24 Declassified: Cat's Claw 2d-4

by John Whitman

  “You’ve got to forgive him, he doesn’t always work well with others,” Mercy said. To Jack: “Walk with me?”

  Jack looked back over his shoulder. The two men were gone, probably driven off by the disturbance he and the cop had created. Damn. He spoke into his mike. “Did you see where they went?”

  “Negative,” Almeida replied, sounding disgusted. “Down the street, but we couldn’t get more than that. The cameras are blocked by the tree line. Those guys are gone.”

  Jack threw the uniformed cop an angry glare, but didn’t feel the drive to push it further. It wasn’t the cop’s fault.

  “Hello, Jack?” Mercy said, waving her hand in front of his face. “Remember me?”

  “Mercy,” Jack said, “I know you wanted to meet, but I’ve got something going here.”

  “Me, too,” the detective said. “I think this might be your area.”

  “Jack?” Tony Almeida’s voice muttered in his ear.

  “Stand by,” Jack said. He refocused on Mercy. She looked as good now as the day they’d agreed not to speak ever again. She was a fascinating combination of shapes — a sharp nose on a round face framed by straight dark hair. It all came together in a way he found attractive, especially when coupled with her no-BS attitude. You’d have called her feisty except that she’d kick you in the groin for using that word. She was wearing a dark blue pant suit with a white blouse that offered just the slightest hint of her nearly perfect breasts.

  Mercy Bennet had spent six months as LAPD’s liaison to the Counter Terrorist Unit, a thankless task that required diplomacy, patience, and tact.

  Mercy had not been good at the job.

  The first time Jack met her, she walked into the conference room at CTU to accuse Ryan Chappelle of withholding information and holding LAPD suspects in custody without notifying local authorities. At least that was what she’d written in her report. The words she’d actually used to his face were more along the lines of “sandbagging son of a bitch” and “pencil-necked twit.”

  Jack liked her right away.

  “All right,” Jack said after a moment. “What have you got?”

  8:10 A.M. PST West Los Angeles

  “…just kill him,” the man on the phone was saying.

  “No, Nick,” said the man from his room. “We’re not going to kill anyone we don’t have to kill. Besides, killing him will raise even more questions.”

  “Getting soft?”

  The man grimaced, not so much at the challenge to his authority as to the tedium involved in defending himself. Nick was his inside man, one of the faithful — but he was a man of action, and like most men of action, he required constant affirmation of himself and his leaders.

  “I am economical,” he said. “You should know that by now.”

  “Well, you may have to spend a little something on this guy,” Nick said. “From what I’ve heard, Bauer isn’t the kind of guy to stop once he’s on the scent.”

  “He’s hardly ‘on the scent.’ ”

  “He just met with the detective on the Gordon Gleed case.”

  The man in the hotel room hesitated. He was rarely surprised, and rarely unsure of himself. But this information was surprising, and was surely cause for concern. He had not expected the Gleed case to move from the local to the federal level so quickly.

  “In twenty-three hours it won’t matter,” he said. “We will have to convince Mr. Bauer to slow down his investigation.”

  8:16 A.M. PST Southwest Corner of Federal Plaza, West Los Angeles

  Jack Bauer stood by the grill of Mercy’s slick-top white Crown Victoria, where she had led him. “So what’s the story?”

  Mercy had just related to him the theory she’d been developing since the day Gordon Gleed was bludgeoned in his own home. From those first moments, she’d been convinced that Gleed had not been the victim of a robbery. The tossed house and stolen items were a feint. Gleed had been killed for political reasons.

  “Gordon Gleed was president of the Free Enterprise Alliance. That’s a business group that supports rural resource developers.”

  “Rural resource—?”

  “A fancy name for loggers, real estate developers, like that. They file lawsuits to repeal environmental protection and fight against the Clean Water Act. The Free Enterprise Alliance is one of those groups that eats endangered spotted owls for dinner and takes baths in baby seal blood.”

  “How does that involve us?” Jack had asked.

