Operation Hell Gate - Marc Cerasini [97]
After a long search, Griff had selected this location himself. Hell Gate lay directly in the flight path to LaGuardia 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.
* * *
5:55:09 P.M. EDT
Boeing 727, CDC charter flight
35,000 feet over Trenton, New Jersey
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 pm., Eastern Daylight Time. Over..."
22
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
6:07:12 P.M. EDT
Grand Central Station, Main Concourse
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