So what was the FBI doing using the same type of incendiary tear gas canisters? Did they really want to botch another raid? Either the FBI was refusing to learn from its previous fatal blunder, or someone was out to kill Taj and his comrades, not capture them.
But even that scenario didn’t make sense to Jack. Wasn’t FBI agent Frank Hensley using Taj, along with the Lynch brothers, to carry out his scheme? So why wouldn’t Hensley try to protect his accomplices? Why would Hensley let Taj die if the Afghani terrorist still had a role to play? The only thing that made sense to Jack was the notion that Taj and his men had outlived their usefulness and had to be disposed of before they talked to the wrong people. But if that was the case, then why the frantic delivery of the attaché case, unless it contained another bomb like the one that killed Dante Arete, but meant to kill the Afghanis?
Jack’s head was spinning, as much from the mystery he was trying to solve as from the gas. The only two people who could answer Jack’s questions were Taj Ali Kahlil and Special Agent Frank Hensley. The FBI agent was out of reach, so Jack’s only choice now was to stick close to Taj.
Suddenly Jack felt a crushing grip on his forearm.
A wet cloth was slapped onto his shoulders. He looked up to find Taj standing over him. The man had a cloth wrapped around his own nose and mouth to block the gas. He gestured for Jack to do the same.
From the floor above, Jack heard a stampede of booted feet followed by several shots. A long burst from an assault rifle ended with a howl, then a body struck the floor with a solid thump. The smoke in the claustrophobic basement intensified. Now the smell of burning wood mingled with the CS gas fumes. Face wrapped, Jack stood with Taj and an Afghani youth — perhaps fifteen — gripping an Uzi in his trembling hands.
The rickety door opened and another Afghani emerged from the billowing smoke. This man was short but powerfully built, perhaps fifty years old or older. He wore a turban, loose trousers, and a robe. An AK–47 assault rifle was slung over his arm, its muzzle bumping the low ceiling. The newcomer locked eyes with Taj and the men embraced. With whispered words spoken in Pashto, Taj held the man close, and Jack realized he was witnessing a farewell. Finally the man turned, yanked the rifle off his shoulder, and vanished once more into the billowing clouds of tear gas.
Jack grabbed Taj by the arm. “They’re using CS gas,” he cried over the chaos. “This whole building could burn.”
“We are leaving now,” Taj replied. “We must retrieve the attaché case immediately or all our sacrifices will be for nothing.”
“Forget the case. I need to see Tanner,” croaked Jack, choking back a cough.
“The attaché first, Mr. Lynch. Then I shall take you to Felix Tanner.”
Nina Myers emerged from Jack Bauer’s office and walked to the head of the metal stairs. Below, the Mission Center was a hive of frantic activity. She watched the action in silence, contemplating her next move.
Nearly every member of the Crisis Management Team was preoccupied. Tony Almeida and Jessica Schneider were interrogating the prisoner Saito, and with Milo Pressman and half of CTU’s Cyber Unit dispatched to the Green Dragon Computers store in Little Tokyo to crack their mainframe, pretty much every analyst was doing double duty. They were stretched too thin as it was, and things were about to get worse.
“Listen up,” Nina called in a loud voice. “I’m starting a second Threat Clock—”
Shock and disbelief greeted the news. Nina continued to speak over the noise.
“This second Threat Clock is a countdown. Zero hour is five p.m. Eastern Daylight Time — nine hours and thirty-six minutes from right now.”
“What about a briefing,” someone called from station six.
“It’s on a need-to-know basis right now, which means I’ll need a second Crisis Management Team immediately. I expect all daily and hourly logs to be kept up-to-date, even if it means triple duty. All shifts are to remain in position until further notice — no one’s going home.”
Nina ignored the moans of protest, knowing full well some of her staff had been on duty for more than twelve hours already. She’d been working fourteen hours straight herself.
“Station managers will inform their staff and rearrange duties accordingly. The new team leaders are to assemble for a briefing in thirty minutes.”
The young Afghani led Jack and Taj to another basement room. As they stumbled through choking smoke, staccato bursts of gunfire continued in the store above them. At one point an armed Afghani pushed past Jack and pounded up the stairs. More gunfire erupted.
The youth kicked through a door, into a corner room where a wide hole had been dug into the dirt floor. Jack followed Taj to the edge, peered into the dark pit but could not see the bottom. A rope dangled over the center of the yawning chasm.
Without hesitation, the youth thrust the Uzi into his sash and jumped for the rope. He caught the thick hemp, hung for a moment, then climbed down.
“Go!” barked Taj.
Jack leaped, caught the rope. Fingers digging into the rough hemp, Jack wrapped his legs around the swinging cable and lowered himself into the dim abyss. Jack wondered how far he had to go, then perceived a bright glow under him. The young Afghani had switched on a bank of naked light bulbs that had been strung through a narrow earthen tunnel. The walls were supported by the same untreated wood used to make the partitions under the store, and Jack smelled freshly turned earth. This told him that Taj and his men had fashioned this escape tunnel themselves.
Jack’s feet touched the dirt floor and he let go of the rope. Taj landed in a crouch at his side a moment later.
“Through here!” The youth hurried forward, toward the far end of the earthen pit where a narrow crawlspace had been cut into a solid stone wall. Following the man’s lead, Jack squirmed through the hole, to emerge into a cool dark space, pitch black. His labored breathing echoed off distant walls, as if the chamber he had entered was large.
“Come!” called the youth.
“I can’t see anything,” hissed Jack in reply.
Jack heard a click as the youth tripped another bank of electric bulbs, blinked against the sudden glare. As his vision cleared Jack was amazed by his surroundings. “What is this place?”
“The Atlantic Avenue Tunnel,” said Taj. “It was built in 1844 by the Long Island Railroad, but the tunnel was sealed up in 1861, during America’s Civil War.”
Jack marveled at his surroundings. The smooth walls were made of chiseled stone, the curved ceiling towering eighteen feet above his head. Though no tracks remained, Jack could believe that trains had once moved through this shaft because the tunnel was more than twenty feet wide.
“How far does this go?” Jack asked, staring down the dimly lit shaft.
Taj shrugged. “Only about two thousand feet— roughly five blocks. The rest of the shaft is completely filled, but there are many side tunnels no one knows about.”
“How did you find this place?”
“The tunnel was rediscovered in the 1980s, and the city government had electricity installed before sealing the tunnel off again. Now the shaft is inspected once or twice a year, but we have obscured our tracks and the authorities suspect nothing.”
“So you’ve been using this tunnel for a long time?”
“Several years, Mr. Lynch. Like you, we have been planning this event for a long time.” Then Taj smiled. “Our work ends soon, Mr. Lynch.”
What event? What plan? Jack was straining to ask. “Your patience is commendable. You must bear a great hatred for America,” he said instead.