by John Whitman
It’s not right, Jack thought. Ayman al-Libbi with high-powered rocket-propelled grenades, eco-terrorists with killer viruses, and the heads of three of the world’s most powerful countries all meeting together. “I don’t care what the Secret Service says. We need to be up there.”
“Bauer.” Jack recognized the angry nasal voice immediately. Chappelle. “We’ve already discussed options internally. I’ve passed along word to the President himself. This meeting is important, and the Secret Service has guaranteed security. We need to stand down.”
Jack banged the phone against his forehead in frustration. “What we need to do,” he said at last, “is send someone up there to have a look. I’m going. Are you sending me any backup?”
Ryan Chappelle’s voice rose an octave. “Bauer, you’re coming in. Right now. You’ve got problems you don’t even know about—”
“What was that?” Jack said, shaking the phone. “You’re breaking up.”
“Bauer! Report back here immediate—”
“Bad connection. It’s a borrowed phone, sorry!” Bauer yelled. He hung up.
Sharpton shook his head, but his eyes were smiling. “I see a lot has changed,” he said sarcastically.
Bauer ignored that. He was already thinking of the fastest route to the Vanderbilt Complex. If al-Libbi was there, stopping him alone was going to be difficult. He stopped and looked at Sharpton. “How retired are you?”
6:30 P.M. PST Mountaingate Drive, Los Angeles
It had been easy, really. Disguised as the gardener, al-Libbi had had several hours to listen to the Secret Service communications. He’d heard how they responded to communications through their ear pieces and quickly memorized their call signs. And he had always, always been good at voices.
So each time they called in, he gave the call sign in a voice that approximated the man who had possessed the ear bud. Possessed it, that is, before al-Libbi had cut his throat and dumped his body into a closet.
It was almost time. The terrorist ignored the dead bodies and hefted several large, long boxes one at a time out of the truck and carried them into the backyard. A tall screen of bamboo marked the borders of Lee’s house, and hid part of the Vanderbilt Complex from view. Al-Libbi stacked his boxes there, then picked up the shears he’d used to kill Tuman and clipped a hole in the bamboo hedge. Once it was clear, he had a clear line of sight to the Vanderbilt Complex below. In fact, his sightline was clear straight to the reception hall at the heart of the building. The RPG–29s’ five-hundredmeter range would be more than enough to do the job.
Al-Libbi’s cell phone rang. Anyone who had his number was important enough to speak to, but he was surprised to see this particular number on his screen. “I thought we were done with our dealings,” he said by way of hello.
“There’s been a change in management,” said Frankie Michaelmas. “I’m in charge now, and yeah, I want to make a deal.”
6:36 P.M. PST Vanderbilt Complex
If Stan Chupnik was nervous, he didn’t show it. Hell, he didn’t even feel it.
He started and finished his wardrobe slowly and fastidiously. His pants were pressed and the pleat stood up nice and straight. His shirt was wrinkle-free and as white as bone. He had shaved twice for the occasion.
After more than ten minutes of primping, Stan stood before the dressing mirror nailed to the door of the men’s locker room and sized himself up. His bow tie was a little crooked, so he plucked it loose and began to retie it. No clipons. That was the sort of detail that differentiated the Vanderbilt from pretty much everywhere else.
Stan had worked as a waiter at the Vanderbilt — or “the Van” as the employees called it — ever since it had been constructed, and had served at every important shindig the complex had hosted. Of course, the real money was made waiting tables across the plaza at the Almandine, the five-star restaurant where dinner for four ran about four hundred dollars. That was Stan’s bread and butter. But exclusive events at the Reception Hall allowed Stan to breathe the same air as celebrities and world leaders. As far as he was concerned, that was worth the loss of a few hundred dollars in tips now and then. That was certainly true of tonight.
“Did they hassle you?” Daniel Schuman was saying to one of the other waiters in the locker room. “They asked me about a thousand questions. I take that back, they asked me the same four or five questions about a thousand times.”
