by John Whitman
“I support you, Your Holiness. But why are you telling this to me?”
“Because I know you are a leader of the schismatics.”
The statement hung there in that sanctified air. “Your Holin—”
“Please do not waste my time or yours by denying it,” John Paul said. “You believe I am a heretic. A traitor to the church.”
Mulrooney felt the blood rise into his cheeks. This damned old man had done it to him again, looking so frail but then challenging him so directly. “This really can’t be the best time to discuss this…”
“What better time?” the old man said. “The world is entering a religious war, my friend. How will we help if we are at war within ourselves?”
Mulrooney realized where the Pope’s thoughts were leading him. “I was not there, Your Holiness, but I was told the bomber was a Muslim, not a Catholic.”
“He was neither,” John Paul said. “Whatever he was, whoever he worked for, he was not a man of God. Men of God reject violence. That will be all, Your Eminence.”
3:10 P.M. PST Outside St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Jack, Harry Driscoll, and Dan Bender pulled up to the cathedral and got out. “Are you really expecting trouble here?” Driscoll asked. Jack laughed. “There’s been nothing but trouble here.”
At the front of the cathedral, they were met by one of the Swiss Guards. He detained them briefly until a radio call to Giancarlo cleared them.
The chief of the Swiss Guards met them in the courtyard. He shook Jack’s hand with both of his and said, “I did not have time to thank you properly before. You saved his life. Millions will thank you for it.”
“I think there’s one more bomber. And we still haven’t found out who is transmitting the signal.” He explained the design of the bomb found in Father Collins. “Someone set that bomb off, probably someone at the reception itself, since they would have waited until the bomber was next to the target.”
“No one from the reception is here,” Giancarlo said. “We’ve evacuated the entire cathedral except for our people.”
“You have a plan for evacuating him from here?”
“Yes,” Giancarlo said simply. “In approximately an hour. Come with me to the library. Tell me what you know.”
3:15 P.M. PST Chapel at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Michael walked around the outside of the chapel. There was a guard there, one of the Swiss Guards from the Pope’s retinue. Michael smiled and nodded to him. “I am making my rounds,” he said simply. “To check security.”
“Giancarlo does the same,” the man replied.
Michael smiled again and whipped his hand across the man’s neck. The small blade sliced his throat like butter. The man gurgled once, his eyes staring wildly, then he fell on his face.
Michael moved on to the next one.
3:19 P.M. PST Library at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
“The problem is not knowing the source of the threat,” Giancarlo said as Jack finished his debrief.
“Well, ultimately it’s Yasin, but he’s got someone here working for him,” Jack said with both determination and weariness in his voice. “I’ve been chasing them down all night. Whoever set this up has run me around in circles. But I’ll come across them eventually.”
3:21 P.M. PST Chapel at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
John Paul sat in silent meditation for quite some time, searching his soul for some answer. He was aware of his own arrogance, to think that he could solve problems that had plagued the world for hundreds of years. But if not he, then who?
He heard footsteps approaching. At first he ignored them, assuming they were a guard checking on him. But the footsteps stopped, and after a few minutes the Pope was drawn out of his meditation. He looked up. There was a man sitting in one of the pews, smiling. He was dressed like a Swiss Guard, but John Paul knew that he was not.
“Who are you?” the Pope asked.
“My name is Mark Gelson.”
3:28 P.M. PST Library at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
“I talked with my headquarters on the way over,” Jack continued. “All we know of the third bomber is that he is probably Caucasian. The problem is, we don’t have any Caucasian suspects at all on our suspect list. Not unless you can think of anyone, Harry.”
“This bomber poses a danger,” Giancarlo agreed. “I’m just not sure—”
“I can’t think of anyone,” Harry mused.
“Me neither.”
“Unless it’s Mark Gelson,” Harry finished.
That brought Jack up short. “Gelson? He’s no one.”
Giancarlo looked at them both. “Do you mean Mark Gelson, the American actor?”
“Yeah, but it—”
“He is a schismatic,” Giancarlo said. “He belongs to a sect of Catholicism that rejects everything and everyone that came out of Vatican II. His father actually founded the sect. They’re about twenty thousand strong in the United States. We’ve had Gelson on our watch list for several years.”
3:31 P.M. PST Chapel at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
“He was a good man, my father,” Gelson was saying. “What you did broke him. He never wanted to cause a schism and form the Tridentine Society, and hated himself for it. But you gave him no choice.”
John Paul had the urge to run, but it had been years since he had run anywhere. Besides, he abhorred the idea of an inelegant death. “My son,” he said, “there are many who disagree with parts of Vatican II. The Society of St. Pius X, for instance. But they do not resort to violence. There are cardinals in the Vatican itself who share the schismatic view, but they try to voice their opinions within the church.”
“How much good does it do them?”
“To kill over matters of religion, this is the problem with the world. Our enemies twist their religion and use it as an excuse to kill. We must not do the same.”
Gelson laughed. “The history of the church is the history of killing those who stray and refuse to rejoin the fold. I don’t see why you should be any different.”
