24 Declassified: Veto Power 2d-2

by John Whitman

  “Any leads on where the cell members are now?” asked Perch.

  “No,” Jack admitted. “All our information is less than twenty-four hours old. The leads on the actual attack are less than an hour old. We are cross-checking everyone who lives in the apartment building, and we’re running the apartment’s security videos through visual recognition software to see if anyone comes up.”

  “Likelihood?” asked Walsh, who spoke in a shorthand Jack could appreciate.

  “Low,” he replied. “The security cameras are erased and reused every forty-eight hours. But we’ll check anyway.”

  There was a slight pause, then the deputy from the NSA, Margaret Cheedles, said, “Look, I respect the work Jack Bauer and CTU have put into this, but doesn’t it seem a little far-fetched at this point to sound the alarms?”

  No one else answered, so Jack said, “I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am.”

  “Well, you say this cell is communicating through codes left in poetry?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Our working theory is that different members of the cell used the apartment at different times. To avoid electronic surveillance, and a possible raid, they left notes for each other through something like a Hill cipher, using the poetry as a foundation.”

  “Okay,” Cheedles said, “but don’t fundamentalist Islamists consider all poetry prior to Mohammed heretical? Why would they use it?”

  “My expert tells me that these poems earn a certain amount of respect because they were once present in the Kaaba,” Jack replied. “Besides, they had to use something, and they couldn’t use the Koran itself. That would have been heretical.”

  “We’re off track here,” said Henry Rutledge, representing Homeland Security. “None of us is an expert on Islamic fundamentalism or literature.”

  “Agreed,” said Richard Walsh.

  “And I have to say the whole process has me confused,” added Cheedles. “I’ve seen the Greater Nation mentioned in the daily security briefings, but never with this much of a presence. Aren’t they a low-level threat? How would they have gotten so much information?”

  “They are better funded you might expect,” Jack replied. “And their leader is sharp.”

  “I agree with Agent Bauer,” said the Attorney General. Kelly fidgeted again, but Jack was grateful to get support from any quarter. “Assuming they exist, these terrorists have had at least six months of planning time without being watched. Something went haywire back then and the trail went cold. If some nutcase militia that wants to take the law into its own hands picked up the ball we dropped, I say we say thank you, take the ball back, and start to run our own plays.”

  “I understand the concern, and I agree that CTU should continue to investigate,” said Perch. “But there’s one important part of this whole threat that everyone is forgetting.”

  “What?” Jack asked.

  Perch shrugged. “The President isn’t going to be in Los Angeles tomorrow morning.”

  12:16 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  “Nice work, Jack,” Ryan Chappelle drawled. “Really nice work in there.”

  The video monitors had all died down. Their last lights had burned into Jack’s brain the looks of annoyance on each person’s face. The one that had bothered him most was the look on Walsh’s face. The tough veteran was far too disciplined to show any real reaction, but in his stony face Jack read a deep disappointment.

  “That’s going to really enhance CTU’s reputation,” Chappelle continued in a voice thick with sarcasm. “Not to mention your own.”

  Jack glared at him. “At least I spend my time out there fighting credible threats instead of arresting our own people.”

  Chappelle sneered. “Credible threats? Is that what you call it when some mysterious group no one’s ever seen uses poetry to plan an attack on the President in a city where he’s not even going to be? No wonder we demoted you, Bauer.”

  Jack let Chappelle have the last word, then leave the conference room. He couldn’t care less for Chappelle. He felt humiliated for stumbling in front of Walsh.

  Jack felt a hand pat his shoulder. Kelly Sharpton had remained behind. “Happened to me once,” he said. “I had done a threat assessment for a visit from the President of China, right about the time the Fulon Gong was active. I gave this whole presentation on Fulon Gong members in San Francisco and how they were likely to try something here. It wasn’t till the end of my presentation that one of my own people mentioned that we’d already arrested the local Fulon Gong members.”

