by John Whitman
Now how could we have learned about the Kansas strategy so easily without learning of the EMP device itself? Kelly thought. That information came easily because it came from . . .
“Oh, shit,” Kelly said out loud.
The information on the EMP burst over Kansas had come from Brett Marks.
The information on Frank Newhouse’s Iranian connections had come from Brett Marks.
The information on the terrorist cell in Los Angeles had come from Brett Marks.
And every single one of those pieces of information had been wrong.
11:40 P.M. PST Century City, California
Los Angeles was not famous for its skyline. There was a small cluster of tall buildings downtown, and the Westwood area had another tiny forest of them. But the closer one got to the ocean, the fewer there were, until there were none at all, with only one exception: Century City. This tiny enclave, made up of a few residential blocs, FOX Studios, and the outdoor Century City shopping mall, also included the two massive Twin Towers of the Century City Plaza. These two towers, forty-four stories high, were prominent enough that, on the morning of 9/11, they were considered viable targets for a West Coast follow-up attack by al Qaeda operatives.
A massive plaza served as a foundation for the two massive buildings. The plaza also housed the Shubert Theater, Henry’s Grill (home, for those who were interested, of the Annual Bad Hemingway writing competition), and the ABC Network. But all these were only foothills clustered around the mountains that rose into the sky above.
It hadn’t taken long for Jack to drive from CTU to Century City. He arrived in time to see the last stragglers from the Shubert Theater easing their way up the parking ramps. He had driven down in the opposite direction. The parking attendants had tried to stop him until he flashed his badge. He had ridden his SUV along the first level, resisting the urge to duck as the low ceiling of the parking structure seemed to drop down to meet the high roof of his vehicle. When he’d reached the elevators he’d stopped, but they were shut down at this time of night. The escalators had stopped working, so he was forced to climb them like stairs until he reached the plaza level. He’d walked across the wide, flat steps to the North Tower and gone inside.
There was a late night security guard there, a young black man in a white uniform shirt, a security guard’s badge, and a name tag that said “Darryl.”
“Darryl, I’m Special Agent Jack Bauer,” Jack said, showing his credentials. “I need to get up to the 44th floor. I’m looking for the office of William Binns.”
Darryl looked unsure what to do. “Are you meeting him up there, sir?”
“I hope so.”
This told Darryl nothing, of course. “I mean, do you have an appointment? We’re not supposed to let anyone up there after hours without an escort.”
“Anybody been up to that office? Or that floor?”
Darryl shook his head.
“You can come with me if you want,” Jack offered.
Darryl didn’t seem to like this, either, but here he was talking to an actual Federal agent. He wasn’t about to say no. He came out from behind the handsome marble desk that was his home base, picked up a radio from the counter, and walked toward the elevators. He and Jack both entered.
“Have you ever met Mr. Binns?” Jack asked.
Darryl shook his head. He looked bright for a security guard. “I don’t really meet anyone, except some lawyers when they work late, and most of the accountants in March and April. How long have you been a . . . what kind of cop are you?” Darryl asked.
“I’m with the Federal government.”
“Like the FBI?” Darryl asked.
“Kind of like that.”
“I want to do that someday. I’m doing the police academy next year.”
Jack nodded absently. “That’s a good place to start.”
The elevator stopped and the doors opened to the twenty-third floor. Darryl led him down the hall, past several sets of double doors announcing law firms, to a small set of offices on the east side of the tower. Darryl used his master key to open them and Jack went into the office. He was in a small entryway with a receptionist desk and three chairs. Beyond were three offices, all with window views. Jack flipped the lights, which fluttered and then went on. The offices contained exactly what Jack expected them to contain: nothing. Frank Newhouse hadn’t rented these offices to use the space. He’d rented them to get access to the building.
The name on the door said “The Patrick Henry Company.” Jack clicked his tongue. “This guy’s got a thing for Patrick Henry.”
“What’s that?” Darryl asked.
Jack shrugged. “You want to be in law enforcement, you can start reading clues with me. This guy, uses the name William Binns. But he had another place under the name Patrick Henry, and this company he’s using here is called the Patrick Henry Company. I’m going to have to figure out what that means.”
Darryl said off-handedly, “He doesn’t like the government.”
Jack was surprised. “Yeah? Why do you say that?”
“You know the name, right? Patrick Henry. From American history.”
Jack nodded. “He was the ‘give me liberty or give me death’ guy.”
Darryl nodded. “That’s right. That’s what he was famous for. He was also one of the guys who didn’t want to ratify the Constitution.”
That stopped Jack in his tracks. “Really?” he asked, genuinely interested.
Darryl nodded even more. “Yeah. He thought the central government was too strong.”
“You’re a smart guy,” Jack said.
Darryl shrugged. “I read. Nights’re long, you know? You can only play so much Nintendo.”
But Jack wasn’t listening anymore. He thought the central government was too strong. “I don’t believe it,” he said in surprise. He reached for his phone. It was ringing by the time he had pulled it from his pocket.
