by John Whitman
He needed more staff. There was funding for it—in fact, he had to talk to Chappelle about spending more money, or someone in Washington would cut their budget for next year. But CTU was still having trouble recruiting, especially in field operations. Most of the top-quality operators saw the domestic agenda as the boondocks of counterterrorism work. Yes, the World Trade Center bombing had served notice that the bad guys could and would try attacks on U.S. soil, but the truck bomb hadn’t brought the building down, and memories faded.
That’s why Henderson wanted Bauer so badly. Jack had military experience, law enforcement experience, and hands-on intelligence work. Hell, the man had even studied literature at UCLA. He was a complete package. CTU could really use a man like Bauer.
“Jack Bauer will never work for CTU!” Ryan Chappelle howled. He’d managed to maintain his level of rancor all the way from the Twin Towers.
Henderson nearly jumped. “What? Why?”
Chappelle described the events at the holding cell. “He’s a loose cannon. Insubordinate. Dangerous to the completion of any case, unless we want to give the terrorists a get-out-of-jail-free card for civil rights violations!” He glared at Henderson as though the entire affair had been his fault.
Henderson rubbed a hand on his head. If Jack did come on board, he told himself, this would not be the last of such conversations. He sighed. “He’s a doer, sir. He gets the job done. If we’re facing the kind of people you and I both think we are, that’s going to be important.”
Chappelle shook his head furiously. “There is no way that man is working for CTU. Ever.”
8:08 P.M. PST West Los Angeles, California
“Hey,” Jack said, putting a hand on Teri’s shoulder and kissing her neck from behind.
Teri Bauer leaned back into the kiss, mewed with pleasure, then said, “Who is this?”
Jack laughed. “I’m the blond one.” He walked around her and the café table, and sat down in the lounge chair across from her. Knowing his habits, she had chosen the chair with its back to the room.
Teri put down her book and sipped her latte. “You want one?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m already pretty wired. I need to unwind so I can get some sleep.”
“Rough day?” she asked, reaching across and putting her hand over his. Her hands looked small compared to his; she had always liked how strong his were.
He nodded, but didn’t say more, and she didn’t ask. She understood that his work with the CIA was often sensitive, and she had long ago decided not to ask too many questions. But there was one area that was open for discussion.
“That man, Christopher Henderson, called again today. Did you speak with him?”
Jack laughed. “Yes. And I got to see the CTU offices. Our garage looks more organized.”
“Oh,” she said.
He leaned forward and connected his free hand to hers. “You want me to take this.”
She shrugged in a what-do-you-want-me-to-say? manner. “It might keep you in Los Angeles more often. That would be good. You’d still be doing work you like. And with Kim going into high school, it’ll be good for you to be around as often as you can.”
Jack nodded. “Where is she?”
“Home. Asleep, I think.”
“I still can’t get used to the fact that she’s old enough to be left home alone.”
“Still young enough to want her daddy around.”
“I’ve thought of that. I’m not married to the CIA—” They both balked at the expression. He regretted using it, but said nothing and moved on. “I like it, but I could leave if the right thing came along. But I’m just not sure what CTU is all about, what their mission is. I’m not even sure they know yet.”
“You like Christopher Henderson.”
“Who’s not really in charge. Some guy named Chappelle is. I met him today. He’s a tool.” Jack laughed. “I think if I work for that guy I’ll end up shooting him in the head.”
Jack’s cell phone buzzed, and a number he hadn’t
seen in years flashed on the screen. “Bauer,” he said.
“Jack, it’s Harry Driscoll, Robbery-Homicide—”
“Hey, Harry, long time.” He mouthed an apology
to Teri, who shrugged. “How’s business?”
On the other end of the line, Harry Driscoll chuckled. “Never slow, always plenty of customers. Listen, word gets around, and I know that you’ve got some interest in the Sweetzer Avenue thing.”
