24 Declassified: Chaos Theory

inappropriate use of funds had floated around CTU Los Angeles for several months, and the word embezzlement had been used. Most of the field agents had been called in, and the word was that Jack had mentioned Henderson’s name. “First of all, you and I know that any charge against me is bullshit. Second, I’d never let something like that compromise my integrity.”

“I don’t care either way, Chris,” Jack said. “I’m just on a case and I want—”

“I’m the goddamn Director of Field Operations, Jack,” Chris said, “and I have no knowledge of you being on a case. I want you to come in. Or I’ll send someone you trust out to get you. How’s that?” But the line was dead.

Henderson buzzed his intercom. “Okay, new guy. Did you get that traced?” “’Course,” said Seth Ludonowski. “We aim to please.” Henderson dialed Peter Jiminez.

9. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 A.M. AND 5 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

4:00 A.M. PST Biltmore Hotel

At nineteen, he was still Jorge Rafael Marquez, but no longer the peasant’s son from Chiapas or the adolescent gangster from Boyle Heights. He went by Rafael more than Jorge in those days because it sounded less rural. Rafael, to him sounded cosmopolitan, a world traveler or, as he fancied himself, an artist of the new frontier. The new frontier, he had recognized years earlier, was the Internet. The Internet thrilled him with its offer of freedom: freedom of information, freedom of discussion, freedom of purpose.

“I can’t let you do it,” Amistad Medved had told him, using the phrase Rafael least liked to hear. Rafael had just insisted that they open their operating system to the public.

Medved was his partner, but also his boss. Only twenty-three himself, he was still considered a veteran of the burgeoning world of connectivity. He’d made a small fortune in software design and had used it to began writing his own Web browser. Medved had recognized Rafael’s genius immediately and brought him on board, given him a huge number of options, and let him run rampant in the fields of cyberspace. With his gift for patterns, Rafael had written algorithms that shortened the lag time of search engines to nanoseconds. His work had trebled Medved’s fortunes and made Rafael himself a rich man.

Then the rumors first started to fly about Internet service providers offering tiered delivery: slower connections for lower-paying customers, faster speed for more money. Rafael blanched. It sounded like the sharecropper scams he’d witnessed back in Chiapas. It reminded him of extortion rackets run by MS–13 back in Boyle Heights. Only this time it was sanctioned by the government.

Rafael had wanted to respond by publishing an algorithm that latched on to high-speed connections regardless of the pay rate. Medved, who had invested heavily in several different ISPs, refused to allow it.

Rafael had walked away, leaving his career behind. He abandoned his name as well, but he was not yet Zapata. He became Zapata a year or two later, when the Mexican government raided Chiapas and killed his father and his cousin, and he realized once and for all that the Rubik’s Cube was a trick, created by leaders to occupy the time and minds of the people. The cube did not need to be solved. It had to be broken.

Zapata listened carefully as Aguillar told him about the upcoming buy. “I am sending Alliance to meet with the arms dealer. They are providing transportation.”

Aguillar saw the flicker of concern cross Zapata’s face like a shadow. He waited.

“We used Alliance the last time we were in the United States.”

“To transport the Cubans, yes. But you were already using him for his other business, so I assumed—”

“The fight game is different,” Zapata said dismissively. “An entirely different sphere. I do not like using the same people too often because it creates a pattern. Patterns can be followed.”

“I know, but there was no one else available. Farrigian has disappeared, and the others we have worked with more.”

“Okay,” Zapata said. “But kill him afterward.”

Aguillar nodded. He was done, and should have gone to his own room to get some sleep, but he hesitated. “I’m sorry, Zapata, but I have to ask—”

Zapata smiled. Aguillar had sounded apologetic, but he knew (as did Zapata himself) that Zapata’s ego relished these opportunities to play the mentor.

“Why this deal? We could get the equipment we need from other sources, without trading with the Indonesians.”

Zapata nodded. “Two reasons. The first is obvious. These people we trade with will cause their own stir, and that will attract some attention. It’s a distraction. But my reason is more. aesthetic. I am simply trying to drop the biggest rock I can into the pond.”

“I will call Alliance to confirm.”

4:09 A.M. PST InterContinental Hotel

Jack leaned back against the sofa cushions, his feet up on the coffee table and his eyes closed. He wanted to sleep, but would not allow himself the luxury.

Vanowen’s phone rang. He popped out of the other room, saying, “You okay now, Mark? Head on straight?”

Mark “The Mountain” Kendall looked far from okay, but he grunted an affirmative, barely looked at Jack and Ramirez, and left. Vanowen talked into his phone a little, mostly listened, and then said, “I’ll be there.” He snapped the phone shut.

“Okay. Hey, wake up!” Vanowen kicked the feet of Ramirez, who was snoring. Ramirez jumped as if he’d been bitten.

“I have a job this morning,” Vanowen said. “Some of the kind of work you were getting involved in, before you went and killed someone, you moron. You want to come?”

Ramirez rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

“Me, too,” Jack said.

Vanowen grinned at him, a big, toothy grin out of his round face. “You I did some checking on while I was in the other room. You fucked somebody up, huh? You’re really on the run now.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Jack said.

Vanowen chewed his lip. He seemed to be weighing his innate suspicion against some need. Finally, he said, “Yeah, come. I can use the extra muscle. Besides, ain’t nothing you’re gonna see Ramirez couldn’t have burned me for by now anyway.”

4:14 A.M. PST Inglewood

Tony Almeida had changed out of his old clothes— which looked like clothes that had been worn for days — into a clean shirt and jeans, as though he’d gotten up early instead of staying up all night. Two members of the CTU strike force had changed into civvies as well to pose as his muscle.

They knew Encep Sungkar was coming. When he was still twenty miles away they knew which streets he took, his average speed, and they could have determined his mileage per gallon if they’d wanted to. Tony’s team spent the intervening minutes rifling through Menifee’s records and the stack of crates under canvas in his warehouse. It wasn’t the most impressive stockpile Tony had seen, but it would do some damage. There were four launchers and twelve rocket-propelled grenades, a.50-caliber machine gun that could put rounds right through a brick building, a baker’s dozen of M–60s and MP–5s, and other assorted goodies.

Tony’s earpiece buzzed as Sungkar’s vehicle, followed by a truck, pulled up to his warehouse. He opened the regular-sized door, which was cut into the wall near the huge sliding cargo entrance, as his target approached. He recognized Sungkar from the table in Little Java. Sungkar was small and bespectacled, with a mild manner and a slight smile. But his eyes were intense, and though he walked softly, Tony had the distinct impression of a mongoose ready to spring.

“You Perkasa?” Tony hailed in his best imitation of Menifee’s voice, using the alias they’d discovered Sungkar to be using.