by John Whitman
Jack forced his mind into the present. This had to happen before the next thing, like firing a weapon: first load, then acquire, then fire, then assess. The virus was in Kim. They had no cure, but someone did, and he was going to find them. The way to find them was to focus on this...
Jessi walked in. She turned a few heads as she walked to the bar. One of those heads belonged to the man in a blue T-shirt and a buzz cut. He went right back to sipping his beer, but his eyes had lingered on Jessi a little too long, and Jack knew that Anastasia Odolova had a babysitter.
5:25 P.M. Cat & Fiddle Pub, Los Angeles
Odolova’s appearance matched her voice. Her limbs were long, lean, and toned, and she moved them in slow, dramatic flourishes when she spoke, as though she were used to holding something like a cigarette in her hand. Her face was angular and pretty, framed by straight blond hair. Oddly, she wore heavy black mascara under her blue eyes. Set against the stark white of her outfit and skin, the heavy eye makeup looked disturbing and hypnotic.
“You’re Jessi, of course,” Anna said. “What will you drink?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Jessi said.
Anna leaned forward, catching Jessi with her mesmerizing eyes. “Of course you will, my Jessi. What else are we here for?”
Right. Appearances, Jessi thought. “Newcastle, please,” she said to the passing bartender.
“You know what you like, don’t you?” Odolova said, seeming genuinely pleased. “Now, what is it I can help you with?” Her voice was breezy, nothing that stood out.
Jessi did not have her skill, and did not pretend to. “Is Novartov having a classified meeting with us and the Chinese tonight? Is that Tuman’s target?” she asked softly.
Odolova flicked her wrist as though tapping away the ashes of an imaginary cigarette. “See, you can tell a lot about a person from the way they order a drink. You, for instance, are very straightforward. Strong. You’d make a good Russian.” She smiled lightly, and continued. “Obviously, I can’t discuss
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scheduling matters with you. But you may be on the right
track. Would you like to know more about Nurmamet Tuman?”
“Sure,” Jessi said.
Odolova spoke in long, dramatic sentences, but the story she told was this: Nurmamet Tuman had been a Chinese espionage agent for more than twenty years. Although he was an ethnic Uygur, he had lost his parents and been taken to an orphanage, where he was indoctrinated first as a Maoist and then as a member of the newer, more “progressive” Communist Party. He had climbed the ranks of the People’s Army and proved to be adept at intelligence. But during a purge a few years earlier, superiors who disliked and mistrusted his Uygur heritage retired him. He was dumped in the United States with a new name and a faked dossier, where he started and ran a small software company. The Chinese government kept in contact, and even used him now and then, but for all intents and purposes he was in exile.
What Beijing did not know was that Marcus Lee had never stopped being Nurmamet Tuman, never stopped being a Uygur. Even while deep inside Chinese intelligence, he continued to work secretly for the independence of Eastern Turkistan. The Russians were sure that he had saved ETIM members from capture at least twice in his career. Once he was in the United States, he had a much easier time strengthening his contacts with ETIM until he became their largest backer. His native Uygur loyalties were bolstered by bitterness over his removal from the espionage community.
“But why attack here?” Jessi asked. “Why not do it in China?”
“The security is too tight,” Odolova answered. “Besides, ETIM is frustrated that they do not get more attention from the West. China controls the flow of information, especially in the rural provinces. ETIM commits terrorist attacks in Urumchi to draw attention, but no one ever hears about them. If they make an attack in Los Angeles, the whole world will start paying attention.”
“How do you know so much?” Jessi asked, unable to disguise her naïveté. “You’re so far ahead of us. How do you know?”
“It is not so impressive,” Odolova said in a way that indicated how impressive it really was. “In fact, we learned much of our information because of a minor arms dealer in Los Angeles. Some Russian-made RPG–29s were stolen, and we tracked them to this arms dealer, assuming he had bought them, when, in fact, they’d been stolen by ETIM and delivered to this arms dealer for safekeeping.”
“Farrigian,” Jessi said matter-of-factly.
Odolova smiled warmly. “You see, you are good at this after all. It was the missing RPGs that made us look more closely at ETIM, and that led us to Tuman.”
“Do you have any proof of this?”
“None whatsoever.”
Jessi’s heart sank. She knew Chappelle would want evidence before moving against a Chinese national. “I thought—”
“This is not always a business of hard facts.”
“Why do the Chinese trust him? They’re telling us he’s clean.”
The Russian cast the thought aside. “No one likes to be wrong.” When Jessi continued to look puzzled, she added, “They believe their own propaganda. They have no reason to think ETIM can do harm if half of them don’t believe the separatists exist. They don’t want to believe one of their own is a traitor.”
Odolova smiled at her as though waiting. Then, after an uncomfortable pause, she drained her own drink with a flourish and said, “Now I think it’s time for you to buy a drink for me.”
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“Oh,” Jessi said. “Would you like another one of—”
The Russian agent laughed. “I mean it’s your turn to share information.”
Jessi felt her cheeks burn as she blushed. “Infor—? I don’t know if I have any...”
