24 Declassified: 04 - Cat's Claw

by John Whitman

  2:25 P.M. PST Federal Building, West Los Angeles

  The effects of the OC spray were finally wearing off. Jack was sitting inside a police wagon—a long truck, the back of which was designed with two long metal benches. He’d been sitting there, half blind and choking, for what seemed like hours, but he guessed it wasn’t more than five or ten minutes. His hands were still flex-cuffed behind his back. He was the first one into the paddy wagon, and he had been shoved all the way back into the corner as the police brought in more rioters.

  “Hey!” he said, pounding his head against the metal wall of the vehicle. He knew there must be a driver up front. “Hey! I’m a Federal agent!” he yelled.

  A small window in the wall between the cab and the container slid open to reveal a metal screen and a police officer’s face staring through it. “What?”

  “I’m a Federal agent,” Jack said. “I tried to identify myself to your partners, but I didn’t get a chance.”

  “You have proof of that?” the officer said.

  “You guys searched me,” Jack said, remembering the hands pawing at him when he was down. “You must have found my ID.”

  “Hold on.”

  The metal shield slid closed. As the OC spray wore off, Jack’s anxiety increased. His daughter, al-Libbi, the G8, Mercy Bennet... not a single loose end had been tied up. He had to remind himself that it had been only a few hours.

  The metal door slid open again. “Sorry, pal, we bagged everything. There was no ID on you at all. Nice try, though.” The shield started to close.

  “Wait!” Jack said. He thought back to his struggle with the man in the blue shirt. His ID must have fallen out then.

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  “Look, I’m telling you the truth. Call CTU Los Angeles—”

  “CTU?” the officer asked.

  “Counter Terrorist Unit,” Jack said impatiently. Of course, CTU was a relatively clandestine unit. There was no reason for every beat cop in Los Angeles to recognize its name instantly. He recited an emergency number. “Call that number. They’ll clear me.”

  The cop sounded accommodating. “Okay, look, I’ll do it, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up. The city’s pretty much gone to hell, and it may take a little while.”

  “I don’t have a little while,” Jack said.

  “You may not have a choice.” The metal door slid shut.

  Jack Bauer fumed. He had no time to wait. For all he knew his daughter was dying, and he was sure Ayman al-Libbi was about to attack the G8. For the first time, he looked down the bench at the other rioters who’d been captured. There were four of them... including the man in the blue shirt, sitting on the bench opposite him and near the door. Jack looked at the person next to him, not more than a teenager. “Move,” he said, sliding past him so that he was near the door and across from his target. He stared at the man without asking a question. He would ask questions eventually, but only when he knew he would get answers.

  The kid who had just moved looked at Bauer. “Did you say you were a cop?”

  Jack didn’t answer, but the kid laughed. “You’re a cop? I love it. How does it feel to get beat up by the other fascists?”

  Jack sized him up: Von Dutch T-shirt, tanned skin, with that California drawl drawn out by money and time. This was the kind of person for whom everything had come easily. He hadn’t even lived long enough to know what hardship was, hadn’t lived long enough to know that the people he called “fascists” were usually the ones who put their lives at risk so he could have an easy life.

  “I guess you’re in here for no reason?” Jack asked.

  The kid clearly wanted to tell his story. “Look at this bump on my forehead, man. Three cops jumped on me.”

  “What were you doing right before that?” Jack said.

  “I threw a rock at them, but that was only—”

  Jack said, “Those cops, they spend their lives putting themselves in harm’s way so you can sleep at night. Most of them don’t ask for any thanks or praise from you at all. Think of that next time you pick up a goddamned rock.”

  2:33 P.M. PST UCLA Medical Center

  “I simply won’t do it,” the doctor said for the third time.

  Tony Almeida ran a hand through his black hair. He looked at the doctor’s name tag. “Look, Dr. Gupta, this is a matter of national security. This man has information that could save lives.”

  “I have an ethical responsibility,” Dr. Gupta said. He was young, not yet out of his twenties, with a lean, thoughtful face, dark eyes, and a stiff spine. “If I give him drugs to bring him out of the coma, it could kill him.”

  “As long as he wakes up first.”

