by John Whitman
16. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
9:00 a.m. CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Nina Myers decided that she had a love-hate relationship with Jack Bauer already. She liked his no-nonsense, name-taking, ass-kicking style, except when he turned it on her. She had a strong lead with this Diana Christie anomaly, and she knew it. He’d made a mistake in brushing it aside, in brushing her aside, and that pissed her off. Like a schoolgirl, she’d gone from admiring him to despising him after a single moment of neglect. She was aware of that, and it made her even angrier.
She left CTU and got into her car, laying the address to the NTSB agent’s apartment on the passenger seat. She was going to confront Diana Christie on her own… but somewhere in the no-BS zone in her brain, she knew that she was doing it not because it was her job, but because Jack Bauer had spurned her. That made her angriest of all, and she planned on taking it out on Diana Christie.
9:03 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
“What I’m looking for is a reason not to pull your funding and scrap the Counter Terrorist Unit right here and now,” said Senator Armand from Mississippi.
It was not the best way to start a video conference, and Ryan Chappelle could feel sweat dripping down his sides beneath his dress shirt.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Director,” Armand added into the silence that followed. “I’m sorry, Senator,” Chappelle said. “I was gathering my thoughts. May I speak freely?”
Several of the senators and congressmen on the Joint Subcommittee on National Security chuckled. Armand himself grimaced. “I prefer it to ankle licking, Director. Let’s cut the bullshit and speak truth to power.”
Chappelle nodded. “Because bad things are happening right now, and more bad things are on the way.”
“Bad things?” Armand leaned forward, as though trying to push right through the monitor from three thousand miles away. “You sound like my four-yearold.”
“If you want more details than just ‘bad things,’ Senator, then give us the funding we need,” Chappelle retorted. “Right now I’ve got three analysts, which is currently okay because I have only two working computer terminals. Only four or five field agents. You have more aides on your staff than I have agents to protect the western United States. So until you give me funding, all you get is ‘bad things.’ ” Take that, you pompous son of a bitch.
Another committee member, Malpartida from Texas, responded. “That’s the safe reply, Director. You aren’t fully funded yet, so we shouldn’t expect results. I get it. But what you have done, so far, is drag your agency into the murder of a priest and several other killings. This is all very public for an agency that is supposed to be covert.”
Chappelle had been ready for this, and he’d been practicing the reply for an hour, wanting it to sound crisp but not rehearsed. “We are not operating in Somalia, Congressman. We’re not operating in Angola or Sarajevo. We’re in downtown Los Angeles. We are not going to be able to hide everything we do.”
“But what you do seems to involve murders and shootings, not stopping terrorists!” Armand broke in. “I’m getting off-the-record reports about shootings in the hills, people getting blown up on motorcycles. Is this how you’re running things?”
“No, sir,” Chappelle said, ready for this as well. “That wasn’t one of my people. That’s an operative on loan from the CIA. His case crossed ours. CTU can’t be held responsible for his actions.”
“What the hell was he doing blowing people up?” Armand drawled.
Chappelle explained the Castaic Dam incident to the best of his knowledge, doing his best to highlight
Bauer’s maverick personality and independence from CTU. When he was done, Representative Malpartida spoke up. “I hear you. He’s a loose cannon. But are you saying he single-handedly stopped these terrorists or bikers or whatever from blowing up a dam?” The CTU Director hadn’t seen the trap until too late. “Uh, well, nothing is that simple, but—”
“But?” Malpartida persisted.
“—yes, sir,” Chappelle said reluctantly.
The Congressman snorted and half-spun in his chair, glancing left and right at the other assembled politicians. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but it sounds to me like we don’t just need more funding, we need men like this agent!” He looked at Chappelle through the monitor. “Can’t be held responsible for him? Damn, sir, it sounds like you should be begging to get some of the credit for putting him on the case!”
