24 Declassified: 09 - Trinity

by John Whitman

Amy’s voice was light, but her eyes were staring into Jack, and he was instantly on his guard. He could practically read her thoughts: murder at St. Monica’s, Pope’s reception, LAPD undercover. She’d have flipped if she’d known he was now with the CIA.

  “Are you enjoying it so far?” he asked.

  “I love standing in line!” she joked. “But yeah, I have to tell you, I talked to him this morning, and he’s committed to this. He believes it will save the world.”

  “He’s definitely committed,” Jack agreed, still glancing around.

  “Is there something I should know about?” she asked casually.

  “No,” he said. “But if you wanted to go powder your nose for a couple of hours, that wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  Amy’s face went pale.

  1:43 P.M. PST Sweetzer Avenue, Los Angeles

  Nina had proned Khalid out, putting his face in the carpet, and did a cursory search. As she reached to cuff one of his wrists, he spun quickly. He was much stronger than his lanky frame indicated. She tried to jam her knee into his neck, but she lost her balance and fell back. He tried to jump her, but she kicked his shin and he staggered back. She leveled her weapon, but didn’t try to shoot him.

  He ran.

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  1:45 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Jamey was coming up with nothing. It was a stupid assignment anyway. There was no way the Vatican’s security people had missed anything in the backgrounds of these guests.

  She sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. As she brought her knuckles away from her face, her eyes focused on the note on the back of the papers. Abdul al-Hassan.

  “Oh shit,” she said.

  1:46 P.M. PST Sweetzer Avenue, Los Angeles

  Nina vaulted over a backyard fence three houses down. Khalid was taller and maybe faster, but he wasn’t nearly as stubborn as she was, so she caught up to him by the fourth backyard and dragged him off the fence. Before he could use his size and strength against her, she kicked him in the groin while he was down. He curled up into a ball and she stomped on his ankle. He screamed, and she stomped on his elbow, too.

  1:48 P.M. PST Four Seasons Hotel, Los Angeles

  Only two people left, Marwan thought. It would have been unbearable, to stand in this line to greet the spiritual leader of the Crusaders; unbearable, if not for the fact that the Pope would soon be dead, and he himself would be in Paradise.

  The room’s length away, Michael reached into his pocket for the keyless entry remote control that he had not surrendered to the valet.

  1:49 P.M. PST Four Seasons Hotel, Los Angeles

  Jack’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. “Bauer,” he said formally, although he knew it was Jamey Farrell.

  “Abdul al-Hassan!” she blurted out. “He’s an impostor.”

  “What do you—?”

  “They found his dead body dumped off the freeway this morning. You’re looking for Abdul al-Hassan.”

  Jack snapped the phone shut. He scanned the crowded room for Giancarlo and hurried over to the Swiss Guard. “The bomber is Abdul al-Hassan. Which one is he? We need to know now!”

  To his credit, Giancarlo did not waste words or motions. He spoke quickly in Italian to his security office. Unseen cameras whirred around the crowded room. Giancarlo touched a hand to his ear as he listened. His eyes went wide. “The bearded man. With the Pope!”

  They bolted forward together.

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  1:51 P.M. PST Four Seasons Hotel, Los Angeles

  Michael watched Marwan al-Hassan, smiling pleasantly, take the hand of the Pope. Gingerly, according to plan, al-Hassan put his left hand atop their clasped grip. It was only in that moment that anyone might have noticed his shriveled left arm.

  Michael pointed the keyless remote toward them and . . .

  . . . a body came flying across his field of vision, tackling Marwan away from the heretical Pope. People screamed and scattered away from the sudden violence. Black-suited Swiss Guards materialized out of nowhere to surround John Paul.

  Michael hesitated to trigger the bomb. If Marwan could get close enough . . .

  1:52 P.M. PST Four Seasons Hotel, Los Angeles

  Jack tried to take al-Hassan all the way to the floor, but the man was as hard to hold as a cat. He shook free of Jack and tried to claw at him, screaming something in Arabic and surging toward the wall of black suits surrounding the Pope.

  Jack grabbed him from behind. He’s a bomb, Jack thought. He’s a grenade. Get him out of here.