Jack hadn’t heard the term before, but he recognized Sweetzer Avenue as the street where the three suspected terrorists shared a house. “If you mean the Three Stooges and their box of goodies, yeah, I’m interested.”
“Well, we’ve got a kind of lead on it. Thought you might be interested in tagging along.”
Jack paused. “So now LAPD is involved? What’s Robbery-Homicide got to do with it.”
“Long story. Well, actually a pretty short story. It’s a turf war. Some new Federal unit is trying to throw its weight around. We think they’ve got their head up their ass, we want to get involved, especially when houses blow up in our backyard.”
“Yeah, houses with me in them,” Jack said. “Tell me where to go.” He snatched Teri’s napkin and a pen and scribbled down some directions. “On my way.
“I’ve got to go, honey,” he said, standing and kissing her. “I shouldn’t be too late. We can talk more about whether I should work for CTU.”
His back was already to her when she said softly, “Seems like you already are.”
8:14 P.M. PST Brentwood, California
Aaron Biehn kept tugging at the collar of his shirt. It was his favorite T-shirt, bright yellow with squiggly monsters drawn on it and the name of the band Lido Beach. It was his favorite, but it felt too small on him now. He was choking.
You have to tell someone, Kim Bauer had said. Tell your dad. He’s a police officer. He can do something.
What if no one believes me? What if I can’t prove it, or what if I have to tell . . . to describe what he did?
Aaron shuddered again thinking about that. He wanted to forget that it had ever happened, but it was there, the guilt in his mind, the horrible feeling in his body, every time he thought about the Mass or said his Hail Marys or went to confession, which his mother insisted they do each week.
He knew he couldn’t tell his mother. She wouldn’t believe him. She was a devout Catholic and very active at St. Monica’s. “The priests are the apple of God’s eye,” she always said, copying the phrase from her mother, Aaron’s grandmother, who lived in Dublin. And if she did believe him, she’d be crushed.
But Dad was different. He was a Catholic, too, but more because his parents had been and it pleased his wife. He was sure his father would believe him, but he was afraid he would be ashamed. Don Biehn was big on self-reliance. He had always made Aaron deal with elementary school bullies on his own, rather than telling his teachers.
But Aaron had to do something. The thing of it . . . he wasn’t sure what to call it; was it guilt, or a vile memory, or terror? Whatever it was, it lived in him like a snake wriggling inside his body. Its head lived in his chest, gnawing at the bottom of his heart. Its tail resided at the very bottom of his spine and wriggled there, sending shivers up his back and making his lower half feel somehow cold and wet.
Aaron tugged at his shirt again and walked into the den where his father was watching Survivor. Aaron sat down next to him on the couch. His father, tall and lanky like Aaron was clearly going to be, punched him in the shoulder absentmindedly and kept watching.
“Dad . . .” Aaron began.
“Yep,” his father said, eyes still on the television. There was a good-looking girl in a bikini walking along the beach.
“I . . . I need to talk to you about something.” He paused. His dad nodded. “It’s . . . about church.”
“You gotta go, pal,” Don Biehn said. “I’m sorry about that. You and I will both hear an earful from Mom if you—”
Don Biehn glanced sidelong at his son. “They’re not perfect, Aaron, no matter what they think. Don’t ever let them fool you. Forgive the expression, but don’t take everything they say or do as the gospel truth.”
Aaron blushed. “Um, yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dad.” He turned away.
8:23 P.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
His Holiness Pope John Paul II, the Vicar of Rome, washed his hands after using the bathroom in the cloister of St. Monica’s Cathedral. Such acts had humbled him during the course of his many years as leader of the Catholic Church. Each year on Holy Thursday, he washed the feet of the poor, and that was supposed to remind him that Christ himself had practiced such humility. But, though he never would have admitted it aloud, the practice had taken on too much of the feeling of ceremony, of show. He did not feel humble on Holy Thursday, he felt like an actor.
But these human acts, these needs of the body that had not ended when he was made Pope, and indeed became more difficult as time passed, constantly reminded him of his frailty. There was a Zen saying he had always liked: “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.” He liked that.