  “I did some research. The Free Enterprise Alliance had several clashes with some splinter groups from Earth First! a radical environmental group. These splinter groups, like the Earth Liberation Front and some others, are on CTU’s terrorist watch list.”

  Jack didn’t even try to hide his shock. “A bunch of treehuggers are on the terrorist watch list?”

  “You should check into these guys, Jack. They aren’t just a bunch of granola heads. They’re eco-terrorists — organized, sophisticated. They’ve killed people, sabotaged companies. They’re as radical as anyone else out there.”

  “No planes into buildings, though,” Jack pointed out.

  “No, but I wouldn’t put it past some of them. There’s a splinter group that left Earth First! because it felt that Earth First! was too soft. They sent a half-dozen death threats to Gordon Gleed in the last year or so.”

  “Even if this guy was murdered by eco-terrorists, it’s not something I can focus on now.” He spread his arms as if to embrace the entire Federal Building. “I’ve got the G8 to worry about, and a known political terrorist to track down.”

  “That’s why I tracked you down. From what I could dig up, Gordon Gleed had taken matters into his own hands. No one at the Federal level did much for him, so he started digging up his own dirt on this splinter group. I think he found out they were planning something at the G8, and that’s why they killed him.”

  “Planning what?”

  “Jesus, Jack, if I knew I would have started this conversation there,” she said, her temperature rising.

  “Well, come on, Mercy!” Jack snapped back. “What do you expect me to do with this? You want me to drop a potential lead against a man who’s responsible for about a hundred terrorist acts over the last ten years and look into a local murder because of some Greenpeace guys who are really, really upset?”

  Mercy’s neck reddened. She fought the urge to bite back, and kept her sentences short and factual. “Gleed was smart. He reported everything he learned to the FBI, even though they weren’t really interested. He also did his own investigating. He heard this splinter group was planning something for the G8. Something big.”

  Jack held his hands up in appeasement. “Okay. That’s not much, but it’s something. This splinter group, does it have a name? A leader?”

  Mercy fidgeted. “They call themselves the Monkey Wrench Gang.”

  “The Monkey Wrench Gang!” Jack said incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I laughed it off, too,” Mercy said defensively. “But it has meaning. The Monkey Wrench Gang was a book written by a guy named Edward Abbey. That was the book that inspired the founders of Earth First! In some ways it was the inspiration for the whole eco-terrorist movement.”

  “Who’s the leader, Magilla Gorilla?”

  Mercy bore the brunt of his jokes bravely. “According to Gleed’s notes, he’s known as Seldom Seen Smith.” When Jack rolled his eyes, she added, “Another reference to the book.”

  “Right. Monkeywrench Gang. Seldom Seen Smith. Mercy, I hear what you’re saying, but even if you’re right, I don’t have much to go on—”

  “I have Gleed’s notes. Run through them with me. We could dig up something—”

  “—and I have a possible sighting of Ayman al-Libbi and a positive sighting of one of his lieutenants here already. I’ve got to stay on that. Why don’t you take it to someone else?”

  Now it was Mercy’s turn for sarcasm. “After what we’ve been through, do you think I’d go to you fi
rst?”

  Her statement hit Jack like a slap in the face. She hadn’t wanted to see him. She had actively avoided it. And now she’d come to him only as a last resort. “Mercy…”

  “The FBI had the same reaction you did. I’m telling you, these guys fly under the radar because no one puts ecoterrorism high on the list, and because the names are so ridiculous. But that’s only going to last until they do something big. For God’s sake, the Muslim Brotherhood sounds like it belongs in a comic book, but you take those guys seriously.”

  “Forget that for a minute,” Jack said. “I want to”—he glanced around but none of the uniforms was paying any attention to them—“let’s talk about you and me.”

  She didn’t move a muscle, but to Jack it seemed as if she had stepped back. There was suddenly more distance between them. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said flatly.

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do,” Jack insisted. “Just because we stopped doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.”

