Griff continued to drive along the narrow road until he came to a break in the row houses. A chain-link fence stood unlocked. Inside, next to a massive supporting column for the Hell Gate Bridge above, a kelly-green New York City Parks Department truck was parked. Griff pulled his unmarked van next to the green truck and cut his engine.
Taj waited on the flatbed of the battered Parks Department vehicle, along with two other members of his cell. All wore Parks Department overalls, all carried valid IDs. More than two hundred feet above their heads, on the bridge’s span of faded red steel, others waited beside a makeshift block and tackle. When Griff arrived, they lowered a rope. The light, saltwater breeze from the river knocked the rope back and forth against the massive support column until it reached the vehicles on the ground.
Griff hopped out of his van, opened the rear doors. Taj climbed down to join him, and they both dragged the heavy box out of the cargo bay.
“One launcher with memory stick. Three missiles. You can’t miss,” said Griff.
Taj grabbed the lowered rope and secured the box to a steel hook, then stepped away. High above, the men hauled the rope, dragging the Long Tooth missile launcher to the top of the bridge.
After a long search, Griff had selected this location himself. Hell Gate lay directly in the flight path to La-Guardia Airport. The bridge was tall enough to afford Taj a clear shot, yet remote and inaccessible enough for them to act without detection. There was no pedestrian, car, or truck traffic on the railroad bridge, and any passing train would see only men in Parks Department uniforms. No one would suspect Griff or Taj or any of his men of anything sinister. No one would even fathom what FBI agent Frank Hensley had coordinated to unleash on America from the top of Hell Gate.
Captain Stoddard activated the auto pilot, keyed the cockpit radio.
“This is Charter 939 calling LaGuardia tower, come in.”
A crackling voice filled the cabin. “LaGuardia air traffic control responding. We read you nine-threeniner.”
“We’re on course and on schedule,” Captain Stoddard replied. “Estimated time of arrival over New York City airspace, eight-three-eight p.m., Eastern Daylight Time. Over. ”
22. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Jack Bauer and Caitlin O’Connor stood on the mezzanine inside Grand Central Station. Though Grand Central serviced only commuter trains these days, the marble-lined interior of the imposing Beaux Arts structure evoked the romance of railroad travel at the dawn of the twentieth century. Below the raised balcony where they stood, the expanse of the main concourse spread out before them. High above their heads a vaulted ceiling was adorned with murals depicting the twelve signs of the Zodiac.
As Jack predicted, the terminus was packed with commuters, the human tide swirling around the massive clock that topped the information stand in the center of the main concourse, and the sculptural groupings executed by artist Jules Coutan back in 1913 when the building was constructed. But Jack hardly noticed the impressive interior space. He was studying faces in the crowd.
“I’m supposed to meet the man calling himself Agent Ferrer under the big clock at six p.m. sharp,” Jack said, peering into the mob.
Caitlin looked, too, though she didn’t know what to search for. The phony CTU agent could be any one of the thousands of businessmen who thronged Grand Central at rush hour. How was she to know who the impostor was? More importantly, how was Jack to know? Caitlin sighed, glanced at Jack’s digital watch now on her own wrist.
“If you’re to meet him at six, then you’re late,” she said.
“That’s the point. I’m going to wait a few more minutes, scope out a couple of likely suspects from the people lingering near the clock. Then I’ll call Agent Ferrer on my cell, explain how I’m running late. If one of the people we’re watching answers his phone, I’ll know he’s the impostor.”
Jack’s cell chirped in his hand, interrupting them.
“Is it—?”
“It’s CTU,” Jack told her. He answered, listened to Nina Myers for a moment. Finally he spoke. “I’ll tell her,” Jack said, ending the conversation.
“Tell me what?” Caitlin demanded.
“Back at CTU, Jamey Farrell is monitoring all New York City police frequencies and emergency channels. A few moments ago she intercepted a Police Department accident report.”
Jack paused. Caitlin’s knees turned to water. “Tell me, Jack,” she said.
“Shamus Lynch is dead. He was killed by an explosion inside a parking garage in Queens. At the scene of the accident, your brother, Liam, turned himself in. The police have him now. They’re holding him in protective custody.”
Caitlin covered her mouth, shut her green eyes to stop the flow of tears that flooded them. “Ohgodthankgod,” she cried, throwing her arms around Jack’s neck.
He held her for a moment, then pulled away to look into her face.
“Listen to me very carefully. This whole thing is over for you now. Shamus is dead, Griffin is too busy running from CTU to chase after you. You don’t have to do this anymore. You can go to a policeman right now, any policeman, and ask him to put you in protective custody, too. In a few hours this will blow over. In the meantime, you’ll be safe. ”
Caitlin pushed her hair back and shook her head. “No, Jack. I’m going to see this through…Look, me and my brother were a party to this bloody mess out of the gate. We didn’t mean to be, but now that I know we are, I want to help clean it up…If there are any charges against me and my brother, then maybe at the end of the day my helping you will help a judge see his way clear to goin’ easy on us. You understand?”
Jack nodded and they went back to watching the crowd. It was Caitlin who spotted the most likely candidate.
“How about that one, Jack?” she said, pointing.
Bauer scoped the man through miniature tourist binoculars he’d bought at a newstand. The man was in his mid-thirties, physically fit, broad-shouldered, with either a dark complexion or a serious tan topped by golden, sun-bleached hair.
“He’s the right age, and time is running out,” said Jack. “Let’s give it a try.”
But just as Jack made the call, the blond man stepped behind the clock and out of sight. Meanwhile a voice answered on the second ring.
“Agent Ferrer here.”
“Jack Bauer. Look, I’m running a little late. Could you stay on the cell phone until I reach you. I’m with Caitlin, just outside Grand Central now. We’re on Forty-second Street. ”
While Jack talked, Caitlin waited for the blond man to reappear. When he finally showed, he clutched a cell phone to his ear. She slapped Jack’s arm; he nodded. Jack had seen it, too. While Agent Ferrer continued to speak, Jack hit the mute button so the caller could not hear them.
“Stay here,” Jack whispered. “I’m going to keep him on the line while I sneak up behind him, take him prisoner…”
She watched as Jack hurried down the massive marble stairs to the main concourse. Within a few seconds, he’d vanished in the dense, fast-moving crowd.
At the bottom of the stairs, Jack opened a hidden compartment on the cell phone case, extracted a tiny, single-wire headset. He slipped the wire over his head, the button-sized phones into his ear canal, the dot microphone under his chin without missing a beat in the conversation. Then he dropped the phone into his jacket, closed his right hand around the handle of his Mark 23.