by John Whitman
Eleven o’clock, and the sun had already turned the protestors into twenty thousand sweating bodies. Mercy’s nose told her that more than a few of the people she passed kept personal hygiene fairly low on their lists of priorities. She rubbed up against one man with curly brown hair, his arm slick with sweat, and his stink clung to her like a plastic wrapper clinging to her fingers.
The first thing Frankie had done, after bolting away, was make a cell phone call. Mercy silently cursed Jack Bauer’s stiff neck. If she’d had CTU’s resources behind her, she could be listening in on that call right now and tracing it back to its source instead of elbowing her way through the masses. Now the girl was reaching the edge of the crowd at Veteran’s Park. Wherever she was going, Mercy was determined to stay with her.
11:04 A.M. PST Federal Building Command Center, West Los Angeles
Tony Almeida came back from the bathroom, yawning and stretching, reluctant to plant himself back in his plastic chair in front of the video monitors. He had been on dozens of stakeouts — electronic and otherwise — and he was used to the boredom, but this drab cinder-block room seemed specially designed to suck the life out of the most determined officer.
“Anything?” he asked.
One of the two FBI agents was gone. The other one, the thin, Slavic-looking agent, shook his head. “Not much. I spotted that detective your guy was talking to. Looks like she was meeting with an informant in the crowd. There she is.”
He jabbed a finger at one of the dozen screens. This was a very wide shot of the swelling crowd, probably from a camera positioned high up on the building. The agent pressed a toggle switch on his control board and the camera zoomed in. Tony saw the dark-haired LAPD officer moving through the crowd. He recognized the detective from her short stint as a CTU liaison. He hadn’t known her well, but her first name was distinctive: Mercy.
“Stay on her,” he said. “Not sure what’s going on, but Jack doesn’t waste time, so let’s assume she’s important.”
“Trying,” the agent said, leaning across to the other side of the control panel to flip some switches.
“Your friend’s gone a lot,” Tony observed.
“Tiny bladder,” said the Slavic agent. “Plus he drinks that swill.” He pointed to a paper cup on the counter with coffee dregs at the bottom.
“And you don’t?” Tony said. He’d never met an FBI agent who didn’t swig caffeine during surveillance.
“Oh, I drink coffee,” the agent said with the air of a connoisseur. “But that’s not coffee. You want to try real coffee, try fresh Costa Rican coffee beans.”
“I just go to my coffee place and point,” Tony said, sitting down.
The agent grunted. “You and everyone else. But Costa Rica, or Brazil, that’s where the good stuff is. You know, there’s a little coffee farm northeast of Rio de Janeiro in the province of Minas Gerais, the beans they grow there are amazing. It’s like coffee and chocolate grown together.”
Tony glanced at the screens. “I’ve never been.”
“Oh, you’ve gotta go. I’ve been all over. The jungle is—” The agent smiled at himself. “Forget it, I could go on about this stuff forever. I’m kind of a rain forest addict.”
“I took a canopy tour once,” Tony said distractedly. “You know, sliding on those ropes in the treetops. It was amazing, except that I almost got bit by a monkey.” He eyed the screen. “It looks like that detective is tailing someone.”
They both watched. The detective was moving parallel to and slightly behind a short girl with artificially blond hair.
Even in that mass of bodies, Tony saw easily that the woman deliberately matched her pace to the girl’s.
“You’re right,” Nick said. “Well, my turn to piss.” He stood up. “I’ve been on those tours. I hope everybody goes on them, actually. Helps people know about the rain forests so maybe we stop destroying them.”
“I guess it can help,” Tony replied, turning his attention fully to the monitors.
“It better,” Nick said. “They say a few more years and most of the forests will be gone.”
“Well, at least we won’t have to worry about the monkeys.”
11:08 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
It was a radio dye marker, also called a chemical emitter. The marker was a chemical compound that, when found in large enough quantities, emitted a low-frequency signal that could be tracked by satellite. The medical techs hadn’t ever heard of it, but Jack had. The military had initiated the project a few years earlier to help with intelligence gathering, but the system had proved inefficient. The dye markers were no more accurate than more conventional transmitters, which could be miniaturized to the point of being nonexistent.
