cradle. He lay back in the bed, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. When he opened them again, Dr. Brandeis and Ryan Chappelle were approaching. Jack sat up and slipped his shirt over his head — more to hide the patches, bandages and bruises than out of modesty.
“How are you feeling, Special Agent Bauer?” Dr. Brandeis asked, his eyes scanning, assessing.
“The headache is almost gone,” Jack said. “The vision’s pretty much cleared up. The rest did me good.”
From the doctor’s pinched expression, Jack knew the man wasn’t buying it. Ryan spoke next.
“Dr. Brandeis tells me you have a concussion. That you’ve been walking around with it for most of the day.”
“The MRI revealed potentially dangerous swelling of the brain,” said the doctor, addressing his remarks to Chappelle. “I’ve given Special Agent Bauer something to treat the pain and swelling already. There’s nothing more I can do. He requires rest and time to heal. I’m recommending he be relieved of active duty for five to seven days —”
Jack cut him off. “I can’t do that. We’re in the middle of a crisis. A terrorist attack may be imminent.”
Brandeis refused to meet Jack’s gaze. Speaking only to Chappelle, he argued, “Surely there are other agents who can handle this situation—”
Again, Jack cut him off. “I’m going to see this through to the end. No matter what you say.”
Ryan Chappelle faced Jack and folded his arms. “Is that how you really feel? Think about it carefully before answering.”
Jack opened his mouth to speak, then paused to consider the Regional Director’s offer, because that’s exactly what it was. Chappelle was giving Jack an out, a chance to dump this operation onto somebody else. Jack could sign himself out of the infirmary, drive over to Teri’s cousin’s house and pick up Kim. They could watch the awards show, and greet Teri when she got home.
Jack visualized the moment before he banished it from his mind. He could see Kim’s happy face. His wife in that killer dress. But then another image interceded: Hugh Vetri and his entire family brutally murdered.
Jack remembered the disk that was in the dead man’s possession. The disk that contained his CTU personnel file, home address, the names of his immediate family.
“I can’t go, Dr. Brandeis,” said Jack. “I have to see this operation through to the end. Who knows how many lives are at stake.”
With obvious frustration, Dr. Brandeis turned away from his patient and faced the Regional Director. “It’s your call, sir. You can keep this agent on active duty and risk killing him. Or you can order Bauer to stand down, place himself on medical leave under medical supervision.”
Ryan Chappelle shook his head. “I understand the dangers, Dr. Brandeis, and I thank you for bringing them to my attention. But there’s a crisis looming, one we don’t even have a handle on. It’s a threat that could have far reaching implications.” He turned to look Jack squarely in the eye. “Unfortunately, I need Special Agent Bauer. I don’t have time to get another manager up to speed. I have no choice but to return this man to active duty immediately.”
Before he sent Milo on his way north with Richard Lesser and the rest, Tony Almeida relieved Cole Keegan of his sawed off shotgun and thirty rounds of ammunition. After they drove away, he climbed into the battered white van, unlocked the secret compartment in the cargo bay and opened the cover.
Tony paused when he saw the empty cradle that had held one of the two Glocks. He remembered giving Fay that gun so she could protect herself. From the look of the crime scene, she hadn’t used it.
Frowning, Tony tucked the remaining Glock into Keegan’s borrowed duster, dug deeper into the compartment for the eight 17-shot magazines, which he stuffed into the pockets. Then he placed the shotgun and shells into the compartment and locked it again.
Tony hefted the unfamiliar weapon in his hand. The Glock was a Model 18C, a brand-new variation with a fully automatic mode capable of spitting out eleven hundred rounds per minute. Restricted and not available to civilians, the model had a left side, slide-mounted fire control selector switch; a barrel that extended past the front of the slide; and three horizontal and diagonal cuts that ran across the top of the barrel to act as compensators.
With the weapon and the van’s first aid kit stuffed into his coat, Tony went back up to the hotel’s second floor. He entered room six, cleaned and bandaged his electrical burns, and donned fresh clothes. He spent the next thirty minutes sweeping the room of all evidence that he and Fay had ever occupied it.
The computers were dismantled and tossed into the back of the van, along with his and Fay’s luggage, the stolen credit cards and card readers. The second CTU handgun was nowhere to be found, but he gathered up the water bottles they’d drunk from and even the empty plastic glasses. Those went into the van too. When the room was empty, he used a cloth to wipe down all the surfaces, hoping to eradicate or smear any usable fingerprints.
Next, Tony sat on the edge of the hotel bed and studied the road map for Tijuana, mentally choosing the best route across town. According to Brandy, Ray Dobyns and the Chechens were hiding out in a house on the Avenue de Dante, on the southern edge of the city.
When he was done, Tony rose, folded the map and stuffed it into his pocket. He loaded his Glock, slipped it into the duster, and without a backward glance left the room where Fay Hubley had died.
On street level again, Tony stepped into the scorching afternoon. The street around him was practically deserted. A hot wind kicked up dust. Squinting against the glare of the sweltering sun, he slipped on his heavy- framed sunglasses.
It was the hottest period of the day and for many traditional Mexicans it was siesta time. They would rest now, when the heat was at its height, then return to work at five or six o’clock, and toil well into the evening.
Tony sighed, unlocked the van. He had a long afternoon ahead of him, and a long night too. But until this was finished, there would be no rest.
“You’ve cracked the Trojan horse?” Nina asked. She stood in the situation room, watching sequential data scroll across the computer monitor.
From her chair in front of the screen, Doris looked up and nodded. “We’re more than halfway there. The clue was in the transcript of Milo’s conversation with you. Milo said that Richard Lesser told him this program targets a software accounting program, but he didn’t say which one.”
“There’s more than one?” Nina asked.
“There are dozens, maybe hundreds of accounting programs out there,” Jamey explained. She sat next to Doris, her focus remaining on the screen as she spoke. “Many communications industries use a German software program called SAP, customized for their specific needs, of course—”
“But Lesser’s Trojan horse didn’t affect SAP,” said Doris, “the program used by publishers and magazine distributors. The movie studios use something different.”
“The program’s called CINEFI,” said Jamey. “Short for Cinema Finance. It’s a film production payroll and financial management program that has been adopted by the accounting department at virtually every studio.”
“Lesser’s Trojan horse virus is very specific,” Doris added. “It infects only systems using CINEFI.”
“Okay.” Nina pulled an empty chair over to the work station and sat. “Tell me why.”
Doris swiveled her chair to face Nina. “By sabotaging that program specifically, terrorists could do damage to multinational corporations in the entertainment industry. Transfer funds or render security codes inoperative.”
“So what does this one do? All of the above, or is it just a nuisance virus?”
“That we don’t know. Not yet,” Jamey replied.
Doris turned her chair again and directed Nina’s attention back to the computer monitor. “I loaded the CINEFI program into this isolated server, then infected the program with the Trojan horse. As you can see, something is going on. The virus is searching for some sort of protocol, maybe. Or it’s using the CINEFI program as a platform to launch an attack elsewhere.”
Nina’s expression remained neutral, but her voice cut sharp. “That’s not specific enough.”
“We did find out there’s a code embedded in the Trojan horse,” Doris quickly noted, “one that launches the virus at a specific date and time.”
“When?”
Doris exchanged an anxious look with Jamey, then said, “Three hours ago.”
