24 Declassified: 06 - Chaos Theory

by John Whitman

  “It wasn’t good,” Jack admitted. “I had nothing to lose anyway. No way was I getting my job back after the accusations anyway, so there was no reason to ride it out. And not with those gang-bangers after me.”

  “You still haven’t said what that’s about.”

  “I still don’t know. I’ve got one more call to make.”

  Teri answered on the third ring.

  “It’s me,” he said quickly. He would have liked more privacy, but to send Ramirez away would have aroused his suspicion. “Have you checked the news?”

  “Ja— the news? No.”

  “You’re going to hear a few things,” he warned her. “Just bear with it. I’m okay, and everything’s going to be okay. I need you to do something for me.”

  Her concern was palpable over the phone line. “Tell me.”

  “The bicycles hanging from the racks in the garage. On mine there’s a small bag, it looks like a saddlebag. I need you to get that and drop it somewhere for me. You remember that place we went to, where we had the big argument?”

  She laughed, but he could hear tears in her laughter. “You have to be more specific.”

  “The one where I tried to make the big exit and smashed into the waiter with the water glasses.”

  More tearful laughter. “Yes.”

  “Drop the bag off there, anywhere hidden. I’ll find it. Just have it there by two A.M.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

  “Here’s the story,” Jack said to Ramirez. “I have contacts all over this city, but all of them are burned. Anywhere I go, my people will be looking. So we need to go to your people.”

  Ramirez balked. “I don’t have anyone we can go to.”

  “Everyone’s got people. Someone. You had business associates you worked with. The deal you were involved in, the embezzlement thing. Who was on the other side of that?”

  Ramirez tugged at his new Lakers jersey. “There

  was . . . I mean I killed the guy.”

  Jack shook his head. “On the other side.”

  Ramirez wriggled now like an insect stuck on the

  end of a pin. “We couldn’t do that. I couldn’t do that with you.”

  Jack shrugged. “Think about it, because right now I’m all you’ve got. Without me you’ll be picked up in ten minutes and put right back in there.” He softened his tone. “In the meantime, I’m going to lay low for a while and let the search pass us by. Then I’m going to hot-wire a car and go pick up something useful. You’re welcome to come.”

  12:36 A.M. PST Federal Holding Facility, Los Angeles

  Dan Pascal ambled up to the gates of the Federal Holding Facility, his six-foot, four-inch frame just big enough to hold his girth, even if his belt wasn’t. Pascal was a U.S. Marshal, and with his size and his square, flat-faced head, he was born to it. The courtyard beyond the fence was quieter now, but by all accounts there’d been all hell of trouble here not long ago.

  Pascal turned to Lafayette, the senior officer on duty during the breakout. “Only the two got out?”

  Lafayette gave two, slow, deliberate nods. “Bauer and Ramirez. Had a hell of a time keeping the others in but—” He clucked loudly with his tongue.

  “But what?” Pascal asked.

  “You can watch it on the video. Pretty clear that Bauer got out, then turned around and shut the gate.”

  Pascal grunted. “That was stupid. More inmates that got out, more trouble it would make for us. Pure chaos.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. He had to push some of those boys back to close it. I don’t think he wanted them out.”

  Pascal turned to one of his own people, Emerson. “That guy here yet?”

  Deputy Marshal Emerson put a radio to his ear. His lips moved, then he listed. “Two minutes, Marshal.” They all called him “Marshal,” even though he was a deputy marshal. But he looked so much like Marshal Dillon from Gunsmoke, and he fit the profile of an old-style marshal so much, that no one could resist.

  Pascal nodded. Right around midnight he’d gotten two calls right in a row. The first had been from his own commander, the actual marshal of this judicial district, informing him that there’d been a prison break at the Federal Holding Facility and that he should take charge of the manhunt for two escapees. The second call, so fast it had actually beeped into the first, was from someone at someplace called the Counter Terrorist Unit, telling him that they were sending someone to talk with him. How they learned that he’d been assigned to the manhunt even before he did, he meant to ask them.

