by John Whitman
He heard several clicks as his call was routed through scrambled lines to a caseworker. He’d had to use this line only once before, and that had been in Ankara. He wasn’t sure what would happen when he called from Los Angeles.
“Bauer,” said an unfamiliar voice. “You were in
L.A. Is this now a domestic issue?”
“As domestic as it gets,” Jack said, turning onto the 110 Freeway North. As quickly as he could, Jack relayed the pertinent information. The person on the other end didn’t complain or quote the rule book.
That wasn’t his job. His only job was extraction, as neatly and cleanly as possible. Not because Jack was important, but because the secrecy and reputation of the Agency were.
“Stand by.” There was a click followed by an emotionless hum that lasted from the Sixth Street on-ramp to the 101 Freeway. The voice came back on. “Stand by. We’re gathering information. It sounds like your problem is being solved for you.” This time the dull hum lasted from the 101/110 juncture all the way to Gower. Finally the caseworker returned. “Problem solved.”
“How—”
“The church is reporting that a madman, probably the same one who killed a priest earlier, broke into the Cardinal’s residence, but was killed by security. They are reporting that a second assailant escaped, but there is no description.”
“I’m working with an agency here, Counter Terrorist Unit,” Jack said. “They know I had Biehn in custody.”
Another pause. “We’ll make a call on that. Go to ground and let us take care of that. It’s going to be messy, but we’ll try to make it a quiet mess. There will be follow-up.” Click.
There will be follow-up. That meant trouble, though Jack couldn’t blame them. Although the Agency went to great lengths to protect itself, that didn’t mean its agents got a free pass every time they colored outside the lines.
After a few more minutes of driving, Jack heard his phone ring and he saw Christopher Henderson’s number, but when he answered, it wasn’t Henderson’s voice.
“You are in so fucking deep!” Ryan Chappelle shrieked into the phone. “Do you know the phone call I just got!” Jack held the phone away from his ear until Chappelle had exhausted his rant. In the silence after the mini-storm, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to reply or not, until Chappelle said, “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I assume that you’ve heard about St. Monica’s?” he asked.
“Everybody’s heard about it!” Chappelle snapped. “And I’ve got string pullers at Langley calling in chits, telling me to go easy on you. You know I don’t work for them. I don’t have to do any goddamned favors.”
“Listen, there is something odd,” Jack said. He told the story of his visit, and how he’d tried to identify himself as a Federal agent. “Those guys were determined to kill us no matter who we were.”
He could practically hear the veins in Chappelle’s forehead popping through the telephone. “That’s not my case. Maybe that detective was on to something and they wanted him quiet. We don’t investigate murders here, we stop terrorists.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Jack said. “Biehn had information—”
“And instead of extracting it, you chauffeured him around town. And got him killed.”
“No one except us knows it was me. There’s containment here,” Jack said, trying to control his own temper. He didn’t mind getting chewed out once in a while, but this pencil neck who wasn’t even his commanding officer was starting to get under his skin. “I did what I thought necessary to get the information I needed as soon as possible. There have been no major consequences—”
“No major—!” Chappelle sputtered. “A priest in the hospital and three dead men!”
“A pedophile and two trigger-happy security men who were trying to kill me,” Jack retorted. “Biehn, they murdered.”
“Get into this office now. I’m going to decide whether you need to be put into custody or not. If you don’t show up here in the next fifteen minutes, I’m putting out a warrant for your arrest.”
2:44 A.M. PST Parker Center, Los Angeles
Harry Driscoll could not work, but he could not go home, either. After leaving CTU, he had returned to his desk at Robbery-Homicide. But the work he had to do was unpleasant: to write a report on his transfer of Don Biehn’s custody to Jack Bauer of the CIA, and to accuse Bauer of endangering the case and, further, currently unaccused citizens, in pursuit of an unrelated investigation.