  The doctor frowned at him, and turned to look for help from the group assembled behind him. There was quite a collection: a nurse holding a tray that contained a syringe full of some medication; the hospital’s chief of internal medicine; two lawyers; and two uniformed officers who’d come in just to see the show.

  None of them offered Gupta any assistance, so the doctor turned back. “Agent Almeida,” the doctor said reproachfully. “I am not an executioner.”

  “I’m not, either,” Tony said. “In fact, the only executioner

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  around here is him.” He pointed at Dyson. “I’m telling you I saw his fingers move. I don’t think he’s in a coma anymore, and even if—”

  “You’re hardly qualified to—”

  “—and even if he is,” Tony repeated, “the risk of killing him is nothing compared to what he knows. I believe this man has knowledge of a terrorist plot that could happen any time in the next twenty-four hours, and I need to know what it is.”

  The doctor hesitated. “I’ve taken an oath to do no harm.”

  Tony sighed. “I haven’t.”

  He reached past Gupta to the nurse and snatched the syringe off her tray. Before anyone could react, he popped the protective cap off the needle and plunged it into Dyson’s chest. The nurse gasped and Gupta cried out in alarm. He grabbed at Tony but the agent shrugged him off easily and removed the syringe. He watched the vitals monitor for a moment, the heart rate meter chirping steady and slow. After a moment the beeps came a bit faster, and then faster still. Dyson moaned. The lawyers sighed.

  Tony leaned over the bed. “Dyson. Dyson, wake up.”

  The FBI agent’s eyes fluttered. Tony slapped him lightly. “I said wake up.”

  Dyson’s eyes opened. Dr. Gupta pushed past Tony and pulled out his penlight, shining it in Dyson’s eyes. “Pupil reaction,” he muttered. He checked the vitals. “Stable so far.”

  “Dyson, who are you working for!” Tony said, moving Gupta forcefully. “Who are you working for?”

  Dyson blinked once or twice. His watery eyes focused on Tony for a moment, then glazed over. A slight smile turned the edges of his mouth. A thin laugh rattled past his lips. “Monkeys... monkey gang... bitten by monkeys . . .”

  His lips kept moving, but the words melted into incomprehensible dribble.

  “Dyson!” Tony said, shaking the agent.

  The heart rate monitor picked up its pace, sounding suddenly urgent. At the same time, his blood-oxygen levels started to drop. A second later, Dyson’s heart rate went from frantic to nonexistent.

  2:35 P.M. PST Mountaingate Drive, Los Angeles

  Nina Myers rolled up Mountaingate Drive to an exclusive tract in the Santa Monica Mountains that overlooked the Sepulveda Pass and the 405 Freeway to the east, and the entire Los Angeles basin to the south. The owners paid for the view, so every house had one, but one property in particular occupied the sweet spot. On the south side of the ridge stood an enormous white house with a panoramic view not only of the L.A. basin, but of Santa Monica Bay as well.

  Or at least it would have, if not for the Vanderbilt Complex. The Vanderbilt Complex, or just the Vanderbilt to locals, was a vast, impressive castle built into the hillside. Although constructed lower on the slope than the houses of Mountaingate Drive, the V
anderbilt was big enough to mar the view from the large white house above it. Mountaingate residents had complained, but as wealthy as they were, they were peons compared to the Vanderbilt estate, which had both money and public sentiment on its side. The Vanderbilt was a museum complex built around the private collection of a few Vanderbilt heirs. The museum was free to the public, dedicated to advancing the cause of the arts among all people, and a political juggernaut. The estate bought the property and forced the approvals through the city bureaucracy. Environmentalists had decried the development because the Sepulveda Pass was one of the few green spots left in Los Angeles...but everyone, from the environmentalists to the

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  residents of Mountaingate, had to admit that the finished structure was impressive. Perched on a shoulder of the mountains, it commanded a lordly view of the Los Angeles basin. The L.A. Weekly, the local cutting-edge weekly magazine, had featured a cover photo of the magnificent Vanderbilt with the headline “Acropolis Now!” Thousands of tons of travertine had been imported from Italy to cover its walls and form its plazas. A private road led up to the museum, but most visitors rode an automated tram that wound up the mountainside to the wide, flat steps. The Vanderbilt housed classic paintings, an impressive photography collection, and a rare books display that included an original Gutenberg Bible and one of the original thirteen copies of the Bill of Rights.

