by John Whitman
Jack hadn’t heard the term before, but he recognized Sweetzer Avenue as the street where the three suspected terrorists shared a house. “If you mean the Three Stooges and their box of goodies, yeah, I’m interested.”
“Well, we’ve got a kind of lead on it. Thought you might be interested in tagging along.”
Jack paused. “So now LAPD is involved? What’s Robbery-Homicide got to do with it.”
“Long story. Well, actually a pretty short story. It’s a turf war. Some new Federal unit is trying to throw its weight around. We think they’ve got their head up their ass, we want to get involved, especially when houses blow up in our backyard.”
“Yeah, houses with me in them,” Jack said. “Tell me where to go.” He snatched Teri’s napkin and a pen and scribbled down some directions. “On my way.
“I’ve got to go, honey,” he said, standing and kissing her. “I shouldn’t be too late. We can talk more about whether I should work for CTU.”
His back was already to her when she said softly, “Seems like you already are.”
8:14 P.M. PST Brentwood, California
Aaron Biehn kept tugging at the collar of his shirt. It was his favorite T-shirt, bright yellow with squiggly monsters drawn on it and the name of the band Lido Beach. It was his favorite, but it felt too small on him now. He was choking.
You have to tell someone, Kim Bauer had said. Tell your dad. He’s a police officer. He can do something.
What if no one believes me? What if I can’t prove it, or what if I have to tell… to describe what he did?
Aaron shuddered again thinking about that. He wanted to forget that it had ever happened, but it was there, the guilt in his mind, the horrible feeling in his body, every time he thought about the Mass or said his Hail Marys or went to confession, which his mother insisted they do each week.
He knew he couldn’t tell his mother. She wouldn’t believe him. She was a devout Catholic and very active at St. Monica’s. “The priests are the apple of God’s eye,” she always said, copying the phrase from her mother, Aaron’s grandmother, who lived in Dublin. And if she did believe him, she’d be crushed.
But Dad was different. He was a Catholic, too, but more because his parents had been and it pleased his wife. He was sure his father would believe him, but he was afraid he would be ashamed. Don Biehn was big on self-reliance. He had always made Aaron deal with elementary school bullies on his own, rather than telling his teachers.
But Aaron had to do something. The thing of it… he wasn’t sure what to call it; was it guilt, or a vile memory, or terror? Whatever it was, it lived in him like a snake wriggling inside his body. Its head lived in his chest, gnawing at the bottom of his heart. Its tail resided at the very bottom of his spine and wriggled there, sending shivers up his back and making his lower half feel somehow cold and wet.
Aaron tugged at his shirt again and walked into the den where his father was watching Survivor. Aaron sat down next to him on the couch. His father, tall and lanky like Aaron was clearly going to be, punched him in the shoulder absentmindedly and kept watching.
“Dad…” Aaron began.
“Yep,” his father said, eyes still on the television. There was a good-looking girl in a bikini walking along the beach.
“I… I need to talk to you about something.” He paused. His dad nodded. “It’s… about church.”
“You gotta go, pal,” Don Biehn said. “I’m sorry about that. You and I will both hear an earful from Mom if you—”
“Not about that. Dad, it’s about Father Frank. It’s about the priests.”
Don Biehn glanced sidelong at his son. “They’re not perfect, Aaron, no matter what they think. Don’t ever let them fool you. Forgive the expression, but don’t take everything they say or do as the gospel truth.”
Aaron blushed. “Um, yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dad.” He turned away.
8:23 P.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
His Holiness Pope John Paul II, the Vicar of Rome, washed his hands after using the bathroom in the cloister of St. Monica’s Cathedral. Such acts had humbled him during the course of his many years as leader of the Catholic Church. Each year on Holy Thursday, he washed the feet of the poor, and that was supposed to remind him that Christ himself had practiced such humility. But, though he never would have admitted it aloud, the practice had taken on too much of the feeling of ceremony, of show. He did not feel humble on Holy Thursday, he felt like an actor.
