24 Declassified: 09 - Trinity

by John Whitman

  “That’s a Stretch.”

  Jack turned, mildly surprised that he’d let someone enter a room without his knowledge. “Excuse me?”

  “The painting. It’s a Stretch. Ronnie Stretch, the artist. You know his work?”

  “I didn’t even know it was a painting at first,” Jack admitted. “But it’s interesting how things come into focus if you give them time.”

  He turned fully to face Mark Gelson. Somehow, Jack always expected actors to be taller than they really were. Gelson was about five feet, seven inches. He looked younger than his fifty-plus years, and still carried the square jaw and bright blue eyes Jack remembered from the movies, even though there was more salt than pepper in his hair. He was wearing blue jeans and an American Eagle T-shirt, the kind of clothes you might see on twenty-somethings at Chia Venice.

  Gelson approached and shook Jack’s hand firmly. “Detective Driscoll?”

  Jack pointed over at Harry. “My name is Bauer. That’s Driscoll.”

  “Detective Bauer, then,” Gelson said before turning to Harry. “Can I get you guys something to drink?”

  “No, but thanks for seeing us so late in the evening,” the detective took over. “We have some questions about—”

  “Last night.” Gelson sat down. He shook his head gravely. “Look, I’m not sure why detectives are involved, but I don’t make a habit of driving drunk. It was stupid. I know I’m going to take a hit in the papers tomorrow.”

  “It’s not the drunk driving part we’re here about, Mr. Gelson,” Harry interrupted. “It’s about what you said. You talked about—” Harry flipped a page in his notepad. “You said, ‘I hope my guys blow your fat asses up with the rest of them.’ ”

  Gelson blushed. “Doesn’t sound like me, does it. Jesus, I hope not, anyway. I’m sorry, I was drunk . . .”

  “And then you said, ‘I’m so fucking glad I bought them the plastic explosives.’ ”

  Mark Gelson froze like a DVD on pause. “What do you mean?

  Harry Driscoll folded his notebook and said simply, “The question, Mr. Gelson, is what did you mean? When did you get the plastic explosives? Who are your friends?”

  “I don’t . . .” The actor’s face had gone from red to white in a split second. “I’m not . . . Do you mean explosives?”

  Abu Mousa had been a better actor. Driscoll’s disdain showed clearly on his face as he said, “We can just as easily do this downtown. In fact, I’d rather do it down there. We’ve got video cameras, tape recorders, it’s more convenient; isn’t it, Jack?”

  Bauer nodded.

  “Yeah, so let’s go down there—” He reached for Gelson’s arm. The actor squirmed away and sank back into the couch.

  “No, look, okay. Okay.” Some of Gelson’s good looks seemed to have faded away, the reverse action of the picture on the wall. “Look, can I tell you the truth?”

  “That is the general idea,” Jack said.

  Gelson put his head in his hands. He didn’t cry, but he was close to it. Jack was just about to step forward and shake him when the actor rubbed his face and looked up. “I’ve got some friends. They’re guys I hang out with sometimes. It’s stupid, maybe just something I do to relive the old days, you know? There was a time when I used this whole town like a cheap whore, and all anyone did was scream for more. I rode bikes with gangs, I did coke like it was vitamin C. I used to fire directors off the set. I—”

  “The plastic explosives,” Jack demanded.

  Gelson jumped a little. “Okay. Um, I didn’t really buy it. I just gave money. I was hanging out with some guys I knew from back then. They said they could buy some stuff to raise some real hell. I gave them the money.”

  “Who were these guys?” Jack asked. “Were any of them from another country?”

  Gelson looked bewildered. “Another . . . ? No. They’re from here. They’re bikers.”

  “Where were they buying the plastic explosives from?”

  “They didn’t tell me. Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know they were serious. I don’t want anyone getting hurt. I swear. I just . . . I just wanted to raise a little

  hell, you know?”

  “Nice job,” Jack grunted.

