by John Whitman
tion room. We have to find a vaccine for this virus right now. If we don’t, by morning people are going to start dying.”
14. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 P.M. AND 9 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
8:00 P.M. PST Bauer Residence
Teri sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and laid a cool wet
washcloth over her forehead. “Does that help?”
“It’s better,” Kim said. “I hate being sick.”
“I know, honey, I’m sorry. I called the Tashmans but they weren’t home. As soon as they get here I’m going to go out and get you something from the pharmacy.”
“You can go now, Mom,” Kim said drowsily. “I’m—”
“You’re not okay, honey. And if your father were here like he’s supposed to be, I wouldn’t have to wait.”
“You sound like you hate him.” Kim’s words sounded both pouty and honest in the way only a teenager could speak them. Teri realized just how much of her anger she’d allowed to show. She had to fix it.
“I don’t hate him, honey. I don’t. But I get frustrated when he’s gone so much. Sometimes I worry that he’d rather— well, sometimes I just wish he had more time to spend at home.”
8:03 P.M. PST Vanderbilt Complex
All President Barnes could think was, If I can get through this, I can get through anything.
He exerted every effort to sit through the crisis in complete calm. He could feel the eyes of Xu Boxiong on him at all times. Xu, who must also be exerting enormous self-discipline, seemed eager to take Barnes’s measure. Through a sheer act of will, Barnes remained cool, delivering orders in measured tones, even nibbling at the hors d’oeuvres that had been trapped in the room with them.
It wasn’t easy. Barnes had seen video of Ebola victims as the disease ravaged them. He did not want to die that way. And even if he didn’t die in body, his political death was surely imminent. How had his security people allowed this to happen? Where were all his goddamned counterterrorist teams?
As if on cue, Carter approached him and said, “Sir, Ryan Chappelle has just arrived. He’s the Regional Director for the Counter Terrorist Unit.”
“I remember him,” Barnes said. He stood up and walked over to the transparent shield. On the other side stood a short, balding, ferret-faced man holding a radio to his ear. Next to him stood Mitch Rasher, his closest advisor. Just having Rasher on the premises made Barnes feel better.
“Mr. President, I’m sorry,” Chappelle said.
“Don’t be sorry, just fix it,” Barnes replied. “First, tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I have some answers for you, sir,” Chappelle replied, “but it’s not a complete picture yet. What we know is that there were actually two terrorist plots in the works. Our agents stopped terrorists from firing rocket-propelled grenades into this building. But at the same time, an eco-terrorist group managed to—”
“I know what they managed,” said Barnes irritably. “Why didn’t your people know about this?”
Chappelle fidgeted and Barnes knew instantly that Chappelle was uncomfortable speaking truth to power. “Well, sir, we had people on the case. Unfortunately, we didn’t learn about this meeting until the last minute.”
Barnes looked at Rasher through the glass and frowned deeply. The meeting had been Rasher’s idea. The secrecy had been his idea, too. Rasher, an entirely political animal, believed the stories of Xu’s daunting negotiating skills and hadn’t wanted to expose his man to any public scrutiny if he failed to win concessions from China. Secret negotiations were only valuable if they remained secret.
“The press?” Barnes asked.
Mitch Rasher, on his own radio, said, “Controlled. No one’s come up the hill but our people, and we’re putting the word out that there was an attempted robbery up here. The Vanderbilt is going along with it.”
“That’s something then,” Barnes allowed. “Is NHS here? Do they have a vaccine?”
“ETA is five more minutes,” Rasher said.
“But,” the CTU man said, “but frankly, sir, we already had NHS investigating other exposures. They don’t have a vaccine yet.”
“So you think this idiot on the DVD was telling the truth?”
Suddenly a blond man pushed his way through the crowd of staffers and security people and began talking to Chappelle. He looked like hell — his shirt was torn, the side of his face was turning purple, and there were streaks of what must have been blood on his sleeves and pants. Barnes couldn’t hear him through the radio, but it was clear from Chappelle’s expression that he didn’t like the newcomer.
