by John Whitman
Rafizadeh nodded. He pulled the mask away from his face momentarily. “He is not a—”
“I talked to your daughter,” Jack said. “She’s pretty convincing.” He smiled. He didn’t see the need to tell the professor that he’d allowed Ramin to be tortured. “He’s at CTU, but I’ve told them to use kid gloves. They’ll just want background.” Jack paused. “He did know something, you know. He heard a rumor about a terrorist cell here.”
Rafizadeh shook his head. This time he didn’t bother to lift the mask, so his voice was hollow and distant. “There are always rumors. Someone knows someone who knows someone whose cousin was in the madrassa, whose friend was killed by American bombs, and he mentioned . . .” The professor trailed off, rolling his hand over and over to indicate the unending pattern of gossip. “We are victims of a rumor.”
“A rumor is just a premature fact,” Jack said.
“No,” Rafizadeh replied in scholarly tones. “No, that is not true. Rumor is a weapon.”
Jack had no reply. The paramedics bustled around the professor for a moment, then asked him to lie on the stretcher. Once he was comfortable, Rafizadeh looked up at Jack. “These men. Did they get our names from you?”
“No,” Jack said earnestly. “We don’t know where they got them. We arrested their people for a different reason. It was coincidence that we found your name. It all happened early this morning. We learned that they thought you were terrorists and were coming to get you, so I came to...help.”
Rafizadeh chuckled. “God is great. But he has a wry sense of humor.”
8:42 A.M. PST Department of Justice, Washington, D.C.
Brian Zelzer loved his job with a youthfulness that was out of place for a man approaching fifty. Pear-shaped with thin arms and thinner hair, he still bounced around the halls of the DOJ like a teenager. He couldn’t help it. If someone had told him that a scrawny kid from Atlanta could bluff his way through UNC-Charlotte, learn to write succinct bullshit for a PR firm (“It doesn’t have to be accurate, it has to be succinct,” his bosses told him long ago), then grab the coattails of a few career politicians he’d met at Bible study once he’d gone on the wagon and end up in Washington, D.C., he’d have laughed. But here he was, the Department of Justice’s interagency liaison, working a few doors down from the Attorney General himself. Of course, to Brian he wasn’t the Attorney General, he was just Jim, with whom he’d commiserated for nearly twenty years. Brian had found that sobriety—he’d been sober since 1989—gave him nearly unlimited energy, especially when it came to griping about the sorry state of affairs in the country. He and Jim had griped about the secularization of the country and activist judges who added bricks and mortar to the imaginary wall between church and state, until one day Jim, who’d made a name for himself as a Kansas prosecutor, had offered Brian a chance to help do something about it. Next thing he knew he’d stopped writing press releases and started campaigning for Barnes, and now here he was.
He even liked dealing with the maze of interrelated agencies that made up the Justice Department and law enforcement and intelligence community. His official title was Deputy Assistant Director of Interagency Communications for the Office of Intergovernmental and Public Liaison, but privately he gave himself the same informal title he’d used as a PR man: shitslinger. His job was to manage the message that went out from the DOJ to the internal law enforcement community (FBI, ATF, etc.) and the external intelligence community (CIA, Department of Defense, blah, blah), and he found it exciting to ride herd on the rumors and innuendos that constantly threatened to trample his boss’s agenda.
So when the phone rang, he picked it up with his usual aplomb. “Zelzer!” he said.
“Brian Zelzer, this is Special Agent Kelly Sharpton, CTU Los Angeles.”
Brian frowned, not unhappily. CTU. Counter Terrorist Unit. Sometimes it took a minute to navigate the government’s habit of creating trinomial acronyms (FBI, CIA, DOD, ATF, DOD, etc.). “Yes, Agent Sharpton, what can I do for you?”
“Listen, I’m hoping you can help me with something. We have a case on our end, a domestic terrorism case. A militia group that was planning some domestic terrorism. We took care of that, but during a raid we discovered that they had some information on Islamic terrorists on U.S. soil. They said they reported it to the FBI and to you guys.”