“Okay, it’s in my blood,” Jack said. “So get it the hell out.”
The tech shook his head. “We’ve got a call in to Department of Defense,” he said. “But I don’t think anyone knows how to get this stuff out. It’s not harmful, so I think they just figured it would eventually get processed out of the body someday.”
Jack sneered. “Well, someday is today. I need this stuff out of my body right now!”
The tech stepped back. Chris Henderson rested a hand on Jack’s arm like a tamer calming a lion. “We can leave you here, Jack. I’ll put everyone else on the case.”
“That’s my daughter!” Jack jerked his arm away. “There’s got to be some way to filter this dye out of my blood.”
Jamey Farrell buzzed into the room over the intercom. “Chris, I’ve got someone on the line for you. They say it’s about Jack.”
“Is it Department of Defense?”
“No, Interior.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. Why would someone from the Department of the Interior call CTU? “Okay.”
There was a click, and a tentative male voice crackled over the conference room speakers. “H-hello?”
“This is Chris Henderson, Special Agent in Charge of Field Operations,” Chris said crisply.
“Hi. What — what can I do for you?” the voice asked nervously.
Chris frowned. “I don’t know. You called me.”
“Oh, oh, well yes, but they told me to. I mean, I got a call from the Secretary herself. I’ve never gotten a call from—”
“Who are you?” Chris demanded.
The voice squeaked. “Dr. — I’m Martin Shue. Dr. Shue. What can I do — I mean, no one explained to me exactly why I was calling.”
Chris’s neck turned pink and he bit his lip, but his voice was calm. “What exactly do you do over there, Doctor?”
“Environmental work,” the doctor said. By the sound of his voice, he was clearly relieved to be asked a question to which he knew the answer. “I was with the EPA for ten years, now here. I’m a zoologist.”
“And Interior told you to call us?”
“That’s — that’s right. They said it was an emergency.”
Chris shrugged. “By any chance do you know anything about radio dye markers or chemical emitters?”
“Oh, oh yes. Of course I do!” The zoologist’s voice perked up even more. “Are you trying to track an animal of some kind?”
Chris smiled. Nina Myers laughed out loud. Jack just glowered. Chris said, “Not exactly. We want to get this emitter out of someone. Do you know how to do that?”
“Out of someone?” Dr. Shue mused. “I didn’t realize anyone was still trying chemical emitters on people. The technology has sort of fallen into disuse, except for people in my field. We use them to track animals that are too small or delicate to be tagged with transmitter bands—”
“How do you get the stuff out!” Jack yelled.
The doctor squeaked again. “I’m — I’m not sure. That was never a priority, of course. But the chemicals aren’t harmful. They break down in the body after a year or two anyway.”
“We need it out right away,” Chris said. “It is an emergency. Do you have any ideas?”
“Well, no, no, I don’t, except, yes, maybe,” Dr
. Shue hemmed and hawed. Jack couldn’t help thinking that he was the perfect scientist to work for the government.
“Is it yes or no?”
“Well, we never developed a process for removing the marker,” Dr. Shue said. “It just wasn’t necessary. But all you really need to do is filter the blood. You could probably use a regular dialysis machine.”
“Dialysis,” Henderson said. “You mean like for kidney patients?”
“Exactly. I couldn’t guarantee it, but it would probably—”
“Thanks,” Henderson said, hanging up.
Jack ran his fingers through his hair. “Dialysis. That takes hours, doesn’t it?”
Chris nodded. “We’ll put people out in the field for you—”
“Excuse me,” the tech tried to interrupt.
“—I’ll have Nina pick up your daughter, take her home or somewhere safe—”
“I think I can—” the tech tried.
“—we’ll see if Tony can pick up any more leads on al-Libbi—”
“Hey!” the tech yelled.
The CTU agents, not accustomed to being interrupted by others, glared at the technician, who turned bright red. “I have an idea,” he said meekly.