Chappelle’s neck turned red. “Yes… yes, sir,” he found himself stammering unhappily. “We’re… we’re trying to recruit him to the team.” Even as he said it, Chappelle suspected that he would regret that statement for the rest of his life.
9:08 A.M. PST Inglewood, California
This time, they took Harry Driscoll’s car, lit up in red and blue and wailing like a banshee. Without the lights and sirens, they never would have reached Inglewood, a suburb south of downtown and near the airport, in under twenty minutes.
The mosque was an unobtrusive structure, built with discretion in mind. Harry and Jack pulled into the parking lot and looked up, seeing a short tower with the faintest resemblance to a minaret. The lawn was well-tended but nondescript, and instantly Jack wondered why they needed a landscaper. His question was answered, though, when they passed the outer wall into a courtyard that was all fountains, flower beds, and pathways, like something out of 1001 Arabian Nights. Beyond the garden lay the mosque proper.
There was a short, thin, brown-skinned man in gray work trousers and a gray work shirt, down on one knee, pulling weeds from one of the flower beds. He didn’t look up until they were standing almost on his ankles.
“Bas Holcomb?” Driscoll demanded.
“Que?” the man replied.
“Are you Bas Holcomb?”
“Oh. No!” the man said, smiling and standing, clapping dirt off his hands. He spoke in quiet, clipped English, as though uncomfortable with his command of the language. “My name is Javier. Espinoza. I work for St. Francis Landscaping. That’s—”
“His company, we know,” Driscoll interrupted. “Is he here somewhere?”
Jack’s cell phone rang, and Harry continued the interrogation while Jack stepped aside.
The gardener shook his head. “I no see him. He supposed to be here?”
“You tell me,” Driscoll retorted.
The gardener shrugged. “’S not my usual job. I covering for the regular guy. He sick. I usually work at another place for them.”
Jack closed his phone and looked at Driscoll irritably. “My people just got ahold of the car rental agency. The Chrysler was supposed to have been returned yesterday. Holcomb’s house is vacant, and he hasn’t made a call from there in forty-eight hours.”
“He skipped town,” the detective deduced.
“It gets worse. The Chrysler was found this morning abandoned on a side street. No prints. No one’s heard from him in days.”
Driscoll knew what Jack was thinking, but they couldn’t discuss it in front of a civilian. “Okay,” he said to the gardener. “If we need to talk to you, can we reach you through the landscaper?”
“Sure,” Javier Espinoza said, “or most days at the other place. That’s where I work for them.”
“What’s the other place?”
“Sante Monica.”
9:18 A.M. PST Santa Monica, California
Nina didn’t hesitate. She pulled her car up to the little postwar bungalow on Twenty-sixth Street below Pico, walked up the little path, and kicked in the door. She didn’t throw around that much weight, but what she lacked in size, she made up for in technique. Her foot connected right where the bolt should be, and the door flew inward, banging against the wall, and Nina was already inside, scanning the room over the top of her muzzle.
Diana Christie ran halfway into the room, startled by the noise. Her left arm was in a sling and she held a small semi-automatic in her right
hand, but she didn’t raise it. When she saw Nina, her eyes filled with fear.
“Drop the weapon!” Nina ordered.
Diana did so immediately. She held up her good arm and backed away from Nina. “Oh god,” she said in sheer terror. “Get out of here. They’ll know! They’ll know!” She sounded on the verge of hysterics.
“Down on the ground!” Nina demanded, advancing steadily.
“No, please, you don’t understand—”
“Get on the ground, now!” Nina was almost within arm’s reach. Suddenly, Diana Christie bolted. She ran out of the living room and down a hallway, then through another door. Nina followed a few steps behind, and they ended up in a small, cramped garage, with Diana on the far end pressed against the door, and Nina at the interior door, her sights level on Christie’s chest.
“Get out of here!” Christie pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “Get out of here!”
Nina was about to respond, but a bomb went off, and a gruesome image of bright lights and blood splashed across her retina.