Odolova’s face hardened. The dark mascara, which before had appeared hypnotic, became ugly and severe. “The RPG–29s. Who has them? Where are they?”
“Oh,” Jessi said, realizing she actually did know that information, and only too late deciding that she shouldn’t have revealed it. “I...I don’t know that I’m allowed to—”
Her counterpart brushed blond wisps away from her forehead. “I’m not running a charity service, Jessi. I gave you information because I expect something in return.”
Suddenly there was weight and pressure behind Jessi. She glanced over her shoulder to find a man in a blue T-shirt standing very close, his hard stomach pressed against her elbow.
“Let’s go for a drive and talk some more,” Anastasia said pleasantly; but it was not a request.
The man put his heavy hand on Jessi’s arm. Then things happened very quickly. As the man squeezed her arm, Jessi heard a dull thud and a loud pop. The man’s eyes flew very wide, and then he crumpled straight down like a building falling in on itself. And suddenly Jack Bauer was standing there.
5:45 P.M. PST Cat & Fiddle Pub, Los Angeles
Jack had listened to bits and pieces of the conversation, though he missed most of it. Odolova was skilled at sounding natural while keeping her voice low. When the Russian babysitter made his move, Jack made his. He slid up behind him and dropped him as soon as he laid hands on Bandison.
The Russian man was still on the ground, sobbing and holding his broken knee.
“We’re done talking,” Jack said to Odolova. He took Jessi by the same arm the Russian had grabbed. His grip was gentler but still firm as he guided the analyst away from the bar and past the patrons wondering what had happened to the man on the ground. Jack and Jessi walked outside into the twilight of Sunset Boulevard.
Jack carried a borrowed phone, and it rang now. He leaned back into the alcove that led into the bar, but away from the door in case the Russians followed. “Bauer.”
“Jack.”
It was Mercy Bennet. “Where are you? Are you safe?” he asked.
“Well, there are degrees of safe,” she said with a morose tone. “CTU contacted me and gave me this number. It’s been quite a day.”
“Th
e Monkey Wrench Gang,” Jack said. “Smith. All those things you said. They’re all true.”
Mercy laughed bitterly. “I’ve been waiting for someone to say that to me. It’s just a little too late.” She told him quickly how she’d tracked Smith, whose real name was Copeland, and watched him die; she also told him that before he had died he’d told her she’d been exposed to a virus. “I got checked out at UCLA, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet.”
Jack felt a great weight settle on his shoulders. “Are you sure he said that?”
“Pretty damned sure.”
“Mercy—” the weight that settled on him was guilt; guilt that he hadn’t told her earlier what he was really doing; guilt that he had turned her into an unwitting victim in the
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war on terror. He still couldn’t tell her the truth, not quite yet. But she did have a right to know her own fate. “Mercy, the virus is deadly. It’s a hemorrhagic fever.”
The line fell silent. Finally, Mercy said, “Hemorrhagic... you mean like Ebola?”
“Yes.”
“Shit. Jack, I’m driving around. Am I...am I contagious?” That was Mercy Bennet. She’d just been handed her death sentence and she was worried about its effect on others.
“Probably not yet,” he said hoarsely. “My daughter has it, too. She was exposed by Copeland’s people. The doctors tell me she’s not contagious yet, so you probably have hours left.”
“I’m not going to the hospital yet.” She relayed Copeland’s final words to Jack. “I don’t know what he meant by ‘terror’ but I know who ‘she’ is. It’s Frankie Michaelmas. I get the feeling that girl makes Copeland look like a saint.”
A chill ran down Jack’s spine. He knew what Copeland had meant by terror. He had known all along. But still he couldn’t tell Mercy. Not while he still needed her.
“You should get to a hospital. Keep yourself safe,” he said. “Contact National Health—”
“Screw that,” Mercy said. “If I’m not contagious yet, I’m going to get that little bitch.”
“Mercy, there’s more here—”
“I’m going up to the Vanderbilt Complex. That’s what Copeland was talking about. I think she’s going to be there.”
“Mercy, wait, let me tell you—”
But Bennet had dropped the line.
“We have to go,” Jack told Jessi. “This whole thing is hitting the fan in the next couple of hours. Come on.”
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 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
6:00 P.M. PST Cat & Fiddle Pub, Los Angeles
Jack half ran down Sunset Boulevard to reach the SUV with Jessi Bandison in tow. He had just reached the tail end of the big car when he saw the red Camaro parked across the street, the driver barely visible in the shadowy twilight, his body held steady and angled toward them.
“Down!” Jack grabbed Jessi and pulled her to the ground as something hissed lightning-fast through the air over their heads. He dragged her behind the SUV. Plunk, plunk plunk! Rounds sank into the SUV. One passed right through the sheet metal over his head. Jack stayed behind the rear wheel, which offered more cover, and shoved Jessi toward the front. “Stay by that tire. Behind the engine block!”
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More dull thuds, but now from another angle, up the street instead of across. They were in a crossfire.