“Okay,” Chris Henderson acknowledged.
“There’s a dialysis machine at UCLA. It only takes thirty minutes.”
11:14 A.M. PST West Los Angeles
The cell phone rang again, and the man Jack Bauer wanted more than anything to meet face-to-face answered. He had left his hotel and was driving toward his next task. He had a big night planned, and many things to accomplish before night fell. “Yes?” he said calmly.
“One of your little errand monkeys picked up a tail,” his informant said. “The blond girl, built like a fire plug.”
“Frankie,” the man said. “Thank you. Make sure no one on your end causes any more trouble.”
He hung up and checked his watch, calculating where Frankie would be and what she would be doing at the moment. He frowned. Interference from the law would be extremely inconvenient at the moment. It would have to be dealt with. He dialed another number.
11:16 A.M. PST Federal Building Command Center, West Los Angeles
Tony Almeida camera hopped, his eyes switching from one screen to another as the female detective followed the blond girl across Veteran’s Park. The crowd had thinned to a few stragglers, and Mercy had fallen back out of her quarry’s line of sight. She was good, Tony thought approvingly.
The blond girl was walking away from the last camera that could track her. Tony zoomed in, but she was still fairly small in the screen. Tony thought he saw her reach into her pocket and pull out a phone, hold it to her ear for a minute, then put it away. Seconds later she swerved straight toward Sepulveda Boulevard, making her away across the wide parking lot that separated a YMCA building from the street.
Mercy changed direction to follow.
Frankie reached the sidewalk and turned south, heading against traffic. Mercy dropped back even farther.
“Hey.” The coffee connoisseur returned. “You stare at the monitors like that and you’ll go blind.”
“She’s almost out of camera shot,” Tony said, his eyes glued to the screen.
Cars zoomed by on Sepulveda Boulevard. A big blue van slowed down, and for a moment Tony thought the blond girl would climb inside. But she walked right past it without paying much attention. Mercy, too, passed the van without paying attention. As she did, the van door slid open. Hands reached out and grabbed Mercy, dropping a hood over her head and dragging her into the vehicle. The door slammed shut.
“Holy shit!” Tony yelled. He reached for the radio.
He saw the movement behind him, but didn’t perceive it as a danger until something heavy struck hard against the base of his neck, and by then it was too late.
11:19 A.M. Sepulveda Boulevard, West Los Angeles
Mercy gasped for breath and felt the cloth from the hood suck into her mouth. She blew it out and kicked. She couldn’t see a damned thing, but she felt her heel smash into something firm, like a face, and she was rewarded with a yelp of pain. Her arms were pinned, but she shook her right free and reached to her left. She felt hands on her biceps and wrist. She chose the wrist, digging her nails deep into the flesh.
“Goddamn!” someone yelled.
Pain like fire exploded on her face, and Mercy knew she’d been hit. She didn’t let go of the hand, but tore a chunk of flesh out. Another painful sunburst erupted behind her eyes, and she lost consciousness.
11:21 A.M. Federal Building Command Center, West Los Angeles
Tony Almeida was lying with his face on the floor. His rattled brain tried to make sense of that fact; he believed for a moment that Nick Dyson had told him to lie flat as he slid along the rope during a canopy tour, while monkeys chattered all around him. But a second later he realized that was the concussion talking. He was lying down because he’d been flattened by a blow, and the chattering was actually the shouting of two men locked in some kind of struggle over him.
He propped himself up on his elbows, and a wave of nausea made him heave dryly. He turned on his right side and looked up. FBI Agent Nick Dyson had the other agent, McKey, in a bear hug with one arm pinned. McKey’s free hand was pressed against Dyson’s face, digging into his cheek.
“. get off me, get the hell off me!”
“. kill you!”
Tony’s head was swimming. He didn’t know who was yelling what, or why they were fighting. One of them had clubbed him over the head, but he wasn’t sure which one. He saw Dyson land a knee to McKey’s groin. McKey doubled over. Dyson grabbed his partner by the hair and slammed his face into the video console. McKey turned into a rag doll and slumped to the floor.
