13. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Nina dropped her reading glasses onto the desk, rubbed her tired eyes. When she refocused on the monitor she had to fight to keep the lines from blurring. For the past hour she’d been examining the last five years’ worth of state and federal tax records for the Green Dragon Computers store in Little Tokyo.
Hundreds of digital pages had to be scanned, but no computer could do the job right. Only a human analyst possessed the skill and intuition to find the tiny jewels buried in the reams of worthless data. The process was time consuming and labor intensive, but at the end of sixty minutes, Nina had managed to narrow her search to four promising references.
During a second pass, two of those items were eliminated immediately. But a third clue produced unexpected results. According to the records, one of the most lucrative customers in Green Dragon’s Little Tokyo store was Prolix Security, a New York City firm with no offices in Los Angeles.
Nina knew immediately that the facts didn’t compute — why would a Manhattan company do business with a store in LA when there were plenty of franchises in New York City?
A cross-check of Prolix Security records produced a revelation, and a clear connection to terrorist activities. In the last eighteen months, huge sums of money had been funneled from Prolix’s Security to several Banque Swiss accounts in Zurich, Switzerland. Other transactions involved the Iraqi government — though
U.S. businesses were restricted from trade with Sad-dam Hussein except through the United Nations Oilfor-Food Program.
But Nina knew those weren’t the real leads.
The important discovery involved the ownership of the firm. Though the company had been established in 1986, Prolix had just recently been acquired by a former insurance executive named Felix Tanner — the same name Jack’s female informant Caitlin had mentioned during an interrogation about the Lynch brothers.
Putting aside her other tasks, Nina Myers concentrated on finding out everything she could about Felix Tanner.
Griffin Lynch tramped on the gas. Tires shrieking, the Mercedes swung around the lumbering delivery van, then swerved in front of it. The Boar’s Head meats truck skidded to a halt, the driver bellowing a curse at what looked like the typical New York asshole businessman — silver hair, well-dressed, and in a hurry. In seconds the black Mercedes was gone, zooming down Roosevelt Avenue under the shade of the elevated train tracks.
The day was already hot. With the window down, the clattering subway rolling overhead drowned out almost everything else. Cars double-parked along the busy avenue made vehicular progress slow. Griff clutched the steering wheel impatiently, even though the pub was only a few blocks away.
He was more than a little bit cheesed at Shamus. Bloody brilliant of the boy not to show at the shop, this morning of all mornings, thought Griff. With so much to do, so many loose ends to tie up and final decisions to be made, Shamus was behaving like a tool. Bad enough he’d been more interested in fast-money deals with the local swains than taking care of their real business. Now the boyo’d vanished, along with the pub sketch he’d been shagging. Griff had been calling Shamus repeatedly since eight-thirty, but no one at The Last Celt would answer the bloody phone. With zero hour less than half a day away, Griff had no choice but to get in the car himself and drive to the pub.
It was bloody reckless of Shamus to act so irresponsibly, but Griff wasn’t all that surprised. He’d noticed changes in his brother over the past few months. At first Griff assumed it was Caitlin. Since the explosion that maimed Griff so badly, the joys of women were denied him, but he hadn’t forgotten the power of the mating urge. Griff indulged his younger brother’s need to get his hole now and then — but when he compared his brother’s professional attitude in Somalia to his fuck-ups lately, he realized Shamus hadn’t been the same since they’d set up shop in New York City.
It was the seductive lure of the fast-money American way that warped him, Griff knew. Shamus would rather remain in New York and exploit the opportunities at hand than go for a really big score and retire in a banana republic with a fat bank account. Not that his little brother had directly challenged Griff’s plans. But it was obvious enough to Griff that Shamus wanted to stay.
The boy just didn’t understand. Living in America was an impossible dream. It hadn’t taken Frank Hens-ley very long to track them down. The fact that the FBI agent was as crooked as a turf accountant was a bit of luck. Griff had been able to make a deal with Hensley, but sooner or later another FBI agent — an honest one — or someone from the police department, the DEA, or CTU would find them and the bomb would explode in their faces.
Griff understood that there was no future for them anywhere in America or Europe. He and Shamus had already done too many things for the Cause to turn back now. In that sense, the Duggan brothers had already made their choice, back when they became Provos.
Griff topped a small rise, and The Last Celt was in sight. Luck was with him — he spied an empty spot on the corner, right in front of the pub. As he parked, he calmed down a bit. Most likely Shamus got royally flustered and had simply slept in. He’d be hungover this morning, but after coffee, food, and a bitch slap from his elder bro, Shamus would be up to the task at hand — and not so crazy over Caitlin’s melt that he’d balk when the time came to say adieu. Griff would off the ninny and her brother himself if it came to that.
Griff exited the car and crossed the sidewalk. He halted mid-stride when he saw the splintered wood on the pub’s door. Reaching into his linen sport coat, Griff eased the 9mm Beretta out of its shoulder holster before he touched the knob. No surprise the door was unlocked. Griff pushed through it and slipped inside. In the tavern’s dim interior he saw toppled tables, overturned chairs, the phone ripped out of the wall.
Griff found Shamus upstairs a few minutes later, on the floor of Caitlin’s shabby digs. He ripped the tape away from his brother’s mouth, untied his hands and legs, and dashed cold water in his face. Shamus moaned, then reached for his head. Suddenly he opened his eyes, focused on his brother, bolted upright. “Where’s that bleedin’ CTU agent?”
Griff scowled. “What CTU agent?”
“He took her away at gunpoint.”
“Who, Caitlin?”
Shamus nodded. “He forced her. Made her go with him.”
Griff wasn’t so sure. “What about the attaché case?”
“Liam took off with it.” Shamus glanced at his watch. “Taj should be holding the damned thing by now.”
“We’ll have to clean up this mess,” said Griff.
“Caitlin and her brother are liabilities now. So is Donnie. Before this day is over, everyone we ever did business with in the States—everyone who knew us here — must be permanently silenced.”
Shamus looked away, said nothing. Then they both heard a noise from downstairs in the pub. Tables and chairs being moved, then someone cursed. Shamus spoke. “It’s Donnie. He’ll be real cheesed about the mess.”
“Shut up and wait here,” snarled Griff. He led with his gun as he silently glided down the stairs.
Crisis Management Team Alpha, formerly the Crisis Management Team, met in the main conference room at the behest of Ryan Chappelle, who wanted to be brought up to speed on the latest developments.
Ryan was surprised when Nina Myers arrived— late — and informed him that a second Threat Clock and Crisis Management Team Beta had been established. When Nina closed the door to officially begin the conference, Ryan blinked in surprise. “This is everyone?”