Zelzer said with automatic brightness, “Sure, you might want to try the FBI’s domestic terrorism unit. I can give you Cindy Fromme’s—”
“I tried them. They say they never heard anything. I was thinking you guys had heard something.”
“Oh, no problem, then let me connect you to our investigations dep—”
“I tried them, too. They didn’t have anything, and when I kind of pushed it, they sent me to you.”
“I see. Well. How can I help?”
“To be honest,” said the Special Agent, “I have some reason to believe that this militia group did turn in a tip on Islamic terrorists. The militia group is called the Greater Nation. You may have heard of them, they’ve made a lot of noise lately. I’ve been told the tip went right to the top over there, and I’m trying to track it down.”
“Told by whom?” Brian asked. The brightness in his voice had lost a bit of wattage.
“I can’t say,” the CTU agent said evasively. “Look, I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m just trying to track down a lead.”
“I wish I could help you, Special Agent, but we don’t know anything.”
“I see. Well, thank you.”
Brian Zelzer hung up. The minute the line went dead, he hit his speed dial. It was answered immediately. “Jim, it’s Brian. I think I might know who broke into your computer...”
8:45 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
The miracle of the modern age was the instantaneous transfer of information. A reporter speaks into a microphone in Kabul, Afghanistan, and her voice comes out of a television in Boise, Idaho. A man presses his thumbprint into a scanner at London’s Heathrow Airport, and his name appears on a computer screen in New York. And when a CTU agent makes a phone call from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C., he finds his own telephone ringing a few minutes later.
“Sharpton,” he said.
“Special Agent Sharpton,” said the caller. “This is Attorney General James Quincy.”
Uh-oh, Kelly thought. He felt fear and anger churn together in his stomach. This man had just tried to blackmail the woman he’d loved for years. He was also one of the most powerful men in the country, and Kelly had just hacked his computer. “Yes, Mr. Attorney General?”
“I understand you were making inquiries regarding the Greater Nation. Something about a tip.”
“Um, yes. Yes, sir,” Kelly found himself totally unprepared for the AG’s directness. Did he know that Kelly had tampered with his evidence? “I ...I’m following a lead. According to some of our sources, the Greater Nation had information on a terrorist cell in the U.S. We were hoping you—your office had more information. Also, again according to our sources, we had information that you might ...that your office might actually have assets inside the Greater Nation—”
“Assets,” the AG said calmly. “You mean spies.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you come by this information?”
Kelly said, “I’d rather not say.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure I can help you here, Agent Sharpton. I’m aware of the Greater Nation, of course. We incarcerated some of their people when I was a prosecutor in Kansas. But I wouldn’t count on any tips from them. In my experience, they’re a bunch of far-right zealots. They’re certainly capable of doing damage to themselves and others, but I hardly think they know more about terrorism than CTU does.”
“That’s true, sir,” Kelly said, “but it’s our job to follow up on any leads—”
“Yes, it is. And if you did your jobs, this probably wouldn’t be an issue,” the AG said sharply.
“Excuse me, sir?” Kelly felt his neck heat up.
“I’m not attacking you, Agent Sharpton. I just think CTU, and many other agencies as well, could be more efficient. I’m working to give you the tools to make you more efficient. The NAP Act—”
“Yes, sir,” Kelly said, sharpening the edge in his own voice. “Well, perhaps you should save the sales pitch for the Senators.”
The phone line was deadly quiet for a moment. “What did you just—?”
“I’m not attacking you,” Kelly said with just a hint of sarcasm. “I just think the DOJ, and many other agencies as well, could be more cooperative. I’m not sure we need less personal privacy. I think we need less interagency privacy. For instance, if you could tell me about Frank Newhouse . . .” He let the name hang in the air. A pause followed the name, but Kelly could not interpret it over the phone.
“You are insubordinate,” James Quincy said. “I did you the favor of returning your inquiry personally, and you—you’ll be hearing from me again.” He hung up.
