24 Declassified: Trinity 2d-9

by John Whitman

  “Who else?” Jack demanded. “Who else did this? We know there were others. Tell me now, or I won’t be able to control him.” He pointed at Biehn.

  “Giggs. Father Giggs,” Dortmund replied. “And Mulrooney.”

  “The Cardinal?” Biehn said.

  “Not… He didn’t… didn’t do it,” Dortmund said. “But he knew why I moved to this diocese. He helped make the arrangements.”

  Why I moved to this diocese… Jack guessed what that meant. “Are you saying you did this in other places? Is that why you moved here?”

  Dortmund nodded. “In my old parish. The church moved me after the parishioners complained. They moved me here. I was supposed to… was supposed to control myself.”

  Jack’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the number. Shit. This couldn’t come at a worse moment. “Wait,” he said. He stepped back so that he’d be out of earshot, but kept his eye on Biehn. The man was still twitching, still asking Dortmund a question, but Jack had to answer this.

  “Carlos, go,” he said quickly.

  “Hey, man,” the NSA operative said. “We got you something. Your boy works late, like me. He made a call a little while ago. Having a meeting at three a.m. at his place with someone. They were definitely talking about plastic explosives. He wants to get hold of more for a new client, he said.”

  That’s it, Jack thought. He’s our man. “Who’d he call?”

  “That’s a harder one, my friend,” Carlos replied, a little dejected. “Someone with a little sophistication. It was a scrambled line, and sent our tracers all over the damned planet. Could have been right next door for all I know. But we’re on it. He calls that number again, and we’ll get ’em.”

  “Thanks, Carlos. This was helpful. I—”

  What happened seemed to occur in slow motion. Jack saw Biehn’s hands twitch again, but this time they twitched and came loose. The handcuff stayed on his good hand; the bandaged one came free. Jack was already in motion. He’d already taken one step by the time Biehn’s good hand snatched up the loose ring off the handcuff, turning it into a weapon, and Dortmund’s eyes were growing big as saucers. Jack was finishing his second step and taking his third when the detective punched downward, smashing the sharp edge of the handcuff into Dortmund’s throat.

  Life sped up again, and Jack was tackling Biehn across the bed. Biehn turned into a rag doll and Jack rolled him onto the floor, crashing against a dresser. He put Biehn on his face and dragged his hands behind him. He couldn’t see the hands clearly in the darkness, but by the feel of it he could guess what had happened. Biehn’s hand was more damaged than he realized. The fingers had dislocated. Biehn’s twitching had been an effort to dislodge them further. He’d popped his own thumb out of its socket, letting him slip the cuff.

  “Damn it!” he cursed. He cuffed Biehn again, this time digging the cuff in so tight it drew blood. He couldn’t leave the cuff like that forever or the man would lose his hand. But for the moment he was taking no chances. Jack pulled his second pair of cuffs out again and resecured Biehn’s feet.

  He jumped up and vaulted the bed to check on Dortmund. The priest was in the middle of convulsions, gagging and clutching at his throat. Jack reached for the small lamp on the nightstand and turned it on. He pulled Dortmund’s hands away from his throat. A deep bruise was already forming there, and Jack knew what had happened. Biehn had crushed his throat with the blow. Dortmund was choking to death.

  “Calm down. Calm down!” he said, slapping Dortmund. The man’s thrashing was not helping. Shit, he had to do something. If he didn’t, he was an accomplice to murder. Jack pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand. It was a gallimaufry. He dug through the odds and ends, shoe polish kits and old watches, until he found a Bic pen. Using his teeth, he tore the top off it and plucked out the ink tube in the middle, until all he had left was a hard plastic straw.

  Dortmund was turning blue and clutching at his throat. Urgent, terrified, gurgling noises came out of him, and his eyes were shiny with tears and fear. “I’m trying to fucking help you!” Jack said, shoving him back down on the bed. He stuck the tube between his teeth and pulled a knife out of his pocket. It was a small folder. He snapped it open and held it over Dortmund. He made his voice calm. “Don’t move. This is going to hurt. But it will help you breathe. Understand? Don’t move.”