“Jack, Kelly.”
“I was just calling you,” Jack said.
“Listen, I think I’ve got this figured. It’s been—”
“Brett Marks all along,” Jack ended.
Kelly paused. “Yeah. That’s pretty goddamned good. You didn’t even hear Farid or Julio talk.”
“No, but I’ve got Darryl.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Fill me in.”
Kelly spent a minute summarizing his conversations with Farid and Julio. With each word, Jack felt his anger and his embarrassment grow. He’d been played. He’d been one step behind on every play. Brett Marks had toyed with him.
“You’re got to admire it,” Jack said begrudgingly. “They set it up so that there are terrorists in the U.S.
They attack the President and the terrorists get blamed.”
“But you know what it means, right?” Kelly added. “It means Brett Marks wanted you to arrest him. He knew you were going to do it. It was the perfect cover for him. On the day the President gets attacked, he’s under arrest at CTU.”
“They slipped up twice,” Jack said. “Someone used Julio’s picture on an i.d. That led us to the coyotes earlier than expected. I bet that’s why they wanted Farid killed. And the other thing was the fingerprint. If we hadn’t found that fingerprint and gotten to Newhouse’s girlfriend, we wouldn’t know what the hell was going on tonight.”
“Jack, Air Force One flies over the city in a little more than an hour.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”
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 12 A.M. AND 1 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
12:00 A.M. PST Air Force One
President Barnes was still wearing his tuxedo as he boarded Air Force One. These fund-raisers exhausted him, but the war chest could never be too full, especially with that Senator Palmer rising in the polls. He would have preferred to stay in his hotel room once the Secret Service had given the all clear for the party to continue, but even
the President had to make a buck. He’d have to sleep on the plane. There were early morning meetings in San Diego.
Barnes tugged at his tie as he dropped into the wide, soft chair in his private study. He’d barely had time to slip off his shoes before there was a knock at the door. “Come,” he growled.
One of his aides poked her head in. “The Attorney General, if you have a minute, Mr. President.”
“Send him in.”
Quincy entered a moment later. “Mr. President . . .”
“Who’s responsible for that disaster earlier, Jim?” Barnes asked. He was too tired to throw a full-fledged fit, but he was still angry. “I spent most of my time at that goddamned thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner explaining why my people shut down flights over Kansas for two hours. Shit, if I could have charged money for the excuses I came up with, we’d be flush for the next two elections.”
Quincy didn’t look embarrassed. In fact, he seemed energized. “Our guys followed the wrong lead, Mr. President. But they’re on the right track. There is a terrorist cell inside the country and they’re on it. I think . . . sir, I think concerns over this will push the NAP Act through.”
Barnes studied his Attorney General. He wished he had Mitch in the room with him—Rasher was an excellent strategist with a knack for seeing right into the heart of other people’s schemes. Barnes, however, had a talent for reading people themselves, and even if he couldn’t figure out the details, he sensed what Quincy was up to. “Then this has all been convenient for you, Jim,” the President noted.
The Attorney General’s face turned the lightest shade of pink. “It’s not about me, Mr. President. It’s about protecting our country from—”
“Of course it’s about you,” Barnes said. He spoke with no disdain, no judgment. He spoke in the matter-of-fact tones of one power seeker to another. “It’s about putting power into your own hands. Don’t deny it! I know, you think once you get more power you’ll do more good things. We all do, and maybe we’re right. But that comes second. First comes getting the power.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Barnes took a deep, thoughtful breath and exhaled it slowly. “There’s never been a lot of bullshit between us, Jim. This Privacy Act, even the name if it, it’s all dressed up to look like a gift to the people, but it’s dangerous. Once you break down these walls of privacy, well...those walls might never be rebuilt.”
“Sir . . .” Quincy hesitated. “Sir, if the NAP Act passes, are you going to veto it?”
Barnes let his head fall back against the cushion of his chair. “Yes, I think I might, Jim.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
Barnes seemed eager to change the subject. “Are you flying down to San Diego with us?”
“No, sir,” Quincy replied. He knew in that moment that he had to get off the plane and make one more phone call. “I’ll be taking a different route.”
12:19 A.M. PST Century City
Jack and Darryl rode the elevator back down to the lobby, then walked to the security station. Behind the desk, Jack saw a row of small, black-and-white screens—monitors hooked up to security cameras all around the building.
“Is all this centralized somewhere?” Jack asked.
“Supposed to be, but the security office isn’t working. They had some kind of technical trouble. All we got are these right now.”
“Do they show you everything?”
“Every parking level, all the entrances, but not the office floors.”
“Can you toggle through the parking areas?”
Darryl sat down at his desk and pressed a button on one of the screens. The image began to change rapidly. “It’s four cameras on every level, and six parking levels, so—”
“Wait!” Jack said. “Go back one.”
Darryl flipped back. They were looking at P6, the lowest parking level. Like all the security cameras, this one angled down, and showed a driving lane bordered by parking slots and thick support pillars. Peeking out from behind one of these pillars, Jack could just make out the back of a white van.
