by John Whitman
Or he thought he had been. The Bernard Copeland who collapsed on the floor of his Santa Monica home was no longer Seldom Seen Smith. Smith had fallen apart in the middle of the Federal Building riots, chased by the police and tracked by a Federal agent. Smith had used his one trick on Jack Bauer, the chemical marker his company had experimented with in the Amazon, to track the agent, only to find that Bauer had outsmarted him. Smith really had one of his followers infect the man’s daughter, but he did not consider her to be in any danger. He had several doses of the vaccine, and it would be a simple matter to deliver it to her. In the meantime, anyone who studied the virus in her blood would be suitably terrified, which was what he wanted anyway.
From that moment on, all his plans had fallen apart. The police detective had...
Copeland shuddered, reliving the moment when she’d fallen into his precious and deadly stack of glass vials. Now Copeland needed the vaccine for himself. He could not be sure if he or Frankie had been exposed to one or both strains. The detective undoubtedly had.
“And she has no idea,” he murmured, his words slurred ever so slightly by the maracuja. “No idea at all. She could kill thousands.”
“So what?”
Copeland sat up, his heart skipping a beat.
“Relax, it’s me,” said Frankie Michaelmas.
She was standing in the doorway to his back rooms as calmly as though nothing had happened. He stood up and walked over to her in a maracuja haze and hugged her. He kissed her, and was too frantic and drugged to notice that her lips offered no warmth or passion.
“Don’t say so what,” he said at last, “don’t say so what. You know what. I don’t even know which strain she was exposed to. Maybe in less than a day, she could be infecting people, spreading the disease all across the city. We have to warn someone.”
Frankie shrugged, dislodged herself from his arms, and sat down in a chair.
“You do have doses of the vaccine, right?” Frankie asked almost lazily.
“Of course I do. But I have to make more now. For you and me.”
“Which strain do you think?” she asked.
Copeland shook his head. “No way of knowing. We have time, if we hurry. I’ll call the others. They’ll help.”
Frankie nodded. “I’ll call them. Tell me who.”
Copeland paused. Secrecy had been part of his protection, both for himself and his virus. Few members of his gang knew all the other members, and as a safeguard against abuse, he had not told those willing to use the virus where the vaccine was hidden. That way, no one was eager to play fast and loose with the virus itself.
“Okay,” he said uncertainly. He went over to a bookshelf to collect the contact information for his colleagues.
“Good. But don’t warn anyone else. It’s a disease. There’s a cure. Spread the disease and tell them where to go find the cure. Best way to get our way.”
So brutal, he thought, though he felt a delicious tremor in his stomach. “We have to warn them,” he said again. “And we have to find a way out. We have to take the antivirus ourselves and then get out. She saw my face. She knows you’re involved. And that Federal agent. I can’t believe the Feds got on our tail so fast. They’ll find us eventually.”
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Frankie nodded. “That’s true. But you know that we know people that can help us with that. People with a lot of experience hiding from the government.”
The impact of her words reached Copeland even through his drug-induced stupor. He put down the book containing his contacts and bristled. It suddenly occurred to him that he absolutely should not tell Frankie where to find the vaccine. “Absolutely not.”
“They’re your contacts,” she pointed out. She reached forward to the coffee table and hefted a heavy piece of jade. Copeland had told her a dozen times the story of how he had discovered it during one of his hikes into the wilderness. She’d always liked its weight and its jagged edges. “You’re the one who wanted to learn from them.”
“Their philosophy! How they achieved their ends!” he spat. “We’re not going through this again. They are cold-blooded killers. Their goals are petty. We are trying to—”
“—save the planet,” she said like a teenager mocking her father. “Well, your reward is going to be a jail cell when they catch you. But those people can get us out of the country.”
Copeland shook his head. “I haven’t spoken with them in months. I have no way to contact them.”
“I do.”
Copeland’s eyes narrowed. He forced himself to pierce the tranquilizer’s veil to focus on her. “You? How did you— you have been speaking with them?”
She said yes without the slightest bit of remorse.
“They want to kill people. They’ll do nothing with the vaccine,” Copeland said firmly, trying to recover from his shock. “Absolutely not.”
He walked over to the telephone. “We have to call someone. Warn them about the police officer. They can get her into a sterile room before she becomes contagious.” He picked up the telephone.
Frankie Michaelmas stood up, hefted the heavy piece of jade, and brought it crashing down on the back of Copeland’s skull. She had always wondered how many blows it would take to kill him, and now she was determined to find out.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
4:00 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Ryan Chappelle burst into Christopher Henderson’s office, red-faced and puffed up, looking like a small dog taking up space.
“Bauer.” Chappelle said the word as though it left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Not here,” Henderson said. “What’s wrong?”
“This is,” the Director said, holding up a mini-disc as though the very fact that he was holding it proved his point.
Henderson received the disc, opened his CD tray, and laid it down with deliberate smoothness. The video program fired up, and in minutes Henderson was watching color footage of Jack Bauer hunched down next to an overturned police van. His face wasn’t clear—the video was slightly unfocused, and Jack’s face was turned partly away—but Henderson recognized the slouch of Bauer’s shoulders and the straw-blond hair. He was talking to a man in a blue shirt— Henderson knew it was Kasim Turkel, who seemed to be handcuffed and lying on the ground. Every once in a while Bauer jabbed at the man’s leg and he twitched.