  “Great,” Jack said, “so we’re both a couple of asses.” He sat down on the tabletop. “Look, I think you and I agree that something’s going on here. This cell pops up every few months and somehow gets swept aside. This Frank Newhouse is some kind of wild card out there doing who knows what. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got to keep looking into this.”

  Kelly grinned. “Who says I was going to stop. Let me work on the Frank Newhouse angle.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “You get a little lust in your eye when you mention him and the Attorney General. What was the story there?”

  “Not sure it’s worth telling at this point,” Kelly said. “Let’s just say that the AG tried to strong-arm someone and I helped them out, and I’m not done with the payback yet.”

  “Strong-arm. ” Jack murmured. He generally avoided cluttering his mind with politics that did not involve his work, but some current events had a direct impact on him. “The New American Privacy thing?” he asked. “Was it about the Senate vote?”

  Kelly nodded.

  Jack scratched his head. There were too many pieces to this puzzle, and he was starting to worry that two different jigsaws had been mixed together. He made a mental list of the absolute connections: Greater Nation and Frank Newhouse; Frank New-house and the Attorney General; Attorney General and NAP Act; Greater Nation and terrorist clues; terrorist clues and threat to President. The stories seemed to spin off in two different directions.

  “Okay,” he said, “do you have anything to chase down with Newhouse?”

  Kelly nodded. “There’s an old address in the file. At least it’s somewhere to start.”

  “That’s more than I’ve got with these terrorists,” Jack admitted.

  “No it’s not. ” Nina Myers stood in the doorway of the conference room with an enormous grin on her pixie face. “You are going to want to make out with me when I show you this.”

  “I’m a married man, Nina,” Jack said.

  “Married to your work.” She laughed. Jack felt a pang. He hadn’t called his wife since last night. He felt a second pang when he realized that he hadn’t even thought of his wife since last night. He sensed vaguely that his marriage was in rough water and heading for the rocks, but he had no time to steer that ship at the moment.

  “What’ve you got?”

  Nina strutted forward and handed him a printout.

  On one side of the page was a photocopy of the driver’s license they’d picked up from the lease on the apartment building. On the other side was a mug shot and a rap sheet from LAPD. The name on the driver’s license was Richard Brighton. The name on the mug shot was Julio Juarez.

  “Am I not the sexiest woman alive at the moment?” She grinned.

  And the truth was, she was right.

  12:29 P.M. PST Senator Drexler’s Office, San Francisco

  Debrah Drexler closed her office door and gathered herself. She had a few minutes before her next appointment, and once her afternoon started it was a long slide down to a red-eye flight. On days like this, she found it advantageous to grab a minute or two of private time.

  She was grateful that she’d been able to help Kelly. The man had stuck his neck out for her (again) and nearly gotten it chopped off this time. She made a mental note to find some way to repay Sela Gonzales, and another note to promote Juwan Burke. She hadn’t gotten all the details yet, but she understood that someone had smashed up his car and chased him onto Pennsylvania Avenue be
fore giving up.

  Worry still gnawed at her. She had stopped the AG from blackmailing her, it was true. But if he was using strong-arm tactics on her, who else was he after? What else was he planning? She and the Senate leadership had already made their rounds of calls, and everyone was still on board. Unless something drastic happened, the NAP Act would go down to defeat in the Senate, and the Congress would, at last, slow the erosion of civil liberties.

  Debrah Drexler rubbed her hands together, mentally pushing the issue aside. She was worrying too much. There was nothing left he could do. He’d played his hand and lost.

  She opened her door and went on to her next item of business.

  12:35 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  The door to Ramin Rafizadeh’s room opened and two uniformed security guards stepped inside. “You’re free to go,” one of them said briskly. “We’ll escort you outside.”

  He stood and walked unsteadily into the hallway, where his sister and father greeted him with hugs. “Is it…is it over?” he asked, clearly unconvinced.

  “I think so,” his father said. “At least for us.”

