24 Declassified: 02 - Veto Power

by John Whitman

  He reached number four and told the guard to open up. The guard glanced worriedly at the bundle under Jack’s arm. “Oh, get off it, I’m the one who brought them in. I’m not going to hurt them now. Step aside.”

  The guard hesitated, but then moved out of the way.

  Number four was bigger than the other rooms, and better furnished. There were a couch and a reclining chair, and the walls were painted a soothing, if uninspired, gray. Number four was more of a debriefing room than an interrogation chamber.

  Professor Rafizadeh lay on the couch and Nazila sat cross-legged in the chair. As the door opened she got to her feet. When she saw that it was Jack, her face turned purple with anger. “What are we doing here? You said—”

  “Just questions,” he said, holding up one hand both to show sincerity and to block her progress. “You are not suspects. Neither is your brother. I told you that before.”

  “But we can’t leave,” Nazila pointed out.

  “Not yet,” he admitted.

  Professor Rafizadeh had risen slowly to a seated position. He rubbed his temples slowly, then the bridge of his nose. “Isn’t that the definition of a prisoner?”

  “Ramin—?”

  “He’s fine. Look, I need help right now,” Jack said. He set the books and papers onto the one small table in the room. “I need these translated and understood. I think they are important.”

  Rafizadeh took his glasses off, wiped them, and replaced them. He stood up and leaned over the table, reading through the lines. He nodded in understanding, then turned to Jack and peered over the top of his spectacles. “I can read them.”

  “Why should he help you!” Nazila said, advancing on Jack. “You’ve done nothing but bring us misery!”

  Jack waited a beat. “Well, I also saved your father’s life. And your brother’s life. And right now I’m trying to save a lot of other lives.” He told them about the apartment and the bomb materials.

  “Oh, please, not this terrorist story again,” Nazila said. She paced back and forth. “Why are you focusing on Muslims? It seems to me you have your own brand of terrorists right here with this Greater Nation or whatever it is.”

  Jack sat down on the couch. Though she was spitting venom at him, Jack had nothing but compassion for her. He was angry, too, somewhere down in the dark chambers of his thought where he kept his anger when it served no purpose; angry because she had lied to him. But his compassion was closer to the surface. When he spoke, he spoke softly, the natural roughness of his voice softened to verbal caress. “Look, I’ve told you. You are not suspects in anything. But you move in certain circles, and you have to realize that you may have heard things that mean nothing to you, but could help us crack our case. It’s the same with your brother. He’s not wanted, but he was in Lebanon, right?”

  Nazila hesitated, then nodded.

  “Right. He may have heard something that is trivia to him, but a lead for us. So please, be patient. You both said to me that if there were real terrorists here, you’d love for us to catch them. Well, here’s your chance to help.” He turned to the professor. “Can you read those lines?”

  Rafizadeh stroked his gray beard. “Well, of course I can read them. Anyone who reads Arabic can read them. But am I right in guessing that your translators didn’t know what they were?”

  Jack nodded.

  “They are lines from three famous poems. Part of a collection called the ‘Hanged Poems.’ ”

  Jack felt a rush of relief and gratitude sweep through him. “Hanged poems. That sounds bad.”

  “They are called that because it is believed they once hung inside the Kaaba in Mecca, though of course that is no longer the case. They are old, from the fifth century. They are lines from the most famous three of the seven—the Poem of Imru-ul-Quais, the Poem of Antar, and the Poem of Zuhair.”

  Nazila had dropped herself back into the chair and crossed her legs and her arms. She occupied herself with casting irritated glances from Jack, to her father, and back to Jack again.

  “So the guys who lived in that apartment were copying poems?” he said aloud. To himself, he began to wonder if the chemical tests had been in error.

  Nazila said aloud what he was thinking. “Maybe your other tests were a mistake. Maybe these guys were just college students after all.”

  “They did not copy whole poems. Parts of poems. Lines of poems, not the complete text.” The professor lifted pages and set them aside, examining each page to confirm his observation. “Yes, yes. Just lines.”