The office lights at Parker Center were all dark. Only the fluorescent lights in the hallway were awake, casting their pale greenish glow down on the beige, speckled tiles on the floor. When it was quiet like this, you could hear the fluorescent tubes buzzing like bees in a glowing hive. The sound made Driscoll feel even more alone.
He had heard about Biehn’s death a few minutes before. By morning, he’d have his captain breathing down his neck for an explanation. He’d be under water and he would have no choice but to describe how he’d turned custody over to Bauer. What would
Bauer say? What was Jack possibly thinking?
As if to answer his question, Jack Bauer called him.
“Jack,” Harry said sadly.
“You heard?”
“Yeah, one of the responding uniforms called me. It’s a mess over at St. Monica’s.”
Jack defended himself with an explanation of how gun-happy the security men were. No wonder, Driscoll thought, with a murderer on the premises.
“But something was wrong with the Cardinal. And the security team. They were way more interested in killing us than protecting their man.”
‘So?”
“So they succeeded in doing one thing. I never learned the connection between Biehn’s vendetta and the terrorists.”
“Was there one?”
“You heard him talk about Yasin, the terrorist. And someone did all that to him. I need you to help me.”
Without hesitation, Harry said, “I’m not helping you, Jack, except to talk you into settling down before there’s any more trouble.”
“Can you look into Cardinal Mulrooney for me?” Jack asked as though Harry hadn’t spoken. “I want to know his background, who works for him. Any skeletons in his closet.”
“He’s a Cardinal in the Catholic Church,” Driscoll said, as though that concluded the matter.
The tone in his voice alerted Jack. “Harry… I never knew you were Catholic.”
“Why would you?” the detective asked. “I don’t need to wear a sign on my back.”
“No, I guess it’s not my business,” Jack replied simply. He wondered if Driscoll’s faith had affected his view of Biehn. No wonder, at least, that it had been hard for Harry to turn the man over to Jack. “You’re still the only guy I can turn to right now. This group I’m working with, it’s a new unit, and they are stretched thin. I don’t know what the CIA will have on Mulrooney. I need someone local. I just want to know the Cardinal’s background.”
Driscoll pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Damn it. All he’d wanted to do was stay involved in the potential terrorist case the Feds had taken away from his unit. How had that morphed into this debacle?
“If I help you, then you need to help me,” the detective said at last. “I’m just shy of twenty years on, Jack. This thing could kill my career when my captain hears about it in the morning. Shit, forget the Captain, I’ll probably hear from the Chief himself, and you know I don’t want to get the call.”
“What do you want me to do?” Jack offered sincerely.
“I want off the hook on this. I want it clear that I turned custody of Biehn over to you at your insistence, and you made all the decisions from there.”
Jack smiled unhappily. He remembered what he’d said to Biehn: Someone has to care more about saving the world than saving his job. “Don’t worry, Harry. All the heat is headed at me anyway, I guarantee it.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.” “Thanks. Listen, if you need help, there’
s someone I want you to call. Name’s Maddie Marianno.”
He recited an unusually long number. “Give her my name.”
“Okay,” Harry said. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”
2:47 A.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
The regular police were still milling about the crime scene, and Michael could only give thanks that the Unity Conference would be held elsewhere. He was sure they would cancel the event rather than let civilians trample over any potential evidence. He had already given an immediate interview, and had been told to wait around until more detectives arrived so that he could answer the same questions again. At the moment, though, he was alone, and decided to make a call.
Abdul Rahman Yasin, still using the name Gabriel, answered after two rings. He listened quietly while Michael updated him. “It would all be easier,” Michael said, not for the first time, “if I just did the job myself, quickly. I could probably do it right now.”
And, not for the first time, Yasin replied, “But that is just murder. Assassination, nothing more. The tool we are using is terrorism. It must be a spectacle. It must be public.”
Michael had known the answer before he heard it. He shrugged off the rejection. He had worked for enough men to be accustomed to following orders. Yasin was the man in charge at the moment, and Michael would do as he was told.