8:09 P.M. PST Vanderbilt Complex
“. what the hell do you mean he got away?” Chappelle snapped. “How could you let him get away?”
Jack glared at Chappelle. “If you hadn’t refused the backup I needed at Lee’s house, he wouldn’t have gotten away. Not to mention the fact that if I had listened to you, I wouldn’t have gone up to that house in the first place, and you’d be standing in the middle of a bomb site rather than a quarantine zone!”
Chappelle opened his mouth, then shut it, realizing that everyone around them, including the President, was listening to their argument. Jack saw the wheels turning in the director’s head: he had screwed up the call on Marcus Lee, but at the same time, he would never take the political heat. Lee had been cleared by the Secret Service, and they had been stationed at the residence. That snafu would be blamed on them. Thanks to Jack Bauer and Nina Myers, CTU had been the only Federal agency with any clue to what Lee was up to.
Jack glanced at Mercy to make sure she was all right. She nodded, reading his thoughts. They had a lot of talking to do; he knew that. But it would have to wait a little longer.
“Well,” Chappelle said at last, “we need to find al-Libbi.”
“Forget about the terrorist!” Barnes demanded. “Find me the vaccine. According to the message, we’ve got less than ten hours.”
Jack looked at the Secret Service man next to the President. “Bring me that waiter.”
The other two quarantined agents brought him over and slammed him up against the Plexiglas. Someone held a radio to his ear.
“Your name is Stan,” Jack said.
“You have to let me go,” said Stan. “If you don’t, you won’t hear from him.”
“Him? You mean Bernard Copeland?” The waiter reacted physically to the name, his facing draining of color. Jack continued. “We won’t hear from him anyway, Stan,” Jack said. “He was murdered this afternoon. By one of your people.”
The edges of Stan’s mouth sank into a deep frown. “You — you’re lying.”
“I think Frankie did it,” Jack stated, looking at Mercy as though waiting for a second opinion. “She seems like the type.”
It was the oldest trick in the interrogator’s handbook, to act like one knew more than one did. Of course, in this case Jack was almost certain he was right.
The reaction on Stan’s face proved it. “Oh shit,” he muttered. “Oh my god. She’s crazy.”
“Stan,” Jack said in the tone of a reproachful parent. “I want to remind you what this means. You’ve been exposed to the virus like everyone else in there. The guy you were counting on to vaccinate you is dead. Your life span can now be measured in single digits. Tell us what you know.”
Stan talked. But in the end, what he had to say was interesting without containing anything vital. Stan’s role in the ecoterrorist plot was no different from the role of true believers in any organization. He’d been recruited for his zeal and been sold on a dangerous role, but never been told the deepest secrets of the group. But he did confirm Jack and Mercy’s suspicions about Frankie Michaelmas. “She’s a nutcase,” Stan said. “The rest of us wanted to find some way to get the world’s attention, but she wanted to find some way to hurt people. She’s the one that got the idea of trying to contact real terrorist groups. She said no one would really take us seriously until we defended the Amazon the way H
amas defends Palestine.”
“And look how that’s worked out,” Mercy murmured.
The waiter could feel the anger on both sides of the Plexiglas rise, and all of it was currently directed at him. “Copeland didn’t go for it. None of us did,” Stan said defensively. “I got the feeling Frankie was contacting them on her own, ’cause she kept coming to us with new ways to organize. We broke into small cells, and almost no one knew everything that was going on except Bernie. Bernie liked the part. He was really paranoid about people knowing what we were doing, especially the Federal government.”
“Let’s get to the important part, Stan,” Jack said. “Who else in your group has the vaccine, or knows where to get it?”
Stan shook his head. “Man, if I knew, I’d tell you. I don’t want to die of this stuff. I know there are some others, but I don’t know them. But I’ll bet Frankie knows.”
Jack turned to Mercy. “I’m going to go talk to her. You want to come along?”