  “College students,” Nazila said in an I-told-you-so voice. “Taking notes.”

  “Well, yes, there are a few notes here, along with the text. Did your translator tell you that?” Professor Rafizadeh asked.

  Jack stood up. “No. What notes?”

  “Numbers, along with the text. Sometimes just scribbles, but often a number written over a word.”

  Nazila had stood up when Jack stood. She went to stand beside her father, and her dark eyes went to the page in his hand. “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh what?” Jack asked. “What scribbles? What numbers.”

  Professor Rafizadeh put down the paper, which Nazila promptly picked up. As she studied it, her father said, “Agent Bauer, this is not my area of expertise, but I would say that what you have here is a message of some kind.”

  “A message,” Jack repeated. “You mean a code?”

  Rafizadeh shrugged. Jack had to admire his serenity. He had just been kidnapped and threatened with death, and nearly killed in the crossfire between the militia and CTU. Yet here he was, stroking his beard gently, reading ancient texts, and talking to the man who had ruined his life six months ago. Few, under those circumstances, would be able to control themselves, yet Rafizadeh seemed completely at peace.

  “I can tell you,” he said at last, “that the lines as they are presented make no sense. They are from three different poems, but the lines are jumbled together. The topics differ, even the themes are different. From a literary point of view, there is no purpose to them.”

  “Then why would they use them?” Jack asked. Why use the poems in some kind of code if—”

  “Because the message isn’t in the poems,” Nazila said. “The poetry is just the key. This is a Hill cipher.”

  “Hill cipher?”

  “A code,” she said. “Not that complicated, but you have to know the source it uses for reference. It just transposes numbers and letters using some other source as the key.” Jack’s eyes shifted onto Nazila in surprise. God bless the Cal Poly math department, he thought. “You can translate this?”

  “Maybe,” she said, her eyes jumping from page to page. Then they lifted and settled firmly on Jack Bauer. “If you let all of us, including my brother, go.”

  11:35 A.M. PST Washington, D.C.

  Juwan hadn’t seen the car, but he’d felt the impact rattle his head so that it nearly came off his shoulders. In the same instant his vision was overwhelmed by a huge white blur that scraped his skin, and he realized that the air bag had inflated. It began to deflate almost instantly. Juwan was practically standing on his brake pad. He slammed the car into park, though he wasn’t sure it was still running anymore, and unbuckled his belt.

  The other car had rammed into the passenger side.

  Juwan was able to open the driver’s side door and get out, standing on wobbly legs. He just had the presence of mind to reach back into the car and lift the copies he’d made. He stuffed them back into his breast pocket and stepped away from the car. He looked around. He was on a quiet side street in D.C. The other driver had knocked his car sideways, so that he was pointing from sidewalk to sidewalk. A few heads poked out of windows to see what had happened.

  Juwan shook his head to clear the cobwebs out of his vision. The other car, a black Bonneville, was still connected to his side of his vehicle. People were getting out of both the driver and passenger sides of the Bonneville. They were two men.

  “I’m all right,” Juwan sa
id from his side of the car. “I’m all right.”

  Only after he’d repeated it twice did it occur to him that the two men hadn’t asked after his health. In fact, they hadn’t said anything. They each walked around one side of the car, advancing steadily on Juwan. Their faces looked neither worried nor surprised. In fact, to Juwan Burke they looked very much like the faces of corners and free safeties who had tried to take his head off at the University of Alabama.

  He backed up a few steps. One of the men growled, “Where do you think you’re going . . .”

  “Roll tide,” Juwan murmured. He turned and ran.

  They were chasing him. He could hear their footsteps, but he never looked back. That was the cardinal rule: never look back to see how close they are, because it only slows you down and lets them get closer. Keep your eyes front, focused on your goal, and fly.

  “Fuck!” he heard behind him.

  “Shoot him!” the other one yelled.

  “Here?” the first yelled, angry and incredulous.

