by John Whitman
“Beautiful,” said the man next to him.
Abdul glanced over at Father Collins. He hadn’t realized the priest was standing there. That was how much of an impression Collins made.
“I was just thinking,” Abdul said, more to himself than to the priest, “that this frame of light is a metaphor for our work.”
“How do you mean?”
“The tide keeps rolling, never changing, like generations and generations of people. We are the light, casting ourselves out over them, trying to illuminate.”
Father Collins smiled. He had a round, almost obese face under a shock of red hair that stood out starkly from his black shirt. “I have to say I always took you for kind of a cynic. I didn’t know you were a poet.”
Abdul shrugged. “I meant to be cynical. The light only reaches a tiny patch of the ocean. And the water never changes anyway.”
Father Collins frowned at this. Abdul was afraid he would say something, but instead the priest lifted his frown up to a weak smile and turned away. Abdul watched him waddle gingerly through the crowd of clerics, protecting his left arm, which was in a sling.
“There goes the face of the interfaith Unity Conference,” said a new arrival. Rabbi Dan Bender moved his considerable girth into the spot vacated by Father Collins. Bender was a big man, certainly overweight, and yet somehow able to move with a nimbleness that eluded thinner men. Abdul knew him to have run marathons.
“You are speaking metaphorically,” said Abdul, who was no Father Collins. “He is a gentle, harmless man without teeth. Without toughness. I suppose that is a good summation of the conference as a whole.”
Bender dabbed a kerchief on his cheek and neck, then dabbed around the rim of the yarmulke that somehow managed to keep its place on his bald head. “The conference will never have muscle as long as Collins is running it. I don’t care that it has the backing of the Pope. It is a local event, and that means Cardinal Mulrooney is in charge. He is no great fan of his Pope’s policy.”
Abdul raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you disapprove of Mulrooney. But isn’t he more like you and me?”
Bender looked offended. “You don’t believe that, Sheik. You and I are realists. We know that the problems that divide us aren’t just about making religions coexist. But we can respect one another. Mulrooney is cut from a different cloth. Pardon the pun.”
Abdul said wryly, “Well, I’m in a whimsical mood now, so I guess I’ll suggest that maybe it is the Pope’s way that is the best. In the face of our cynicism and Mulrooney’s isolationism, maybe hope and prayer are the best third option.”
Bender shook his head. “What’s the old Arab saying? Trust God, but tether your camel.”
A dark cloud settled over Abdul’s face. His cheeks seemed to sink under the line of his black beard.
“I said something?” Bender said, noting the change.
“No. No, it’s just… the last person to use that expression with me was my brother.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you had—”
“A twin, actually,” Abdul said. “He used that same phrase with me the last time I saw him.”
“I get the feeling you two are not close.”
“He’s a fundamentalist,” Abdul said.
Bender looked around the restaurant at the collection of clerics from so many faiths. “A fundamentalist? What would he think of this, then? What would he call it?”
Abdul considered. “An opportunity for martyrdom.”
7:24 P.M. PST
L.A. County “Twin Towers” Detention Center
A phone call and the words Federal anti-terrorist unit had oiled the machinery of the jail system, and Jack and Nina were inside in no time. Sheriff’s deputies brought the three suspects to three separate holding cells at the bottom level of the Twin Towers on Bauchet Street.
It also helped that Jack knew the watch commander, Mark Brodell, from his days with the LAPD.
“Hey, Mark,” he said, shaking the man’s hand as he entered the detention center. “Thanks for letting us in.”
Brodell rolled his eyes at Jack and Nina. “Are you kidding? You’re the Feds now, aren’t you? We roll out the red carpet for the Federal government.”
“That’s not what it was like in my day,” Jack replied.
Brodell winked. “Still isn’t. But your partner’s cute.” Nina did not return his smile with anything like a thank-you.
“We lined ’em up for you. Three holding cells right this way.”