“And you would take your own life along with mine?” “I was ready to,” Gelson said. “But now I don’t have to.”
“What of your reputation?” John Paul asked.
Gelson laughed again, this time bitterly. “My reputation. Yes, I am putting at risk my reputation as a broken-down former action hero who talks about blowing people up when he’s drunk. I’ll risk it.”
“Still, you will be known as a murderer.” “Among those I love, I’ll be a hero. The man who killed the heretical Pope.”
3:40 P.M. PST Courtyard at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Jack and the others followed Giancarlo across the courtyard. “I’m sure the Holy Father would like to thank you in person. First let me enter the chapel to see if he has finished his medi…” His voice trailed off.
“Something?” Jack asked.
“My men.”
Giancarlo bolted forward, with Jack and the others racing behind.
They burst into the chapel to see two men standing over the Pope. Jack recognized Gelson immediately. The other man looked familiar to Jack, but he had no time to dwell on it as the man raised his gun to the Pope’s head.
“No!” Giancarlo shouted. His own weapon was out immediately and he fired, knocking Michael off his feet. Gelson jumped back, terrified by the loud noise. Jack and the others surged forward. Michael was not dead. He sat up and steadied his semi-automatic again. By the time he squeezed the trigger, Giancarlo had thrown his body over the Pope.
Jack stopped and put Michael in his sights, but gunfire erupted all around him. He fired as he dove for the cover of the church benches. More security men, the same ones who had attacked him last night. He hoped Driscoll and Bender had found cover.
Why would Mulrooney’s security team try to kill the Pope?
Schismatics. The single wor
d came to him, then disappeared as he sat up and fired toward a man at a side door. The man fell away and did not reappear.
Jack glimpsed Bender, still standing in the open, pouring rounds at Michael. He knew what the Mossad agent was trying to do. If he kept Michael’s head down, the man might not be able to shoot at his target.
It worked, but Bender paid a price for his bravery. Bulky and exposed, he was an easy target. A few seconds after he fired, red flowers blossomed on his chest and he fell to his knees.
By that time Jack was up and vaulting over the pews. He saw the security chief fire point-blank toward the Pope, and he assumed the Pontiff was dead, but he kept moving and firing. The assassin went down again, and then crawled for cover. He was wearing some kind of body armor. Gelson squealed and ran toward the altar, with Michael close behind him. Bullets still burned through the air all around.
“Driscoll! Left side!” he yelled, and turned to the right, firing at any angle from which bullets seemed to come. The return fire ceased as the security men retreated.
Jack grabbed Giancarlo. The Swiss Guard was heavy and lifeless as Jack dragged him off the Pope, who cowered beneath, covered in blood. “Are you hit!” he yelled.
“It’s his blood,” John Paul said. “His blood!”
“Driscoll?” Jack called out.
“Here,” Harry called from behind him. “But I caught one.” Jack turned. Harry was holding his gun in his left hand. His right arm hung limp and loose at his side.
It was swelling hugely from the biceps down, where a bullet had torn away most of the muscle and shattered the bone.
“Jack,” Driscoll said, “I think they’re coming back.”
23. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
4:00 P.M. PST Courtyard at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Pembrook and Wittenberg were still alive. Gelson, too, but Gelson wasn’t much of a fighter.
“What are we doing?” Gelson whined. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“He’s not dead,” Michael snarled. “That damned bodyguard shielded him. He’s not dead!”
“It’s too late,” Gelson said. “It’s all gone to hell.”
“Wittenberg, far side. Go in when you hear the gunfire. Pembrook, with me.” Wittenberg nodded and hurried around the corner of the building.
“He got Aimes and Duvaine on the move,” Pembrook said. “He’s better than us.”
“We’ll see. Go.”
4:01 P.M. PST Chapel at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
They came in behind their gunfire, keeping Jack’s head low. The cathedral echoed with loud, angry cracks of firearms. Driscoll tried to return fire, but Jack guessed what they were up to. He whirled around to the far side just in time to see the other man burst through the door. Jack squeezed three times, and the attacker stumbled as though he’d tripped over something. He did not get up again.
John Paul, terrified out of all sense, started to stand up. Jack tackled him, fearful that he might crush the old man but short on choices. Driscoll tried to cover them. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw the detective fire and then fall like a rag doll. The two security men fell back again.
Jack felt John Paul tremble beneath him and heard the man whispering something in Latin.
“Stay still,” Jack whispered. “They’re not gone. With this much gunfire, I promise you someone is on the way.”
4:03 P.M. PST Cardinal’s Residence at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Cardinal Mulrooney sat on his bed with his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth slightly. He was terrified. He’d had no idea of this. None. It wasn’t his fault.
Those phrases kept repeating themselves in his mind.
4:04 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Nina Myers slammed down the phone, then clipped her pancake holster to her belt as she ran for the door, with Henderson right behind her.
4:05 P.M. PST Courtyard at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Michael was out of time and he knew it. He could already hear sirens wailing. Bauer didn’t have to defeat them, just hold them off until help arrived. The elaborate plan had failed. All three of their suicide bombers had failed. Michael thought now only of escape.