One of the guys on the catering staff said, “What kind of questions?”
Daniel tugged at his bow tie, trying to even it out. “All about Arabs. I’ve been to Jerusalem a couple of times, and each time I go I try to make a side visit, you know? Damascus, Iran, places like that.”
“Jesus,” said the other waiter, “you’re asking for trouble.”
“Yeah, well, those bastards gave me some. I almost didn’t get to do this gig. They’d have given it to Lopez. Can you believe that? Lopez!”
Stan chimed in. “Well, it’s all your fault. What do you think they’re going to do, the world like it is now?”
“Oh, and I suppose you’ve never traveled anywhere?” Schuman retorted.
“All over the place, baby,” said Stan smugly. “But not places that raise eyebrows. I’m a big Costa Rica fan. Brazil, Peru. I love it down there.”
“You surf down there?” Schuman asked.
“Some, but mostly I do hikes up in the jungle.”
“I did that once,” the other waiter said. “Eco-tourist stuff.”
“That’s right,” Stan agreed with a hint of pride. “I’m an eco-tourist.”
13. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
7:00 P.M. PST Mountaingate Drive, Los Angeles
The sun was little more than a line of orange fire along the rim of the world. To the east the world was dark, but over the Santa Monica Mountains the sky looked bloody.
Jack parked several doors down from the Marcus Lee address. He and Sharpton, both rearmed, slipped out of the car quietly and padded along the street lined with the demimansions that were so in vogue. Streetlights had come on, and Jack skirted the pools of light until he reached the correct address — a tall white house at the end of the lane, removed from the others.
The porch light was on, as were several lights inside, but the place was quiet. The Secret Service said they had been checking in with the agents there on a regular basis, but Jack refused to believe it. If he was wrong, Chappelle could (and would) throw the book at him.
7:07 P.M. PST Vanderbilt Complex
President Barnes walked into the Reception Hall with a conscious and confident stride. The hall was empty except for the priceless art on the wall, a dining table with two chairs, and the Premier of China.
Xu Boxiong. The name was as inscrutable as the man, as far as Barnes was concerned. Xu stood there, at the far side of the table, his arms straight down at his sides, his round face composed into a warm but unreadable expression, neither friendly nor otherwise. Though Xu was in his sixties, his hair was jet black and thick. The Chinese leader wore a pair of Coke-bottle glasses, though Mitch Rasher had told Barnes that Xu’s eyesight was perfect. He wore the glasses like curtains over the windows to his soul.
It occurred to Barnes that, in all his political career, this was the first time he’d met a Communist.
Barnes crossed the distance between them, extended his hand, and said, “Mr. Premier, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”
Xu smiled and tipped his upper body. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. President,” he said in gently accented English.
And, as if the greeting had broken a spell, others flooded into the room. Four security agents, two from each country, stationed themselves at either of the two exits. Waiters entered bearing the favorite drinks of each leader. Barnes raised his glass to Xu, who did likewise. They sipped together.
“It is a shame Mr. Novartov could not join us,” Xu said. “Something to do with the flu. But perhaps in some way, better. We can speak mor
e directly.”
Barnes nodded, not ready to enter the deeper discussion yet. “Would you like to sit down, or shall we admire the art?”
“I have often heard of the Vanderbilt collection,” Xu replied, his small eyes scanning the room. “Perhaps a circuit around the room?”
Barnes nodded and motioned with his arm. Xu stepped forward, and together they walked the perimeter of the room, stopping at each portrait to admire it or, in Barnes’s case, to pretend to admire it. He wasn’t much for fine art. He passed a picture of a bearded man that evoked strength but did nothing for him, and a picture of a young man in red that he vaguely remembered as being painted by Raphael. Both he and Xu stopped, as if by some unspoken signal, before a tall portrait of Louis XIV, the Sun King.
“Now there,” said Xu thoughtfully, “was a ruler.”