  Gelson looked “Is this . . . will this get into the

  papers?”

  Driscoll rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just tell us where to find your biker friends.”

  9:27 P.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles

  Cardinal Mulrooney swooped down the hallway of St. Monica’s cloister. The walls looked shabby to him. The decor was old and worn; Mulrooney could see ruts worn into the tiles before his feet. St. Monica’s was old and rickety. The Cardinal feared the next earthquake.

  He was embarrassed at the look of his cathedral in the eyes of the Pope, and angry at himself for being embarrassed. As if he should worry about the opinion of that sanctimonious old man. A person able to hear Mulrooney’s thoughts at that moment would be surprised to learn that he did, indeed, believe in the infallibility of the Pope. Just not this Pope.

  9:28 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Christopher Henderson was finishing his review of an early forensics report from the Panorama City explosion. Someone had used plastic explosives to rig a homemade land mine into Ramin’s chair. The fat man’s enormous weight had activated it, and the minute he stood up, it had gone off. Ramin had been killed instantly, and Burchanel was in critical condition. CTU was coordinating with the CIA and foreign agencies—mostly the Israelis, who’d had plenty of experience with this sort of thing—to compare this bombing strategy to the methods of any known terrorists.

  What bothered Henderson most was the wide-ranging nature of the operation. Bauer’s investigation had started in Cairo. CTU’s had started in West Los Angeles. Ramin’s original connections were in New York, and if Abdul Rahman Yasin was involved, the most recent reports put him in Iraq. This suggested a fairly extensive network.

  Henderson looked at the notes he’d put together from his brief conversation with Bauer. The only pertinent piece of information was the timing. Ramin seemed certain that whatever Yasin and his people were planning, they were going to do it tomorrow night. Ramin’s murder lent credence to that belief. That gave CTU twenty-four hours, maybe less, to disrupt the plot.

  Henderson’s cell phone rang. “Henderson.”

  “Christopher, it’s Jack Bauer.”

  “I was just thinking about you,” Henderson said. “I know you’re declining the offer, but I could really use help on this, Jack.”

  “I’m already helping,” Bauer replied. “I’ve got a lead on the source of the plastic explosives.” He explained his call from Driscoll and the interrogation of Mark Gelson. “You know how some of the explosive seemed to be missing? I’m thinking whoever sold it to the Sweetzer Avenue group also sold some to Gelson’s people. If we find them, we may be able to track it back to the source.”

  “How do you know it’s even the same batch of plastic explosives?” Henderson asked.

  “I don’t,” Jack replied over the phone. “But how much plastic explosive is there floating around the city?”

  “Jesus, I hope not much.”

  “Exactly. There’s a chance that Abu Mousa and the other guys in custody don’t know much. Maybe if I track the plastic explosive back to its source, I can get a stronger lead.” Jack paused. “Christopher, you know the clock is ticking on this, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, listen, if I get my hands on someone who knows something, I’m going to ask them a few questions before I turn them over to Chappelle.”

  Henderson wasn’t sure whether to wince or smile. “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Good, just as long as you didn’t hear it loud and clear. In the meantime, I was hoping your new CTU group could lend a hand on something. We have to assume that Ramin was right and the target is going to get hit tomorrow night. I’d like your CTU people to run an analysis of Yasin’s profile, and the Blind S
heik’s profile, and come up with a list of likely targets in Los Angeles. You can probably coordinate with LAPD. I would cross-reference with Beverly Hills PD, too, because a lot of dignitaries stay in Beverly Hills when they visit L.A. Also, there’s a large Persian population there, and the target may be an Iranian immigrant trying to influence politics back home. You can probably coordinate that with the State Department. If you guys have any facial recognition equipment up and running, I’d download as much video from the Los Angeles airport as you can get and start running it. We may get lucky. Bauer out.”