  Pascal looked at Lafayette. “You from Louisiana?”

  Lafayette nodded. “N’awlins. Born and raised.”

  “Accent’s still with you a little bit. You ever do any manhunts down there?”

  “Couple.”

  “Me, too. At least there are no bayous here.”

  Lafayette spit through his two front teeth. “But

  there’s a world of people here. Bayous might be easier.”

  Pascal looked out at the buildings, lit dimly by their lights, stretching for miles in every direction. He decided Lafayette might have a point.

  A man approached them. His suit fit well and his thin hair sat nicely on his head. “Deputy Marshal Pascal? George Mason.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pascal said, looking down politely. Mason looked a little too neat for him, but he had a good handshake, which said a lot, and Mason also looked him right in the eye, assessing him. Pascal liked that. “You have some information on the fugitives?”

  “One of them.” Mason eyed the others and suggested they step apart for a moment. Pascal complied. When they had put some space between themselves and the others, Mason said, “One of the men who escaped is one of our people. A field operative for CTU.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what CTU is.”

  Mason explained briefly about the Counter Terrorist Unit’s mandate and Jack Bauer’s background, and phrases such as “Delta Force,” “covert operations,” “counterintelligence work,” “subterfuge,” and “survival tactics” rolled off his tongue. With each new phrase, Pascal’s broad shoulders settled a little deeper into a determined, unhappy slump. Mason painted as clear a picture as he could of Jack Bauer’s capabilities without divulging any classified information.

  When he finally finished, Pascal heaved a huge sigh. “Well,” he drawled at last, “I figure he was got once, we’ll get him again. Come on, Emerson,” he added with a wry look on his face, “we got to go catch Captain America.”

  12:47 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Tony walked back into CTU carrying the glass delicately in his hand. He dropped it off with the forensics team, already bleary-eyed from some other task that took them past midnight. “This is a priority,” he said. “I need to know whose prints these are. Now.”

  He walked into the heart of CTU, the computer stations where analysts worked, often around the clock, digging up information and analyzing data for the field agents to act on. Jamey Farrell was at her own station with her eyes, apparently beyond the need to blink, fixed on her screen. “Jamey, I need information on a group.”

  Jamey didn’t look up from her screen. “Seth Ludonowski. New guy, very good. Not going to last long. Take advantage of him now.”

  Tony went down to the other end of the row of stations to a young man with short, bleached blond hair and pale skin. He might have been an albino but for his blue eyes and freckles.

  “Seth?” Tony asked.

  “Agent Almeida,” he said. “We haven’t met, but I picked your name up. What can I do for you?”

  “Jemaah Islamiyah. I need everything you can tell me about them. I’ll be at my desk.”

  Tony walked over to his own desk, and by the time he got there, Seth was already feeding him information. Tony began to scan it closely. Jemaah Islamiyah was an Islamic fundamentalist group operating out of Indonesia, with the same mission that most such groups pursued: to establish a fundamentalist Islamic theocracy, in this case in Indonesia,
Singapore, and other Southeast Asian states. Jemaah Islamiyah (Seth had already translated it simply as “Islamic group”) had bombed hotels in Bali and the Australian embassy in Jakarta. The degree to which JI lusted after American blood was uncertain, since they limited their activities to the Asian Southeast, but they had targeted tourist sites that catered to Westerners, both Australians and Americans. California’s decision to host a Southeast Asian trade conference gave JI a logical new target, combined with the fact that an émigré from Indonesia had met with a JI supporter, created a trail that demanded exploration. Riduan Bashir didn’t strike Tony as much of a terrorist threat, but the fact that he’d identified the vehicle as a van when the published report—and Tony’s own comment—declared it was a truck, suggested that he had slightly more intimate knowledge than the average person.

  Tony wasn’t sold yet—the comment could have been an innocent slip, and his late night meeting with the other Indonesian men could be nothing more than it seemed. The fingerprints would—

  His phone buzzed and he saw Seth’s extension. “We’ve got a match.”