“Not a member of the party, though,” Barnes pointed out.
Xu turned to him and gave the slightest nod. “None of us, unfortunately, is perfect. But I was speaking of his leadership, not his politics. I aspire to be this sort of leader, and I am curious if you, too, have such aspirations, Mr. President.”
“One can hope”—Barnes decided to take the initiative— “that your leadership will include accommodating the wishes of the nations that wish to invite you into the Group of Eight.”
Xu sipped his drink. “What accommodations would those be?”
“Human rights,” the American President said simply. “We need movement on human rights to stop the kind of scene we had out here today.”
The Chinese leader turned to face Barnes fully, and lowered his drink so that nothing stood between the other man and him. “It is interesting to us that the U.S. is so concerned about human rights in China when it maintains detention camps around the globe.”
Barnes was ready for this, of course. Politics aside, human rights was an issue close to his heart, and one that had pained him during his entire presidency. He had stuck his integrity in his back pocket countless times, but never at the expense of those who suffered under injustice.
“Sir,” he said firmly, “if we are to have any sort of dialogue whatsoever, you will never again compare our detention of terrorists and murderers to the incarceration of those who simply disagree with you.”
Xu did not respond immediately. He studied Barnes, the eyes behind the Coke-bottle glasses slowly traveling across the American’s face. The statement, Barnes knew, had been calculated. Those closest to him knew of his famous temper, and he suspected Xu was testing him. If this was how they were going to play, Barnes thought, it was going to be a long night.
7:24 P.M. PST Outside the Vanderbilt Complex
Mercy didn’t stop her car until the bumper was touching the agent’s knees. She got out as the man in the dark suit came around to the front of her car, his hand held up, palm out.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but the museum is closed this evening for a private affair.”
“I know. I called,” she said, holding up the badge she’d reacquired. “Detective Bennet. I need to talk to whoever is in charge.”
The agent kept his hand upheld and turned to mutter into his microphone. After listening, he nodded and turned back to Mercy. “They got your call up the hill, ma’am. I’ll take you up there, but you’ll have to leave the car. This way.”
The agent motioned her toward the white stucco building, the station for the tram. Several more agents were there; they checked Mercy’s ID again, and then allowed her onto the tram.
“Hurry, please,” Mercy said. “This is urgent.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the agent said. The tram hummed up the hill to the Vanderbilt Complex, but it moved with interminable slowness. Mercy was sure she could have walked it faster. At last they came to the top, where the tram ended next to a set of acre-wide, shallow steps made of travertine that led up to the massive double doors of the Vanderbilt. Two more agents were trotting down the steps. One in the lead held his hand out to Mercy, who shook it quickly.
“Adam Carter, Agent in Charge,” said the man. “What’s this all about?”
“I told you over the phone,” she said. “There’s a—”
“—plot against the President, yes, you said that. What is this about a virus?”
Mercy repeated what she had relayed on the drive over. “There’s an eco-terrorist group that is trying to make a statement. They have some kind of virus like Ebola and I think they are going to try to release it here, tonight.”
“Do you have any idea who’s delivering it, or how?” Carter asked earnestly. “Because frankly, I’m totally willing to believe you if the President’s safety is even slightly compromised, but I need more information.”
“I’m not sure how,” Mercy admitted, “but I got the information directly from the man who plotted the whole thing.”
Agent Carter frowned, and Mercy realized how odd her statement had sounded. “And where is he now, ma’am?”
She groaned inwardly. “He’s dead.”
“Well, if he’s dead—”
“Agent Carter, please don’t be an ass,” she said impatiently. “The virus is real. You can check with the L.A. office of the Counter Terrorist Unit. They know about it.”