Tony managed to climb to his feet, but he was doubled over with his hands on his knees. There was a roaring sound inside his head. The room swayed back and forth like the deck of a ship and he had trouble maintaining his balance. Dyson, however, had no trouble. He covered the distance between them in two short steps and grabbed Tony by the hair just as he’d grabbed McKey. Tony didn’t try to avoid the blow. Instead he slammed his left forearm down on Dyson’s leg, jamming it before he could bend the knee. At the same time, he swung his right arm up, slapping the FBI agent hard in the groin. Dyson grunted, leaning over the top of the CTU agent. Tony bolted upright, the back of his skull slamming into the bottom of Dyson’s jaw, and the FBI man staggered back a step. Tony lifted his right knee and stomped Dyson hard in the chest, and Dyson flew backward into the wall of the surveillance room. He dropped to the floor, leaving a small wet stain on the cinder blocks behind his head.
Tony doubled over and threw up.
11:24 A.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
It took a determined man to travel from UCLA Medical Center to CTU Los Angeles in ten minutes. It took an even more determined man to make someone else do it. But eleven minutes after Jack made the call, an ambulance rolled up to the building, sirens wailing, and a team of doctors poured out, running like their own lives depended on speed. Jack and Nina Myers held the doors open for them, waving them through security.
“Hurry up!” he yelled.
“Dr. Viatour!” said the lead physician, his white coat swirling up behind him and his face scrunched into a look of serious displeasure. “It would have been faster if you’d come to us!”
“Can’t. I’ll explain while you work.”
Three technicians rolling a stack of awkwardly piled equipment followed.
“What we’re gong to do is called CAPD. Instead of regular hemodialysis, this system actually uses the peritoneal wall in the abdomen to help filter—”
“Great.” Jack nodded. “And it only takes a half an hour?”
Dr. Viatour recoiled at his brusqueness. “Yes. Give us a few minutes to set you up, then we’ll time the filtering for thirty minutes. Is there some sort of—?”
“Just make it thirty minutes,” Nina said. “That’ll be the longest Jack�
��s ever sat still anyway.”
Jack hustled the medical team into the conference room like a muleskinner driving a team. “Go, go!” he yelled.
Dr. Viatour glared at him. “Sir, we’re a dialysis unit, not an ER team.”
“Right now you’re an ER team,” Jack said flatly. “Lives depend on this. Go!”
Dr. Viatour scampered back to his equipment.
“Jack, what do we do about your daughter?” Chris Henderson asked as they waited. “If she’s really been infected with something…”
Jack shook his head. “I’m going to get her.”
“What?” Chris said, shocked at Jack’s response. “If that’s what you want, we can bring her in.”
“I’ll do it,” Jack said. “Whatever al-Libbi’s got planned, he’s done his job well.” He picked me up with no problem, and he shot Kim full of something without her even knowing it. This tracking thing is pretty sophisticated, too. He says he’s watching her, and I believe him. He may have injected her with the same thing he gave me. And she doesn’t know she’s involved. I want to take care of it.”
“What kind of infection can it be?” Nina asked. “Maybe CDC will have a cure for it—”
Chris sat down in a chair and leaned his elbows onto his knees. “I’ve been thinking about that. It doesn’t fit his MO. Ayman al-Libbi is a bomb maker. He blows people up. He drops grenades into crowds of women and children. He doesn’t stab people with delayed reaction infections or whatever, and shoot up Federal agents with space age tracking devices. None of it fits.”
Dr. Viatour reappeared. “Okay, look, the actual process takes thirty minutes, but we normally do a lot more prep work on our patients.”
“Just do it,” Jack growled.
Viatour shrugged. He held up a long thin tube. “Okay. We’re going to insert this catheter into your abdomen and pump you full of a dilute salt solution. As your blood passes through the peritoneal membrane in your abdomen, the salt solution will filter out impurities. Lie down on the table.”