9:25 A.M. PST St. Monica’s Cathedral, Downtown Los Angeles
Mulrooney heard Michael enter his office. He could always tell it was Michael by the sound, or rather, the near-lack of it. Michael’s footsteps reminded him of the padding of cat’s paws from his childhood.
“Big day, Michael,” Mulrooney said.
“Very big, Your Eminence,” the security man agreed.
Mulrooney noticed that Michael had lost some of his gleam. There had always been a sort of sheen around the man, a halo, for lack of a better word. Now it was tarnished. “Is everything all right with our… problem?”
Michael shrugged uncertainly, a gesture as uncommon as the fatigue that showed on his face. “I believe so, Your Eminence, but I can’t be sure. Dortmund is no longer a problem, and of course Giggs is gone. Collins is also dead.”
The Cardinal felt no remorse. “Monsters all. If it weren’t to protect the church, I’d have thrown them out myself. Is there any… are there any witnesses?”
The security man said, “No one firsthand, Your Eminence. I don’t know what Father Collins might have told the police officer, but at least Collins himself cannot testify to anything.” Michael could not bring himself to mention the other man who knew so much about the abhorrent acts of the clergy, and the church’s attempts to cover them up: that bastard Yasin, whom Michael would deal with someday.
Mulrooney nodded with satisfaction. “Then you’ve done as much as you can, Michael. Thank you. You are a soldier for the true church.”
Mulrooney said, and Michael received, the phrase the true church with a profound respect. When Michael didn’t reply, Mulrooney continued. “I can’t wait until this damned conference is over. I want that false Pope out of my diocese!”
“It will be over soon, Your Eminence,” Michael promised. “But on that count, I have a favor to ask of you. You must excuse yourself from the Unity Conference. Make an appearance at the reception, but then beg off.”
Mulrooney almost passed over the request, disregarded it, but it stung him after the fact, like the butterscotch taste of whiskey that burns the throat a moment later. He stopped — his every muscle locked into place where he sat, as he might have done if a wild dog had suddenly appeared in his office, growling at him.
“Michael, what is going on?” he asked.
Michael had been preparing for this conversation, but in no version had it seemed satisfactory. “Your Eminence, there is nothing for you to know. Or, rather, there are two things. First, that you must be out of the reception hall a few minutes after it begins. Second, that everything I do, I do to protect the true church.”
Mulrooney studied Michael, and felt in that moment that although the man had worked for him for several years, and that (though the Cardinal would barely admit it to himself) Michael had done many unscrupulous deeds at his request, he didn’t really know the man at all. “Have you… are you going to do something?”
“Not me, Your Eminence,” he said matter-offactly. “But a thing will be done. The less you know, the better.”
With that, Michael turned and walked out, leaving the Cardinal of Los Angeles to wrestle with a conscience he had ignored for many, many years.
9:33 A.M. PST Santa Monica
Nina Myers picked herself up off the floor. She could hear nothing but a loud ringing in her ears.
The garage was on fire. She saw the smoke and the flames, but she couldn’t hear the noise. If fire trucks were on their way, she had no idea. The garage— what she could see of it through clouds of dust and smoke — had been blasted by the bomb. Chunks of wall had been blown away, and the big garage door was twisted on its hinges.
She knew she’d been unconscious, but she didn’t know for how long. Her mind had constructed a fantasy of sleep and vacation. Was she on vacation? Had she been sleeping? No, she didn’t sleep in a garage. A bomb. A bomb had exploded. She’d been concussed. She might be seriously injured. Nina’s eyes swam in and out of focus, so from a kneeling position she patted her hands up and down her body. She felt skin, and clothes, and wetness that was probably her blood. She was cut! No, not her blood. Diana Christie’s blood, splattered all over her. Diana had been blown up.
Weirdly, it occurred to Nina that Jack Bauer had first come to CTU the night before after being nearly blown up. Shit, she was coming in second to him already. She felt professional jealousy rear its ugly head.
You are delirious, lady. Unrattle your brain!