Kelly slumped back in his chair, filled with bewildered dread, like a healthy man who’s just been told he has a month to live. It didn’t make sense. Why would the Attorney General call him directly? Was the Greater Nation that important? Was Frank New-house? Or maybe it had nothing to do with the militia and the terrorists. Maybe the AG knew that Kelly had hacked his computer and helped Debbie. It wasn’t impossible—phone taps, computer taps, and a dozen other surveillance devices allowed even the most secret information to leak out instantaneously, given the right conditions. Kelly put his head in his hands. Whatever had happened, one thing was sure: he had just bought himself a lot more trouble than he’d bargained for.
Jessi Bandison watched Kelly from her desk in the pit. Her gravedigger shift was long over, but the more ambitious analysts often stayed behind for overtime or for advancement. The security team noticed that she hadn’t logged out or left the building, but once they confirmed she was all right, no one gave her any more notice.
She could still feel the heat that had risen into her cheeks. The flush of embarrassment she’d felt in asking him to coffee had turned instantly to anger. Why had he spoken to her like that? He’d flirted with her almost as much as she’d flirted with him. The way he stood so close to her when they worked a program together, the way his face lit up when he smelled that jasmine on her skin. He was more obvious than she was. He had no right to snap at her like that.
George Mason walked past her terminal. He was the Assistant Administrative Director of CTU. “Bandison, are you still on?”
“Oh,” she said, halting her internal diatribe. “Oh, no, not technically.”
Mason looked disappointed. “We need help running a simulated attack on the network. It’s a slow day, so we’re doing diagnostics and security checks. I knew you liked to hack, so I figured you might want to give us a run for our money.”
Jessi shook her head. “If it’s optional, I’d rather opt out, if that’s okay. It was a long night and I’ve already done one test hack.”
“Really, for them?”
“No. I did one for Kelly.”
Mason shrugged. “I didn’t know we were running anything else. It wasn’t scheduled.” Mason blew by her, forgetting his own comment as soon as he’d said it.
But Jessi didn’t. “It wasn’t scheduled,” he’d said. Kelly was a top analyst, but he wasn’t the administrative director. Why would he know about a fire drill when Mason didn’t? Jessi bit her lip. What had she done? What had he done? She looked around the room, wondering what to do. Her eyes settled on District Director Ryan Chappelle.
She walked up to him. “Excuse me, Mr. Chappelle?”
“Yes?” he said in his normal voice, which was as sharp as shattered glass. Jessi almost retreated from it. She hesitated, which only seemed to annoy him further, so she finally said, “Can I—can I speak with you for a minute?”
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. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jack Bauer pulled his SUV into the CTU parking lot and yawned. The drive from Culver City had meant downtime, which was the worst thing for him at the moment. Lacking the adrenaline dump, he now felt tired, dirty, and hungry. He was still wearing his BDUs and equipment from the Greater Nation raid, gear that had already served him through three gun battles that morning.
He didn’t care. He was right. He had been right all along. There was a terrorist cell in the U.S. Rafizadeh had known his son was alive. Jack could have been furious and he probably would be furious in an hour or two, but right now he was riding the wave of euphoria that accompanied vindication. His exile among the rednecks had been unjust. He had been right.
Jack passed through the CTU checkpoint with a swipe of his badge and a wave of his hand to the guards, and walked into the main room. He looked around for Richard Walsh before recalling that his friend and mentor was in D.C. Tony Almeida gave him a nod but didn’t say much. Jack had a grudging respect for Almeida, but he wasn’t sure it was reciprocated, and that nod was about as far along as their relationship had progressed. One of the analysts threw him a small wave.
“Another day at the office.” He sighed.
He didn’t have an office—that privilege was reserved for the Special Agent in Charge, who oversaw field work, and the administrative agent who oversaw the analysts and tech work. Jack went straight to the locker room and secured his weapons. He wished he had time to shower, but the best he could do was strip down, splash water on his face and chest, and towel off. He changed into black chinos, soft-soled black shoes, and a blue button-down shirt. He wrapped himself into his shoulder rig, removed his SigSauer from the thigh holster in his locker, and snapped it into place. He reviewed the result in the mirror.