Take away the existence of the plastic explosives, and the three suspects were completely unremarkable. They were Abu Mousa, a marketing coordinator at an advertising agency on Wilshire Boulevard; Omar Abu Risha, a small-time electronics wholesaler; and Sabah Fakhri, a clerk at Nordstrom’s. None had a criminal record in the United States. Mousa and Fakhri had been born in this country. Risha was a naturalized citizen, but had no flags or warnings in his file.
“It was grunt work, really,” Nina had explained on the way over. “We did what the FBI had done back in ’93 to get the Blind Sheik. We just looked at the names at the center of the web and started following strands outward. It was really supposed to be a practice run to test our procedures. We didn’t expect to find anything.”
“But you found—?”
“Abu Mousa’s brother was a member at the New Jersey mosque. He changed his name and someone missed it. Mousa wasn’t a recorded member, but he had lived with his brother in Jersey. We found him here in Los Angeles and knocked on his door. Lo and behold, he and his housemates are sitting on a crate full of plastic explosives.”
Jack nodded. “You mind if I—?”
“Go ahead and take the lead,” Nina allowed. “But just this once.”
Jack opened the door to the holding room. Holding room was a much more politically correct term than interrogation room, although the latter was more appropriate. The room was barely ten feet by ten feet, with a metal table and an uncomfortable chair for the subject to sit in. A single light hung down from the ceiling. The bulb wasn’t bare, but it might as well have been from the light greenish pall it cast over the room.
Abu Mousa sat in the chair, his wrists shackled together and attached to a chain that had been bolted into the floor. He looked short sitting in the chair, and although his face was young, his hair was already thinning. He wore a frail mustache and a short beard. His eyes were brown and muddy, staring out over huge black bags that, by the looks of them, were permanent.
Jack walked over to the chair on the far side of the metal table and sat down, staring at the prisoner. Nina stayed behind Mousa, not moving, but she was adept at emitting malice. Jack stared at Mousa for a while, silent, until the prisoner began to fidget.
“I would like to see my lawyer,” Mousa said finally.
“I haven’t even asked you anything,” Jack said. He continued to study the prisoner as though he were a zoo exhibit. Mousa caught on to his game and tried to return his gaze. It worked for a while, but Jack was patient, and it was easier to feel that you had the upper hand when you weren’t shackled to the floor. Finally, Mousa gave in. “Come on, man, what is it you want?”
Jack said, “We want to know what you were planning on doing with that plastic explosive. And we want to know who has the rest of it.”
Mousa clenched his shackled fists. “Man, I told you guys already, I wasn’t going to do anything with it. Guy I know asked me to hold on to the crate for him. He said it was modeling clay, but expensive so I shouldn’t mess with it. I didn’t even open the thing, so I don’t know if any of it is missing.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“A friend.”
Jack lunged across the table and grabbed Mousa by the front of his prison jumpsuit.
7:35 P.M. PST
L.A. County “Twin Towers” Detention Center
Mark Brodell watched the man in the suit approach, walking like he had a flagpole up his ass, flag and all. When Brodell said the word Fed, this was who he had in mind.
The man
gave Brodell’s hand a perfunctory shake and showed his identification. It read: “Ryan Chappelle, Division Director, Counter Terrorist Unit.” “Is there a Jack Bauer here interrogating one of our prisoners?”
7:36 P.M. PST
Holding Cell, L.A. County “Twin Towers” Detention Center
Jack had pulled Mousa up across the table. Because the shackles held his arms back, Mousa was bent over the table with his arms pinned painfully beneath him.
“You don’t have any friends,” Jack was saying. “All you have are the names you’re going to give me and the names I’m going to beat out of you. Understood?”
Mousa looked genuinely terrified, which was very informative. It told Jack that Mousa wasn’t a professional, and that he had no real training. To Jack’s way of thinking, that ruled out Syrian or Iranian intelligence, and probably Hezbollah as well. No trained intelligence officer would be afraid of a beat-ing — not because he could take the punishment, but because a beating rarely gathered any significant information. The real tools of interrogation were sleep deprivation, drugs, and psychological duress. Only an amateur afraid for his own skin balked at physical punishment.
