A figure stood outlined in the open front doorway waiting for him. It was Larry Noone, Bass’s top man and figurative right hand, the man whose urgent phone call summoning his boss had jarred Bass out of fitful light sleep and back into action on the double.
Bass was not so tired, however, that he failed to notice the white armband prominently pinned to the upper arm of Noone’s navy blazer. Bass paused at the threshold, clutching the insides of the doorframe with both hands for support while he tried to catch the breath that his hasty arrival had stolen from him.
An expression of concern marked Noone’s face. “Are you all right, Chief?”
Bass blustered it out, barking, “Certainly! Just a little winded, that’s all. I hustled over here after I got your call. Sounded urgent. What’s up?”
Noone said, “Come in and I’ll tell you.”
Bass marched into the front hall, turning left to follow Noone down a short corridor. The heart of the command center lay on the other side of a closed door at the passage’s end, in a room that was an electronic nerve nexus of computerized consoles whose multiscreens imaged real-time feedback from the array of closed-circuit automated TV cameras that kept the mansion and estate under constant surveillance. A graveyard shift of six top operatives would be posted at the monitors, orchestrating the flexible and adaptive Brand Security defense posture.
Bass, frowning, said, “What’s with the white brassard, Larry? It’s unauthorized as far as I know.”
Noone glanced over his shoulder, flashing an enigmatic half smile. “Change of policy.”
Bass’s frown deepened. He was a stickler for detail. He said, “That’s news to me and I set dress code policy.”
Noone paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Step right in, Chief, and it will all be explained to you.” He opened the door partway, standing aside so Bass could pass him and enter.
Bass was through the doorway and a half-dozen paces inside the command center before the horror of what he saw registered on his benumbed mind.
It was the scene of a massacre. All six board operators, male and female alike, lay strewn about the room in the places where sudden death had found them. Their bullet- riddled bodies bore wounds so numerous that they could only have been inflicted by an automatic weapon. They were torn and tattered. Blood was everywhere. Walls and consoles were cratered with bullet holes.
Don Bass was struck dumb, paralyzed with shock. A timeless interval passed before he drew a shuddering breath. His heart started beating again, hammering with a wild percussive rhythm.
Somehow he managed to turn around and face Larry Noone. Bass was surprised to find that he was not surprised at all to discover his second- in-command pointing a leveled machine pistol at him. There was a certain pride that his deductive and analytical faculties had not deserted him in the fractional span of life left remaining to him to glory in their possession. Noone had to be the killer; his bland demeanor in the face of such carnage proved it.
A distant part of Bass’s mind kept on working, noting that the machine pistol was fitted with a suppressor to silence its workings. It would have to be, since it was the weapon that Noone had used to treacherously slay the comrades and coworkers who trusted him without betraying the deed to the numerous guards stationed on the estate.
Don Bass asked only a single question: “Why?”
Noone shrugged, quirking a whimsical smile. There was an oddly elfin aspect to the big man, with his too-large knowing eyes, mouth upturned at the corners, and slightly pointed chin. Don Bass realized that the person he’d worked with, played with, and with whom he’d shared a good part of his adult professional and personal life was a complete stranger to him.
Noone said, “Call it a coup d’état. Change of power. I’m in. You’re out. Way out.” He held the gun pointed so it would shoot Bass in the belly where it hurt the most.
He said, “Christ! You can’t imagine how long I’ve waited for this day — this night — this moment. I’m enjoying it so much that I hate to see it end.”
Noone sighed. “But all good things must come to an end. If it’s any consolation to you, Chief — and I’m sure that it’s not — you can go to hell knowing that in a very short time you’ll have lots of company when Sky Mount and all its lovely creatures go up in flames. I only regret that you won’t be here to see it.”
He added, “Die hurting, Chief.”