  The guards led them down the hallway and past the main room. Nazila caught a glimpse of Jack Bauer sitting at a computer. He was absorbed by some information on the screen, and she slowed her footsteps to study him. It was the first time, she realized, that she had been able to look at him when he was working on something other than her. She saw in the hunch of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze, and the rapt look on his face, that he was consumed by his work; he had entered a state she could only call passion. She could never decide how she felt about him, not six months ago, and not six hours ago. He seemed truly worthy of both hatred and love, and she had not been able to choose between them. Now, from a distance, with his attention directed elsewhere, she made her choice. “God bless you,” she whispered.

  12:46 P.M. PST Holmby Hills, Los Angeles

  Kelly Sharpton insisted on visiting the address himself. Although he wasn’t a field agent anymore, he was field trained and certified. Before leaving CTU, he visited Jessi Bandison, who had remained at her desk long after her shift had expired.

  “Kelly, I’m sorry—”

  “Forget it,” he shut her off. “I pulled you into something that was way over your head. It’s my fault, not yours.” As he leaned against her workstation, he rested his hand on the countertop so that it touched hers. “I’m also sorry about snapping at you earlier. I was under a lot of time pressure and I didn’t explain myself well enough.”

  “Okay,” she said, her face burning.

  “I know you’re way past your shift and you’re probably exhausted, but could you stay a little longer. I need intel on an address and you’re the best.”

  She smiled, but her face burned even hotter. He scribbled down the address of a condominium on Wilshire Boulevard. “Call me in my car,” he had said.

  Now his cellular buzzed. He pressed the Bluetooth earpiece in his ear. “Sharpton,” he said.

  “It’s Jessi. The condo is owned outright. There are no loan papers on it. According to the tax assessor’s office and the condominium’s community council, the place is owned by a Patrick Henry.”

  A few minutes later he pulled into the condominium, one of several dozen that formed a “condo canyon” along Wilshire Boulevard just to the east of Westwood and UCLA. It was a posh building. The circular drive curved under the building structure and there a valet waited to take the SUV Kelly had signed out. The lobby was two stories high with a waterfall in the middle. The floor and walls were inlaid with travertine. A concierge stood behind a marble counter. Kelly crossed the lobby and flashed his badge. “I have a few questions about the condominium owned by Mr. Patrick Henry.”

  The concierge was a slight young man in his twenties with perfectly messed hair. His skin was as smooth as a woman’s. His gold name tag read “Alexander.” “Yes, Agent Sharpton. I hope I can help you.”

  “Me, too. Is Mr. Henry at home?”

  “One moment.” Alexander lifted a phone to his ear and dialed. He smiled and nodded at Kelly, then put the phone down. “I’m sorry, there’s no answer.”

  “I’m sure you don’t mind if I go up and knock.”

  Alexander wrinkled his brow, something he clearly did not do often. “It’s against house policy, I’m afraid. No unannounced guests on the floors.”

  “Oh, I’m the United States government,” Kelly said. “We’re very informal.”

  He made for the elevator. He sensed Alexander behind him, distraught, trying to get his attention, but he ignored it. What was poor Alexander going to do, call the police?

  It was a short elevator ride up to 12F, Patrick Henry’s condominium. The twelfth floor was as sumptuous as the lobby. By the design, Kelly guessed that there were only four to six condos on each floor, which meant they were huge and expensive.

  The entrance to 12F was a set of beautiful teak doors ornately carved in chevrons, eagles, griffins, and other creatures that reminded Kelly vaguely of Europe. He lifted his foot and stomped on a griffin in the center of the door. The door rattled on its hinges, but held. The eagles and the griffins held on stubbornly for three more kicks, but eventually they surrendered and the fractured doors swung inward.

  Kelly walked in, not really expecting to find Frank Newhouse or anyone else in the apartment. But he was hoping for evidence, so he started to walk around. There wasn’t much to see. The carpet was expensive, and the crown molding gave the expansive rooms the look of luxury, but all the rooms were empty. He went to the kitchen and looked for dishes. The first two cabinets he searched were completely empty, and looked as if they’d never been used at all.

