“Are you aware that we could not locate your brother?” the Federal agent asked.
“Excuse me?” he said, genuinely startled. “I didn’t know that.”
“His last known location was Afghanistan, but he could be anywhere. What do you think the chances are of his coming here?”
“Here?” Marwan said, still using his brother’s scholarly tones. “You would know that better than I, Ms. Myers. I don’t know why he would want to come here. I can’t imagine he would be allowed in. And surely you must have some sort of registration, or visa, or—”
“We do keep track,” she said. “I was just wondering. Would he contact you if he came here?”
“His last words to me were filled with hatred and venom,” Marwan said, which was very true. He remembered speaking them. “I doubt he would have anything new to say.”
The Federal agent nodded. She spoke some more words — instructions on how to contact her, an urgent request to reach her if he heard anything out of the ordinary, and then she was gone.
As soon as the door was closed, Marwan al-Hassan allowed the genial mask to slip from his face, revealing his utter and complete disdain. In his home, she would be beaten for impertinence, and for wearing such revealing clothing, and for so many other efforts to live and move beyond a woman’s legitimate place.
Marwan looked at the clock. It was a matter of hours, now. Only hours left until martyrdom.
9. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 A.M. AND 3 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Nina Myers walked down the steps from al-Hassan’s apartment with the nagging feeling of uncertainty, like the feeling of someone who’s just walked away from a sale unsure if she’d been had. The only real purpose of her meeting had been to look him in the eye when she asked him about his trip to Pakistan. She had to admit to herself that he had looked genuinely startled. That genuine reaction, more than any words he might have spoken, suggested that he might be telling the truth.
What bothered her was his overall demeanor. She’d spoken with him only once, but she had a good memory for interviews, especially on an active case, and she was sure that al-Hassan had been much more abrupt, even abrasive, with her during their previous meeting. Frankly, she had appreciated his candor. Tonight he had seemed slicker, a little more polished. But she had little to go on — to get any information more thorough than her report on Peshawar would take days. Tracking down the elusive brother in Pakistan or the Middle East would be like looking for a needle in a stack of needles.
She shrugged. It was either that or go back to sleep. She headed for CTU.
Jack had called Christopher Henderson rather than the regular emergency services, laying a bet that CTU had set up some kind of exfil system or cleanup procedure. His gamble paid off. Ten minutes after his call, paramedics arrived, along with a dark-haired man in slacks and a dress shirt, but the sleepy look of someone who’d just dragged himself out of bed.
“Almeida,” he said, shaking Jack’s hand. “These are our people. We’ll check him in and give a story. Is he going to give us any trouble?” He nodded at Dortmund, who was being stabilized by the paramedics.
“I don’t think so,” Jack said. “He’s a pedophile and there is evidence on him. Tell him to agree with your story or you’ll tell the real one.”
Almeida nodded as though that sort of reply was commonplace. He indicated Biehn, still handcuffed on the floor. “We taking him, too?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He studied Almeida’s dark eyes. “You haven’t even asked what’s going on.”
The other man shrugged. “My job’s to solve the problem, not slow down the solution with questions. Although if you did ask me, I’d say this whole thing looks pretty f’d up.”
Jack walked over and knelt beside Biehn. “What do you think of that?” he said sarcastically. “This guy thinks the situation here is fucked up, just because I let a suspected murderer visit a priest and then you tried to kill him. What do you think?”
Biehn, his words muffled by the carpet, replied, “I can give you another name in the plot.”
Jack sighed. “In return for letting you try to kill someone else? I don’t think so.”
“I promise I won’t try to kill him.”
“Oh, well, if you promise! That’s a whole different story,” Jack said acidly.
“I just want to see Mulrooney’s face. I want to know if he’s guilty.”
Jack grabbed Biehn by the shoulders and sat him up. He held Biehn’s anguished, frantic eyes with his own. “Of course he’s guilty. Everyone’s guilty of something. He’s guilty, but you’re not going to kill him. Deal with that right now.”
Almeida watched them. “You know, I am starting to get a little curious.”
Biehn did not back away from Jack’s stare. “You’ve got a daughter. I know her, she’s friends with my son. What would you do if priests had been raping her for the last four years?”
Jack knew. He’d thought about it already, driving in the car with Biehn. He’d make them all disappear quietly and painfully, law be damned. The law was a fine instrument, a useful tool. But it occurred to him that it was a tool that was often too clumsy, like a shovel with too long a handle. There were times when you wanted to cut it short. When did I start thinking that way? he wondered.
To Biehn, he said, “Doesn’t matter what I’d do. The only thing that matters is that I’m not going to let you do it.”
“I can give you a name directly associated with the plot. I don’t know if he’s one of the terrorists or just a shill, but I know that he’s a key component. And I can give you a description of the main guy.”
“How do you know all this?” Jack demanded. “What’s your source?”
Biehn said, “The guy in charge kidnapped me. He tortured me. I overhead a conversation and then I escaped.”
Jack processed this. Biehn was not involved in the terrorist investigation. He was a detective from West Hollywood Division, not Robbery-Homicide. “Were you on a case?”
“I’ll tell you that, too, if you let me look into Mulrooney’s face.”
Jack stood and helped Biehn to his feet. He turned to find Almeida practically in his face. The man was close enough to trigger Jack’s fight response, but he held back. Almeida himself was like ice. “I should probably remind you that none of what you’re doing is procedure. But I get the feeling you don’t really give a shit.”
Jack gave a curt nod. “You’re a good judge of character.” While Almeida saw to the paramedics and Dort
mund, Jack took a deep breath and gathered his arms around the situation. Biehn first, he thought. “Come on.” He uncuffed the detective’s feet and half-dragged him back out to the car. He put him in the front seat and recuffed his legs. “Are you going to—?” Biehn tried to ask, but Jack slammed the door.
He stood outside the car and dialed his cell phone. “Jack, what a surprise,” said Christopher Henderson. “Does everyone at the CIA work this late, or do they regret hiring you, too?”
“You knew the job was dangerous when you took it,” Jack quipped in reply. “Don’t tell me you signed up for a nine-to-five job, anyway.”
“Nine to nine, nine to nine-thirty, but this!”
“You want to gripe, go back to the military. Meantime, you’re the one who wanted me on this thing, so here I am.”
“Does that mean you’re signing on?”