Don Bass laughed out loud, a genuine guffaw at the bizarre turns of fate and reversals of fortune that could occur to a man not in a lifetime, but in a handful of seconds. He experienced an explosion of mirth that left him grinning from ear to ear. Larry Noone arched an eyebrow, surprised by the other’s outlandish reaction at the point of death. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Bass at the finish but it wasn’t this. He shrugged it off. “Hysteria. The mind is going. This will be a blessing for you, Don.”
Bass said, “Buddy, you’re about to find out how right you are.”
“Oh really—?”
Larry Noone didn’t live long enough to find out the truth of his words. He fell forward facedown to the floor, stone dead. The back of his head had been shot away by the burst of rounds Jack Bauer put into it at point-blank range, disintegrating the rear half of his skull as if it had been scooped out and exhibiting the gooey gray matter that remained.
Jack stood slumped against the doorframe, leaning against it for support. He let his gun hand fall to his side, holding the still smoking SMG that he’d used to liquidate Larry Noone.
Jack said, “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I saw you running out the side door of the mansion and played a hunch that I’d better follow you and see what’s what.”
Don Bass said, “Lucky for me that you did.”
“Luck is the difference between hanging and not hanging. I know.”
“You heard everything?”
“Enough.” Jack Bauer glanced at a wall clock.
“Five minutes to two. Time enough for you to tell your gate guards to open up and let Garcia’s tac squad in.”
24. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 A.M. AND 3 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME
Sky Mount, Colorado
Ernie Sandoval said, “You wrecked the Mercedes, you SOB.”
Jack Bauer said, “Get Garcia to buy a new one.”
“He just might, after this one is all wrapped up.” Don Bass chimed in,
“Hell, I’ll buy you one.”
Sandoval said, “You can’t afford it.”
“The Masterman Trust can. Let them pick up the tab.” Jack nodded in agreement. “That’s the spirit.” The trio were walking briskly side by side down the main corridor of the mansion’s east wing. Bass had a set of keys in hand that would open the anteroom doors and the door to Cabot Huntington Wright’s inner sanctum, but as it turned out they weren’t needed. The anteroom door was unlocked. The room was dark, but light outlined the closed door to Wright’s suite of offices.
A platoon of Orlando Garcia’s tac squads augmented by an equal number of Inspector Cullen’s ATF agents were swarming the estate, securing the grounds, mansion, and all- important subsurface levels where the BZ grenades and plastic explosives lay, defanged for the moment but very much a potential and potent threat until the moment that agents took possession of them, and that moment was right now.
Jack Bauer’s focus lay elsewhere, on the dozen quick paces it took him, Bass, and Sandoval to cross the anteroom to Wright’s private door. His hand was on the knob, and to his surprise it turned freely and he opened the door and stormed in, the other two at his heels.
Jack said, “You left your door unlocked, Mr. Wright. Careless of you.”
Cabot Huntington Wright was at the opposite end of the room, standing behind his desk, stuffing folders of documents into a briefcase that stood open on his desktop. He froze at the trio’s entrance, lifting his gaze from what he was doing to the intruders who’d had the audacity to invade his domain.
He looked away first, oddly aba
shed to be taken in such a manner. His hands were hidden behind the lid of his attaché case, which stood upright.
Jack’s hand flashed inside his jacket, coming into view with a pistol that he held pointed at Wright. Wright raised his arms in the classic hands-up position, obscuring but not hiding the white armband circling his dark-suited left arm.
Bass said, “The white brassard! That clinches it.”
Jack circled around the desk, still covering Wright. Wright’s hands were empty of everything but foldered documents but Jack was taking no chances. He said, “It’s already clinched. It was clinched when Chappelle notified Garcia that he’d found the leaker — and the person to whom he’d leaked.”
Sandoval had given Jack a quick update on the way to Wright’s office. Ryan Chappelle had discovered that a member of his CTU/L.A. staff had passed the word about Brad Oliver’s imminent arrest. A survey of regional division headquarters’ phone logs had unearthed the culprit, one of Chappelle’s top aides. The leaker had confessed when confronted but claimed he had no other motive than to curry favor with the ultra-rich and powerful Cabot Huntington Wright by giving him a friendly heads-up to prepare him for the embarrassment and disruption that would result when Wright’s confidential assistant Brad Oliver was arrested by CTU agents for violating the national security.