There were those among his cardinals who would have frowned at his use of the Zen maxim, but he was a pluralist, this Pope. Through all the years of his religious life, from altar boy to Pontiff, he had never forgotten the original meaning of that word catholic—of or concerning all humankind. All humankind, he thought, and he believed. His belief in the one true church was deep, of course, but he refused to turn his heart or his intellect away from the rest of the world. He had studied deeply of Islam and Judaism, but also of Buddhism, Hinduism, and other, less popular beliefs. Though he dwelt within the profound understanding that a man’s soul could be saved only through Christ, only through the church, he refused to exclude those who failed to accept this fact.
The Pope walked gingerly out into the small hallway and thence to the sitting room, each step a quick but careful feat of engineering for his ancient body. His once-straight spine had long ago curled like the pages of a well-read paperback. His knees hurt. His hands were gnarled as the bark of pines back in his childhood home of Krakow.
It is only the body, he said to himself in several of the languages he spoke. It is only the body.
Cardinal Mulrooney was waiting for him in the sitting room. As the Pope entered, Mulrooney stood. The Cardinal towered over the shrunken Pope.
“Your Holiness,” Mulrooney drawled.
“Your Eminence,” the Pope said in his distinctly accented English. “Was the reception well attended?”
“A full house, Holy Father,” Mulrooney said. He placed strong emphasis on the titles, like a man uncomfortable with them, grasping them firmly to maintain control. “The papers will carry a good story about the event.”
The Pope tottered over to a chair and sat down, and Mulrooney swept toward a seat opposite. “That is quite an achievement,” the Holy Father said, his tiny eyes glittering, “despite your disapproval. And your attempts to undermine the Unity Conference.”
The tiniest quiver ran along Mulrooney’s thin lips. He cursed himself inwardly. This was the Holy Father’s latest weapon, and he should have been better prepared. John Paul gave the appearance of a doddering old fool. He often used this facade to lay traps for those he mistrusted.
“You are mistaken, Holy Father,” Mulrooney said at last. “I am as much a supporter of your peace efforts as any—”
“I am old, Your Eminence,” the Pope said impatiently. “I don’t have time for games. Nor do I have the interest I once had.” His face had collapsed in on itself, a caved-in melon. But his eyes gleamed out of the wreckage like two bright wet seeds. “You disdain my efforts. You disdain me.”
Mulrooney smoothed the hem of his black shirt. “Your Holiness, it was you who chose to hold the Unity Conference here, in my diocese. You insisted.”
“The United States is the logical place to begin,” John Paul said wearily. “And either New York or Los Angeles was the logical city.” The Pope sighed. “War is coming, Your Eminence. War of a kind we have not seen before. Someone must defuse it, and I intend to put the full power of the church behind the efforts of peace.”
Mulrooney felt the Pope’s words resound in his chest. Even in his failing years, John Paul was a powerful orator. A man did not become Pope without mastering the tools that bent others to his will. “But some of those you want to make friends with are the enemies of the church. I don’t know how we can make peace with enemies.”
“There is no point in making peace with friends, Your Eminence.”
Mulrooney scratched his nose to hide his sneer. There was no use debating with this old man. The truth was, as unsupportive as the Holy Father thought he was, Mulrooney’s true animosity went much, much further.
John Paul seemed to read his thoughts. “I wonder, Your Eminence, if this is the extent of your rebelliousness, or if we are only scratching the surface?”
Something clutched at Mulrooney’s stomach. He
ignored it. “Your Holiness?”
John Paul’s eyes bored into him. “There are rumors.”
Mulrooney brushed them aside. “You know better than any of us that the church is a political animal. There are always rumors.” When John Paul continued to stare, Mulrooney added, “I swear, Your Holiness, that I am loyal to the church, and to its Pope.”
John Paul nodded. “That will be all. For now.”
