“Sounds like battered wife syndrome,” said Nina.
“An abusive spouse instinctively uses these very same methods,” Brandeis replied.
“But Hasan’s primary lure is spiritual, if Jack is correct.”
The doctor nodded. “True, Mr. Chappelle. That’s where the other methods come in. If you control a person’s perception, you can convince them of any truth — bad guys try to control the media, use propaganda to that end. But drugs can also exert a powerful control over one’s perceptions. And drugs can also be used to induce debility and exhaustion, deepen the subject’s a sense of isolation. The controller can even demonstrate his omnipotence through the manipulation of the subject’s emotions by the use of hallucinogenic drugs.”
Ryan scratched his chin. “And once the subject’s will is broken?”
“The controller rebuilds it,” said Brandeis. “In the case of religious fanaticism, a sense of exclusivity is fostered — the subject is saved, everyone else is damned, that kind of thing.”
“Ibn al Farad was searching for Paradise. He believed himself among the elect.”
Brandeis nodded. “These are all techniques outlined by Biderman.”
“Okay, let’s say that Hasan has found a way to control the minds of his subjects. How does this connect to the midnight cyber attack on the World Wide Web’s infrastructure, or Richard Lesser’s Trojan horse?”
“I didn’t say I had all the answers yet,” Jack replied. “We need to know how the Trojan horse works, what it does before we know its purpose and intended target. Anyway, I’m not convinced Hasan’s only endgame is an attack on the West’s computer infrastructure. Those kind of attacks have been defeated before.”
Chappelle sighed. He pumped the pen in his hand, tapped it on the conference room table. “Unfortunately we seem to have hit a dead end. With Ibn al Farad murdered, Major Salah and his Chechen hit team dead, we don’t know where to turn.”
Jack nudged the medical technician aside, leaned forward in his chair. “Ibn al Farad whispered a name to me before he died. He could have been trying to reveal the true identity of Hasan, or perhaps he was naming another disciple. Either way, we have to check out this new lead right away.”
Dr. Brandeis interrupted them again. “I’m sorry, Special Agent Bauer. You’re not going anywhere without further tests.”
“I don’t have time for tests.”
Brandeis folded his arms. “You probably have a concussion, Jack. You have the symptoms.”
“I’m fine.”
“You have a constant throbbing headache, don’t you? Maybe blurry or double vision…”
“No,” Jack lied.
Nina turned to her boss. “Give me the name, Jack,” she urged, plastic wand poised over a PDA screen. “You go with the doctor down to the infirmary, I’ll run the name through the CTU database, see if we come up with a match, an address or phone number.”
Jack shook his head. “You won’t have to do that, Nina. This man will be easy to find. Architect Nawaf Sanjore is quite well known around the world. His firm has an office in Brentwood, and the man resides in a luxury high-rise he designed and built near Century City.”
Milo felt a strong grip on his arm, then a familiar voice. “Get up kid, you did good.” He opened his eyes, saw Cole Keegan standing over him. Behind the biker, the iron grill lay on top of a heavyset bald man wearing a sweat-stained leather apron and rubber gloves.
“Jesus, what about Tony!” Milo cried. He tried to stand, nearly toppled. His leg burned with agony.
“Settle down, you probably sprained something in that fall.” Cole checked his leg. “Nothing broken. Try to walk it off.”
Milo coughed, hobbled over to the man strapped to the rusty box spring. Limp, shirtless, Tony Almeida’s wrists were bound with wire, the flesh scorched around the coils. Milo saw the ancient crank generator and knew Tony’d been subjected to electric shock.
“Here.” Cole thrust a pair of wire cutters into Milo’s hand. “Hurry up. They’re putting out the fire. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Tony groaned as soon as the cold metal touched his burned flesh. His eyes fluttered, then opened wide. Milo cut the wires and gently eased Tony to the floor.
“Milo?”
“Don’t look so incredulous. You’ll hurt my feelings. Drink this.” Milo helped Tony to a sitting position and thrust a bottle of water into his numb, shaky hand. Almeida gulped it down, choking once or twice. Tony noticed the fat man crushed under the iron grate. “Did you do that?”
Milo nodded. “Pressman to the rescue.”
“His name was Ordog,” said Tony.
“Now he’s Dead Dog.” Keegan grinned.
“He a friend of yours?” Tony asked Milo.
“Meet Cole Keegan. Richard Lesser’s bodyguard.”
“You found Lesser?” Tony asked, gingerly flexing his arms.
Milo nodded. “Lesser decided to give himself up, come back home,” said Milo. “He was looking for you when—”
“When the Chechens found me first.” As he spoke, Tony dribbled some water on the burns on his wrists. The sting jolted him. “How’s Fay?”
Milo didn’t answer. Instead, he used tatters of Tony’s shirt to wrap the burns. Cole Keegan kept an eye on the door at the opposite end of the lab. Tony watched Milo work, waited for a reply to his question. Finally Tony caught Milo’s eye.
“Milo? Fay Hubley?”
“The Chechens found her, Tony…she’s dead.”
Tony closed his eyes, grunted as if punched. He dropped the plastic bottle, stumbled to his feet with Milo’s help. “We’ve got to get out of here. Track them down.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Cole, moving to Almeida’s side. “At least that ‘let’s get out of here’ part.” He handed Tony his duster. “Put this on.”
Tony slipped the long coat over his muscled shoulders.
“Come on,” Milo told Tony. “Richard Lesser’s waiting for us in a car a couple of blocks from here, and an extraction team is meeting us across the border at Brown Field.”
“The exit’s over here,” called Cole. He clutched his shotgun, cocked and ready.
When they kicked open the door, the alley off Albino Street was deserted save for one. Brandy leaned against the wall, tapping her booted foot impatiently. She wore long black jeans, a Sunday church pink ruffled blouse, and clutched a small cherry-red suitcase in one hand.
Seeing her, Keegan froze in his tracks. “I knew this was too easy,” he muttered.
Brandy jerked her head toward the opposite end of the byway, where a crowd had gathered around the still-smoking brothel. The hoot of sirens signaled the not-exactly-timely arrival of the local fire department.
“Don’t worry,” she told them. “The gang guys went north for some kind of score, and the Chechens are holed up on the other side of town with that slob Ray Dobyns. Something big is up—”
Tony met her eyes. “Dobyns. You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Brandy replied. “I heard all about how Dobyns sold you to the Chechens from Carlos—”
“I see.” Tony’s voice was tight with barely contained rage. “Who’s Carlos?”
It was Keegan who replied. “Her pimp. The guy behind the bar.”
Brandy ignored Keegan, stepped up to Tony. “Listen, if you want Dobyns’s head I’ll tell you where the pig is, but you gotta visit him later. I want to be across that border and on my way to my sister’s house in Cleveland before Carlos figures out I’m gone. Otherwise I’m a dead ho’ walking.”