Henderson knew what was coming, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. “So?” he said dumbly.
“So, we’ve got video of a CTU agent torturing a man in public!”
Henderson wished he could have built a wall between himself and Chappelle’s invective. “You know Jack. He had a reason—”
“I’m sure Bauer had his reasons. I’m also sure I won’t like them. And I’m even more sure that if this ends up on the evening news, it’ll be a public relations disaster!”
“Suppress it. Where’d we get it?”
Chappelle paced back and forth, unable to contain his energy. He could be as cold as ice sometimes, but Bauer always seemed to bring out the worst in him. “That’s the kicker. A protestor. Check that, a rioter took video footage of him. Probably one of the same people who vandalized the police wagon. And the guy wants to sell it to us for half a million dollars. Otherwise he’s going to CNN.”
Henderson rubbed his temples. Video was unforgiving. Context didn’t matter. The public would see a Federal agent abusing a suspect, and no one would pay attention to the fact that the suspect was a terrorist putting lives at risk, and the interrogator was a man with hours left in which to save lives. “So we buy it off him, or we scare him out of the deal.”
“Maybe,” Chappelle said. “Because the other choice is that I cut this off at the knees by bringing Jack Bauer up on charges.”
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4:08 P.M. PST Brentwood
Mercy Bennet had followed Sm
ith, on foot, from the Federal Building out of West Los Angeles and into Santa Monica. He seemed to think he’d lost her in the crowd when she had hesitated, looking at Jack Bauer, and she did nothing to dissuade him from that belief. Tailing him on foot seemed ridiculous in this day and age—he should have been followed by two or three teams on foot and in cars, switching drivers and clothing. But with no radio or telephone, Mercy could not call for backup.
So she resorted to cloak-and-dagger movements, staying as far back as possible without losing him, staying behind parked cars, street signs, and other obstacles as often as possible. Copeland seemed to be taking a zigzagging path, one block north then one block west, over and over. Twice she thought she’d lost him, only to follow the pattern and pick him up again. Losing him temporarily had probably helped her more than anything, since it reduced her chances of being seen.
His path led eventually into an upscale neighborhood of Santa Monica above Montana Boulevard. Once he was there, he seemed to relax. His pace had slowed considerably and, though she was too far back to say for sure, she had the impression that his shoulders lost some of their tension. He was on his home turf.
He ended his run at a well-landscaped brick house around Fourteenth Street, the kind of house she would never afford on a government salary. She watched him enter the house, then she made her last dash, reaching a large oak tree planted along the parkway of the house across the street, and partly shielded by a parked Chevy Tahoe. She sat there for a minute catching her breath, trying to decide what to do next, when a Toyota Prius drove into Smith’s driveway. Mercy nearly cursed aloud when she saw Frankie Michaelmas get out of the car and hurry inside. A few minutes later, Frankie had reappeared carrying several small cases. She made a second trip for more cases, then got in the car and drove away. Mercy resisted an irrational urge to jump onto the hood of the car and keep it from moving by force of will. But in the end she did not think Frankie was her target. She focused on Smith.
She sat across the street for a few more minutes, recovering some of her strength and considering her next move, when a middle-aged woman with a round face, wearing a chic bandana on her bald head, came by, walking her dog. Both the woman and the dog moved with tired steps.
“Excuse me,” Mercy said, “I don’t want to bother you, but do you have a cell phone?”
The woman studied Mercy with a sharp eye. “Why?”
“I’m a police officer. I’ve lost my badge and my radio during a foot pursuit, and I need to call my department. It’s an emergency.”
“You don’t have a badge?”
Mercy shook her head.
The woman assessed her shrewdly. Mercy could almost imagine what she was thinking: her story was unlikely... but who would claim to be a police officer in need of a cell phone who was not, in fact, just that?
“How can I believe you?”
“There’s no harm either way,” Mercy pointed out. “You can stand here while I make the call.”
The woman considered again, shrugged, and handed over a small silver flip phone. Mercy dialed 911. This time she was connected—the riots, she guessed, were finally calming down, thanks to police presence and protestor exhaustion— and she identified herself. The emergency dispatcher
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contacted West Bureau for her. She was connected to Sandy Waldman. She rolled her eyes. Waldman, a twenty-year veteran, had been one of the many who’d mocked her ecoterrorist theory.
“Sandy, I need help,” she said.
“You and half the goddamned city,” Waldman replied. She could picture him sitting at his desk with his feet up, his veteran’s belly rolling over the top of his belt buckle.
“I’m code five on Fourteenth Street in Santa Monica,” she said, using the department’s code for “on a stakeout” to affirm the dog walker’s generosity. “I need units to roll here ASAP code two.”
“Ooh, police talk,” Waldman joked. “You’re lucky. We’ve been code thirteen for the last couple of hours, but now we’re getting back to code fourteen.” Mercy hated Waldman in that moment, but she was glad to hear the department was standing down from major disaster activity caused by the riot. “I’ll roll a couple of slick tops to you now.”