“Please,” Mousa whimpered. “My arms…”
“Stop complaining, they’re still attached,” Jack said.
“What the hell is this!”
Ryan Chappelle walked into the room, flanked by a couple of suits Jack didn’t know.
“Get your hands off that man. Now!” Chappelle barked.
Despite the order, Jack didn’t let go immediately. He kept his eyes on Mousa and thought he saw, as Chappelle shouted again, the faintest hint of a smile on the man’s face. Maybe he was wrong about Mousa’s training.
“Let him go!” Chappelle practically shrieked.
Jack released Mousa. The man slumped forward over the table edge with a yelp, then slid backward to the floor. He winced as he stood up and took his seat in the chair again. His wrists around the manacles were red and raw. The fact created in Jack no sense of pity.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Chappelle was in his face. “This isn’t even your case. That is not your prisoner. And you are not allowed to use force in interrogations.”
Jack weathered Chappelle’s shrill storm with antipathy. When the Director paused for breath, Jack said calmly, “Someone is going to blow up something with a bunch of plastic explosives tomorrow night. We need to find out who they are and what they are planning, and we need to find out now.”
Chappelle flapped his hands in the air. “Not this way!”
Jack’s tone was like ice. “Then what way? Show me.” He looked at Mousa. “Should we just ask you where Abdul Rahman Yasin is hiding?”
He had asked facetiously, but he kept his eyes on Mousa, searching for any signs of recognition. He was disappointed. If Mousa knew the name of the World Trade Center bomber, he hid the fact like an expert.
“…drummed out of the CIA when the Director of Operations hears about this,” Chappelle was saying.
“Sir,” Jack said, bringing his attention back to Chappelle. “It probably isn’t good to be arguing in front of the prisoner.”
Chappelle’s neck turned purple, but he realized that Jack was right. He spun around and stormed out, gesturing for Bauer to follow. Jack did, casting a wry look at Nina Myers, who seemed to be enjoying herself.
Outside, in the hallway, Chappelle fumed. “You had no right to be here. You are not part of this unit, you are not authorized to perform operations on U.S. soil. You are not even on this case!”
Jack had no idea how much authority Chappelle really had. Even if he was the big dick in this Counter Terrorist Unit, the political influence of these agencies waxed and waned with their budgets and their successes. Unless CTU had some heavy hitters backing it in Congress, it was doubtful Chappelle could pull many strings. Domestic terrorism just wasn’t that big an issue, even after ’93.
“Take it up with the Director.” Jack shrugged.
“I’ll do better than that,” Chappelle said. “You, Brodell!”
Several sheriff’s deputies, including watch commander Brodell, had gathered around to watch the pissing contest. Chappelle had spotted the watch commander and called him out. “I want you to arrest this man. Jail him here, and call the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Brodell’s brow furrowed deeply. “Arrest him? Him? For what?”
Chappelle waved dismissively. “Excessive force. Assault. Violation of the Executive Order 12036 banning domestic surveillance. Trespassing, for all I care. Just lock him up and let the CIA come find him.”
The watch commander looked perplexed, but then said, “Uh, no, sir.”
Chappelle’s neck reddened again. “What!”
“Well, sir, we didn’t see any harm being done. We can’t arrest him for nothing.”
“Arrest him because I’m telling you to. I have the authority to do it.”
Brodell nodded and scratched his head like a lazy farmer. “Well, sir, that may be true. If you could just get on the phone to my supervisor, and have him contact the sheriff, then I’ll know for sure.”
If Chappelle had been red-faced before, now he looked purple. But he wasn’t a stupid man. He knew when he’d been defeated. “Stay away from our prisoners,” he warned.
3. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 P.M. AND 9 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
8:00 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Christopher Henderson was scratching out work assignments on a pad of paper because his computer wasn’t booting up. Someday soon they’d have an entire tech department of their own, he told himself, but right now he’d settle for a guy from the Geek Squad.
