by John Whitman
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her information and funneled it to LAPD to investigate. The other had been rented by a Bas Holcomb, resident of Los Angeles. Before Jack could say a word, Jamey was running down his information.
“No nothing, really,” she said as she assembled information from the DMV, IRS, and several credit bureaus. “No criminal record. Certainly no connection to anything like a terrorist organization.”
“He’s still our best lead,” Jack said. “I’ll run this down with my LAPD contact.”
8:39 A.M. PST Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, Encino, California
Yasin sat in the coffeehouse and read the news on a laptop computer while he sipped tea. He would have preferred the food and drink at Aroma Café, which was a few miles down the road, but he could not risk it. That café was frequented by dozens of Israeli immigrants, and unlike the ignorant Americans, the Israelis were perceptive enough to recognize him as an Arab, and a suspicious one at that.
Yasin himself was an American, having been born in Bloomington, Indiana—a fact that he believed he could correct only by striking a blow against his despised homeland. 1993 had been a start, but it had not satisfied him. He wasn’t sure that today would scratch his itch, either, but it would do for the moment. Those he worked with in al-Qaeda desired this blow, and that was enough for him.
The method, though, had been entirely his idea. Not just the method for delivering the explosives— although he admitted smugly that the method was brilliant—but also for the associates he had shanghaied into helping him. That had been a unique twist.
Yasin thought back to the day he had first met Abdul Mohammed, who’d been born Casey Stanwell, a Catholic until he’d been driven away from the infidel faith. It was his story that had given Yasin the idea.
Yasin sipped his tea again. He might have felt less satisfaction if he’d known that Father Collins had been killed. And that his body lay in the coroner’s office ready to be autopsied. And that a Federal agent named Jack Bauer was tracking down the associates Yasin had so carefully coerced.
8:44 A.M. PST Los Angeles
Jack pulled into a mini-mall parking lot, and the fireplug of a detective got into the car.
“You have any idea what kind of night I’ve had?” Driscoll said by way of hello.
“A pretty good idea, yeah,” Jack replied.
“What is this we’re doing now?”
Jack explained. “We traced the partial plate you gave us. There were a lot of possibilities, but we narrowed it down to a couple possibles. You and I are going after the most likely one. Rented to a Bas Holcomb, business address a mile from here.”
Driscoll nodded. “If Mr. Holcomb shot up my car, I would definitely like to have a word with him.”
Holcomb’s address was a landscaping business
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on Crescent Heights a few miles away, much more difficult to travel now that the morning traffic was in full swing. It was an old adobe-style garage converted to office space and equipment storage. There were three narrow parking spaces, one of which was occupied by a newish-looking half-ton pickup. Jack pulled into one of the others, and the two men got out. Driscoll unbuttoned the safety strap on his gun holster as they passed under a sign that read st. francis landscaping.
The front door led to a tiny office with a desk covered in stacks of manila folders and invoices like ramparts of a castle. An old lady sat behind the desk, punching numbers into an old beige calculator that rattled off sums and spewed out tape. She looked startled to see someone walk through the door.
“Hi,” Jack said in his friendliest manner. “Is Bas around?”
She didn’t stand up, but she stopped banging on the calculator. “The owner hasn’t been around much, lately. Not since we got that big client.”
“You know where we can find him?”
The lady shrugged and started losing interest. “Probably there. Mr. Holcomb takes the work seriously.”
“Where would that be?”
“The mosque down in Inglewood.”
8:52 A.M. PST Los Angeles
As the two men walked out of the office, the old woman reached for the telephone and dialed.
“Clarissa?” Mr. Pembrook said by way of answer.
She replied in a whisper, even though she knew the visitors were gone. She wasn’t used to espionage. “Yes, sir. You asked me to tell you if anyone came around the office looking for Mr. Holcomb. Two men just did.”
Pause. “Did they say who they were?”