  As she gazed down on the Vanderbilt from the mountaintop, Nina decided that the museum was an excellent location from a security point of view. The single road leading up to the complex was easily controllable; the steep slopes were inaccessible by vehicle and offered little or no cover to a team on foot. The wide open skies above allowed easily for exfil of the VIPs by helicopter if the need arose. Because of its isolated location on the hilltop and the security measures that had already been put in place to protect its priceless treasures, the Vanderbilt was a desirable location for dignitaries seeking a secure but elegant meeting ground. The only variable keeping the Vanderbilt from becoming a perfectly controllable site was, in fact, the house at the end of Mountaingate Drive.

  Nina parked a few blocks down from the house—a tall, white, antebellum mansion with a circular driveway. The house even had one of those little statues of a jockey in a red coat, holding out one hand, to which was attached a metal ring. Nina walked past it and knocked on the door. No sound came from inside, but an intercom next to the door came to life and a static-laden voice came through. “Yes?”

  “Hello, I’m looking for Mr. Marcus Lee, please,” Nina said in her nicest, most professional voice.

  “Who is asking, please?” the intercom replied, and Nina knew intuitively that she was speaking to Mr. Lee.

  “My name is Nina Myers, sir. I’m with the Federal government. I just have a few questions to ask.”

  The intercom clicked off and Nina felt her muscles tense. Was he going to rabbit? She liked action, and part of her relished the idea. But a moment later the door opened and a small Asian man of indeterminate age smiled at her warmly. “I am Marcus Lee,” he said gently. “Please come in.”

  2:41 P.M. PST Federal Building, West Los Angeles

  Jack pulled at the flex cuffs on his wrists, more out of frustration than anything. They bit into his skin, reminding him that they were practically unbreakable unless they were severed with wire cutters. He didn’t mind the pain—it helped him focus. He stared across the short space to his quarry, the young man in the blue shirt. The young man returned his stare bravely, but his look of anger and defiance soon wilted under Jack’s glare.

  Something bumped up against the outside of the police wagon.

  “What’s that?” one of the other prisoners asked.

  “Someone getting beat up,” said the blond kid next to Jack.

  But the next sound they heard was the anxious voice of the police driver in the cab in front of them. “Get them the hell off!” he yelled, his voice pitched anxiously high. They heard several shouts from outside, then silence.

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  “Have you made that call yet?” Jack yelled toward the cab, but there was no answer.

  2:43 P.M. PST Mountaingate Drive, Los Angeles

  Nina walked into Marcus Lee’s living room and blinked in the bright sunlight. The entire back wall of the living room was made of several sets of French doors nearly two stories tall, opening out onto a wide green lawn that dropped away where the property met the slope of the hill. Beyond the grass, Nina could see the roofs of the Vanderbilt Complex, and beyond that, the glistening blue water of Santa Monica Bay. To the left, she saw white and dark smoke rise up around the Federal Building, and she heard sirens wail plaintively far away.

  “What can I do for you, Agent Myers?” Marcus Lee asked.

  He was polite and welcoming, which immediately put Nina on edge. Most people were at least a little nervous when they saw a Federal badge, but Lee had scanned her ID as casually as a man reading the morning headlines. He had turned and led her gracefully into the house, offering her a drink, which she declined, and then escorted her to the living room.

  Nina decided to ambush him immediately. “I’d like to talk to you about your involvement with ETIM.”

  She watched his face closely. His eyes brightened, but otherwise he gave no reaction at all. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do, Mr. Tuman.”

  Half a beat. “Excuse me?”

  “Your real name is Nurmamet Tuman,” Nina said, glancing at a notepad in her hand and using the same casual tone he had used to greet her. “You told the INS that you were ethnic Chinese, but you are in fact a Uygur from the eastern province of Xinjiang.” She looked up. “You’re also most likely involved with ETIM.”