  Dortmund nodded but couldn’t stop from twitching. Jack jumped on top of him, straddling him, his knees pinning the priest’s arms to his sides. With his free hand, Jack grabbed Dortmund’s forehead and pushed it hard into the pillow and mattress. Then, quick as he could, he touched the tip of the knife to the throat below the bruise. He made a quick incision. There was blood, but not much because Jack hadn’t come close to the carotid arteries. Jack put down the knife and snatched the pen tube out of his mouth. Lining it up with the hole he’d just made, he pushed it, driving it steadily through the resistance he felt. A second later, a wet rasping sound emerged from the outer end of the tube. Dortmund’s chest heaved and the wet sound was repeated. After a moment, the priest’s natural color returned. He moved his mouth but could not speak.

  “Don’t try,” Jack said. He touched his own throat. “Your throat was crushed. I gave you a kind of tracheotomy.”

  Dortmund’s hands probed his throat.

  “Don’t touch. It’s a pretty bullshit emergency rig. You need to get to a hospital.”

  The priest looked at Jack with something like tearful appreciation. Jack sneered at him. “Don’t thank me. You’re a piece of shit and you probably deserve to die. But I don’t have time to deal with it right now.”

  1:49 P.M. PST Culver City

  The door opened on Nina’s second loud knock. The man who answered was in his mid-forties, with a well-trimmed dark beard and soft black eyes behind a pair of wire-framed glasses perched crookedly on his nose. He was still arranging a robe about his body as he looked at her. “Are you aware of the time?” he said indignantly. “What is this?” “Mr. al-Hassan, Nina Myers again,” she said. “I have more questions for you.” “I’m sorry, who are you? Why are you here so late?”

  Nina was annoyed that he didn’t remember her. She held out her Federal identification again. “Federal agent Nina Myers,” she reminded him. “I questioned you once before.”

  “Oh!” he said, rubbing his eyes as though just coming awake. “Ms. Myers. I’m sorry, I was asleep.

  I… may I ask what is going on?” “I’d like to come in.” “Of — of course.” He stepped aside, and she entered. “What hap

  pened to your arm?” she asked. His left arm was in a sling.

  “I fell,” he replied. “Off a curb on the street. I hit my arm on the curb and broke my arm, if you can believe it.”

  “I’m not sure what to believe, Mr. al-Hassan,” she said bluntly. “Why didn’t you tell me about the conference in Peshawar?”

  Abdul al-Hassan looked genuinely shocked. “Peshawar? What conference?”

  She put her hands on her hips, which brought her right hand that much closer to the gun at her hip. “The one you attended. A month or so ago.”

  “In Peshawar,” al-Hassan said, as though piecing together clues. “The Muslim union!” he said at last, his eyes lighting up. Nina swore that he was legitimately pleased with himself for figuring it out. “The reconciliation conference in Peshawar. And I didn’t tell you about it?”

  “It’s late to play games,” she said impatiently. “Would you rather I take you into custody and we do this in a less comfortable situation?”

  “No, no,” al-Hassan said, recovering his composure. “I’m sorry, Ms… Myers. I had simply forgotten. I’d forgotten I hadn’t told you about that conference.”

  Nina glared at him. “I specifically asked you if you’d had contact with any Islamic fundamentalists recently and you said no. I believe at that time you might have mentioned a trip to a hotbed of radical Muslim beliefs.”

  The imam shook his head gently. “Ms. Myers,
the problem is just that our definitions of ‘radical Muslim belief’ are different. The conference was a debate between Sunni and Shiite clerics. An effort to unify the Muslim community. To me, that is hardly a ‘radical’ notion. It would not have occurred to me to connect that meeting with any discussion of terrorism.”

  “But Peshawar—

  “Yes, I apologize,” he said sincerely. “To you, northern Pakistan must seem like the end of the world.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Nina snapped. Something about al-Hassan seemed different than her memory of him. If she recalled correctly, he had been superficially stern, but ultimately cooperative and concerned for justice. Now he seemed much more deferential on the surface, but harder underneath. “I understand the region pretty damned well. If I were going somewhere to meet with a terrorist organization, Peshawar would be ideal.”