The leaker’s true motive would eventually come to light in the exhaustive investigation to which he’d be subjected. What was key was the identity not of leaker but of leakee. Chappelle tried to notify Jack Bauer to alert him to the identification but he’d been unable to reach him while Jack was otherwise engaged.
Chappelle had finally swallowed his pride and relayed the information directly to Garcia, enduring the humiliation of having to admit to a longtime rival that one of Chappelle’s own was the guilty party. The facts were too vital to withhold, and Chappelle put the potentially career-damaging revelations in Garcia’s hands, oblivious of how the hierarchs on the seventh floor at Langley might put a black mark in Chappelle’s record book because of the dereliction of a trusted aide.
Chappelle was a patriot, and Jack had never doubted that ultimately he would do the right thing and disseminate the information where it would do the most good. But timing is everything, and Jack was heartened that Chappelle had acted sooner rather than later — for later might have been too late.
Jack Bauer now had the guilty party in hand and there was a standard operating procedure for the way things are done no matter how big the culprit is. Jack set the process in motion.
He said, “Please stay where you are, Mr. Wright, and keep your hands up. You’re about to undergo what’s sure to be a novel experience in your life: being searched for a weapon.”
Wright affected a wry smile. He’d never quite lost his composure from the moment the trio barged in to confront him, but he had lost some of his color, the skin blanching and paling under his deep tan. Now the pallor was starting to fade and the color was returning to his cheeks.
Jack gave him a pat-down frisk, feeling around him for a concealed weapon. Jack was taking nothing for granted; for all he knew Wright might have a weapon on his person. It was that kind of a case.
Sandoval searched Wright’s briefcase while Jack searched Wright. Wright said, “Don’t you want to search, too, Don?”
Bass shook his head. “I’m private, I don’t have jurisdiction. They do. You belong to the United States government now.”
Jack said, “If not for a little bit of luck it might have been the other way around.” He finished his search, said, “He’s clean.”
Sandoval said, “Nothing in his briefcase but documents.”
“I’m sure the analysts will be interested in them.”
Wright said, “I’m sure. May I put my hands down now, gentlemen? I confess that the posture is becoming something of a strain.”
Jack said, “Go ahead. You can sit down, too — on the other side of the desk. I don’t know what kind of gimmicks you might have built into it but I don’t intend to find out the hard way.”
Wright smiled with seeming affability. “My, my. Paranoia must be the prime attribute of a government snoop and spy.” He went around to the front of the desk and made a show of seating himself comfortably in one of the plush visitors’ armchairs.
He tapped a forefinger against the side of his forehead. “My weapons are all in here.”
Jack said, “Your checkbook is your weapon, and with it you damned near took over the U.S.”
“By the way, am I under arrest? And if so, what are the charges?”
“Yes — Cabot Huntington Wright, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason and terroristic acts against the United States of America.”
Marion Clary entered at that moment. Her hair was in disarray, she was without makeup, and her attire showed signs of having been thrown on at a moment’s notice. Her demeanor varied between confusion and great distress. “Mr. — Mr. Wright? What’s going on here?”
Wright rose when she entered, favoring her with a courtly little bow. “Ah Marion, right on time as always. In case you hadn’t heard, I’m being arrested for crimes against the state.”
Her dominant motif turned to one of outrage. White circles showed around her eyes, and her face suddenly looked strained and haggard. “Is this some kind of a grotesque joke?”
Wright said, “Grotesque it may be, but it’s no joke, I fear.”
Marion Clary swayed, looking as if she might faint. Don Bass rushed to her to steady her, said, “Marion, please sit down.”
She turned on him, tearing her arm free of his supportive grasp. “Keep your filthy hands off of me!”
He said, “Please sit down.”