  Henderson laughed helplessly to himself as Bauer hung up. He stood and went to his office door, looking out on the big empty space hanging with data lines, phone wires, and a few desks. It was approaching ten o’clock. Everyone had gone home for the evening, and Jack was asking for a multijursidictional, multiagency data search. “Yeah, right.” Henderson sighed. “We’ll get right on that.”

  9:33 P.M. PST Downtown Los Angeles

  For years the Cathedral of St. Monica, more often referred to simply as St. Monica’s, stood like a proud matron brooding over the poverty and squalor around her. She’d been completed in 1876 at a time when downtown had been the beating heart of the city. That heart had grown frail and sickly over the decades. So, too, had Monica. The matron no longer stood quite so proudly, as though beaten down by more than a century of misery creeping toward her from nearby Skid Row. Earthquakes had played their part, too, especially the Northridge earthquake in 1994 that had torn holes throughout the city. Neglect also played a role. The diocese, led by Cardinal Mulrooney, had long ago wanted to tear the old girl down and replace her with a gleaming modern cathedral. Mulrooney’s efforts had been stymied by preservationists who protested the destruction of one of the city’s few remaining works of nineteenth-century architecture. Still, even in decline, St. Monica’s was an admirable old lady compared to the soulless steel and glass spires around her. Her Italianate bell tower rose elegantly into the sky.

  Don Biehn never could memorize the directions to St. Monica’s. He just drove downtown and looked up for the bell tower, then followed it to the corner of Main and Second Street.

  He parked his car at a parking meter on Second, a block away. During the day and on the weekend, street parking was impossible to find, but at night the city center was a ghost town and Biehn had no trouble. As he got out of the car, he touched the journal in his coat pocket to make sure it was still there. He did not check for the Taurus. He knew exactly where it was.

  Biehn turned onto Main Street and walked past the front of the cathedral, then around the corner. He knew the rectory was behind the main chapel. He didn’t know how many priests lived there, but he believed there were only one or two besides Father Frank. He didn’t really care about them. They would either be in his way or not. If not, all the better for them.

  He found a whitewashed wall and jumped it easily, landing in a flowering border on the inner side. Beyond it was a manicured grass lawn and a fountain, now silent for the evening. He listened for a minute, but heard no sound. To his right stood the cathedral proper; to his left, the rectory. He turned left and stalked up to the rectory door. It was unlocked. He opened it calmly and stepped inside as though he belonged there. This was, he knew from long experience, the very best way to walk into any building.

  The rectory parlor was dark. There was an open door to a large room off to the right and a long hallway leading straight ahead. Stairs rose to his left. Biehn recalled that there had been a school on the site at one time. The thought of it made him shudder, and added to his anger like gasoline tossed onto a fire.

  Biehn climbed the stairs and found himself looking down another long hallway. Several of the doors were open and led into bare rooms. Two or three were closed. Biehn took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. He knocked on the first door.

  No answer.

  He moved down and knocked on the second closed door. It opened, and a startled man appeared. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, holding a book the title of which Biehn could not see.

  “Yes, who—?” the man said gently. “You know, the rectory is off-limits.”

  Biehn nodded apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m looking for Father Frank. He’s expecting me.”

  The man looked down the hall at the last closed door. “Are you sure he didn’t say to meet him in the chapel? This is the priests’ private residence.”

  The detective stepped back as though shocked. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” he feigned. “I just thought it would be here. I’ll go back and wait there.”

  The priest nodded, said good evening, and closed his door. Biehn walked back toward the stairs for a few steps in case the priest was listening. After a few minutes, he padded quietly back up the hall toward the door the priest had glanced at. He knocked very

  gently.

  No answer.

  He knocked a little louder. The door opened, and

  Father Frank appeared. Biehn didn’t know him well, but he’d picked his son up from church functions often enough to recognize the priest.

  Father Frank looked as puzzled as the other priest had. “Yes, what is it?” he asked.

  Biehn punched him in the throat.