  Juwan gritted his teeth as he ran, but no gunshot sounded. The footsteps faded a bit. He kept his eyes on the street ahead. He was only a few blocks from the Capitol Building. It was just two or three football fields away. He would make it.

  11:43 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Ryan Chappelle paced the length of Kelly Sharpton’s office, then he paced its width. He hated mornings like this—mornings when the trains derailed and the conductors were late. Of course, the real source of his anxiety wasn’t just the disruption in the well-established flow of information in his domain; his fear was much more personal. If Kelly Sharpton was some kind of mole, the fact would damage Chappelle’s own career. Soon the FBI would be here, and once they had Sharpton, the man was out of his hands. It would surely be the end of Sharpton’s career, but other heads might roll. Chappelle was fond of keeping his firmly attached to his shoulders.

  Jack Bauer appeared in the doorway. At any other moment, Ryan Chappelle would have leaped down the field agent’s throat. Today he just said, “What?”

  Jack saw that Chappelle was in no mood for small talk. He cut to the chase. “The Rafizadehs. I would like to release them.”

  “Okay...no wait,” Chappelle said, distracted but suddenly coming into focus. “Released? No, they just got here. They haven’t even been questioned yet. We’re letting them stew.”

  “They’re already simmering,” Jack said. “But I need them out. Nazila can help me get to a lead I need to find these terrorists.”

  “Now there are terrorists again,” Chappelle said, as though the whole incident was a story Jack made up and discarded like a child’s imaginary friend. “Will there still be terrorists if we let the Rafizadehs go?” It was a sarcastic question, so Jack didn’t answer. Chappelle scowled and added, “How can she help? Is she part of the cell?”

  “No. She has skills to help me break a code.”

  “We have teams—”

  “It’s in Arabic. Arabic poetry. Her father knows the poems, she’s a math grad student at Cal Poly. You find me a better team.”

  Chappelle considered it. Jack saw the options spinning around inside Chappelle’s bald skull. The two main options opposed each other: on the one hand, Chappelle was inclined to do his job when called upon, and that might mean releasing them; on the other hand, releasing them would please Jack, and that was something Chappelle tried to avoid.

  “Not the son,” he said. “We still have questions for the son. He was in Lebanon. His name was on that list. He needs to answer those questions.”

  “I’ve got a terrorist cell here in Los Angeles!” Jack said. “And these people can help me find them!”

  Chappelle shrugged. “So let them help while he’s answering questions. Oh, here’s the FBI.”

  Two men had climbed the stairs. One was a middle-aged white guy in a gray suit, blue tie, and a bald spot atop his head. The other was a tall black man, over six foot five, with huge shoulders, wearing jeans and a windbreaker. Both were a little older than Jack, with the air of authority and suspicion that came from more than a badge. They looked at Jack and Ryan as though they both might be suspects. “Paul Meister,” said the suit. “This is Londale Johnson. We’re here for Kelly Sharpton.”

  “This way,” Chappelle said. He led the two men down the steps to the holding area. Jack followed, his business with Chappelle not yet finished.

  At holding room one, Chappelle had the guard step aside and opened up. Kelly was sitting alone inside. He looked annoyed at Chappelle, but when the two FBI agents entered, his face turned grave.

  The suit, Meister, said, “Agent Sharpton, you are under arrest. Do you have anything you would like to say before we take you into custody?”

  “That has got to be the tallest FBI agent I’ve ever seen,” Kelly said. “And you have a very nice tie.”

  Behind them, Jack chuckled. He had to admit, Sharpton had style.

  Meister grimaced. He and Johnson stepped forward and took out a pair of handcuffs. Kelly stood slowly, showing them that he meant no harm, and waited to be handcuffed.

  “Mr. Chappelle! Mr. Chappelle!” Jessi Bandison ran at them, breathless. “There’s a call for you.”

  “Later,” the Director snapped.

  “An urgent call!” Jessi said. “From the Attorney General.”

  Chappelle’s already pale face turned white. He looked around for an extension and saw a phone on the wall. “Send it here.”