“No. No, and I didn’t think to ask. Is everything all right? Do we owe money?”
“No trouble, darling. Probably old friends. What did they look like?”
Clarissa described them. “A blond man, nice-looking I guess, about as tall as you. The other man was short, a black man. Looked like a weight lifter. I told them Mr. Holcomb was over at the Inglewood mosque. Do you know if he’s there?”
“I can’t say I know for sure,” Pembrook replied.
“I hope I didn’t lead them astray. Are they old friends of your partner’s?”
“Oh, yeah,” Pembrook said. “They’re old friends, all right. Thanks, Clarissa.”
8:53 A.M. PST Renaissance Hotel, West Hollywood
Pembrook hung up his cell phone and leaned back in his chair, trying to breathe away the tightness in his chest. He wasn’t as good at this as Michael. And, somehow, he hadn’t expected it to go this far. The master plan had been beyond him: all Michael had ever asked of him was to act as backup muscle, which he’d been doing since their days in Special Forces.
They’d bonded back then, not just over a shared
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love of violence, but over religion. They were both Catholics, and both shared similar views of certain church activities. They’d been friends ever since, and although he had a small landscaping business he shared with Bas Holcomb, his real job flowed from Michael’s security work for the church.
Now Pembrook called Michael with a trembling hand. “You know what’s going on?” He detailed his conversation with the assistant at his company. “We’ve got to disappear.”
“That was true no matter what happened today,” Michael said. His voice was steady. “Have we sent them on their way?”
“Yes, they’re on their way to the mosque. They have Holcomb’s name, too. I have to say, I’m scared shitless, but that was a good idea. It’s a deflection and an early warning system all built into one.”
“You can thank my Arab friend for that. He seems very good at twists and turns.” “As long as none of the twists turn back on us,” Pembrook prayed. “Amen,” Michael said. “Anyway, pack. Tonight we’re both getting out of here.”
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 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
9:00 a.m. CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Nina Myers decided that she had a love-hate relationship with Jack Bauer already. She liked his no-nonsense, name-taking, ass-kicking style, except when he turned it on her. She had a strong lead with this Diana Christie anomaly, and she knew it. He’d made a mistake in brushing it aside, in brushing her aside, and that pissed her off. Like a schoolgirl, she’d gone from admiring him to despising him after a single moment of neglect. She was aware of that, and it made her even angrier.
She left CTU and got into her car, laying the address to the NTSB agent’s apartment on the passenger seat. She was going to confront Diana Christie
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on her own . . . but somewhere in the no-BS zone in her brain, she knew that she was doing it not because it was her job, but because Jack Bauer had spurned her. That made her angriest of all, and she planned on taking it out on Diana Christie.
9:03 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
“What I’m looking for is a reason not to pull your funding and scrap the Counter Terrorist Unit right here and now,” said Senator Armand from Mississippi.
It was not the be
st way to start a video conference, and Ryan Chappelle could feel sweat dripping down his sides beneath his dress shirt.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Director,” Armand added into the silence that followed. “I’m sorry, Senator,” Chappelle said. “I was gathering my thoughts. May I speak freely?”
Several of the senators and congressmen on the Joint Subcommittee on National Security chuckled. Armand himself grimaced. “I prefer it to ankle licking, Director. Let’s cut the bullshit and speak truth to power.”
Chappelle nodded. “Because bad things are happening right now, and more bad things are on the way.”
“Bad things?” Armand leaned forward, as though trying to push right through the monitor from three thousand miles away. “You sound like my four-yearold.”
“If you want more details than just ‘bad things,’ Senator, then give us the funding we need,” Chappelle retorted. “Right now I’ve got three analysts, which is currently okay because I have only two working computer terminals. Only four or five field agents. You have more aides on your staff than I have agents to protect the western United States. So until you give me funding, all you get is ‘bad things.’ ” Take that, you pompous son of a bitch.