She stared at him, rigid with indignation. Wright indicated the armchair beside his, said, “Marion, yes, please do.”
She staggered like a sleepwalker to the chair and plopped down in it. Sandoval crossed to the office door, closed and locked it. He said, “We don’t need any more interruptions.”
Wright said, “Now that I’ve been arrested, will you read me my rights and allow me to speak to my lawyer? One of my many lawyers?”
Jack smiled tightly. “Nice try, Mr. Wright, but in cases involving acts of terrorism the normal rules are suspended and don’t apply.”
Wright’s smile could have passed for one of genuine pleasure. “Ahhhh… so that’s how you work it.”
“That’s how the system works. But never mind about that. Let’s talk about how you worked it.”
“You have the floor, Agent Bauer. I’m all ears.”
Jack moved around to the front of the desk, resting his hip on the corner of it. He began, “I suppose in the long run it’ll all come down to the question of sanity. Speaking for myself and not as a mental health professional, I believe that you are sane.”
Wright looked more pleased than ever. “Thank you, sir!”
“You’re an amoral sociopath but that doesn’t read as insanity in my book.”
Wright’s mouth downturned in a little moue of displeasure. “Now now, no name calling. Surely we don’t have to descend to that.”
“Call it what you like. You’re not the first person to see something he wants and do whatever it takes to get it no matter who gets hurt or what the consequences. You just do it on a more grandiose scale. Otherwise you’re no different from the thief who knocks an old lady on the head for her social security money.”
Wright nodded, putting his hands together and making a steeple out of them. “I see. At least I’ve graduated from amoral sociopath to mugger. That’s progress, I suppose. And what is the object of my heart’s desire?”
Jack took the question seriously. “The United States of America. For starters. Beyond that, who knows? Tomorrow — the world?”
“You’re telling it. Please continue.”
“My pleasure. In the last twenty- four hours I’ve had a crash course in the theory and practice of Cabot Huntington Wright as applied to the deadly arts of conspiracy, subo
rnment, corruption, violence, terrorism, and mass murder. You might say I’ve had a total immersion in the dark side of Wright, the side nobody is supposed to see.”
“I daresay that qualifies you as an expert, Agent Bauer.”
“I daresay,” Jack said dryly. “Let’s get back to basics. Crime is a matter of means, motive, and opportunity. Start with motive first. You saw a way to make yourself master of the United States. By that I mean you hatched out a scheme to destabilize the economy, bring it to its knees, and take over the nation’s leading corporations at fire-sale prices.”
Wright nodded encouragingly, a schoolmaster listening to a prize pupil recite his lessons. “And how was I going to achieve that ambitious goal?”
“The old-fashioned way: murder. Murder and money. It all stemmed from your unique position as chairman of the board of the Masterman Trust. That and your role as director of the yearly Round Tables, a gathering of the richest and most powerful of the land under one roof. Your roof.”
“Ah yes, the illustrious Round Table. My arrest will come as a great shock to them, all those dynasts and heirs and movers and shakers who’ve known me as a trusted friend and confidant over these too many years.”
Jack quirked a smile. “They’ll get over it, especially once they learn what you had planned for them— death by hallucinogenic gas and inferno.”
Marion Clary leaned forward in her seat, her hands balled into fists that perched on her upper thighs. “You’re insane, positively stark staring mad!”
Jack let it pass, speaking directly to Wright. “I once read that the emperor Caligula expressed the wish that all Rome had but a single head that he might strike it off with one blow.”
Wright said definitively, “Caligula was a piker. Strictly small potatoes.”
Jack took note of that remark. Perhaps the smooth facade was starting to crack and the real Cabot Huntington Wright emerge. “You went Caligula one better. You gathered up the people who collectively own a majority share of the real wealth in this country — stocks, bonds, real estate, the corporations that keep the wheels turning — and planned to murder them all in their beds and loot their assets at the same time.
24 Declassified: Head Shot 2d-10 Page 29