  Another half beat, but no change in his facial expression. Marcus Lee/Nurmamet Tuman was a very good poker player. “My real name is Marcus Lee,” he said. “And I don’t know what ‘ee-tim’ is.”

  “You knew them well enough to give them two million dollars. Did you also put them in touch with Ayman al-Libbi, or did they already have their own contact?”

  Bull’s-eye. Lee tensed, and Nina readied herself to go for her weapon. But instead of running or attacking, Lee put a hand to his temple and rubbed it as though she’d just given him a severe headache. “Agent Myers, I can neither confirm nor deny what you are saying. But I can tell you this. I am very well connected in the Chinese government, even to this day. I recommend that you contact a Mr. Richard Hong, who operates out of the Chinese Embassy here in Los Angeles. He may have information that will help you.”

  Nina felt her stomach tighten into a knot. She did not know Richard Hong, but unless she missed her guess entirely, Marcus Lee had just referred her to his case officer in Chinese intelligence, which also meant that Lee was Chinese intelligence, which meant that with a few simple words Lee had made this whole affair much, much more complicated.

  “In fact, I have his card right here.” Lee reached carefully into his pocket and pulled out a simple business card. He handed it to Nina with two hands in traditional Chinese fashion, and bowed slightly.

  Nina read the card. “Stay here.” She walked into the hall

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  way, keeping Lee in her line of sight, and pulled out her cell phone. She called CTU and asked for Jamey Farrell.

  “Jamey, Nina. Can you do a quick check and patch me through to a Richard Hong at the Chinese Embassy. If they give you the runaround, tell them I’m calling about one of his assets.”

  Nina waited on hold for only a minute or two, watching Marcus Lee, who had settled himself gently onto a plush white couch.

  “Nina,” Jamey’s voice came on the line, “they tried to pass me off, but the minute I mentioned an asset, Hong was right there. Here you go.”

  The line clicked. “Mr. Richard Hong?”

  “Speaking. Who is this?”

  Nina explained who she was, and why she was there. Richard Hong paused. “I think this is a discuss
ion best had in person.” Meaning, Nina knew, no cell phones. “Can you come to me?”

  “Not if Tuman is going out the back door at the same time,” Nina said.

  “He is no flight risk. I can promise that.”

  Nina considered her options. If she were concerned about protocol, she would heed the warnings and walk away. But she was more inclined to take Lee in, regardless of whatever Chappelle had said about using kid gloves. The Chinese could always come get him out of interrogation if he was that important. She was just about to tell Richard Hong that when Marcus Lee’s doorbell rang. Lee stood and moved past Nina, opening his hand to the door and asking permission with his eyes. Nina nodded and followed him.

  “Thank you for your advice, Mr. Hong, but I think it’s important that we have a discussion with Mr. Lee. I—stand by.” She stopped as Marcus Lee opened his door. Three men in dark suits and sunglasses walked in as soon as the door was open, as though they knew they’d been expected. In fact, it was Nina’s presence that seemed to alert them most.

  “Mr. Lee,” said one of the suits. He took off his sunglasses and held out a badge, but his eyes were already on Nina. “Clay Lonis, Treasury Department. Who’s this?”

  Marcus Lee sidestepped and opened his arms as though trying to join Nina and the newcomer. “Mr. Lonis, this is Agent Myers.”

  Nina’s jaw dropped. Treasury Department. Why was the Secret Service visiting Marcus Lee?

  2:46 P.M. PST Federal Building, West Los Angeles

  Jack heard—and felt—another loud thump against the outside of the police wagon. This time the vehicle rocked back and forth, as though giant hands had grabbed it and shaken it back and forth. There were more cries from outside, but these were not cries of alarm. A rhythmic chanting had begun, and the wagon was rocking in sync with it. Oh shit, Jack thought.

  2:48 P.M. PST Mountaingate Drive, Los Angeles

  Nina held out her own identification, and Clay Lonis frowned as he slipped his sunglasses back on. “A word?” he said, motioning to the door.

  Nina nodded and followed him outside, first making sure that the other two Secret Service agents were staying with Lee. Nina stepped outside onto the shaded porch, stopping near the railing that overlooked Lee’s circular driveway. The