Another committee member, Malpartida from Texas, responded. “That’s the safe reply, Director. You aren’t fully funded yet, so we shouldn’t expect results. I get it. But what you have done, so far, is drag your agency into the murder of a priest and several other killings. This is all very public for an agency that is supposed to be covert.”
Chappelle had been ready for this, and he’d been practicing the reply for an hour, wanting it to sound crisp but not rehearsed. “We are not operating in Somalia, Congressman. We’re not operating in Angola or Sarajevo. We’re in downtown Los Angeles. We are not going to be able to hide everything we do.”
“But what you do seems to involve murders and shootings, not stopping terrorists!” Armand broke in. “I’m getting off-the-record reports about shootings in the hills, people getting blown up on motorcycles. Is this how you’re running things?”
“No, sir,” Chappelle said, ready for this as well. “That wasn’t one of my people. That’s an operative on loan from the CIA. His case crossed ours. CTU can’t be held responsible for his actions.”
“What the hell was he doing blowing people up?” Armand drawled.
Chappelle explained the Castaic Dam incident to the best of his knowledge, doing his best to highlight
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Bauer’s maverick personality and independence from CTU. When he was done, Representative Malpartida spoke up. “I hear you. He’s a loose cannon. But are you saying he single-handedly stopped these terrorists or bikers or whatever from blowing up a dam?” The CTU Director hadn’t seen the trap until too late. “Uh, well, nothing is that simple, but—”
“But?” Malpartida persisted.
“—yes, sir,” Chappelle said reluctantly.
The Congressman snorted and half-spun in his chair, glancing left and right at the other assembled politicians. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but it sounds to me like we don’t just need more funding, we need men like this agent!” He looked at Chappelle through the monitor. “Can’t be held responsible for him? Damn, sir, it sounds like you should be begging to get some of the credit for putting him on the case!”
Chappelle’s neck turned red. “Yes . . . yes, sir,” he found himself stammering unhappily. “We’re . . . we’re trying to recruit him to the team.” Even as he said it, Chappelle suspected that he would regret that statement for the rest of his life.
9:08 A.M. PST Inglewood, California
This time, they took Harry Driscoll’s car, lit up in red and blue and wailing like a banshee. Without the lights and sirens, they never would have reached Inglewood, a suburb south of downtown and near the airport, in under twenty minutes.
The mosque was an unobtrusive structure, built with discretion in mind. Harry and Jack pulled into the parking lot and looked up, seeing a short tower with the faintest resemblance to a minaret. The lawn was well-tended but nondescript, and instantly Jack wondered why they needed a landscaper. His question was answered, though, when they passed the outer wall into a courtyard that was all fountains, flower beds, and pathways, like something out of 1001 Arabian Nights. Beyond the garden lay the mosque proper.
There was a short, thin, brown-skinned man in gray work trousers and a gray work shirt, down on one knee, pulling weeds from one of the flower beds. He didn’t look up until they were standing almost on his ankles.
“Bas Holcomb?” Driscoll demanded.
“Que?” the man replied.
“Are you Bas Holcomb?”
“Oh. No!” the man said, smiling and standing, clapping dirt off his hands. He spoke in quiet, clipped English, as though uncomfortable with his command of the language. “My name is Javier. Espinoza. I work for St. Francis Landscaping. That’s—”
“His company, we know,” Driscoll interrupted. “Is he here somewhere?”
Jack’s cell phone rang, and Harry continued the interrogation while Jack stepped aside.
The gardener shook his head. “I no see him. He supposed to be here?”
“You tell me,” Driscoll retorted.
The gardener shrugged. “’S not my usual job. I covering for the regular guy. He sick. I usually work at another place for them.”
Jack closed his phone and looked at Driscoll irritably. “My people just got ahold of the car rental
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agency. The Chrysler was supposed to have been returned yesterday. Holcomb’s house is vacant, and he hasn’t made a call from there in forty-eight hours.”