  “And if I were going to confront a schism in my religion,” al-Hassan retorted, “I would choose a place just like Peshawar, in Pakistan, which has seen much violence between Sunni and Shi’a since the 1980s.” He shrugged at her. “Light does its best work in a dark room, Ms. Myers.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Nina said simply. “I don’t believe you just forgot. I think you’re hiding something from me. Tell me more about your brother.” She was fishing now, but she wanted to keep him talking, and al-Hassan had proved in the past that he was more than willing to talk about his brother.

  Al-Hassan’s eyes flashed. “My brother. Someday, by the will of Allah, he will understand the truth. Until then, his actions are his own. I have not spoken with him in years.”

  “Do you think he is still involved with radical fundamentalists?” she asked.

  “Most assuredly.”

  “And where is he?”

  Al-Hassan shook his head. “I have no idea where my brother might be, nor do I care. If I had any such information, I promise I would tell you.”

  1:54 A.M. PST Culver City

  Marwan al-Hassan listened to the woman ask several more of her questions. He answered them in the voice he had known from childhood, the voice he hated so much. The voice of his ridiculous embarrassment of a brother, that poor excuse of a Muslim who tried so hard to make peace with the nonbelievers.

  Despite his disdain, Marwan played his part well. He tucked his filial dislike into a secret place within him. There was plenty there to keep it company, not least of which was fury at being forced to answer questions from a woman. As far as he was concerned, she should be beaten. Instead, he stood there smiling innocently and answering her questions. Patience, he told himself. Patience. The time would come when Allah would give the faithful the opportunity to bring real Islam to this country.

  “Are you aware that we could not locate your brother?” the Federal agent asked.

  “Excuse me?” he said, genuinely startled. “I didn’t know that.”

  “His last known location was Afghanistan, but he could be anywhere. What do you think the chances are of his coming here?”

  “Here?” Marwan said, still using his brother’s scholarly tones. “You would know that better than I, Ms. Myers. I don’t know why he would want to come here. I can’t imagine he would be allowed in. And surely you must have some sort of registration, or visa, or—”

  “We do keep track,” she said. “I was just wondering. Would he contact you if he came here?”

  “His last words to me were filled with hatred and venom,” Marwan said, which was very true. He remembered speaking them. “I doubt he would have anything new to say.”

  The Federal agent nodded. She spoke some more words — instructions on how to contact her, an urgent request to reach her if he heard anything out of the ordinary, and then she was gone.

  As soon as the door was closed, Marwan al-Hassan allowed the genial mask to slip from his face, revealing his utter and complete disdain. In his home, she would be beaten for impertinence, and for wearing such revealing clothing, and for so many other efforts to live and move beyond a woman’s legitimate place.

  Marwan looked at the clock. It was a matter of hours, now. Only hours left until martyrdom.

  9. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 A.M. AND 3 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  2:00 A.M. PST Culver City

  Nina Myers walked down the steps from al-Hassan’s apartment with the nagging feeling of uncertainty, like the feeling of someone who’s just walked away from a sale unsure if she’d been had. The only real purpose of her meeting had been to look him in the eye when she asked him about his trip to Pakistan. She had to admit to herself that he had looked genuinely startled. That genuine reaction, more than any words he might have spoken, suggested that he might be telling the truth.

  What bothered her was his overall demeanor. She’d spoken with him only once, but she had a good memory for interviews, especially on an active case, and she was sure that al-Hassan had been much more abrupt, even abrasive, with her during their previous meeting. Frankly, she had appreciated his candor. Tonight he had seemed slicker, a little more polished. But she had little to go on — to get any information more thorough than her report on Peshawar would take days. Tracking down the elusive brother in Pakistan or the Middle East would be like looking for a needle in a stack of needles.

  She shrugged. It was either that or go back to sleep. She headed for CTU.

