too greedy,” O’Brian interjected.
Tony’s dark eyes narrowed. “You’re saying the chip inside this device came out of Groom Lake?”
Henderson nodded.
“Obviously the guy who was arrested using this device knows where he got it?” Tony demanded. “Why not pump him for the information?”
“Funny thing about that,” Henderson replied. “The cheat’s name was Dwayne Nardino, a small time racketeer out of Reno. Within hours of his arrest, Nardino was bailed out of jail — which cost someone close to fifty thousand dollars in cash. It was an amount they were willing to lose, because Nardino was discovered behind the wheel of his car the next morning, with two thirty-eight caliber slugs in the back of his head.”
“Obviously someone didn’t want Dwayne talking out of turn,” Nina Myers said softly.
Henderson’s movements became more animated, his gray eyes seemed alive for the first time. “Here’s the interesting part. Two years ago the Drug Enforcement Agency identified Dwayne Nardino as a major distributor of Rojas cocaine. The DEA even has surveillance photos of Nardino meeting with the brothers at their hacienda in Colombia…”
“It’s clear that someone at Groom Lake is peddling classified technology,” said Jack. “Any theories about who or why?”
Henderson placed the palms of his hands on the table, his gaze sweeping everyone seated there. “The why is simple. They did it for money. The theory we’ve come up with is that someone on one of the research teams at Groom Lake, or maybe someone in supply or the classified material disposal unit, has a big-time gambling problem. In order to pay off a large debt, we’re guessing this person passed along classified technology adapted for criminal use. Of course, once a syndicate has their claws into someone who can provide such technology, their debt would never be wiped clean. The mob would naturally squeeze them to supply more and more gadgets, until there’s no juice left.” Henderson’s narrow face flashed a humorless smile. “And that’s how we’ll nail the bastards.”
Pushing away from the table, Henderson strode to the front of the room. “We’re going to use a two pronged investigation to plug this technology leak.” He held up two fingers. “That’s two teams, working at separate locations toward a single goal. One team will operate in conjunction with an undercover agent planted inside of Groom Lake. This agent will be working on one of the research teams conducting experiments at the testing range.”
“Need a volunteer?” Nina asked.
“Agent Almeida will coordinate all surveillance activities with Ms. Farrell and Ms. Soo Min, who will monitor activities from here,” Henderson replied.
“And the second team?” Jack asked.
“We’re placing a three-member team undercover, right in the middle of a crooked casino in Las Vegas,” he declared. “One agent will impersonate a mob lieutenant — that’s
Jack folded his arms. “I can tell you now, there’s no way this will fly. What if someone contacts Pardo and asks questions?”
“Gus Pardo will vouch for you and your team, to anyone who asks. Even his own lieutenants.”
Morris O’Brian scratched his forehead. “Why would this criminal help us?”
“Simple. We own him.” Again, Henderson smiled. “Pardo’s college-aged son was arrested for cocaine possession in South America. He’s facing hard time in one of the worst prison systems in the world. If Pardo cooperates, he’ll see his son again, compliments of the U.S. State Department. If Pardo screws us, his kid rots in a Peruvian jail for the rest of his short, miserable life. Naturally, we’re convinced Pardo will cooperate…”
Jack blinked. “What am I supposed to do at this casino?”
“Loan shark. Launder money. Load the dice and water the booze,” Henderson replied. “The one thing you will not do is catch professional cheats. We want the word to get around Vegas that the Cha-Cha Lounge is an easy mark. Sooner or later someone using classified technology to run a scam will walk through the doors, and we’ll have them.”
“And the rest of my team?”
“While you’re watching the dealers, croupiers and pit bosses, Curtis Manning will provide overall security. Meanwhile Morris O’Brian will be up in the catwalk monitoring the customers using CTU’s best surveillance equipment. The next time a cheater shows up with classified technology, we’ll be ready.”
Jack frowned, surprised at the sheer audacity of Henderson’s plan.
“The Director’s approved a three month operation. I’ll petition to renew for another three if we come up empty… but I don’t expect us to come up empty. Get creative, if you have to, but get results. In the next twelve weeks, I want at least one solid lead to take back to the Director. During that time, Jack, you and your team will be surrounded by a criminal element that is completely unaware of your true identities and motives. As far they’re concerned, you’re mobsters working for Gus Pardo’s Kansas City crime syndicate, dispatched to Sin City to operate his casino…”
Henderson paused. “You all know what that means. This is deep cover. If anyone feels they are not up to this assignment, see me after the meeting.”
Jack Bauer sat in silence, processing. He felt Christopher’s hands on his shoulders. “Relax, Jack. How many agents get an all-expenses-paid assignment in Las Vegas?”
1. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 P.M. AND 1 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
The holding room was located three levels below the gaming floor, in the casino’s deepest subbasement. Yet even here the clatter of coin and the jangle of five hundred clicking, ringing slot machines penetrated the insulated brick walls and seeped through the cheap soundproof ceiling panels — an incessant carnival buzz that rose and fell like a demented organ grinder’s squeeze box.
Jack Bauer closed his ears to the noise and barely registered his dismal surroundings; gray, unpainted walls, avocado-green phone without a press pad or dial, a steel fire gate that led to a concrete corridor, and a windowless steel door that led to the tiny holding cell behind the one-way mirror.
Jack approached the glass. He studied the man on the other side, absorbing every detail of the stranger’s clothing, physical characteristics, and mannerisms.
Though the man wore a bland, relaxed expression, he’d been alone in that locked room for fifteen minutes and he was still perched on the edge of a Cha-Cha Lounge-orange fiberglass chair, as if he were going to bolt the moment the door opened. Occasionally he’d gingerly touch his face, and Jack noticed a fresh bruise under his left eye.
Jack pegged the man’s age as well into his fourth decade, though he tried to appear younger. His sandy brown hair — disheveled from the rough treatment he’d received at the hands of “casino security”—was white-gray under a clumsy dye job. His addict-thin body was clad head-to-toe in denim, the faded blue jacket torn at the sleeve, buttons missing from his shirt. A crumpled cowboy hat lay on the concrete floor next to the man’s scuffed leather boots.
“What’s his name, Driscoll?” Jack asked the casino’s pit boss. “Where’d he come from?”
Don Driscoll had the strength of a bull and the face of a bull dog, but the manner of a fastidious cat. With meaty hands, he adjusted the lapels of his bright orange sports jacket.
“Midnight Cowboy calls himself Chester Thompkins. Says he’s a truck driver. He’s got a North Carolina commercial license to prove it. Of course, that don’t mean squat—’specially not with that South Jersey lilt tucked in the back of his throat.”
Driscoll was born and raised in Atlantic City, so he would know.
“Did he have anything else on him?” Jack asked. “Drugs? A weapon?”
Driscoll shook his dark head, his perfectly pomaded hair didn’t move. “Just the gimmick, Jaycee.”
The pit boss used Jack’s alias because that was the only name he knew. Driscoll also believed J. C. “Jaycee” Jager was using this low-rent, off-the-beaten track casino as a front to launder mob money and pull a little loan