He needed more staff. There was funding for it — in fact, he had to talk to Chappelle about spending more money, or someone in Washington would cut their budget for next year. But CTU was still having trouble recruiting, especially in field operations. Most of the top-quality operators saw the domestic agenda as the boondocks of counterterrorism work. Yes, the World Trade Center bombing had served notice that the bad guys could and would try attacks on U.S. soil, but the truck bomb hadn’t brought the building down, and memories faded.
That’s why Henderson wanted Bauer so badly. Jack had military experience, law enforcement experience, and hands-on intelligence work. Hell, the man had even studied literature at UCLA. He was a complete package. CTU could really use a man like Bauer.
“Jack Bauer will never work for CTU!” Ryan Chappelle howled. He’d managed to maintain his level of rancor all the way from the Twin Towers.
Henderson nearly jumped. “What? Why?”
Chappelle described the events at the holding cell. “He’s a loose cannon. Insubordinate. Dangerous to the completion of any case, unless we want to give the terrorists a get-out-of-jail-free card for civil rights violations!” He glared at Henderson as though the entire affair had been his fault.
Henderson rubbed a hand on his head. If Jack did come on board, he told himself, this would not be the last of such conversations. He sighed. “He’s a doer, sir. He gets the job done. If we’re facing the kind of people you and I both think we are, that’s going to be important.”
Chappelle shook his head furiously. “There is no way that man is working for CTU. Ever.”
8:08 P.M. PST West Los Angeles, California
“Hey,” Jack said, putting a hand on Teri’s shoulder and kissing her neck from behind.
Teri Bauer leaned back into the kiss, mewed with pleasure, then said, “Who is this?”
Jack laughed. “I’m the blond one.” He walked around her and the café table, and sat down in the lounge chair across from her. Knowing his habits, she had chosen the chair with its back to the room.
Teri put down her book and sipped her latte. “You want one?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m already pretty wired. I need to unwind so I can get some sleep.”
“Rough day?” she asked, reaching across and putting her han
d over his. Her hands looked small compared to his; she had always liked how strong his were.
He nodded, but didn’t say more, and she didn’t ask. She understood that his work with the CIA was often sensitive, and she had long ago decided not to ask too many questions. But there was one area that was open for discussion.
“That man, Christopher Henderson, called again today. Did you speak with him?”
Jack laughed. “Yes. And I got to see the CTU offices. Our garage looks more organized.”
“Oh,” she said.
He leaned forward and connected his free hand to hers. “You want me to take this.”
She shrugged in a what-do-you-want-me-to-say? manner. “It might keep you in Los Angeles more often. That would be good. You’d still be doing work you like. And with Kim going into high school, it’ll be good for you to be around as often as you can.”
Jack nodded. “Where is she?”
“Home. Asleep, I think.”
“I still can’t get used to the fact that she’s old enough to be left home alone.”
“Still young enough to want her daddy around.”
“I’ve thought of that. I’m not married to the CIA—” They both balked at the expression. He regretted using it, but said nothing and moved on. “I like it, but I could leave if the right thing came along. But I’m just not sure what CTU is all about, what their mission is. I’m not even sure they know yet.”
“You like Christopher Henderson.”
“Who’s not really in charge. Some guy named Chappelle is. I met him today. He’s a tool.” Jack laughed. “I think if I work for that guy I’ll end up shooting him in the head.”
Jack’s cell phone buzzed, and a number he hadn’t seen in years flashed on the screen. “Bauer,” he said.
“Jack, it’s Harry Driscoll, Robbery-Homicide—”
“Hey, Harry, long time.” He mouthed an apology to Teri, who shrugged. “How’s business?”
On the other end of the line, Harry Driscoll chuckled. “Never slow, always plenty of customers. Listen, word gets around, and I know that you’ve got some interest in the Sweetzer Avenue thing.”