  Jack lunged toward a set of French doors to his left and crashed through them, al-Hassan in tow. The human bomb spun toward him and scratched at his face. He was not a human being, he was an animal. But Jack was not so different from him. He dug a thumb into al-Hassan’s eye and raked his fingernails across the terrorist’s face, scooping out flesh. Al-Hassan screamed.

  Jack didn’t know how powerful the bomb would be, so he had to get rid of al-Hassan now. He pushed the man up against the balcony wall and hefted him over. Al-Hassan, suddenly terrified, grabbed hold of Jack’s arm and pulled him off balance.

  1:55 P.M. PST Four Seasons Hotel, Los Angeles

  It’s lost, Michael thought. Time to get rid of the evidence. He pressed the button, but nothing happened. Marwan had fallen out of range. Michael ran forward with the rest of the astonished crowd.

  In that same moment, Jack had the briefest sensation of falling, then he hit water. Striking the swimming pool after a two-hundred-foot fall at thirty-two feet per second was better than hitting a concrete floor, but not by all that much. The breath went out of him. He and al-Hassan were both under water. The terrorist kicked at Jack, getting a foot in his face and using it to push off.

  Jack was about to swim after him when al-Hassan disappeared behind light and turbulence. Jack felt himself lifted up and out of the water as the sound of the explosion enveloped him like a bubble.

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  1:59 P.M. PST Four Seasons Hotel, Los Angeles

  There was chaos in the hall. A wedge of Swiss Guards had surrounded the Pope and were driving their way through the crowd, out into the hallway, toward the safe room.

  Less professional people might have called it a panic room but Giancarlo did not prefer that term. It was a room with reinforced doors and windows, stocked with supplies, where they could hold out for hours if necessary. They moved toward the room in a herd, radios blaring in their ears, Giancarlo shouting instructions. It was all well-planned and well-executed, but even for men of their expertise, this sort of thing did not happen every day.

  None of them, not even Giancarlo, noticed in that moment the inclusion of an additional member. Rabbi Dan Bender had slipped into the panic room with them.

  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 2 P.M. AND 3 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  2:00 P.M. PST Four Seasons Hotel, Los Angeles

  Somewhere in the last few seconds Jack’s world had turned from water to concrete. He was lying on his side on a hard surface, but he was soaking wet, and he felt like someone had jammed their thumbs into his ears.

  He sat up. Al-Hassan had exploded. That much made sense. He’d killed himself and no one else. That much was right with the world.

  But Jack felt no sense of relief. Three bombers. He was right about that. Collins had been one. Al-Hassan had been number two. Where was the third?

  Jack staggered to his feet just as shocked bystand

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  ers from the hotel lobby came out to help him. He pushed them aside and, soaking wet, lumbered toward the doors. The Swiss Guards would be evacuating the Pope. He had to make sure they knew what to watch for.

  Jack reached the elevators, but the Swiss Guard stationed there was gone. He pulled out his cell phone, but it was dead. Either the water or the explosion or both had killed it. He needed to find Giancarlo, but he didn’t know their escape protocol. Would they barricade in, or exfil i
mmediately?

  As Jack stood there for a moment, dripping pinkish water onto the lobby tiles and trying to collect himself, Harry Driscoll appeared out of an opening elevator.

  “Jack!” he yelled. “Are you—Jesus, I can’t believe it!”

  “Where’d they go?” he asked.

  “They’re evacuating everyone,” Harry said, guessing at Jack’s line of thought. “If there’s a third bomber, they won’t find him. They’re driving everyone away from the Pope. How did you live through that?”

  It was only then that the reality of the last two minutes occurred to Jack. He’d just fallen two hundred feet into a pool and then been concussed by a man who exploded not ten feet away from him.

  Jack’s knees weakened. His hands shook momentarily. He would have been excused, he thought, if he’d just passed out. But he didn’t. His knees firmed up. He willed his hands to stop shaking. There was work to be done.

