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still sitting on the corner of the desk. The keyboard had been knocked on the floor, but the wireless mouse was lying on its pad near the dead man’s head.
    “Hugh Vetri was using his computer when he was murdered,” Castalano said. “He was viewing the information from a CD-ROM.”
    Using a gloved hand, Castalano reached out and touched the wireless mouse. The screensaver vanished and the computer jumped to the last file on display. Jack stifled a shocked gasp when his own face appeared.
    To go with the picture there was an accurate profile of Jack, complete with the names of his family members, his home address, and all of his numbers, including his home phone, his cell, and the office telephone at CTU Headquarters. Jack leaned closer to the monitor. On second glance, it appeared this file came right out of CTU’s own database.
    “Where did Hugh Vetri get this information?”
    Castalano shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the experts can tell us both, once they data mine the dead man’s hard drive.”
    Jack studied the monitor. “Who found the bodies?”
    “We’re thinking the killer called it in,” Castalano replied. “911 received an anonymous tip five hours ago. We’ve got some leads; the call came from a pay phone and we traced it. Nothing definitive yet, though.”
    There was a pause. “Jack. I have to ask you this.”
    Jack nodded. “Shoot.”
    “Do you know any reason why Hugh Vetri would be interested in you or any member of your immediate family?”
    “Not a clue,” Jack replied.
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    THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLAC E
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
7 A.M. AND 8 A.M.
PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
    7:05:11 A . M .PDT La Hacienda Tijuana, Mexico
    Tony dragged the remaining backpack out of the cargo bay, set it on the hot pavement. Music blared on the street. Not a traditional Mexican ballad or even brassy mariachi music—just raucous urban hip-hop chanted in Spanish. Men, old and young, headed to jobs or to look for work. Children traipsed off to school in groups, darting among the cars as they raced across the crowded streets, while stalled traffic continued to pump noxious fumes into an already smog-choked atmosphere.
    The back of the van was empty now. This would be Tony’s final trip. Upstairs, Fay Hubley had already gotten the satellite interface up and running. The computer system would be next.
    Before he closed the driver’s side door, Tony con sidered pocketing one of the two Glock C18s hidden in a secret compartment in the floor—then changed his mind. Guns were trouble and the fugitive they hunted wasn’t prone to violence. Tony hoped he could get through this mission without resorting to weapons.
    He was almost finished when he suddenly felt his sweat-dampened skin prickle. Someone was observing him. He could feel it. Without looking up, he reset the van’s security system and slammed the door. While adjusting the backpack on his shoulders, Tony casually glanced around. A policeman leaned against a squad car on the opposite side of the street. His gray uniform appeared crisp, despite the melting heat; his face was impassive, unreadable; his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
    Tony considered the possibilities. He could be eyeing the van for towing later. Though the vehicle was legally parked, auto extortion was common enough in Tijuana, especially cars with U.S. license plates. Vehicles disappeared only to be returned after a hefty “towing fee” was paid to the policia .
    On the other hand, the guy could be watching out of natural curiosity, the need to know what’s happening on his beat. Tony hoped it was the latter. Among other things, the CTU pre-mission briefing reminded him and Fay that criminal gangs did, on occasion, kidnap Americans and hold them for ransom. Corrupt police had been known to get a piece of that action as well.
    With a final yank on the strap, Tony circled the van and walked through the doors of La