  Jessi disappeared, and a few seconds later the wall phone rang. “Chappelle.”

  “Director Chappelle,” said James Quincy. “I understand that you have an agent in custody by the name of Kelly Sharpton. You are holding him on suspicion of some kind of sabotage against my computer system?”

  “Er, yes, sir,” Ryan Chappelle said. He looked at the FBI agents, as though they might have an explanation for the call. They offered nothing. “We have evidence that he—”

  “Please release him, Director,” Quincy said. “This man was acting on my orders. He’s done nothing wrong. Is that clear?”

  “Clear? Yes, sir, but I’m not sure I—”

  “Release him,” the Attorney General repeated. “There’s no harm done.”

  Chappelle’s head throbbed. He had yet to get a handle on any part of this day. “Yes, sir.”

  11:55 A.M. PST Westin St. Francis Hotel, San Francisco

  James Quincy placed the phone gently back on its receiver, willing his trembling hand to stop shaking with anger. It would not. To control himself, Quincy sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Satisfied?”

  Senator Debrah Drexler, accompanied by her man Bobby, stood on the far side of the hotel room’s small coffee table. She was holding a faxed document in her hands, which she had just received a few minutes earlier from her Washington, D.C., office. She had already shown the documents to Quincy. She’d even offered to give him his own set, since she’d made a dozen copies and disbursed them to trusted associates in various parts of the country.

  “No, I’m not satisfied,” she said, waving the documents. “Drop the NAP Act.”

  Quincy snorted. “Don’t push it. What you’ve got there isn’t that strong.”

  “It will raise a lot of questions about why you sent your own private soldier into the Greater Nation. Those are questions you don’t want to have to answer.”

  Quincy was unmoved. “I’ll play this game because I tried to push you and you pushed back. Fair is fair. But you reach too high and I’ll kick the ladder right out from under you.”

  Debrah hesitated, taking his measure. She rarely got this close to him. He was a handsome man, all in all, though she could have done without the annoyingly straight part in his hair. He was cool under pressure, she had to give him that. He’d hardly blinked when she presented him with the dossier on Frank Newhouse. He’d assessed the situation as coolly as a man judging a sale, and conceded dispassionately.

  “All right,” she said. “Your fascist bill is going d
own anyway.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Drexler and her man left the office. As soon as the door closed, a side door opened and one of Quincy’s men appeared. If Deb or Bobby had seen him, they’d have recognized him as the same man who had spoken with the Senator in Golden Gate Park that same morning.

  “Should I have this taken care of?” asked the man.

  “No, don’t be ridiculous, she’s a U.S. Senator,” Quincy said. The man shrugged. People were people, and they all died about the same no matter what their title. “Besides, everything is going the way I expected it to.”

  11:58 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Jack resigned himself to defeat. He couldn’t get Chappelle to release Ramin Rafizadeh. He toyed with the idea of breaking him out of prison, but discarded the effort as too drastic. He had no idea what those codes said, and he’d feel stupid sacrificing his whole career in return for a grocery list or a fundamentalist Islamic diatribe about the sins of the United States.

  He walked down to holding room four and entered, his face downcast. “Look, I’m sorry. I argued my best, but they want to hold him for a day or two, just to—”

  “Jack, forget that,” said Nazila. He was so annoyed with Chappelle, he’d failed to notice her mood. The blood had drained from her face and her voice shook. “I mean, get him out, but I’ll tell you what this says. I have to...”

  “Naz, what is it?” he asked, his senses suddenly heightened.

  “According to these notes, the terrorists plan to assassinate the President tomorrow. Right here in Los Angeles.”

  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 12 P.M. AND 1 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  12:00 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Despite the rallying cry of 9/11 and the media’s spotlight on interagency cooperation, it was often still difficult to bring law enforcement and intelligence communities together. The CIA and the FBI were like schoolyard rivals who had fought for so long it was habit. The National Security Agency had acted as an independent agency for its entire life, and simply did not know how to play well with others. Homeland Security was the new kid who wasn’t sure how to fit in.