Jack was about to swim after him when al-Hassan disappeared behind light and turbulence. Jack felt himself lifted up and out of the water as the sound of the explosion enveloped him like a bubble.
There was chaos in the hall. A wedge of Swiss Guards had surrounded the Pope and were driving their way through the crowd, out into the hallway, toward the safe room.
Less professional people might have called it a panic room but Giancarlo did not prefer that term. It was a room with reinforced doors and windows, stocked with supplies, where they could hold out for hours if necessary. They moved toward the room in a herd, radios blaring in their ears, Giancarlo shouting instructions. It was all well-planned and well-executed, but even for men of their expertise, this sort of thing did not happen every day.
None of them, not even Giancarlo, noticed in that moment the inclusion of an additional member. Rabbi Dan Bender had slipped into the panic room with them.
21. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 P.M. AND 3 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Somewhere in the last few seconds Jack’s world had turned from water to concrete. He was lying on his side on a hard surface, but he was soaking wet, and he felt like someone had jammed their thumbs into his ears.
He sat up. Al-Hassan had exploded. That much made sense. He’d killed himself and no one else. That much was right with the world.
But Jack felt no sense of relief. Three bombers. He was right about that. Collins had been one. Al-Hassan had been number two. Where was the third?
Jack staggered to his feet just as shocked bystanders from the hotel lobby came out to help him. He pushed them aside and, soaking wet, lumbered toward the doors. The Swiss Guards would be evacuating the Pope. He had to make sure they knew what to watch for.
Jack reached the elevators, but the Swiss Guard stationed there was gone. He pulled out his cell phone, but it was dead. Either the water or the explosion or both had killed it. He needed to find Giancarlo, but he didn’t know their escape protocol. Would they barricade in, or exfil immediately?
As Jack stood there for a moment, dripping pinkish water onto the lobby tiles and trying to collect himself, Harry Driscoll appeared out of an opening elevator.
“Jack!” he yelled. “Are you — Jesus, I can’t believe it!”
“Where’d they go?” he asked.
“They’re evacuating everyone,” Harry said, guessing at Jack’s line of thought. “If there’s a third bomber, they won’t find him. They’re driving everyone away from the Pope. How did you live through that?”
It was only then that the reality of the last two minutes occurred to Jack. He’d just fallen two hundred feet into a pool and then been concussed by a man who exploded not ten feet away from him.
Jack’s knees weakened. His hands shook momentarily. He would have been excused, he thought, if he’d just passed out. But he didn’t. His knees firmed up. He willed his hands to stop shaking. There was work to be done.
“I need your phone.” He called CTU and got Christopher Henderson because Jamey was on the phone with someone from the NSA. “Christopher, get me in touch with Giancarlo, the head of the security team.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Christopher said. “Every line we have just lit up like a Christmas tree. No one over there is answering anything, I’ve got—”
Jack hung up on him. A car. They would move the Pope out of the hotel the moment they thought the ambush was over. Jack hurried to the parking lot with Driscoll dragging along in his wake.
“You are uninjured, Holy Father?” Giancarlo said.
John Paul felt dizzy, not from injury, but from the rush and chaos of the last few minutes. Sharp though he was in mind, he was an old man in body, and his frail heart was racing under his brittle chest. “I… I’m not injured. Was there… I heard an explosion.”
Giancarlo nodded. “There was an attempt on your life. We are secure for the moment, but we need to move you. Are you able to travel?”
“By the grace of God,” the Pope said. “And you, Giancarlo.”
And Jack Bauer, the Swiss Guard thought. He was a good man, to have sacrificed himself like that.
“Prepare to move,” Giancarlo said into his microphone. “Bring the cars around.”
2:10 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Nina Myers half dragged Gary Khalid into CTU, ignoring the shocked looks of the skeleton crew of analysts and computer techs, ignoring even Christopher Henderson’s astonished face.
She led Khalid, who limped and whimpered behind her, into an empty room down the hall and pushed him onto the bare floor.
“Now you and I are going to talk,” she said. “And believe me, the only way you’re leaving this room, ever, is if you tell me everything you know.”
Advance men told Giancarlo that the hallway was quiet, and the delivery doors were clear. He gave the signal, and the Pope’s retinue moved out of the safe room and straight to the service elevator.
Jack waited by the delivery dock, not knowing but guessing it to be the most logical point of exfiltration.
“You’re a friggin’ mess,” Harry Driscoll said.
“You want a prettier partner, take up ballroom dancing.” Harry’s cell phone rang. Jack handed it to Harry, who handed it right back. “Your people.”
“Jack,” Jamey said. “We got Khalid. Nina is questioning him now.”
“Good.”
“Also, I’ve got news for you. Your guy at the NSA works miracles. He’s got a possible for you.”
“Go,” Jack said. He thought he heard a car approaching.
“Daniel Bender, a rabbi. The records that exist for him are all on the up-and-up, nothing to indicate any sort of questionable activity. But you’d expect that or he wouldn’t have been invited.”
“So?” Tires squealed. To his right, the service elevator bell chimed.
“So, he doesn’t seem to exist prior to 1996. There is plenty of information on him after that, but nothing beforehand. Your guy Carlos noticed that.” There was a hint of professional jealousy in her voice.
“Well, it’s something,” Jack said, a little enthusiastically.
“There’s more. Your NSA guy tracked his communications. He sent an e-mail to his brother, a rabbi in Jerusalem. The e-mail was some kind of apology. I’m sending you a picture of Bender.”
The elevator doors opened. The phone bleeped, and Jack pressed the text message button. A picture of a jovial, round-faced man appeared.
“Okay, thanks.” Jack stood up and made himself as obvious as possible as he walked toward the crowd of black suits that emerged. Instantly, guns were pointed in his direction, and he was ordered to freeze in four or five languages.
“Giancarlo,” he said, searching the compact group.
“Dio mio,” Giancarlo said, stepping forward. “Bauer? That was very impressive.” He said something in Italian, waving the phalanx of security men, with the Pope somewhere in the middle, toward the three Ford Broncos that were pulling into the dock. “I want to thank you for—”
But he never finished. Jack looked over his shoulder at one of the men in the phalanx. He shoved past Giancarlo and dove at the man’s knees, taking him down heavily. “Go, go, go!” he shouted.
Giancarlo reacted instantly. The quick-moving phalanx doubled its pace. Some of them shoved the Pope into the middle car. They had all vanished in an instant, and the cars were peeling away.