 1980s.