“Thanks. Can you also run an address for me?” She recited the address of the brick house.
“Stand by.”
“What do you want with that house?” asked the woman with the bandana.
Mercy understood intuitively that she’d lost her hair to chemotherapy. “It’s police business, ma’am.”
“But that’s Bernie Copeland’s house. Is he okay?”
“You know him?”
“Well, he’s a neighbor,” the woman said as though all neighbors should know one another. “He travels quite a bit. South America most of the time, I think, but I see him outside sometimes when I walk Honeybear.” She tugged affectionately at her dog’s leash.
“Ever notice anything unusual about him?”
“Not until now,” the woman replied dubiously. “May I have my phone back?”
“Almost.”
Sandy Waldman came back on the line with the name of Bernard Copeland and a list of interesting items, only a few of which Mercy absorbed in that moment, because just then two unmarked police cars rolled up, one of them passing the house and pulling to a stop three doors down, the other stopping short. The cops inside were uniformed.
“Tell me what you want them to do and I’ll radio it to them,” Waldman said. For a jerk, he was a pretty efficient cop, she decided.
“Approach when they see me move, one goes to the back and the other goes in with me. He’s inside.”
“Ten-four.” A moment later, one of the unmarked cars rolled away to go around the block. Mercy knew he’d keep in contact with the other via radio.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mercy said, handing back the phone. She walked down two doors, forcing herself to remain calm and steady, then made a hard left turn and crossed the street at a fast pace. The cop on this street put the radio to his mouth, then hung it up and exited quickly, hurrying up beside her and nodding. Together they strode up the steps to the door, and the officer kicked it in with one stomp of his boot.
Mercy let him enter first, since he was armed, but she knew almost immediately that there would be no gunfire.
Seldom Seen Smith, a.k.a. Bernard Copeland, was lying on his living room floor in a pool of blood.
“Radio for an ambulance!” she shouted. Mercy rushed forward while the uniformed officer began to clear the house while simultaneously making the call. Mercy heard the other officer enter from the back.
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She knelt beside Smith, who was facedown. The back of his skull looked like hamburger meat mixed with clumps of hair. He was breathing, but barely.
“Copeland!” she said to him. “Copeland, can you hear me?” He didn’t answer. “Smith!” she yelled. “Seldom Seen Smith!”
His eyelids fluttered and then stopped at half mast. “Smith!” she repeated. “This is the police. An ambulance is on its way.”
She moved into his line of sight. His eyes focused on her for a moment and his breathing quickened. His mouth worked noiselessly.
“Take it easy,” she said. It seemed unsafe to move him, even though the pool of blood near his lips made his breathing wet and raspy. “We’re getting you help.” She knew without asking that Frankie Michaelmas had done this to him.
His mouth worked harder, and this time he succeeded in making small, moist, guttural sounds. He spoke words rather than sentences. “You,” he rasped. Then, “Infected.” Mercy didn’t know what he meant, but a sudden weight pressed against her stomach when he managed to add, “Hours. Only.”
His mouth worked desperately again. He closed his eyes and they remained closed; he coughed, spraying droplets of blood onto her knees. Copeland gathered himself and managed a few more words. No, one long word. “An...ti... dote.” Then he coughed again and pushed out another fearful word
. “Gone.”
One uniformed cop walked back into the room. “All clear—” But Mercy held up her hand. Copeland continued slowly. “She...use... it. Terror. Vander. Bilt. Anti. Dote. She...use... it. Terror.” The sounds ebbed until they were only weak rasps. Copeland opened his eyes. His right hand moved along the floor, sliding until it reached the edge of the pool of blood. Reaching clear hardwood, his dragging fingers drew dark red lines. His hand stopped, then he drew three numbers—13, 48, 57. His hand stopped moving and his eyes closed. His lips quivered and, weak and thin as the meowings of a kitten, he spoke another phrase. Mercy couldn’t quite make it out. It sounded like a foreign name. “Uma,” like the actress, then something about a “ghetto.” Then he stopped making sounds altogether.
4:20 P.M. PST Century Plaza Hotel, West Los Angeles
Mitch Rasher walked into the President’s suite at the Century Plaza. “We’re back on,” he said.
Barnes looked up from the security briefing he’d been reading. “What about the riots?”
“It’s going to look bad on the evening news,” Rasher warned him, “but the streets are getting back to normal now. By the time you have your meeting tonight, they’ll have everything cleared up.”
“And security is tight up there? Nothing’s been leaked?”
“No, sir. Tight as a drum. Shall I confirm with the other side?”
Barnes considered. He’d been looking forward to this meeting. He always enjoyed cutting through the red tape and slicing right to the heart of the matter. The riots, had they continued, would have made a meeting impossible and given the protestors a victory, though they’d never have known it. But, if Rasher felt the riots had burned themselves out, well...
“Let’s do it,” Barnes commanded.
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4:22 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jack walked into CTU headquarters just shy of four-thirty. His entire body ached; the rush dialysis had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, and he felt as if that police wagon had landed on top of him. But he had no intention of slowing down.