  When he opened the third cabinet, he saw the bomb.

  It was counting down to detonation, and if the digital readout was correct, he had about five minutes left.

  11. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  1:00 P.M. PST Westwood

  Kelly sprinted for the broken front doors and ran into the hallway, but he had no illusions about leaving. In a building this size, there was no way to evacuate everyone in time. In the hallway, Kelly found a fire alarm. He shattered the glass and pulled the lever. A whooping alarm filled the hallway instantly, and ceiling mounted lights began to flash.

  He ran back to the apartment, pulling out his cellular and dialing CTU. The phone was ringing by the time he reached the bomb. “Get me Chappelle, and get me someone who can defuse a bomb. Right now!”

  1:03 P.M. PST Westwood

  “Agent Sharpton, this is Glenn Schneider, LAPD Bomb Squad.”

  “Hey, Glenn,” Kelly said. He was sitting in front of the bomb, watching the digital timer tick down. “You better be a good conversationalist because you may be the last person I ever talk to. Hopefully, you can make small talk about bombs.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  Kelly had been rehearsing his speech for the last three minutes. “The timer is a digital stopwatch like they use at a track meet, but it’s hooked up to a battery. The battery wire runs off in one direction, I think back toward the front door. The timer itself is taped to several very large plastic containers of powder. The powder looks like sugar.”

  “Solidox bomb,” Schneider said. “How many cartons are there?”

  “I’m looking at six,” Kelly replied. “While I was waiting for your call I checked the other rooms. There are a couple wired to the heating system. There are wires running to the other rooms as well. The timer itself has at least fourteen wires leading from it to the C-4. I think it’s fourteen, but they’re all jumbled together so it’s hard to tell. And by the way, I have one minute and forty-three seconds left.”

  “Most of the wires are dummies,” Schneider said.

  “There’s also, believe it or not, a tennis ball sitting on top of the battery. It’s got a piece of tape over part of it.”

  Schneider made a sound like someone had just poked
him in the eye. “This guy took everything right out of the Anarchist Cookbook. Listen, that tennis ball is probably filled with matchheads and gasoline. If you pick the wrong wire, it’s probably going to heat up and pop all over you.”

  “No problem,” Kelly said. “Just tell me which wire is the right one.”

  “You need to find a wire that comes off the timer and into a heating source.”

  Kelly looked around the timer. “I don’t see a heating source. Just the timer and the plastic tubs.”

  “Look around. It’s probably the battery.”

  Kelly looked again. “No, the timer’s connected to the battery, but the battery isn’t connected to the tubs.”

  “Okay, it feeds back, then. The timer triggers the battery, but also keeps the circuit open. If you stop the timer, it automatically closes the circuit between the battery and the Solidox.”

  “So I need to get rid of the battery.”

  “Yes.”

  Kelly jumped to his feet and looked around. There was nothing in the apartment he could use. And the timer read fifty-eight seconds. He thought about backing up and shooting the tennis ball off the battery. But he didn’t want to think about what would happen if he missed.

  “Schneider, what exactly is this tennis ball thing supposed to do?”

  There was a pause. “Well, it depends on what’s inside. Sometimes tennis ball bombs are just big firecrackers. They’re like a joke. But nasty ones have gasoline or napalm inside. They spread burning rubber that keeps burning whatever it lands on.”

  Kelly looked at the tennis ball. It was an innocuous, ridiculous little thing to be afraid of. “Fuck it,” he said. He stepped forward and kicked the tennis ball and the battery.

  The battery flew away from the timer, wires popping out of it. The tennis ball didn’t fly. It exploded with a sizzle and pop. Kelly had instinctively covered his face as he kicked, which was wise. Liquid fire splashed across his forearms, and he felt his palms start to burn.