  2:03 A.M. PST West Hollywood

  Jack had called Christopher Henderson rather than the regular emergency services, laying a bet that CTU had set up some kind of exfil system or cleanup procedure. His gamble paid off. Ten minutes after his call, paramedics arrived, along with a dark-haired man in slacks and a dress shirt, but the sleepy look of someone who’d just dragged himself out of bed.

  “Almeida,” he said, shaking Jack’s hand. “These are our people. We’ll check him in and give a story. Is he going to give us any trouble?” He nodded at Dortmund, who was being stabilized by the paramedics.

  “I don’t think so,” Jack said. “He’s a pedophile and there is evidence on him. Tell him to agree with your story or you’ll tell the real one.”

  Almeida nodded as though that sort of reply was commonplace. He indicated Biehn, still handcuffed on the floor. “We taking him, too?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” He studied Almeida’s dark eyes. “You haven’t even asked what’s going on.”

  The other man shrugged. “My job’s to solve the problem, not slow down the solution with questions. Although if you did ask me, I’d say this whole thing looks pretty f’d up.”

  Jack walked over and knelt beside Biehn. “What do you think of that?” he said sarcastically. “This guy thinks the situation here is fucked up, just because I let a suspected murderer visit a priest and then you tried to kill him. What do you think?”

  Biehn, his words muffled by the carpet, replied, “I can give you another name in the plot.”

  Jack sighed. “In return for letting you try to kill someone else? I don’t think so.”

  “I promise I won’t try to kill him.”

  “Oh, well, if you promise! That’s a whole different story,” Jack said acidly.

  “I just want to see Mulrooney’s face. I want to know if he’s guilty.”

  Jack grabbed Biehn by the shoulders and sat him up. He held Biehn’s anguished, frantic eyes with his own. “Of course he’s guilty. Everyone’s guilty of something. He’s guilty, but you’re not going to kill him. Deal with that right now.”

  Almeida watched them. “You know, I am starting to get a little curious.”

  Biehn did not back away from Jack’s stare. “You’ve got a daughter. I know her, she’s friends with my son. What would you do if priests had been raping her for the last four years?”

  Jack knew. He’d thought about it already, driving in the car with Biehn. He’d make them all disappear quietly and painfully, law be damned. The law was a fine instrument, a useful tool. But it occurred to him that it was a tool that was often too clumsy, like a shovel with too long a handle. Th
ere were times when you wanted to cut it short. When did I start thinking that way? he wondered.

  To Biehn, he said, “Doesn’t matter what I’d do. The only thing that matters is that I’m not going to let you do it.”

  “I can give you a name directly associated with the plot. I don’t know if he’s one of the terrorists or just a shill, but I know that he’s a key component. And I can give you a description of the main guy.”

  “How do you know all this?” Jack demanded. “What’s your source?”

  Biehn said, “The guy in charge kidnapped me. He tortured me. I overhead a conversation and then I escaped.”

  Jack processed this. Biehn was not involved in the terrorist investigation. He was a detective from West Hollywood Division, not Robbery-Homicide. “Were you on a case?”

  “I’ll tell you that, too, if you let me look into Mulrooney’s face.”

  Jack stood and helped Biehn to his feet. He turned to find Almeida practically in his face. The man was close enough to trigger Jack’s fight response, but he held back. Almeida himself was like ice. “I should probably remind you that none of what you’re doing is procedure. But I get the feeling you don’t really give a shit.”

  Jack gave a curt nod. “You’re a good judge of character.” While Almeida saw to the paramedics and Dort

  mund, Jack took a deep breath and gathered his arms around the situation. Biehn first, he thought. “Come on.” He uncuffed the detective’s feet and half-dragged him back out to the car. He put him in the front seat and recuffed his legs. “Are you going to—?” Biehn tried to ask, but Jack slammed the door.

  He stood outside the car and dialed his cell phone. “Jack, what a surprise,” said Christopher Henderson. “Does everyone at the CIA work this late, or do they regret hiring you, too?”

  “You knew the job was dangerous when you took it,” Jack quipped in reply. “Don’t tell me you signed up for a nine-to-five job, anyway.”