But these human acts, these needs of the body that had not ended when he was made Pope, and indeed became more difficult as time passed, constantly reminded him of his frailty. There was a Zen saying he had always liked: “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.” He liked that.
There were those among his cardinals who would have frowned at his use of the Zen maxim, but he was a pluralist, this Pope. Through all the years of his religious life, from altar boy to Pontiff, he had never forgotten the original meaning of that word catholic—of or concerning all humankind. All humankind, he thought, and he believed. His belief in the one true church was deep, of course, but he refused to turn his heart or his intellect away from the rest of the world. He had studied deeply of Islam and Judaism, but also of Buddhism, Hinduism, and other, less popular beliefs. Though he dwelt within the profound understanding that a man’s soul could be saved only through Christ, only through the church, he refused to exclude those who failed to accept this fact.
The Pope walked gingerly out into the small hallway and thence to the sitting room, each step a quick but careful feat of engineering for his ancient body. His once-straight spine had long ago curled like the pages of a well-read paperback. His knees hurt. His hands were gnarled as the bark of pines back in his childhood home of Krakow.
It is only the body, he said to himself in several of the languages he spoke. It is only the body.
Cardinal Mulrooney was waiting for him in the sitting room. As the Pope entered, Mulrooney stood. The Cardinal towered over the shrunken Pope.
“Your Holiness,” Mulrooney drawled.
“Your Eminence,” the Pope said in his distinctly accented English. “Was the reception well attended?”
“A full house, Holy Father,” Mulrooney said. He placed strong emphasis on the titles, like a man uncomfortable with them, grasping them firmly to maintain control. “The papers will carry a good story about the event.”
The Pope tottered over to a chair and sat down, and Mulrooney swept toward a seat opposite. “That is quite an achievement,” the Holy Father said, his tiny eyes glittering, “despite your disapproval. And your attempts to undermine the Unity Conference.”
The tiniest quiver ran along Mulrooney’s thin lips. He cursed himself inwardly. This was the Holy Father’s latest weapon, and he should have been better prepared. John Paul gave the appearance of a doddering old fool. He often used this facade to lay traps for those he mistrusted.
“You are mistaken, Holy Father,” Mulrooney said at last. “I am as much a supporter of your peace efforts as any—”
“I am old, Your Eminence,” the Pope said impatiently. “I don’t have time for games. Nor do I have the interest I once had.” His face had collapsed in on itself, a caved-in melon. But his eyes gleamed out of the wreckage like two bright wet seeds. “You disdain my efforts. You disdain me.”
Mulrooney smoothed the hem of his black shirt. “Your Holiness, it was you who chose to hold the Unity Conference here, in my diocese. You insisted.”
“The United States is the logical place to begin,” John Paul said wearily. “And either New York or Los Angeles was the logical city.” The Pope sighed. “War is coming, Your Eminence. War of a kind we have not seen before. Someone must defuse it, and I intend to put the full power of the church behind the efforts of peace.”
Mulrooney felt the Pope’s words resound in his chest. Even in his failing years, John Paul was a powerful orator. A man did not become Pope without
mastering the tools that bent others to his will. “But some of those you want to make friends with are the enemies of the church. I don’t know how we can make peace with enemies.”
“There is no point in making peace with friends, Your Eminence.”
Mulrooney scratched his nose to hide his sneer. There was no use debating with this old man. The truth was, as unsupportive as the Holy Father thought he was, Mulrooney’s true animosity went much, much further.
John Paul seemed to read his thoughts. “I wonder, Your Eminence, if this is the extent of your rebelliousness, or if we are only scratching the surface?”
Something clutched at Mulrooney’s stomach. He ignored it. “Your Holiness?”
John Paul’s eyes bored into him. “There are rumors.”
Mulrooney brushed them aside. “You know better than any of us that the church is a political animal. There are always rumors.” When John Paul continued to stare, Mulrooney added, “I swear, Your Holiness, that I am loyal to the church, and to its Pope.”