  9:37 P.M. PST Rectory of St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles

  Father Frank didn’t know what had happened. One minute he was staring at a stranger on the rectory floor; the next he had smashed into the back wall of his cell, having tripped backward over his narrow bed. His throat throbbed, and he was coughing and gagging uncontrollably. Something hit him in the nose, and his eyes began to water.

  By the time he had blinked his vision clear, he was lying facedown on the floor. A hand was in his hair, pushing his face into the tile floor, and there was a heavy, sharp pressure on his back. He didn’t know where his own hands were.

  “Listen,” said a voice that might have belonged to the devil himself. “Listen and don’t make a sound. You are not to make a single sound or I’ll kill you. Painfully. Nod if you understand.”

  To nod, Frank had to drag his face up and down on the tiles, but he did it.

  “I’m going to sit you up. You are going to keep your mouth shut or I’ll ram your own dick down your throat. Nod again.”

  Frank did so. He was utterly terrified.

  Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him up to a sitting position, his back resting against his bed. He realized that his hands were fettered behind his back with something metal. Handcuffs.

  The man who had done this to him crouched in front of him, sitting on Frank’s straightened legs. He studied Frank for a minute calmly. It was almost as though he was giving Frank a moment to calm down himself.

  The terror didn’t go away. He knew, in the way of all predators, when a bigger and stronger predator had caught him in its grip. But his fear slid into the background for a moment as other survival instincts kicked in: cunning, acquiescence, obedience. Anything that might remove him from the grip of this obviously ruthless man.

  As his higher functions took over from his reptile brain, Frank realized that he recognized this man. He wasn’t sure from where, but he’d seen the face before. He was a parishioner. A parent. A father.

  And the minute he realized that his captor was a father, Father Frank’s terror rushed back to the forefront of his brain, and all the pleasures he had enjoyed, all the moments of thrilling power and sexual release and sweet, sweet fulfillment of desire—all of them seemed ephemeral compared to the cost that was surely about to be rendered.

  The intruder read his face and nodded as though Frank had said something. “I’m Aaron Biehn’s father.”

  And there it was, like a shirt ripped off his body, revealing the ugly, naked body beneath; like a story told so often it seems true suddenly revealed to be a lie by the simplest honest statement. Like an object of beauty suddenly, obviously discovered to be a cheap and ugly bauble.

  The truth of himself flowed into Frank’
s veins like a poison finding its home.

  Then the man, the father of Aaron Biehn, was standing on his ankle. The pain turned him back to the world outside.

  “Aaron tried to kill himself tonight,” the father

  said.

  Frank started to speak, but remembered his vow.

  “Do it quietly,” the father said. He could read

  Frank’s thoughts through his body language.

  Frank spoke. “Tried to kill himself?”

  “Don’t you dare ask why,” Don Biehn hissed.

  “You know why. Because of what you did to him. Because you . . . violated him.” He slapped Frank. Hard. For no purpose other than because the rage in him needed some expression more than words.

  9:39 P.M. PST Rectory of St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles

  Don watched the priest’s eyes roll back in his head. If he were an iota less enraged, he’d have enjoyed it. But he was too far gone, too bound inside his anger, to feel anything. However, he waited until the rapist’s head cleared.

  “He tried to tell me about it. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He gave up.” Don spoke in simple declarative sentences. He did not feel able to do more. He felt focused. Lucid. His thoughts demanded declaratives the way a knife required a sharp edge.

  “I read his journal afterward. It told me everything.” He pressed his foot down on Frank’s ankle again. The priest sobbed.

  “Father Frank,” Don said in a voice dripping with irony. “I am the father here, Frank.” He crouched down and grabbed Frank’s hair, forcing him to look directly into Don’s eyes. They burned too brightly for Frank to bear them.

  “You can’t have any idea what that word really means,” Don said, his voice half a whisper, half a sob. “Father. Father is a job, Frank. Father is a duty. Do you know what that duty is?”

  “Please,” Frank pleaded quietly.