  “I need your phone.” He called CTU and got Christopher Henderson because Jamey was on the phone with someone from the NSA. “Christopher, get me in touch with Giancarlo, the head of the security team.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Christopher said. “Every line we have just lit up like a Christmas tree. No one over there is answering anything, I’ve got—”

  Jack hung up on him. A car. They would move the Pope out of the hotel the moment they thought the ambush was over. Jack hurried to the parking lot with Driscoll dragging along in his wake.

  2:07 P.M. PST Safe Room, Four Seasons Hotel, Los Angeles

  “You are uninjured, Holy Father?” Giancarlo said.

  John Paul felt dizzy, not from injury, but from the rush and chaos of the last few minutes. Sharp though he was in mind, he was an old man in body, and his frail heart was racing under his brittle chest. “I . . . I’m not injured. Was there . . . I heard an explosion.”

  Giancarlo nodded. “There was an attempt on your life. We are secure for the moment, but we need to move you. Are you able to travel?”

  “By the grace of God,” the Pope said. “And you, Giancarlo.”

  And Jack Bauer, the Swiss Guard thought. He was a good man, to have sacrificed himself like that.

  “Prepare to move,” Giancarlo said into his microphone. “Bring the cars around.”

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  2:10 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Nina Myers half dragged Gary Khalid into CTU, ignoring the shocked looks of the skeleton crew of analysts and computer techs, ignoring even Christopher Henderson’s astonished face.

  She led Khalid, who limped and whimpered behind her, into an empty room down the hall and pushed him onto the bare floor.

  “Now you and I are going to talk,” she said. “And believe me, the only way you’re leaving this room, ever, is if you tell me everything you know.”

  2:11 P.M. PST Safe Room, Four Seasons Hotel, Los Angeles

  Advance men told Giancarlo that the hallway was quiet, and the delivery doors were clear. He gave the signal, and the Pope’s retinue moved out of the safe room and straight to the service elevator.

  2:13 P.M. PST Four Seasons Delivery Dock

  Jack waited by the delivery dock, not knowing but guessing it to be the most logical point of exfiltration.

  “You’re a friggin’ mess,” Harry Driscoll said.

  “You want a prettier partner, take up ballroom dancing.” Harry’s cell phone rang. Jack handed it to Harry, who handed it right back. “Your people.”

  “Jack,” Jamey said. “We got Khalid. Nina is questioning him now.”

  “Good.”

  “Also, I’ve got news for you. Your guy at the NSA works miracles. He’s got a possible for you.”

  “Go,” Jack said. He thought he heard a car approaching.

  “Daniel Bender, a rabbi. The records that exist for him are all on the up-and-up, nothing to indicate any sort of questionable activity. But you’d expect that or he wouldn’t have been invited.”

  “So?” Tires squealed. To his right, the service elevator bell chimed.

  “So, he doesn’t seem to exist prior to 1996. There is plenty of information on him after that, but nothing beforehand. Your guy Carlos noticed that.” There was a hint of professional jealousy in her voice.

  “Well, it’s something,” Jack said, a little enthusiastically.

  “There’s more. Your NSA guy tracked his communications. He sent an e-mail to his brother, a rabbi in Jerusalem. The e-mail was some kind of apology. I’m sending you a picture of Bender.”

  The elevator doors opened. The phone bleeped, and Jack pressed the text message button. A picture of a jovial, round-faced man appeared.

  “Okay, thanks.” Jack stood up and made himself as obvious as possible as he walked toward the crowd of black suits that emerged. Instantly, guns were pointed in his direction, and he was ordered to freeze in four or five languages.

  “Giancarlo,” he said, searching the compact group.

  “Dio mio,” Giancarlo said, stepping forward. “Bauer? That was very impressive.” He said some

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  thing in Italian, waving the phalanx of security men, with the Pope somewhere in the middle, toward the three Ford Broncos that were pulling into the dock. “I want to thank you for—”

  But he never finished. Jack looked over his shoulder at one of the men in the phalanx. He shoved past Giancarlo and dove at the man’s knees, taking him down heavily. “Go, go, go!” he shouted.

  Giancarlo reacted instantly. The quick-moving phalanx doubled its pace. Some of them shoved the Pope into the middle car. They had all vanished in an instant, and the cars were peeling away.