John Paul nodded. “That will be all. For now.”
8:37 P.M. PST Brentwood
Aaron Biehn sat in the tub of warm water. The snake slithered inside his body. He could feel it in his heart, wriggling through his guts, its tail dampening and violating the base of his spine. He shuddered.
He had hoped that telling his father would give him some relief. He wanted to be held, to be told it wasn’t his fault. He wanted something… something he hadn’t gotten, because he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He wanted a hug that would squeeze the snake out of him.
But then his father would tell people. And he, Aaron, would have to talk about it to strangers. And friends. And confront Father Frank. And others. He would be asked what had been done to him. He would have to use words he did not want to use. Say things he did not want to say. He would be asked if he had wanted it. Someone would say that he had wanted it. He shivered.
The snake squirmed joyfully, horribly, inside him. The snake would love the attention. Feed on his despair. Like a snake eating a cat that ate the rat, it would swallow his humiliation whole and digest it slowly, growing fatter as it did, so that even when the public humiliation passed, the snake would still be there, consuming him from inside.
He could not bear that. He had to get the snake out of his body now. He could not stand to be violated any longer. Aaron sat up in the tub and fumbled with his father’s shaving kit.
8:41 P.M. PST Parker Center, Los Angeles
“Remember to check for the Adam’s apple,” Jack Bauer said, leaning into Harry Driscoll’s office.
Driscoll looked up from his desk, which was crammed face-to-face with another empty desk in the tiny office. He grinned. “Like I said, it wasn’t the Adam’s apple that bothered me, it was the rest of the equipment.”
Jack laughed. It was an old joke, inspired by an old story from when Driscoll was a detective in Hollywood Division and Bauer was LAPD SWAT. The two men shook hands. Driscoll was shorter than Jack, but nearly twice as wide, a black fireplug with a cheesy mustache. He clasped Harry’s outstretched hand.
“You been good?” Driscoll said, standing up.
“Not bad.”
“How’s the dark side treating you?” the detective asked as he reached for a jacket that covered his shoulder rig.
Jack shrugged. There was no point in hiding his CIA status from those who knew of it, but he still couldn’t discuss much. “I’m still hoping to get promoted to Robbery-Homicide someday. How’d you know I was on this case?”
Driscoll laughed. “You were in a house that blew up, Jack. That doesn’t happen every day, even in L.A. Word gets around, you know?”
8:45 P.M. PST Brentwood
“Aaron? You okay in there?” Don banged on the door. “You’ve been in there awhile.” He waited. He pounded again when no answer came back. “Aaron?”
“Is something wrong?” Carianne, his wife, asked, coming up behind him.
“Aaron!” Don yelled. “Answer me! I’m going to break down the door.” That was the cop in him, and the father, talking at once.
His wife pointed upward. Resting atop the door frame was a little key, just a loop of wire with a straight tail. He nodded and pulled it down, then jiggled it into the bathroom doorknob. It popped open, and he shoved the door inward.
Carianne screamed. Don thought he screamed, too, but he was only aware of himself rushing forward, slamming his knees against the side of the bathtub and plunging his hands into the pink water and dragging Aaron out onto the floor.
8:47 P.M. PST 110 West
“It’s a screwed-up case, really,” Driscoll said. Jack hunkered down in the passenger seat of Driscoll’s Acura as the detective drove up the 110 Freeway and hurtled toward the 101. “Carney’s okay with you?”
“Fine,” Jack said. “Go on.”
“The case really started with LAPD. We got a whiff that these guys had something to do with illegal importing, so we were watching them. Then along comes this Federal group. Counter Terrorist Unit? Who the fuck are they?”
Jack laughed. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe not to you, but they stole our case away. They were kind enough to keep us updated—”
“I’ve heard that before,” Jack interjected.
“We were there when CTU collared them. You saw the box, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Looked to me like some of that stuff was missing.”
“I thought so, too. They’re working on the three suspects.”
