Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [1]
Four months ago
The door opened without a knock. Jack Bauer looked up from the daily threat assessment file to find his former boss standing over his desk.
"Busy, Jack?"
Christopher Henderson hadn't been on this coast in over a year, not since he'd become CTU's Director of Covert Operations. The promotion required a temporary move east, to CIA headquarters in Virginia.
Jack rose and shook the man's hand. "Christopher. How are things at Langley?"
His old mentor had arrived sans jacket. The sleeves of his starched white shirt were rolled up to expose sinewy biceps. A platinum Rolex glittered on his knobby wrist.
Outwardly the man hadn't changed much since being cast into Washington's bureaucratic vortex. Still tall and lanky with dead gray eyes, he'd obviously staved off an administrator's bulge by making use of the Company's gym. Then again, his early years in the Agency had earned him the nickname "Preying Mantis" — although that had as much to do with his rangy physique as his ability to convert vulnerable hard targets into Agency assets.
"I read about the biological threat you neutralized in New York," Henderson said. "Exposing a renegade FBI agent didn't endear you with the boys in the Bureau."
Jack tensed, still chafing over the lack of follow up on his recommendations. "Frank Hensley was more than a renegade. He was a mole with ties to..."
"I'm not here to talk about Operation Hell Gate or Hensley's Middle Eastern puppet master — although the official assessment is that your conclusions are shaky at best, your theories unsubstantiated."
"Unsubstantiated? But the evidence we gathered..."
Henderson raised a hand. "I came here on another matter. I have a critical situation down in Colombia, and I need a favor..."
Jack's momentary defensiveness dissolved into curiosity. He studied Henderson's expression, even though there wasn't much to read beyond a relaxed confidence, which was typical Henderson.
"Go on," Jack said, settling back behind his desk.
Henderson pulled up a chair. "Three days ago, one of my agents, Gordon Harrow у Guiterrez, went missing. For the past six months, he's been posing as a gadget guy for the Rojas brothers."
The Rojas family — a father and three sons — ran cocaine out of South America. They were a successful and ruthless gang, but not yet the top of the food chain among Colombia's many drug cartels.
"I don't understand," Jack said. "Guiterrez didn't call in a code red? Request emergency extraction?"
Henderson shook his head. "He just vanished. Went black without warning, ditching the false identity Central Cover created for him. We only learned he'd gone missing through intercepts. From what we gleaned eavesdropping on cartel chatter, Guiterrez had stolen something the Rojas family feared he would sell on the black market."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "And is that what really happened?"
"I wasn't sure at first. Within twenty-four hours, all chatter ceased inside the cartel. Even the loquacious Senora Rojas stopped calling her mother in Bogota, so we knew something was up. After forty-eight hours, Guiterrez still hadn't made an appearance at the CTU safe house in Cartegena. So we assumed the worst."
"Was Guiterrez executed?"
"He's alive and for a very good reason. He knew something we didn't. The Cartegena safe house had been compromised. Yesterday it was attacked."
Jack frowned. "I saw the alert on that. Six dead, one wounded... but Intel said the attack was a reprisal for a raid on a cartel factory last month."
"A cover story. The raid was staged by the Rojas family. They knew about our safe house, how many agents and staffers worked out of the facility, the daily schedule... the works."
"I see." Jack exhaled, knowing the implications for a hit like that. "I assume the attack compromised more of the Agency's operations in Colombia?"
Henderson nodded. "You'll see the reports soon enough."
"Reports of.?.."
"The hits, Jack." Henderson's easygoing mask momentarily slipped. "CIA and DEA operations in Cartegena, in Medellin, in Cali and in Barranquilla... They've all