8:37 P.M. PST Brentwood
Aaron Biehn sat in the tub of warm water. The snake slithered inside his body. He could feel it in his heart, wriggling through his guts, its tail dampening and violating the base of his spine. He shuddered.
He had hoped that telling his father would give him some relief. He wanted to be held, to be told it wasn’t his fault. He wanted something . . . something he hadn’t gotten, because he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He wanted a hug that would squeeze the snake out of him.
But then his father would tell people. And he, Aaron, would have to talk about it to strangers. And friends. And confront Father Frank. And others. He would be asked what had been done to him. He would have to use words he did not want to use. Say things he did not want to say. He would be asked if he had wanted it. Someone would say that he had wanted it. He shivered.
The snake squirmed joyfully, horribly, inside him. The snake would love the attention. Feed on his despair. Like a snake eating a cat that ate the rat, it would swallow his humiliation whole and digest it slowly, growing fatter as it did, so that even when the public humiliation passed, the snake would still be there, consuming him from inside.
He could not bear that. He had to get the snake out of his body now. He could not stand to be violated any longer. Aaron sat up in the tub and fumbled with his father’s shaving kit.
8:41 P.M. PST Parker Center, Los Angeles
“Remember to check for the Adam’s apple,” Jack Bauer said, leaning into Harry Driscoll’s office.
Driscoll looked up from his desk, which was crammed face-to-face with another empty desk in the tiny office. He grinned. “Like I said, it wasn’t the Adam’s apple that bothered me, it was the rest of the equipment.”
Jack laughed. It was an old joke, inspired by an old story from when Driscoll was a detective in Hollywood Division and Bauer was LAPD SWAT. The two men shook hands. Driscoll was shorter than Jack, but nearly twice as wide, a black fireplug with a cheesy mustache. He clasped Harry’s outstretched hand.
“You been good?” Driscoll said, standing up.
“Not bad.”
“How’s the dark side treating you?” the detective asked as he reached for a jacket that covered his shoulder rig.
Jack shrugged. There was no point in hiding his CIA status from those who knew of it, but he still couldn’t discuss much. “I’m still hoping to get promoted to Robbery-Homicide
someday. How’d you know I was on this case?”
Driscoll laughed. “You were in a house that blew up, Jack. That doesn’t happen every day, even in L.A. Word gets around, you know?”
8:45 P.M. PST Brentwood
“Aaron? You okay in there?” Don banged on the door. “You’ve been in there awhile.” He waited. He pounded again when no answer came back. “Aaron?”
“Is something wrong?” Carianne, his wife, asked, coming up behind him.
“Aaron!” Don yelled. “Answer me! I’m going to break down the door.” That was the cop in him, and the father, talking at once.
His wife pointed upward. Resting atop the door frame was a little key, just a loop of wire with a straight tail. He nodded and pulled it down, then jiggled it into the bathroom doorknob. It popped open, and he shoved the door inward.
Carianne screamed. Don thought he screamed, too, but he was only aware of himself rushing forward, slamming his knees against the side of the bathtub and plunging his hands into the pink water and dragging Aaron out onto the floor.
8:47 P.M. PST 110 West
“It’s a screwed-up case, really,” Driscoll said. Jack hunkered down in the passenger seat of Driscoll’s Acura as the detective drove up the 110 Freeway and hurtled toward the 101. “Carney’s okay with you?”
“Fine,” Jack said. “Go on.”
“The case really started with LAPD. We got a whiff that these guys had something to do with illegal importing, so we were watching them. Then along comes this Federal group. Counter Terrorist Unit? Who the fuck are they?”
Jack laughed. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe not to you, but they stole our case away. They were kind enough to keep us updated—”
“I’ve heard that before,” Jack interjected.
“We were there when CTU collared them. You saw the box, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Looked to me like some of that stuff was missing.”
“I thought so, too. They’re working on the three suspects.”
Driscoll nodded as he exited the 101 and dropped down to Sunset, heading for Carney’s hot dogs. “I hear they’re acting tough now. They’ll break down.”