Driscoll nodded as he exited the 101 and dropped down to Sunset, heading for Carney’s hot dogs. “I hear they’re acting tough now. They’ll break down.”
“I’ll be honest, Harry, I don’t have the time. I had an informant who gave me the idea that something’s happening tomorrow night.”
Driscoll’s mental wheels spun. “Informant… the guy who blew up?”
“Yes. I need leads. Did you guys have anything else?”
“We came in behind CTU and dusted for prints. There was lots of them and not much else. They had a cleaning lady, but she’s fifty-eight and from El Salvador. The other was the mailman. We had his prints on file. He was arrested in Pakistan for some violent protests against the prime minister. Came here a few years ago, but hasn’t caused a problem since. He’s a person of interest, but we don’t consider him a suspect at this time…’course, technically none of them are our suspects.”
“None of them are my suspects, either. Mind if I question him anyway?”
“Right after a chili dog.”
8:50 P.M. PST Playa del Rey, California
Yasin sat in the lobby of the Windows Hotel in Playa del Rey. He rubbed a hand along his smooth jawline. It felt wrong to be clean-shaven. A true Muslim wore a beard, of course. But this couldn’t be helped. He was known now in this country. It had been a risk just to return.
The man he’d been waiting for entered the front doors. Clean-shaven, including a shaven scalp, dressed in jeans, blue T-shirt, and court shoes, he looked like any one of the thousands of fit, middle-aged, multicultural Angelenos that formed the image of the city. As the other man approached, Yasin smiled to himself, satisfied in the knowledge that it was America’s pluralism that would help defeat it. The United States had too many open doors, too many faces, too many acceptable modes of behavior, to keep them out. They could blend in so easily. Because Allah was great, Yasin probably could have stood in the middle of the lobby dressed as a Bedouin and no one would have given it a thought. The Americans were so arrogant, so ignorant, that they were not even aware of the masses who hated them halfway around the world.
The bald, fit man arrived at his seat. He said to Yasin, “Good to see you, Gabriel,” using Yasin’s code name.
“And you, Michael,” he replied tersely. “You seem unhappy, Michael. Is something wrong.”
A look of disdain crawled across Michael’s face. “We’re in this together, but I don’t have to pretend to like you.”
“It will be over soon. Tomorrow. Let’s talk about the C–4. I assume that what the authorities found was the extra?” Yasin asked.
Michael nodded. “And the ones in custody don’t know anything. That, plus the fact that the police are inept, means we’re both safe.”
Yasin was not comfortable with this. “Don’t underestimate them.”
Michael laughed. “The FBI let you walk out their front door.”
“They were idiots then,” Yasin agreed. “The events of 1993 took them by surprise. That was the idea, of course. But we can’t let success cloud our judgment. Look how quickly they recovered. My blind friend is in jail. So are several of the others. I was caught, and it was only the will of”—he almost said Allah aloud—“it was only good luck that I was set free. If we make mistakes, they will take advantage of them.” Yasin sat back for a minute, rubbing his bare chin again. Michael sensed a lecture. “My blind friend’s mistake,” Yasin began, “was that he put all his trust in hiding his trail. The trail cannot be entirely hidden. You cannot hide water from a Bedouin. They will find a trail. We should have left false leads. The word for it is subterfuge. You Americans call it a red herring, though I don’t know where the expression comes from.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have more than one.”
Yasin grinned. “I have been lately interested in the number three.”
8:57 P.M. PST Brentwood
The sirens had stopped, but Carianne was still wailing. The paramedics had shoved Don out of the room as they tried desperately to resuscitate their son. Don and Carianne had clutched at each other for a few minutes. Don, horrified, in shock, could only wonder morbidly how the bathroom had looked so clean. All the blood had spilled into the big tub of water, clouding it pink.
Mandi had come from next door, responding to the commotion, and wrapped herself around Carianne’s grief. Don had peeled himself away. It was the man in him, or the cop, he wasn’t sure which, but he felt the need to act. And he had a horrible feeling that Aaron had been trying to tell him something earlier.