“Where’s that camera?”
“It’s on the southwest side, near the elevator. If you go down the elevator, you’ll make a left.”
“How about if I walk down the driving ramp?”
“Seriously? Then it’s straight ahead.”
Jack drew his gun.
“Goddamn,” Darryl breathed. “Aren’t you supposed to be calling for backup or something like that?”
“I wish I could,” Jack admitted. “But you can. You just watch those cameras. The minute you see or hear anything, call it in. Got it?”
“Okay.”
“One more thing. Do you have a flashlight?”
A few minutes later, Jack took the elevator down to P5. For the first few seconds, he allowed himself to feel the full measure of his anger. Goddamned idiot! He’d been Marks’s dupe from the beginning, from the very goddamned first day! Kelly hadn’t said so, but it must have occurred to him, as it had to Jack, that Marks might have pegged him as an undercover agent from the minute he infiltrated the Greater Nation. If Marks was working with Newhouse and Newhouse had the right sources, he would have known about Jack’s mission and about his demotion, which meant he would have known about the Rafizadehs and the aborted terrorist theory. The militia leader had used that theory, and Jack’s own desire to redeem himself, to build his terrorist cover story. He’d given Jack a gift, exactly what he’d wanted, and Jack had fallen for it.
By the time the elevator dinged open at P5, Jack had cooled himself down. He left the elevator, weapon drawn, and jogged quickly across the parking lot until he came to the downward-sloping ramp that led to P6. It was a short drive but a long walk, especially as Jack now moved slowly and carefully. The ramp circled around and leveled out on P6. Jack reached the bottom and pressed himself up against a support column. He listened, but there was no sound. He slipped out from behind his cover and trotted down the lane. Straight ahead, about fifty yards off, he could see the support column and the tail of the white van. Jack slowed as he approached, looking around every few seconds. The parking level was empty except for two or three cars. Parked near the white van were two older model cars—a 1969 Chevy Nova and a 1967 Camaro.
Jack reached the white van and leaned against the pillar. No sound or movement came from inside. Jack crept along the side of the van—which still had its sign saying Ready-Rooter—and peeked in the passenger window. No one there. He slipped to the back and tested the door. It was unlocked. He opened it, pointing his pistol, but the back of the van was empty.
Jack knew that Newhouse and Marks wouldn’t take the elevators. The security guards would see them. He jogged over to the elevators and found the staircase next to them. Six parking levels plus forty-four floors, plus the access way to the roof. Fifty floors was a long way to climb.
At least he wasn’t carrying a bomb...
12:27 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
“It’s been a long night,” Ryan Chappelle said. “Let’s send all nonessentials home.”
Kelly hesitated. “I’m not sure we can do that. We’ve still got investigations going...”
Chappelle flapped his hand in annoyance. “What can’t wait? The Iranian bodies will be there in the morning. The Swenson girl is in the hospital. Your two prisoners might as well be released.”
“The EMP devices are still out there.”
“Yes, but you don’t have any leads on them.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, we do.”
Ryan Chappelle looked at Kelly first in surprise, then in annoyance, then in something on the borderline between mild curiosity and complete dread. “Where’s Jack Bauer?”
12:30 A.M. PST Century City
Jack climbed the stairs as quietly as he could. According to the emergency exit diagrams, there were three other stairwells in the building, but he was betting on this one. It was closest to the vehicle, limiting the distance they had to carry their dev
ice, and closest to the elevators in case they needed another exit.
He reached ground level before he started to lose his breath. He’d been up for well over forty hours and he’d been moving nonstop for more than twenty. He felt wide-awake thanks to the adrenaline, but his body wasn’t performing at its peak. By the tenth story he was moving slower, the air rattling in his chest as he breathed. He scolded himself to keep motivated. Time was he could hump thirty kilometers with a forty-pound pack before breakfast. Now a few hours without sleep were leaving him weak as a—
Scuffing sounds drifted down the shaft toward him. Someone was moving up above. He listened a little longer, noticing that the scuffing sounds had a rhythm to them: scuff, scuff, stop; scuff, scuff, stop. Someone was lifting something heavy along the steps, then stopping to rest.
Jack hurried his pace, but he moved in rhythm with the scuffing sounds—two big steps and a pause, two big steps and a pause, covering a stairwell in two legs with this pattern.
12:45 A.M. PST Century City
Fifteenth floor. Jack could see them. Leaning out over the stair rail and looking up, he could see the shoulders and arms of two men. They would move a few steps, then stop for a minute. Jack hurried along, using their sounds as cover, and gained two more flights on them. He was close enough now that he could hear them whispering to each other.
“Jesus ...damn... christ!” one of them hissed. “This is ridiculous!”
“Complaining doesn’t make it any lighter.”
“The elevator’s right here!”
“And so’s the goddamned camera!”
Jack didn’t recognize their voices. He guessed they were two more of Marks’s militia, a couple of leftovers he’d been saving for his coup de grace.