“But,” Yasin said cautiously, “there is no danger of canceling the conference?”
“There is talk of it,” Michael replied, “but I know this Pope, and he will push forward if he can. He doesn’t get sidetracked easily.”
“Good,” Yasin said. “And how are our delivery-men? All in good condition?”
“Yes,” Michael replied.
“Then all this trouble will come to nothing. Well done, Michael. We are going to have a very interesting day.”
2:50 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jack walked into CTU’s headquarters, which seemed almost morguelike at this late hour. Overhead lights had been turned off, except in the conference room, whose doorway appeared like some extra-dimensional portal in the darkness. Jack walked toward it but was met halfway by Ryan Chappelle, wearing khaki pants, a sweatshirt, and a more than usually pinched look.
“You are fucked,” Chappelle said to him.
“Right,” Jack replied, following him into the conference room. Christopher Henderson was there, as was Diana Christie. Her left arm was heavily bandaged from her wrist all the way to her shoulder.
“What happened to you?” he asked. “Later,” Chappelle snapped dismissively. “Tell him the important part.” Diana looked chagrined. She was clearly embarrassed to relay her information — not embarrassed
for herself, but for Jack. “I think…” she started, then winced a bit as she moved her injured arm. “I think you’re headed in the wrong direction, Jack. Based on my meeting with Farrigian.”
Jack felt a cold weight settle into his stomach. “What do you mean? Did he get you more plastic explosives? Can we trace his other customers?”
“Yes,” Diana said. “But it’s not Islamic terrorists.”
“Or the Catholic church, which you just terrorized,” Chappelle pointed out. Henderson dipped his head.
The weight in Jack’s stomach grew heavier. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Diana Christie began, and no one interrupted her. “I met with Farrigian. He didn’t suspect anything about me. You saw how he was before. We checked out, as far as he was concerned. He told me who the buyers were — they were more people like that Smithies character. Some biker gang coming down from the San Joaquin Valley. He gave me names. As far as I can tell, he has no connection to the plastic explosives found on Sweetzer Avenue.”
Jack tried to process that, but couldn’t. “That’s ridiculous. Two different groups, both suddenly appearing on the scene with plastic explosives? It’s pretty unlikely.” That was obvious to him, and he hoped it was obvious to them, too. Henderson met his gaze just long enough to shrug, but he remained silent. “What’s the point here?”
“The point,” Chappelle said condescendingly, “is that you’re on a wild-goose chase. You and the detective you helped get killed.”
“Not possible,” Jack argued. He listed the evidence for them: the assassination of the informant
Ramin; Biehn’s knowledge that Yasin was back in Los Angeles, which had been confirmed by security cameras; the three Islamists in possession of plastic explosives. “You’re going to put all that aside based on comments from a small-time arms dealer?”
“Your small-time arms dealer,” Chappelle pointed out. “The one you dug up. If he confirmed your theories, you’d be calling him a vital source of information. Instead”—he pointed at Diana—“the evidence points elsewhere, so suddenly we should ignore him?”
“Just don’t ignore all the rest of it.”
“We’re not, Jack.” Christopher Henderson played good cop, speaking in slow, measured tones. “We’ve already got the three men with the plastic explosives. We think that did a lot more to mess up their plans than you realize. Maybe Yasin got here just in time to find out we’d fucked up his plans. But we’ll get him, if he’s still in town.”
“And Biehn…?” Jack challenged. “Had his own agenda,” Chappelle said, “which you fell for hook, line, and sinker.”
It was possible. Jack hated to admit it, but it was possible. There was one gaping hole, of course — how did Biehn know about Yasin? That was an enormous question mark squatting on any other theory. But put it aside for a moment, and what they were proposing made sense. In that moment, Jack tried to step back and away from his ego. Ego was the enemy of a good investigator, he had decided long ago. Men fell in love with their own theories, and once enamored, held on to them like prize possessions. The very best investigators pursued their theories with determination but not tunnel vision. Jack hadn’t been at this long enough to know if he was one of the very best, but he refused to stumble over his own ego.