Jack drew his weapon, a double-stacked .45 Springfield, borrowed, like the phone. He stayed low and leaned around the tire, but the angle was bad, and all he could see was street. Cars zoomed by, oblivious. The snipers were equipped with silencers, and none of the cars realized they were driving through a gunfight. Jack slid to the tail end of the car and leaned around, switching the Springfield to his left hand and squeezing off four rounds. Unlike the snipers’ weapons, his .45 wasn’t silenced. The sharp report made Jessi shriek. The Camaro’s side window shattered. Jack rolled back behind the SUV and switched hands again, taking a kneeling position, looking to acquire the other sniper. But there was nothing to see except Sunset Boulevard, with dozens of buildings to hide in, parked cars, and cars moving along the street. A bullet chipped the concrete beside him, and he pressed himself tighter against the SUV.
More rounds hit the SUV from the other angle. The car was turning into a bullet sponge. But the angle of impact was changing. The shooter in the Camaro had relocated, improving his position. Jack fired two rounds into the air, just to make noise. Someone would call the police. If he could hold off the shooters until backup arrived, he’d have a chance. The gunfire brought shouts of alarm and screams from somewhere on the street.
Movement. Someone dashed from a building to a vehicle half a block up from the SUV, and Jack had his second shooter. But the first shooter put rounds into the SUV over his head, shattering the rear window, so Jack rolled in his direction and fired over the top of the car parked behind his. Commuters drove by, their startled faces flashing like subliminals in Jack’s eyes. He could not be worried about them now. The shooter from the Camaro stumbled and fell, but Jack wasn’t sure he’d actually hit him.
How do you know you’ve hit your target? the words of an old tactical firearms instructor came back to him.
When he goes down?
He might have fallen, he might be faking. There’s only one way to know. Front sight, trigger pull, follow through. Make sure your sights are on the target. That’s where the round will go.
Jack was sure his sights hadn’t been on target. The man was still operating.
Sirens in the distance. That was good. But his slide had just locked back. He dropped the magazine out and popped in his second and last. Fifteen rounds left. Jessi made herself as small as possible as Jack moved closer to her position. The shooter up the street moved and Jack fired, shattering glass and ripping through a public trash can. A man walking out of a store yelled something and dived back inside.
These weren’t eco-terrorists. They were operators working in tandem—one drawing Jack’s fire, the other improving his position. It was a good plan. It was going to work. And the sirens were too far away.
The shooter up the street popped up, taking aim. Jack fired to keep the enemy’s head down; he had no cover or concealment from that angle; his only cover was to shoot. At the same time, car tires squealed to a stop on the street a few feet away. If there was a third shooter, Jack thought, this was going to get really difficult. But the shooter pivoted, sighting the newcomer, his rounds turning the windshield into a spider web. The driver jumped out of the car and fired at the shooter. Panicked, the shooter changed angles, and there he was in Jack’s sights. Jack dropped him and his gun went into slide lock again. With grim determination he thumbed the slide release and felt it snap back. Now it was a nice blunt object.
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Twilight had turned to gloom but the streetlights hadn’t come on yet. Jack couldn’t see the driver’s face, but he saw his body swivel in the other direction. There was a hiss and a snap, and the driver cried out, his gun hand dropping. He fell away behind his car. Jack heard footsteps running onto the street. The shooter from the Camaro was closing in on the newcomer. Jack rolled around to the back of the SUV. He bolted into the street in time to see the shooter reach the new car, a silenced Beretta in his hands. The shooter saw him and tried to turn, but Jack was too fast. He grabbed the Beretta in one hand, holding it off his body, and punched the muzzle of his empty Springfield into the shooter’s face. He recoiled and punched his throat. The man dropped.
Without pausing Jack dropped the Springfield, tapped and racked the Beretta, and dropped to one knee, scanning the street. There was no movement. Cars had stopped passing by. The sirens were close enough to hurt his ears.
He looked up from his kneeling position to see the driver standing over him. “Hey,” said Kelly Sharpton.
6:15 P.M. PST Bauer Residence
“I’m going
to kill him.”
Teri Bauer slammed the phone back into its cradle. It was her fifth call to Jack in the last half hour. Like all the others, it had gone straight to voice mail.
Kim sat at the kitchen table, one hand absentmindedly tracing the seams where the wooden leaves of the table met. She looked pale, and concern for her fueled Teri’s anger.
“He did it on purpose,” Teri said out loud. “He took you this morning, but he was on a case.”
“Mom,” Kim said in a tired teenage voice. “Something came up. The first thing he did when that trouble started was
get me out of there.”
“And make you sit in a basement for three hours!”
Teri paced the length of the kitchen. The magic of the prior month had worn off. Her fear had been that it would vanish immediately; that Jack would dive right into some crisis. Instead, it had faded like a tan. She’d watched Jack’s attention turn slowly but steadily away from her and toward... whatever it was out there that called him. Teri had worried lately that it was another woman, and the thought had not completely left her. But it didn’t seem possible—Jack was driven by some desire that had nothing to do with sex.