Carter nodded. “I’m really not trying to be uncooperative, ma’am,” he said. “You’re a detective and we take local law enforcement’s warnings seriously. But we’ve had calls already from CTU. They warned us about the house up on the hill, and our agents confirm that everything’s fine.” He pointed up the slope to the right of the complex, where the silhouette of a house stood out from the hilltop. She wondered what the house had to do with anything, and if Jack Bauer was there. Carter continued. “But you’re not giving me anything to go on. I’m not sure that I can evacuate the President on a rumor, especially when our agents are in complete control of the environment.”
“Can I at least come in?” she asked. “I don’t need to see the President, but I’ve been around one or two of these ecoterrorists, and I might recognize someone.”
Carter hesitated. She watched him oscillate between his desire to keep her out, thus eliminating a variable, and letting her in to thoroughly explore any hint of danger to his protectee. Finally, he nodded.
7:27 P.M. PST Mountaingate Drive, Los Angeles
The street was as quiet as any street in any affluent neighborhood. Jack parked his car well away from the white house at the end of the lane and he and Sharpton got out. Jack saw no option but the straightforward approach. If the Secret Service caught them sneaking in, it would cause more trouble than it was worth. So he strode up the circular driveway with Sharpton in tow, expecting at any moment to be stopped by an agent stepping around a corner. But none came.
Jack’s internal alarms would have gone off even without the security failure. There was a gardener’s truck in the driveway. The trucks themselves were common enough in affluent neighborhoods, but it was rare to see a gardener at work after sunset. Jack drew his SIG-sauer, recovered from the riots, and held it low at his side. Sharpton took his cue and did the same.
7:29 P.M. PST Vanderbilt Complex
Mercy was impressed by his demeanor. Carter was calm and professional, neither overreacting to her dire prediction nor ignoring her vague warnings. Of course, she wanted to shout at the top of her lungs that the President should be evacuated immediately, but she could not blame the Agent in Charge for his discretion. She’d given him almost nothing to go on.
She had to find something, she knew. She was desperate for some means of convincing the Secret Service that she was right. Mercy found herself doing something she never thought she would. She thought, What would Jack do? What would Bauer do when confronted with a plot he knew to be real but without the evidence to prove it?
He’d find another way to move the President to safety, she thought. And he’d do it without regard for himself or his reputation. And in that moment Mercy formed her plan. When she was close enough, she was going to draw her own weapon and fire.
The Secret Service would take her down, she knew, but they would also evacuate the President, remove him immediately from the premises to some secure, controllable haven. He’d be safe. Copeland’s plot would be foiled.
She steeled her resolve as they marched up the wide, shallow travertine steps and through the great double doors. The foyer of the Vanderbilt was more than two stories tall, with several hallways leading in different directions, with signs promising displays from ancient Greece, the Renaissance, and the Impressionist era. One especially magnificent hallway directly across from the doors led straight to the Main Gallery, a central room housing the finest of the complex’s works of art. Two agents were stationed there, as well. Carter waved to them and they let Mercy pass. Art hung on the hallway walls, but Mercy noticed none of it in her eagerness to reach the gallery. The hallway ended at a T-intersection, with short hallways to either side and an archway in front, leading to another magnificent room. Four agents guarded this door, and two of them were Chinese. Beyond, she saw a table set in exquisite fashion, with two empty chairs, almost as though the dining set were an exhibit itself, the vacant chairs offering some statement about the emptiness of modern life.
“This is as far as I can take you,” Carter said. “If there’s anything more you can tell me, tell it now.”
Mercy glanced around, but what she was looking for would not be found in art. She needed evidence, and she had none. At the far end of the gallery she saw two men strolling casually from masterpiece to masterpiece. She became hyper-conscious of her pistol’s bulk against her left ribs. She would have to do it. She’d have to.
Three figures in white coats suddenly burst out of the hallway to her left, carrying silver trays topped with silver covers. Yet another Secret Service agent was with them. That agent gave a thumbs-up sign to the agents at the door. Even so, the door wardens stopped each waiter briefly, lifted the covers, and examined their contents, then waved them past.
“Detective?” Carter asked. He rested a hand gently on her forearm.
