The kid who had just moved looked at Bauer. “Did you say you were a cop?”
Jack didn’t answer, but the kid laughed. “You’re a cop? I love it. How does it feel to get beat up by the other fascists?”
Jack sized him up: Von Dutch T-shirt, tanned skin, with that California drawl drawn out by money and time. This was the kind of person for whom everything had come easily. He hadn’t even lived long enough to know what hardship was, hadn’t lived long enough to know that the people he called “fascists” were usually the ones who put their lives at risk so he could have an easy life.
“I guess you’re in here for no reason?” Jack asked.
The kid clearly wanted to tell his story. “Look at this bump on my forehead, man. Three cops jumped on me.”
“What were you doing right before that?” Jack said.
“I threw a rock at them, but that was only—”
Jack said, “Those cops, they spend their lives putting themselves in harm’s way so you can sleep at night. Most of them don’t ask for any thanks or praise from you at all. Think of that next time you pick up a goddamned rock.”
“I simply won’t do it,” the doctor said for the third time.
Tony Almeida ran a hand through his black hair. He looked at the doctor’s name tag. “Look, Dr. Gupta, this is a matter of national security. This man has information that could save lives.”
“I have an ethical responsibility,” Dr. Gupta said. He was young, not yet out of his twenties, with a lean, thoughtful face, dark eyes, and a stiff spine. “If I give him drugs to bring him out of the coma, it could kill him.”
“As long as he wakes up first.”
The doctor frowned at him, and turned to look for help from the group assembled behind him. There was quite a collection: a nurse holding a tray that contained a syringe full of some medication; the hospital’s chief of internal medicine; two lawyers; and two uniformed officers who’d come in just to see the show.
None of them offered Gupta any assistance, so the doctor turned back. “Agent Almeida,” the doctor said reproachfully. “I am not an executioner.”
“I’m not, either,” Tony said. “In fact, the only executioner around here is him.” He pointed at Dyson. “I’m telling you I saw his fingers move. I don’t think he’s in a coma anymore, and even if—”
“You’re hardly qualified to—”
“—and even if he is,” Tony repeated, “the risk of killing him is nothing compared to what he knows. I believe this man has knowledge of a terrorist plot that could happen any time in the next twenty-four hours, and I need to know what it is.”
The doctor hesitated. “I’ve taken an oath to do no harm.”
Tony sighed. “I haven’t.”
He reached past Gupta to the nurse and snatched the syringe off her tray. Before anyone could react, he popped the protective cap off the needle and plunged it into Dyson’s chest. The nurse gasped and Gupta cried out in alarm. He grabbed at Tony but the agent shrugged him off easily and removed the syringe. He watched the vitals monitor for a moment, the heart rate meter chirping steady and slow. After a moment the beeps came a bit faster, and then faster still. Dyson moaned. The lawyers sighed.
Tony leaned over the bed. “Dyson. Dyson, wake up.”
The FBI agent’s eyes fluttered. Tony slapped him lightly. “I said wake up.”
Dyson’s eyes opened. Dr. Gupta pushed past Tony and pulled out his penlight, shining it in Dyson’s eyes. “Pupil reaction,” he muttered. He checked the vitals. “Stable so far.”
“Dyson, who are you working for!” Tony said, moving Gupta forcefully. “Who are you working for?”
Dyson blinked once or twice. His watery eyes focused on Tony for a moment, then glazed over. A slight smile turned the edges of his mouth. A thin laugh rattled past his lips. “Monkeys… monkey gang… bitten by monkeys. ”
His lips kept moving, but the words melted into incomprehensible dribble.
“Dyson!” Tony said, shaking the agent.
The heart rate monitor picked up its pace, sounding suddenly urgent. At the same time, his blood-oxygen levels started to drop. A second later, Dyson’s heart rate went from frantic to nonexistent.
Nina Myers rolled up Mountaingate Drive to an exclusive tract in the Santa Monica Mountains that overlooked the Sepulveda Pass and the 405 Freeway to the east, and the entire Los Angeles basin to the south. The owners paid for the view, so every house had one, but one property in particular occupied the sweet spot. On the south side of the ridge stood an enormous white house with a panoramic view not only of the L.A. basin, but of Santa Monica Bay as well.
Or at least it would have, if not for the Vanderbilt Complex. The Vanderbilt Complex, or just the Vanderbilt to locals, was a vast, impressive castle built into the hillside. Although constructed lower on the slope than the houses of Mountaingate Drive, the Vanderbilt was big enough to mar the view from the large white house above it. Mountaingate residents had complained, but as wealthy as they were, they were peons compared to the Vanderbilt estate, which had both money and public sentiment on its side. The Vanderbilt was a museum complex built around the private collection of a few Vanderbilt heirs. The museum was free to the public, dedicated to advancing the cause of the arts among all people, and a political juggernaut. The estate bought the property and forced the approvals through the city bureaucracy. Environmentalists had decried the development because the Sepulveda Pass was one of the few green spots left in Los Angeles…but everyone, from the environmentalists to the residents of Mountaingate, had to admit that the finished structure was impressive. Perched on a shoulder of the mountains, it commanded a lordly view of the Los Angeles basin. The L.A. Weekly, the local cutting-edge weekly magazine, had featured a cover photo of the magnificent Vanderbilt with the headline “Acropolis Now!” Thousands of tons of travertine had been imported from Italy to cover its walls and form its plazas. A private road led up to the museum, but most visitors rode an automated tram that wound up the mountainside to the wide, flat steps. The Vanderbilt housed classic paintings, an impressive photography collection, and a rare books display that included an original Gutenberg Bible and one of the original thirteen copies of the Bill of Rights.
As she gazed down on the Vanderbilt from the mountaintop, Nina decided that the museum was an excellent location from a security point of view. The single road leading up to the complex was easily controllable; the steep slopes were inaccessible by vehicle and offered little or no cover to a team on foot. The wide open skies above allowed easily for exfil of the VIPs by helicopter if the need arose. Because of its isolated location on the hilltop and the security measures that had already been put in place to protect its priceless treasures, the Vanderbilt was a desirable location for dignitaries seeking a secure but elegant meeting ground. The only variable keeping the Vanderbilt from becoming a perfectly controllable site was, in fact, the house at the end of Mountaingate Drive.
Nina parked a few blocks down from the house — a tall, white, antebellum mansion with a circular driveway. The house even had one of those little statues of a jockey in a red coat, holding out one hand, to which was attached a metal ring. Nina walked past it and knocked on the door. No sound came from inside, but an intercom next to the door came to life and a static-laden voice came through. “Yes?”