  “Already?”

  “Hey, we’re professionals. I’m sending it over now.”

  Tony leaned forward in his chair as the information flowed top to bottom down his computer screen.

  “Goddamn,” Tony murmured to himself.

  Riduan Bashir had just had an evening meal with Encep Sungkar, third in command of Jemaah Islamiyah.

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 A.M. AND 2 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  1:00 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Tony touched the call back button on his phone.

  “Seth, I’ve got more work for you.”

  “Hey, I’m just getting started.”

  Tony smiled, and at the same time understood what Jamey had meant about this one not staying around long. The data analsts at CTU were a unique breed: brilliant, inexhaustible, and quirky. Seth had a little too much liveliness in him to fit the job entirely. He’d love it for a while, and then burn out and look for a job that allowed him to see the sunlight directly, rather than through videotape downloaded from a traffic camera. Still, he’d be a godsend while he was around. “I want you to track down credit card receipts coming out of a restaurant called Little Java.” He recited the address. “Start digging for anything that looks out of the ordinary. I’m after an alias for Encep Sungkar, an Indonesian terrorist I think got into the country somehow. I’m guessing he’s got a full alias, and I need to know it.”

  “Coming right up!”

  1:02 A.M. PST Los Angeles

  There are two ways to evade a search: stay ahead of its expanding perimeter, or lay low and let it pass you by. Jack had chosen the latter, and so far it had worked. He slipped out the back door of the thrift shop with Ramirez trailing him. The sirens had died out, though the police were surely out in force looking for them. He had to get out of here, not only to retrieve the package Teri would leave him, but to put distance between himself and his previous location. The more random his movements, the more chaotic they seemed, the harder he would be to track down. The police would look for patterns, follow leads, try to establish a path that Jack was following. He knew, because that’s what he would do if he were on the hunt. He had to avoid the trap of falling into just such a pattern.

  The alley was dark and lined with large metal Dumpsters that stank of food from nearby restaurants. The alley itself smelled of urine. Jack kept to the sides, ready to melt into the deeper shadows at the first sign of approaching headlights. During the day, he would have walked in the open, trying to appear as natural as possible. But at one o’clock in the morning, anyone walking down an alley would attract attention, so it was better not to be seen at all. Five buildings down, the alley intersected a side street, a residential strip with cars parked at the curb. He turned right and walked quickly down the sidewalk, checking the windshields of the cars.

  “What are we doing?” Ramirez asked, swiveling his

  head like an owl as he looked nervously about him.

  “Looking for a car with a permit.”

  “Why?”

  Jack spotted one, a dark blue Nissan Maxima with

  a white and gray tag hanging from the rearview mirror. The permit suggested a resident, and a resident was most likely someone who wouldn’t come out to look for his car until seven or eight o’clock. By that time, Jack would have ditched this car for another.

  Next, he searched the ground and found a head-sized rock on someone’s front lawn with the word “Serenity” carved into it. The rock was nestled into a cluster of morning glories now closed up for the night. Jack plucked the rock out of the garden and, without hesitation, heaved it through the back seat window. Immediately the car’s alarm blared, the tone and rhythm of the alarm changing every three or four seconds.

  Ramirez panicked. “What the fuck! Someone’s going to hear!”

  Jack’s expression showed his annoyance. “When was the last time you heard a car alarm at night and came running outside?”

  Ramirez realized that Jack was right, of course. He reached inside the car, careful not to cut himself on broken glass, and opened the back door. A moment later he had the driver’s door open. Lying down across the seat, Jack reached underneath the dash and, in a few seconds, stopped the alarm and hot-wired the ignition.

  “Get in.”

  Ramirez got in and Jack drove off. A block away, they passed a black-and-white police car cruising in the opposite direction.

  1:14 A.M. PST UCLA Medical Center

  Megan Wallen spun around on her swiveling stool in the med lab at UCLA’s Medical Center. As she completed a full circle her knees came around and bumped the counter where the tests were being run.

