Chris Henderson appeared lost in thought for a moment. Then he said, “Jack, go get your daughter. Get her away from the demonstrations, make sure she’s okay. We’ve got eyes and ears all over the Federal Building. If they try anything, we’re as ready as we can be with or without you there. You’ll feel better once you know your daughter’s okay.”
Jack nodded reluctantly. Henderson was speaking reasonably, but Jack was in no mood to be reasonable. The violence inside him had not dissipated. He bit his lip, letting the pain focus his attention. He could hold his violence in check. He’d done it before. He would let it loose at the right time. When he found al-Libbi.
Mercy slid up to the red curb in front of 16150, ignoring the fire hydrant. Two uniformed police officers were on the front lawn of a yellow three-story apartment building, wrestling with a twenty-something man in jeans and an orange T-shirt.
By the time Mercy had exited the car and crossed the lawn, the
uniforms had him on his stomach and were hooking him up.
“Hey, Willow,” she said with a smile.
The young man craned his neck to look up at her, his indignant look clearly proving that he laid the blame for his predicament squarely on her.
“Stand him up, please,” Mercy said.
The uniforms took hold of one shoulder each and pulled Willow to his feet. His hair was close-cropped and his chin was covered in a permanent fuzz.
“Man, Detective, you are turning into the man—”
She smiled. “Truth is, I was the man before we met.” They were roughly the same height, and she forced him to meet her eyes. “I need to know who your friend is. You’re going to tell me right now.”
“No, I’m not!” he protested childishly.
“Yep,” she said as though he’d agreed with her. “Because you’re a pacifist and you hate to see people get hurt, and if you don’t tell me, it’s very possible people will die. Is that what you want?”
“Well, I don’t friggin’ want this,” Willow said. “I don’t want to turn my friends over to fascists, either.”
Mercy realized she’d brandished the stick but had never offered the carrot. “Willow, you have my word. I have no interest in arresting your friends. I don’t care right now if they’ve done something illegal. I just want to know what they know so that innocent people aren’t killed.”
Now it was Willow’s turn to stare at Mercy. She allowed him to study her eyes. She wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but she let him look. She liked Willow. He had all the makings of a flake, but in truth he had found his set of beliefs and preserved them against all comers, whether assaulted by the LAPD or by friends who pursued a more violent agenda than his own.
Either Willow found what he was looking for, or he gave in to his fear of law enforcement. Mercy found herself hoping it was the former. “Her name is Frankie Michaelmas. She’s with the Earth Liberation Front. She said she heard some dudes talking about doing some serious damage at the G8.”
“Great. Where can I find Frankie?”
“She’s at the protest. Hundred percent, she’s there.”
“You have her number?”
Willow nodded.
“Great. Let’s give Frankie a call.”
Nurmamet and Kasim had departed. Muhammad Abbas sipped a small coffee and read the New York Times as Ay-man al-Libbi walked into the deserted bar. Al-Libbi was clean-shaven, with short black hair. He wore a dark blue three-button suit over a light blue dress shirt with no tie, looking like no more than a second- or third-generation son of Middle Eastern or Latino immigrants. He spoke English with a California accent and walked with the casual confidence of a man who belonged wherever he was. These traits, along with scrupulously forged documents, had allowed him to cross the borders of dozens of countries over the years.
“How did it go?” Ayman asked as he sat down.
Muhammad folded the Times. “The money is in a briefcase beneath the table. I assume your project went well?”
“We’ll see,” Ayman said lazily. Muhammad had noticed this tone in his leader’s voice in recent months. Ayman began projects with the same ruthless efficiency of years past, but once the gears were set, he seemed to lose his personal drive. In Bali, Muhammad had feared for Ayman’s life, but these days he feared for himself. The Americans could be fooled, but once on the trail they were relentless. Muhammad had no desire to end up in Guantanamo Bay.
“Will your man do what he is told?” he asked with real concern.
“I have him under control. You counted the money?”
“They would not cheat us, Ayman. Yes!” he added hastily, fidgeting under the other’s sour glare. “Yes, I’ll count it.” A question floated through his thoughts, a question he had considered voicing before. He stared down at the folded newspaper on the table as if the answers might be there. Finally he said, “Is it only the money now, Ayman?”
Ayman al-Libbi threw his arm over the back of the chair. “Muhammad,” he said with a smile, “it was always the money.”
Ayman’s phone rang and he plucked it out of his breast pocket. “Hey… al salaam a’alaykum.” He listened for a moment. “Okay. I’ll take care of it.” He snapped his phone shut. “Apparently my new friend is becoming a bit of a problem.”
Jack hadn’t driven more than five blocks when his phone
rang. “Bauer.”
“Agent Bauer, you are not obeying the rules.”
The connection was crystal clear and the voice perfectly recognizable. “Go to hell,” Jack said to the man who had threatened his daughter.
“It isn’t my afterlife you should worry about. I told you not to continue your investigation. Yet you seem to be going somewhere.”
“What are you talking about?” Jack growled.
“I am talking about the fact that you are heading west on Santa Monica Boulevard.”
Jack jerked the wheel and pulled to a stop slantwise, the tail end of his SUV half blocking the right lane.
“Ah,” the caller said. “That’s better.”
Jack slammed his fist down onto the dashboard. Was it a tail? He hadn’t picked up any cars, and unless someone had CTU under surveillance, there was no way this mystery man — Jack could only assume it was al-Libbi — could know what he was doing. There had to be a bug of some kind. Jack instinctively ran his hands over his arms and touched the bruise at his elbow. He looked around his car for a moment, then opened the door and jumped out. He started walking west.
“Uh-oh, you’re moving again, “the caller said. “I want to make this clear to you, Agent Bauer. Your daughter has been infected with a virus. There is a cure, but I guarantee you that the only person who has it is me. If I see you leave your office, you will never hear from me again and your daughter will die.”
Jack stopped walking. The techs had screwed up somehow. There was a bug on him or in him somewhere. The caller was tracking him as he walked down the street. On a whim, he raised his hand and flipped a bird to the buildings around him. No reaction.
He returned to his car, ignoring the drivers honking at him, and climbed back in. Angry, he backed into traffic and whipped around in the middle of the street, heading back to the office.
Twenty minutes after putting the screws to Willow, Mercy was back at the Federal Building where she’d met Jack Bauer. The crowds had swelled in the last two hours. She’d heard on the police band that there were in excess of ten thousand people. Protestors were now pressed right up to the edge of the permit zone like kids with their toes just outside the door of their big brother’s room. The outer edge of the crowd had pushed back nearly three full blocks in all directions, a swelling sea that undulated and splashed up against the island that was the Federal Building.