“He skipped town,” the detective deduced.
“It gets worse. The Chrysler was found this morning abandoned on a side street. No prints. No one’s heard from him in days.”
Driscoll knew what Jack was thinking, but they couldn’t discuss it in front of a civilian. “Okay,” he said to the gardener. “If we need to talk to you, can we reach you through the landscaper?”
“Sure,” Javier Espinoza said, “or most days at the other place. That’s where I work for them.”
“What’s the other place?”
“Sante Monica.”
9:18 A.M. PST Santa Monica, California
Nina didn’t hesitate. She pulled her car up to the little postwar bungalow on Twenty-sixth Street below Pico, walked up the little path, and kicked in the door. She didn’t throw around that much weight, but what she lacked in size, she made up for in technique. Her foot connected right where the bolt should be, and the door flew inward, banging against the wall, and Nina was already inside, scanning the room over the top of her muzzle.
Diana Christie ran halfway into the room, startled by the noise. Her left arm was in a sling and she held a small semi-automatic in her right hand, but she didn’t raise it. When she saw Nina, her eyes filled with fear.
“Drop the weapon!” Nina ordered.
Diana did so immediately. She held up her good arm and backed away from Nina. “Oh god,” she said in sheer terror. “Get out of here. They’ll know! They’ll know!” She sounded on the verge of hysterics.
“Down on the ground!” Nina demanded, advancing steadily.
“No, please, you don’t understand—”
“Get on the ground, now!” Nina was almost within arm’s reach. Suddenly, Diana Christie bolted. She ran out of the living room and down a hallway, then through another door. Nina followed a few steps behind, and they ended up in a small, cramped garage, with Diana on the far end pressed against the door, and Nina at the interior door, her sights level on Christie’s chest.
“Get out of here!” Christie pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “Get out of here!”
Nina was about to respond, but a bomb went off, and a gruesome image of bright lights and blood splashed across her retina.
9:25 A.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Mulrooney heard Michael enter his of
fice. He could always tell it was Michael by the sound, or rather, the near-lack of it. Michael’s footsteps reminded him of the padding of cat’s paws from his childhood.
“Big day, Michael,” Mulrooney said.
“Very big, Your Eminence,” the security man agreed.
Mulrooney noticed that Michael had lost some
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of his gleam. There had always been a sort of sheen around the man, a halo, for lack of a better word. Now it was tarnished. “Is everything all right with our . . . problem?”
Michael shrugged uncertainly, a gesture as uncommon as the fatigue that showed on his face. “I believe so, Your Eminence, but I can’t be sure. Dortmund is no longer a problem, and of course Giggs is gone. Collins is also dead.”
The Cardinal felt no remorse. “Monsters all. If it weren’t to protect the church, I’d have thrown them out myself. Is there any . . . are there any witnesses?”
The security man said, “No one firsthand, Your Eminence. I don’t know what Father Collins might have told the police officer, but at least Collins himself cannot testify to anything.” Michael could not bring himself to mention the other man who knew so much about the abhorrent acts of the clergy, and the church’s attempts to cover them up: that bastard Yasin, whom Michael would deal with someday.
Mulrooney nodded with satisfaction. “Then you’ve done as much as you can, Michael. Thank you. You are a soldier for the true church.”
Mulrooney said, and Michael received, the phrase the true church with a profound respect. When Michael didn’t reply, Mulrooney continued. “I can’t wait until this damned conference is over. I want that false Pope out of my diocese!”
“It will be over soon, Your Eminence,” Michael promised. “But on that count, I have a favor to ask of you. You must excuse yourself from the Unity Conference. Make an appearance at the reception, but then beg off.”
Mulrooney almost passed over the request, disregarded it, but it stung him after the fact, like the butterscotch taste of whiskey that burns the throat a moment later. He stopped—his every muscle locked into place where he sat, as he might have done if a wild dog had suddenly appeared in his office, growling at him.