  I bet if I tuck my knees in I can make it a seven-twenty, she told herself. She pushed off again and spun around, sliding past the counter once and almost coming around again before losing her balance and slipping off the stool and landing heavily on her hip.

  “Ouch. Damn!’ she said, picking herself up. “Stupid. Kill myself while killing time.”

  Nights at the lab got long, even when there were a lot of tests to run. She got through most nights trading e-mails and IMs with Tim and Martina or doing med school homework, but Martina was out of town and Tim was working, and her eyes were bleary enough from tests. She didn’t feel like reading.

  The lab phone rang, making her jump. It had been a quiet night, except for one test brought down from the ER, and in the silence the phone sounded demanding.

  “Lab, this is Megan,” she said.

  “Megan Wallen, right? This is the security desk up in the lobby. Listen, there’s someone here who says they need to see you. Wants you to come up.”

  “Me? Who?”

  “They, uh, they say it’s a surprise.” The caller’s voice dropped. “Look, I don’t want to ruin things, but I got a clown here with way too many balloons. Can you just—”

  A surprise? Balloons? She wondered if it was a prank of Tim’s. “I’m coming.”

  Still rubbing her hip, she opened the door and walked down the hall. Behind her, the door closed slowly, pushing gently toward the frame by the spring in its hinge. But before it closed completely, someone walked out of the stairwell and calmly stopped the door. The figure slipped into the lab and walked up to the same counter that Megan had just vacated. On the counter stood a vial of blood that read “CHAPPELLE, RY.” The intruder reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an identical vial, also filled with blood. Carefully, carefully, he peeled the recently applied label off the original vial and put it on his new one. Then he dropped the new one into the rack, took the original, and left.

  Megan returned a few minutes later, carrying a bunch of metallic “I’m Sorry” balloons and a mystified look on her face. She wondered what Tim had to apologize for. She figured she’d find out soon enough. In the meantime, sh
e had blood work to run.

  1:23 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Tony had just finished reviewing data on three names that were likely aliases for Encep Sungkar. The new guy Seth had done good work, including providing rationale for eliminating four other names. He was relieved—the odds could have been much worse. He was so engrossed in his review that he didn’t notice Jamey standing over him until she cleared her throat.

  “Oh, hey, what’s up?” he said, rubbing his eyes. It was getting late.

  “What’s up is Jack Bauer,” she said. “Did you know he called here?”

  Tony stared at her blankly.

  “Oh, crap, let me start again,” Jamey said. “Did you know Jack Bauer broke out of jail and then called here?”

  Tony sighed through clenched teeth. “Oh, shit. Did anyone get hurt?”

  Jamey shrugged. “The news isn’t all in, but there was a riot at the jail, so I’m sure some of it was ugly. Word is that Jack cut a guard across the forehead. The other word is that he stopped some inmates from escaping after he went over the wall.”

  Tony stood up, the sleep suddenly gone from his eyes. “Unbelievable, unbelievable,” he muttered. “Are we on it?”

  Jamey sat on the edge of his desk and put her hands in the air in a universal sign of perplexity. “Search me. Chappelle’s out of commission and Henderson seems to be in watch-and-wait mode. He sent George Mason over to liaison with the marshals. But—” she stopped, scrunching up her face in an unhappy look but saying nothing.

  “But what? Come on, I don’t have time—”

  “Tony, we should have been on this one. I mean, it’s Jack Bauer. The guy friggin’ never even read the rule book. But kill a guy for no reason? Come on. And we never even looked into it. Shouldn’t we do some homework?”

  Tony rubbed his temples vigorously enough to wear holes in them. Jamey was right. It had been weeks since Jack had shot that Tintfass character, and with the exception of some cursory cooperation with the Federal prosecutor, CTU had had almost no involvement. That was Chappelle, of course. The man was a bona fide tool and hated Bauer. He probably relished the thought of Bauer behind bars. But that wouldn’t have stopped Bauer from digging deep into the story, and it shouldn’t have stopped them.