  Jack felt the man struggle; he was big, looking fat but feeling solid. Jack rolled, and came up on top of him. He straddled the man and punched him once in the face, but before he could strike him a second time, the man bucked his hips and grabbed at Jack’s hands, rolling him over and reversing their positions.

  “Wait, wait!” the big man yelled.

  Driscoll came up behind and clipped him with the butt of his handgun. The big man winced and glared at Driscoll, yelling, “Stop! I’m with you!”

  Jack back-rolled away. His gun was gone, but he readied himself to lunge. It was Dan Bender; Jack recognized his face from the photo he’d just seen.

  “I’m on your side!” Bender claimed. “Talk,” Jack demanded. “Keep your finger on the trigger, Harry.”

  Bender wisely did not move, but he waited a moment to catch his breath. “You’re Jack Bauer, with the CIA. My name is Dan Bender. I am Mossad.”

  “Bullshit,” Jack said.

  “The truth,” Bender replied. “I am Mossad stationed here in the United States. I was assigned to observe the conference. We got wind that there might be some trouble. We weren’t sure that your services were prepared to handle it.”

  “Well, we were,” Jack said. “At least, so far. How can I believe you?”

  “Who do you think it was who put you on the trail of the C–4 in the first place?”

  That was good enough for Jack. He still called in Bender’s name, and they waited while Henderson routed it through various channels, but Jack was already sure. His original tip on the C–4 had come from the Israelis. Having worked with them before, Jack knew they were talented enough and arrogant enough to want to follow the trail on their own.

  After a few minutes and a return call, they let Bender rise to his feet. “To be honest, we weren’t sure you guys were aware enough to believe there’d be an attack on U.S. soil,” Bender said. “We figured the lead on the explosives would get lost in the bureaucracy.”

  “1993 was a wake-up call for us,” Jack said. “We know they’re out there. I followed the trail from Cairo back to Los Angeles. We had separate agencies working it. Did you know about the suicide bombers?”

  “No idea,” Bender admitted. “I’m about all the resources we have here at the moment. There’s a lot going on back home, from Gaza all the way to Baghdad.”

  “This is so far
over my pay grade,” Driscoll muttered.

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  “That was nice work,” Bender said. “I saw you go over the wall; that had to be the end of you. You ought to be Israeli.”

  “Or a cat,” Driscoll added. “Can we find somewhere else to stand?”

  “I don’t think they’re done,” Jack said to Bender. “I think there’s one more bomber.” He explained his theory of the three attackers.

  “We should get over to St. Monica’s,” Bender said. “Those Swiss Guards are good, but they don’t get enough practice. They should have carved me out of their group much earlier than they did. If something else is going down, they might not be ready for it. Hey,” he added. “How did you ID me?”

  “You sent an e-mail,” Jack said. “Some kind of apology to your brother. We thought it was a goodbye note before your suicide.”

  Bender laughed. “Funny how the little things trip you up. My brother’s a real rabbi. One of the most righteous men I know. I was apologizing for giving the rabbis a bad name.”

  2:26 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Maybe, if the cameras had been installed, Nina would have gone a little lighter. As it happened, there were no security cameras in the room that would eventually become a holding cell, so she was free to do her worst on Gary Khalid. She had handcuffed his wrists and ankles, and she spent her time walking around his prone body. Every time she circled around to his feet, she walked on the ankle she’d broken a short time earlier.

  Gary himself suffered two kinds of torment. One was the physical pain, which was growing worse by the moment. The other was psychological: to be under the control of a woman, of all things. It was ludicrous. Humiliating.

  He had held out for several minutes already, but in the end, Khalid was no hero. He felt the bones grind in his ankles, and he knew that he was done.

  “You performed the operation on Father Collins?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the guy who pretended to be Abdul al-Hassan.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How did you kill Diana Christie?”

  Khalid explained quickly. He didn’t know Farrigian well. From what he understood, Farrigian had told the people Khalid worked for about her, and they’d set a trap. Khalid had been brought in to work on her. It had been brutal and quick. They’d captured her and anesthetized her, then planted the bomb in her arm.