Nina grabbed hold of something sturdy — a tabletop? — and pulled herself to her feet. She shook her head but still couldn’t see, so she felt her way to a wall, and then to the interior door. She had to get out. She had to stop the ringing in her head. And she was sure there was something important about the bomb that had just gone off. Something she couldn’t quite draw into the clear part of her brain…
9:38 A.M. PST Malibu, California
Jon Boorstein liked his brand-new BMW 730i. He liked ordering Armani (in the same waist size for the last seven years, thanks to his trainer Gunnar). He liked Cannes and he liked the after-parties at the Oscars.
He did not, however, like his job. His job was the price he paid for the good things in life.
“But what a fuckin’ price,” he muttered as he glided his Beemer through the self-opening gate of Mark Gelson’s Malibu home.
He hopped out and walked through the door, which was opened by Lucia, without breaking stride. He didn’t look at the elaborately carved crucifix hanging on the wall — the thing always gave him the creeps. Walking by that thing was about the only time Boorstein ever appreciated his Judaism, which forbade graven images.
Mark was sitting on the deck overlooking the sand and the Pacific, reading the Times. Though he was good-looking by any other standard, in Hollywood he was over the hill. Some actors, especially men, aged into new roles and remained sex symbols — hell, Bruce Willis was heading toward fifty, wasn’t he? Others couldn’t let go of the man they’d been in their twenties, so they got grouchier as they aged, and the resentment showed.
Boorstein had tried, a year or two ago, to encourage Gelson to move past his Future Fighter persona. If he’d managed the aging process well, he’d have a whole new set of doors opening for him. But Gelson couldn’t, so he didn’t, and now he was slowly dropping down on Boorstein’s must-call-back list.
“Hey, Jon,” Gelson said, as though surprised to see him. “What’s up?”
“Headlines,” Boorstein said, sitting down. “They’re up all over the place, and they’re talking about you. But not the way we want.”
“Don’t PR guys say there’s no such thing as bad publicity?”
“They do say that,” Boorstein agreed irritably. “But they don’t have clients who talk about blowing people up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Gelson said. “It’ll all blow over soon enough.”
Boorstein heaved a dramatic sigh. “Maybe, maybe not. Here’s the problem, my friend. You are
moving out of the where-are-they-now file and into the what-have-they-done-with-their-life file. That means that people aren’t doing bios on you, but when you fall on your face, they want to tell that story.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Gelson said. “You pitch that to Entertainment Weekly?”
Boorstein snorted. “Them I tell about your next this, your upcoming that. But you I level with. The mug shot was already in the paper. But I know two reporters who are doing a follow-up, digging up dirt.” Boorstein’s voice grew suddenly grave, and his cavalier movements settled into focused attentiveness. “So tell me, is anyone going to find out about this whole Catholic Church thing?”
Gelson looked calm, almost serene. “I don’t think I care anymore, Jonny. I don’t scream and shout about it. Why should they care?”
“Because Catholics go see movies. And if they hear that you are a schizophrenic—” “Schismatic,” Gelson corrected.
“Yeah, that. Then they might stop going to see your movies, and then people would stop paying you, and I wouldn’t get paid, and that would be bad.”
Gelson looked out at the ocean. “You know, the Catholic Church is the oldest continuously existing entity in the Western world. That’s a powerful thing all by itself. Then of course you add the grace of God and — well, never mind. But it’s been around. And it’s worked. It brought education and enlightenment. It was Catholic priests in Ireland that preserved Western civilization during the Dark Ages. One church, unbroken, unchanged. That’s why it lasted. It remained true. Until the sixties.”
Boorstein wished he didn’t need the history lesson, but he did. If anyone had ever told him about Vatican II, and the massive changes the Pope had ordered, he didn’t remember. But Gelson told him in detail about the changes in the catechisms, in the Mass, and so many other vital parts of the service.
“Hundreds of years, Jonny. Hundreds. And then, wham! It all gets changed by one man.”