  Mercy had been three months on the job as liaison when her weekly updates with CTU turned into one-on-one meetings with Jack Bauer, and those meetings became coffee, and then dates at the firing range for a little friendly competition, and then lunch…

  Mercy smiled at him, the corners of her eyes wrinkling ever so slightly, and ever so sadly. “I didn’t say there was nothing there. I said there’s nothing to talk about.” She stepped closer, so that even on the warming asphalt of a Los Angeles street Jack could smell her perfume. “Jack, I want you. We fit together. And I’m not going to pretend that you have to leave your wife first. But I don’t want to sleep with you just because you need a little something extra. If there’s a thing here, I’m all for it. But if it’s just you feeling itchy, you need to set your sights on a different target.”

  Jack smiled awkwardly. He hated her for saying that, and loved her, too. She was blunt, factual, efficient; a bullet in the brain. She stated her case without equivocation. He had nothing but respect for that.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll look at this when I can. But only for you. I…” He gathered himself. “I just want you to know that, no matter what happens, where we are, or whatever your situation…you’ll always have someone who’s on your side. Always.”

  Mercy smiled again, her eyes shining. “Thanks.” She opened her car door and pulled out a stack of files. “Here,” she said. “Read through those. If you finish and still don’t think there’s something here, forget it. Blow me off. But if this interests you, you know where to find me.”

  She handed him the file. As he took it, she brushed her finger along his hand. “Talk to you soon,” she said, then slid into her car, started the engine, and drove away.

  8:30 A.M. PST Northeast Corner of Federal Plaza, West Los Angeles

  Kim Bauer was still talking to the boy with straight hair that hung down to his eyebrows. His name was Brad Gilmore. He was the current cutest boy in school, and half the reason Kim had joined Teen Green.

  “So what does this meeting really have to do with the environment?” she asked Brad as they put the finishing touches on their posters. She knew the answer already, but she also knew boys. They liked to show off, and smart girls gave them every chance.

  Brad pushed his hair behind his ears. “The G8 is made up of the biggest countries in the world. I mean, not the biggest exactly, but some of the biggest polluters. And they’re also talking about letting China join up, and China is totally a big polluter, too. I went to Beijing one summer with my mom and you could taste the air.”

  “And demonstrations like this are going to help, right?”

  Kim meant for her voice to sound cute and coy, but she was still Jack Bauer’s daughter, and a hint of skepticism crept in.

  Brad squirmed a little. Clearly he didn’t want to get into a political debate with Kim. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, this is our planet, too, right? Maybe it’s more ours than theirs, since we’re going to be around longer. Besides, it’s pretty cool to be here, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the quote of the day!”

  Both Kim and Brad turned to see who was talking to them. The man standing behind them was short and round, his belly pushing against the buttons of a blue button-down shirt. He smiled a puffy, big-cheeked smile from behind a pair of round black glasses. He was wearing a badge on a red ribbon around his neck, which he lifted and waved in front of their faces. “How’re you doing? I’m Martin Olivera with the L.A. Weekly. You two have time for a quick interview?”

  Kim looked from the short round man to Brad to Marshall Cooper, the club advisor. Mr. Cooper glanced at the press badge and then smiled and nodded.

  “Sure,” she said.

  Martin Olivera plucked a pen out of his shirt pocket and lifted a small black notepad. “So what brings a group of teenagers down to a huge political demonstration like this?”

  “Well,” Kim said, winking at Brad, “I mean, this is our planet, too, isn’t it? And like we’re going to be around here longer, aren’t we?”

  Olivera scratched at his notebook. “That’s good, that’s really good. Can I have your name for the article?”

  “Kim Bauer,” she said. “And he’s Brad Gilmore.”

  “Great, thanks. Have a good day.”

  He turned away, and Kim turned back to Brad. “Oh, hey, one more thing,” the reporter said. He reached back and tapped Kim with the pen. The pen poked her on the wrist like a bee sting.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry!” Olivera said. “I just wanted to make sure it’s B-a-u-e-r.”