“From Delta commando to peace officer in three easy steps,” he murmured to his reflection.
He slapped his face a couple of times to wake up. He’d have to talk to Brett Marks sometime soon, and he needed to be fresh.
By the bottom of the hour he was walking out of the locker room toward his workstation. An urgent message alert was flashing on his screen. He opened it and saw a note from Kelly Sharpton to see him immediately. Jack, halfway to getting his butt into his chair, hauled himself back up and marched up the stairs. Sharpton had seen him and was waiting. He looked anxious.
Jack entered and closed the door behind him. “Look, if it’s about this morning, I really do apologize, but you know as well as I do that sometimes this job is about taking initiative—”
“Forget that,” Kelly said abruptly. “Have you worked on Marks yet?”
“No, I was about to—”
“Good. I have some news for you.” Jack was surprised, but pleased. He’d expected to be dressed down, or at least given a warning. The last thing he expected was cooperation. Still, Sharpton had surprised him. He quoted the rule book like a Ryan Chappelle clone, but he demonstrated the competence of men Jack thought of as, well, like himself.
“The DOJ knew about the Greater Nation’s tip on terrorists,” Kelly said, forging ahead. “The Attorney General himself knew. But the tip was erased from everyone else’s system, if it was ever there. The Attorney General knew, but didn’t act on it.”
Jack waited for more. “But that’s nothing. The Greater Nation are paranoid schizophrenics. wouldn’t believe half the things they say, either.”
“Would you believe the Attorney General’s office had a man inside the Greater Nation at the same time you were there? His name is Frank Newhouse.”
Jack froze, the habit of a stealth fighter assessing danger. Questions tumbled like an avalanche into his head, and he sifted them for the most pertinent ones.
“Why would the DOJ put its own man into something like that? Do they even have people of their own?”
Kelly laughed. “Well, they have the FBI, the DEA, the ATF, and the U.S. Marshalls Special Operations Group, but ot
herwise, they’re pretty hard up.”
“Yeah, no, but why would they send someone in there without telling us. Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of new information sharing happening?”
“That’s what I read in the papers,” Kelly said humorlessly. “But they treat us like mushrooms—keep us in the dark and feed us shit. I can’t even find a file on Frank Newhouse anywhere. Did you ever meet this guy while you were undercover?”
“Once or twice,” Jack said dryly. “You should ask Lzolski what she thinks of him.” Jack quickly summarized his two interactions with Frank Newhouse. The man certainly had training and skill. But he’d also put other people’s lives at risk both times. “If he’s undercover, he’s really convincing. Are you sure he’s a Fed?”
Kelly nodded.
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I can use that.”
As Jack left, Kelly picked up his phone and dialed. An hour ago he swore he’d never dial that number again. Of course, he’d made that same promise five or ten times over the last few years, and broken it every time.
“Drexler.”
“Hey, Deb. Take off your business voice.”
“Kelly!” Her voice sounded much lighter than it had two hours ago. “You sounded mad before.”
“Yeah, well I was. I am. I think I’m up to my ears in this thing now. But if I’m in, I’m going to be in all the way, so now I need a favor from you.”
She laughed. People rarely saw her laugh on television, which was a shame because her laugh was lively, like a fountain. “That’s the Kelly Sharpton I know. What do you need?”
“I need you to get information on someone who works undercover for the AG. The name is Frank Newhouse. I’m guessing he works for the FBI, but with all the government overlaps right now, he could be working for anyone.”
The laughter died away. “You can’t be serious. You’re with CTU! You can get anything on anyone.”
“Not till the NAP Act passes,” he said with a snort. “Seriously, I have nothing on this guy. I’m guessing he’s got a closed file somewhere, he might even do overseas work for State. You’re on the Senate Permanent Intelligence Committee. I’m guessing you know people.”