8:18 P.M. PST 405 Freeway
Ayman al-Libbi sat in the passenger seat of Muhammad Abbas’s rented Chrysler 30 °C, bleeding on the brand-new leather seats. The bullet had blown some of the flesh off his left side, but the round itself must have glanced off his ribs.
He was sure at least one of them was broken. But he did not think he was dying.
“Drive a little faster,” he said, as cool as ever. “The other cars move faster than you do.”
Abbas obeyed. “The safe house is fifteen minutes from here. You can make it?”
The terrorist nodded. “I can make it. How could I do otherwise? This whole affair has just become so much more interesting.” He patted the pocket of his jacket, which contained two small glass vials.
8:20 P.M. PST Los Angeles
“How are you feeling?” Jack asked as he headed down the freeway away from the Vanderbilt Complex and back to CTU.
“I’m fine right now,” Mercy said. “I don’t feel anything. Except pissed off. I feel really pissed off.”
Jack took one hand off the wheel and put it over her hand. “We’re going to find this vaccine. You’re going to live,” he said.
She put her hand over his. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Besides, there are more important people than me to worry about. Like your daughter. How is she?”
Jack gritted his teeth. “I’ll call soon. I get the feeling Copeland kept his promises. If he really didn’t give her the weaponized version of the virus, then she’s got hours left.”
“You’ve got to be exhausted,” Mercy said. “I know I am.”
“No time to be tired,” he said, switching freeways and heading east. After a moment, he said, “You need to promise me something. According to the workup we got from NHS, you become contagious once you see lesions that open up. You’ve got to—”
“I’ll do what I have to,” Mercy said. “But as long as I’m not a danger to anyone, I’m staying on this case.”
Jack smiled. “I always did like your attitude.”
“You just like girls who can kick ass like that girl from Alias.” There was another short silence. They both watched the blurred, impersonal lights of Los Angeles flow by on either side. Finally, Mercy said, “So what’s it been? Mid-life crisis that you’ve chickened out of? I had block-away potential, but now that I’m up close you’re not interested? What?”
Jack was glad to be driving so he could focus on the freeway. “You said you didn’t want it,” he said evasively. “You said—”
“I know about me and what I want,” Mercy interrupted. “We’re talking about you, now. I just want to know where it came from. I’m a detective, remember? I want answers. Was it just guy stuff, the need to have another woman? If it was, just tell me, ’cause I’m one of the cool chicks. I get that. I won’t be part of it, but I get it.”
Jack had to laugh in spite of himself. She really was one of the most centered people he’d ever met. “It wasn’t just an itch I have to scratch,” he said. “I promise. And I promise I’ll tell you, but right now I want to focus on this.”
These last words were spoken as they pulled up at CTU’s Los Angeles headquarters.
CTU was a whirlwind of activity. Although the attack on the President and the firefight up at Mountaingate Drive had been hidden from the public and the media, the intelligence community was in an uproar. CTU was screaming at the CIA for its shoddy information on Marcus Lee. The CIA was screaming at the Chinese for not disclosing more. Everyone was screaming at National Health Services to provide more information on this unknown virus that had suddenly become the single most important issue in the entire world.
Jack blew through it all like a torpedo cutting through a whirlpool. Nina Myers shouted to him that his prisoner was in holding room two, and Jack was there in no time.
Frankie Michaelmas was sitting in a bare metal chair designed to do nothing for her comfort. Her shoulder had been heavily bandaged and her ankle was wrapped in a brace. Her face was pale from loss of blood, but a medic whispered to Jack that she was stable and coherent.
As Jack walked in, Frankie smiled at him. “You’re the guy who broke my ankle. Did you get Ayman?”
Jack didn’t bother to answer.
“You didn’t get him,” Frankie concluded. “You’d have a different look on your face if you did.”
“You’re going to tell me who else knows how to create the vaccine,” Jack said. He checked his watch. “You’re going to tell me that in the next three minutes.”