  “That hurt. Be careful with that thing,” Kim said, bringing her wrist to her mouth and sucking at the spot where the pen had stabbed her. “Yeah, that’s how you spell it.”

  “Thanks again,” Olivera said with a smile. “Goodbye.”

  8:45 A.M. PST Federal Building Command Center, West Los Angeles

  Tony Almeida watched Jack through the camera as he talked with the female detective. He’d seen her around CTU — some sort of liaison — but he’d forgotten her name. Jack had turned off his microphone, so he couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  “She’s a hottie,” said one of the two pallid FBI techs. The other one had gone on a break. This one grinned at Tony. He had a hard, Slavic look about the face, but his body was thin. “We could always use the shotgun mike on him.”

  Tony glared at him under his heavy eyelids. “How do you guys get off when you’re not snooping?”

  “Oh, we’re always snooping,” he said with a grin.

  Tony shrugged. “You guys told me your names before. McKey and Dyson, right? Which one are you?”

  The tech laughed. “We’re interchangeable.”

  “Built out of spare parts at Quantico, that it?”

  “Something like that. I’m Nick Dyson.” He shook Tony’s hand quickly. “So anyway, how about that shotgun mike?”

  Tony shook his head. “If Bauer wanted us listening in, he’d have left his mike on.”

  “Suit yourself,” the tech said. He stared at the bank of monitors and sighed. “This is going to be boring, I can tell already.”

  Almeida watched the human ocean roiling and crashing against the barricades. “Let’s hope you’re right,” he prayed.

  8:55 A.M. PST Federal Plaza, West Los Angeles

  One of the best parts of being a Federal agent was the parking. When Jack had brought Kim down to the rally, he’d parked in the Federal Building’s main lot, which was now reserved only for personnel who worked in the building and, of course, Federal agents.

  Jack climbed into his black SUV as his cell phone rang.

  “Hey, Jack,” Teri said. “How’s it going out there?”

  “Hey,” he replied. “It’s going fine. Listen, can you call Kim on her cell and tell her I’ll be right back? I have to run over to the office for a minute.”

  The wireless connection went suddenly cold. “Jack, you’re supposed to be with her.”

&nb
sp; He defended himself. “She’s with the chaperone. And this is a quick trip. I just have to check on something. Do you mind calling her?”

  “Fine,” she said in a tone that indicated it was anything but. “I’ll talk to you later.” The call ended.

  He would pay for that later, he could tell. But there was nothing to be done at the moment. Jack fired the engine, then rolled out of the lot and turned south on Federal Avenue. It would have been easier to turn north and take Wilshire Boulevard toward downtown, which would have led him closer to CTU headquarters, but Wilshire was, of course, blocked, so the only way to get away from the building was to follow a maze of detours through the narrow streets lined with tiny, well-kept Spanish bungalows that had sprung up just off the main thoroughfares. It was really just Los Angeles, but they called it Holmby Hills, or Rancho Park, or something else that sounded exclusive and desirable, so that the residents all felt good about their inflated property values.

  He should have been focused on Ayman al-Libbi, or even Mercy’s take on the eco-terrorist theory. But instead he was focused on Mercy Bennet herself, although his mind alternately, almost guiltily, went from Mercy to Teri Bauer and back, like a bad news reporter giving equal time even when the topics did not merit equal weight.

  Mercy was right to hold him at arm’s length. He knew that, and not because he subscribed to some outmoded sense of decency. Half the men he knew admitted cheating on their wives, and the other half were liars. Mercy didn’t demand that he do the right thing — she just wanted assurance that she was making more than just a guest appearance in Jack’s own personal drama.

  And the truth was, he couldn’t give her that assurance. He liked her. He knew that. But he loved Teri, even when she drove him crazy. Even in the depth of his discontent he had never thought of leaving her for another woman, until Mercy appeared. She was a new temptation, different from the others that Jack had resisted, a temptation that was more than distraction, a lure that seemed to be not just temporary relief but. an alternative.