Yasin certainly was up to something. But maybe CTU had shattered that plan. Maybe Jack, who had thought himself to be the man exposing the plot no one else had foreseen, was instead just a latecomer to a party that was already over.
“Jack, we’ll get him,” Henderson said, continuing to act the friend. “But according to Diana, that’s not where the urgency lies.”
Jack looked at the injured woman. She nodded. “Farrigian says the buyers were friends of Dog Smithies, who I guess you dealt with. They bought more plastic explosives than what was found on Sweetzer. A lot more. The buyer was a man named Dean.”
“Jamey Farrell ran down his information,” Henderson went on. “Dean runs a biker gang that is an offshoot of the Hell’s Angels. They want the Angels to go back to the old days. Back when they’d take over towns and make themselves the law. One of their gang was arrested last night in Fresno. He said that Dean was on his way down to L.A. He said they were going to ‘Blow some shit up.’ He said everyone would wake up tomorrow morning to a big surprise.”
Chappelle checked his watch. “Which gives us only a few hours to find them and stop them. And, much as I hate myself for saying this, Agent Bauer, you are going to help.”
10. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 A.M. AND 4 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
3:00 A.M. PST Santa Clarita, California
His real name was Dean Schrock, but he’d just been Dean for so long that even he had mostly forgotten the last name. He was old enough to feel a long day’s ride in his ass and lower back, but he was still young enough to bully the one-percenters who were part of his gang, and hell of bad enough to terrify the crap out of any cagers he saw on the streets.
Dean was part of a dying breed, and he knew it. Hell, he took pride in it. He’d been a kid during the heyday of Altamont, so he hadn’t been busting heads back then, but he was old enough to remember when whole towns would head for the hills when the Hell’s Angels rode down Main Street. These days most people callin
g themselves Hell’s Angels were wannabes or squiddies who’d just as soon ride a rice burner as a Harley and pretend to be badass. Sure, there were still a few throwbacks; Dean had heard about a Hell’s Angels club in New York City, and another up in Canada (friggin’ Canada, of all places!) that were hard-core and full of one-percenters, but they were few and far between.
Dean pushed an empty beer bottle off his belly and sat up. They were in a house on the outskirts of Santa Clarita, in the upland valleys north of Los Angeles. He’d forgotten — or, more to the point, he never really cared — whose house it was. Four or five of his boys were sprawled out on couches or chairs or on the floor. A couple of women were there, too— nothing to look at, or he’d have taken them into one of the bedrooms and had them himself. A few more of his boys were crashed in the bedrooms or the hallways, sleeping off the ride down from Bakersfield and the six-packs they’d swallowed since then.
All Dean’s boys were one-percenters — that is, part of the “one percent” of bikers that were outlaws, rather than the ninety-nine percent that the Hell’s Angels claimed were law-abiding citizens — and in just a few hours they were going to prove that even if only one percent of the biker population were outlaws, it was one hell of a one percent.
Bleary-eyed, he checked his watch. Little bit of time left. That puke Dog Smithies was supposed to show up before sunrise. Dean was looking forward to meeting him face to face, see what that bullshitter was really like. But right now he could close his eyes a little bit and dream of the big explosion.
3:06 A.M. PST Parker Center, Los Angeles
As far as LAPD was concerned, Cardinal Mulrooney was a candidate for beatification. They maintained a small dossier on him, but the contents might as well have been provided by the Catholic Church’s public relations department. The report discussed Mulrooney’s upbringing in a poor Irish neighborhood of Chicago, his travel to Los Angeles as a teenager in the fifties, where he slept on the floor of the Catholic mission and then volunteered for their soup kitchen. Soon after, he had promised himself he would become ordained, and Allen James Mulrooney had been a servant of the Catholic Church ever since. There was, to Harry’s utter relief, not even a whisper in the dossier of child abuse or hushed-up scandals.