Frankie shook her head, her blond curls matted to her forehead. “That’s my leverage, man. You think I don’t know the shit I’m in? I’m not giving away my only card.”
“You don’t have leverage,” Jack said. “You’re involved in a plot to kill the President of the United States. You’ve aided and abetted wanted terrorists. You’re going to be put in a hole. The only thing you might negotiate is how far down we drop you.”
Frankie looked at him, and Jack had to admit that she was cool. Whether it was desperation or pure fortitude he didn’t know yet, but she played the game with force. “How’s your daughter?”
Jack felt animal rage leap inside him, but he didn’t let it show.
“The joke of it is that Bernie never would have let her die. He figured if he exposed her, then you’d have her checked out by someone and they’d know the virus was real. He was going to send you the vaccine no matter what. Fucking wimp.”
“You don’t have that weakness,” Jack said.
She put aside the compliment. “He liked to pretend there were lines you didn’t cross. But that’s bullshit, right?” She wasn’t looking for confirmation. Jack could see that whatever lines there might be, she’d crossed them long ago. “You do what you do to get what you need, and that’s it. That’s why the terrorists are so effective. No boundaries. That’s what I kept telling him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Someone else knows how to make the vaccine. Tell me who it is.”
“Amnesty. A plane ticket to anywhere I want. Five hundred thousand dollars.”
“Life in prison instead of the death penalty,” Jack offered, neither knowing nor caring if he could actually deliver.
“Amnesty. A plane ticket. Money,” she repeated.
Jack checked his watch. “Just over a minute.”
“I’ve read up on all this interrogation stuff,” Frankie said. “I know what you guys can do, but you don’t have time. Hell, you look more sleep deprived than I do. What are you going to do, make me stand up for the next ten hours? Okay, then the President will die. You don’t have time for any of that psychological shit you guys do.”
Jack nodded. “You’re right.”
He punched her hard right on her bandaged shoulder. Frankie screamed in agony. He waited for her to stop screaming. As her cries turned to sobs, she started to say, “What the—? What the—?” and he kicked her broken ankle. She screamed again.
As soon as he thought she could hear again, Jack leaned in close. “No boun
daries, Frankie. No lines I haven’t crossed. Wait till I start working on the healthy parts of you.”
He sat back. “Before he died, Copeland scrawled three numbers on the floor. Thirteen. Forty-eight. Fifty-seven. Tell me what they mean.”
Frankie sobbed and glared at him.
Jack continued calmly. “He also tried to say something. A name like Uma and the word ’ghetto.’ Tell me what that means. Tell me what the numbers mean.”
Frankie grinned almost maniacally through her pain. “He was always so goddamned corny.”
“Tell me.”
“Amnesty. A plane ticket. Mon—”
Jack leaned forward and rested his hand on her shattered shoulder. He could feel bones and meat move unstably beneath the bandages. She gasped wordlessly and shuddered uncontrollably. Jack leaned in again, but this time he noticed something at the edge of her bandages. He’d thought it was a laceration of some kind, but it wasn’t. It was purple, like a bruise, but raised and spotted like a weird rash. Or a lesion.
Oh shit, Jack thought. He backed away. Frankie’s shuddering did not stop. She doubled over and dry-heaved. Jack took another step backward. The lesion on Frankie’s shoulder split open and bloody pus trickled out. At the same time, Frankie heaved again, and this time blood poured out of her mouth like water from a faucet.
She coughed. “The fast strain,” she sputtered.
“Jack!” came over a hidden loudspeaker.
He didn’t need to be told. He was already halfway out. Jack slammed the door behind him and checked his arms and hands. No blood. Was the virus airborne from inside a human body?
Jack hurried around to the observation room where he found several CTU agents, including Nina, Tony, and Christopher Henderson, along with Mercy Bennet, watching Frankie decompose. That was the word for it. Her skin seemed to simply split open as though invisible claws had torn at her shoulders and neck. She vomited blood two or three more times.
“Get NHS here immediately,” Henderson ordered. “Get plastic over that door.”