“You’re right, Gelson,” he said. “Time to go.”
4:06 P.M. PST Chapel at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Jack knew they were retreating and he wanted to give chase. He knew instinctively that Michael was the man he’d been looking for: the man behind the plot, and the man who could lead him to Yasin.
He scrambled over to Driscoll. “Harry, you with me?” The detective answered weakly, “Unfortunately, yeah.” His eyes lost focus, then returned to Jack.
“All in all, can’t say I’m happy I called you, Jack.”
“Can’t blame you.” Jack examined Driscoll’s wounds. They were not good. His right arm might never work again, and the second wound had punched a hole through his lower left abdomen. “You hear those sirens?” They were loud now.
“Like music.”
“Help is on the way. But the bad guys are leaving. I’m not letting them go.”
Driscoll managed a thin smile. “That’s Jack Bauer, all right.” He lifted his gun. “Go.”
Jack launched himself toward the door and burst into the courtyard just in time to see three figures slipping over the wall. Jack fired, the rounds tearing holes in the adobe, but he was certain none of them found their mark.
Jack sprinted after them and was over the wall in a second, carried by pure adrenaline. By the time he got to the street, they had disappeared.
4:08 P.M. PST Main Street, Los Angeles
Michael and Pembrook guided Gelson into the car Michael had waiting on the street. It was a blind, totally legal and registered to one of the two false IDs that Michael had worked so hard to create for himself.
As soon as they were inside, Michael eased into traffic. Sirens wailed around them, but they were just one of many cars trying to get through the congested downtown area.
None of them spoke. Michael was astounded at how suddenly and completely his carefully laid plan had turned into a failure. Not just a failure. An utter disaster. He had to get to a safe place and reassess, figure out how to recover from this debacle. And he thought he knew just the person to help him.
4:11 P.M. PST Chapel at St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Jack returned to the chapel as the adrenaline dump wore off, making him feel suddenly old and heavy. Uniformed officers were swarming the area, along with the LAPD SWAT unit he’d once belonged to. The Pope was gone, whisked away by whatever remained of his Swiss Guards.
Jack showed the cops his ID and gave them what description he could. Gelson was easy, but in the middle of the gunfire he’d never gotten a great look at Michael or the other man; their faces were accompanied by flashes of light and gunfire. He had a feeling that he should recognize one of them. Paramedics rushed in, and he directed them toward Harry Driscoll and Dan Bender. Three of them started working on Harry Driscoll immediately. Their urgent voices told Jack that the situation was dire.
He had just sat down, nearly collapsing under the weight of his day, when Christopher Henderson and Nina Myers rushed in. Henderson went immediately to the officer in charge while Nina checked on Jack.
“You’re not hit?” she confirmed.
“Nah,” he said, sitting in one of the church pews. “I figured the five-story fall and the concussion were enough.”
“Glad you didn’t overdo it.” She paused, looking for something to say, and settled on, “Is this what working with you is going to be like? Because if it is, I’m going to have to bring my A game every day.”
Jack shook his head. “Not funny. People are dead, and an old friend just got shot up.”
“And you saved the Pope,” she replied sharply. “More people would have died if y
ou hadn’t pushed this case, and you know it.”
“We didn’t get them,” Jack said.
“We know who they are. Gelson at least won’t get very far, not with a face that recognizable.”
“We didn’t get the planner, and we didn’t get Yasin.”
“Jack, you saved the Pope. Not everyone gets to do that.”
Ryan Chappelle walked onto the scene. Jack saw him before he saw Jack, because Chappelle’s eyes were drawn first to the carnage. He shook his head and talked with Christopher Henderson. With each passing word from Henderson, Chappelle looked more and more unhappy. Finally, Henderson pointed Jack’s way, and Chappelle walked over to him.
He stared reproachfully at Bauer. Clearly there was a lot he wanted to say, but for once he seemed to have the presence of mind not to speak. In fact, he was reviewing the teleconference he’d had with the joint subcommittee and wondered what they would say about the unknown agent who got things done, if only they were standing in the middle of all this bloodshed. At last, he said simply, “I’ll need a full report on this.”
Nina’s phone rang. She answered, listened, and said, “No shit. I’ve got Bauer here,” and handed him the phone.
“Agent Bauer? This is Dr. Siegman over at the coroner’s office. I hear that a whole lot went down and you’re going to keep us busy down here.” Jack had no response to that, so Siegman continued. “Listen, I guess it may be too late for this, but some of our techs down here were playing with this receiver embedded in the deceased.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Well, you know it’s not a purely passive receiver. It’s more like a cell phone receiver. It sends out a locator signal every fifteen seconds or so. I guess so that you can detonate it from far away.”
Jack thought of the one Barny had strapped to his back. “I’m familiar with them.” “Well, if it’s like a cell phone, my guys figure that it can be traced.”
Jack thought of Mark Gelson riding in a car somewhere with Michael. “Dr. Siegman, that is the very best thing I’ve heard all day.”