Michael Chen and Danielle Henkel. Needless to say, their loss has further strained our manpower resources. Mr. Pressman and Ms. Farrell will have to take on additional responsibilities—”
“What about the plan, Mr. Chappelle?”
All eyes turned to Captain Schneider, still clad in the civilian clothes she wore when she single-handedly assaulted Green Dragon, her blond hair loose and falling around her shoulders.
“I really don’t think this is the time—”
“I think it is,” Captain Schneider replied. “You want to find out more about FBI Agent Frank Hens-ley, right? This might be the only way to gain access to such information. The California Senator’s running feud with the Bureau is something we can exploit.”
“What you’re suggesting is nothing less than a raid on another government agency.”
Jessica Schneider shrugged. “A potentially corrupt agency, Mr. Chappelle. At the very least an agency that has been compromised by a traitor or double agent.”
“You can’t be serious,” Nina Myers protested. “CTU has already been marginalized by the other agencies. If word of this ever gets out—”
Chappelle waved Nina’s concerns aside. “What do you think, Tony?”
Agent Almeida’s eyes shifted from Nina to Jessica. “In this case I’d have to go with Captain Schneider. We need to know if Frank Hensley is the mastermind behind this operation, or if he’s another cog in a bigger wheel. We need to know why the FBI chose today to raid Kahlil’s market. And we need to know what the FBI knows — about Felix Tanner, Green Dragon, Wexler Storage. If they’re going to withhold that intelligence from us because of some bogus accusations against Jack Bauer, then we should go in and grab it ourselves.”
“Is there any other way to gain access to this information?” Ryan asked. “Any suggestions, Jamey? Nina?”
“Withholding information is nothing new,” Nina replied. “The wall this Administration and the Attorney General’s office erected between the intelligence agencies is too high for CTU to climb. And with Jack Bauer under suspicion, nobody is willing to cut us any slack.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Ryan said. “Therefore I’m going to authorize this mission. When can you go?”
Tony rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Some software protocols will need to be established—”
“We can go right now,” said Jessica. “Who’s the FBI Bureau Chief in Los Angeles?”
“His name is Jeffrey Dodge. I met him at an interagency conference three months ago. Middle-aged, recently divorced.”
Jessica nodded. “Good, I can exploit that.”
The meeting broke up minutes later. Tony fell into step with the Captain. “You’re right. We do need the information the FBI is keeping from us. But you poured it on a little thick back there. This isn’t the Corps. We can’t just charge into every situation and hope for the best. Stop thinking like a Marine all the time.”
Jessica’s eyes flashed cold. “Maybe you should
Liam hung up the receiver, heard the quarter rattle in the return slot. He pocketed the coin and headed back to the counter. Following Shamus’s instructions, he’d gone directly to the Lynch brothers’ store on Queens Boulevard, only to find the place mysteriously closed.
He hung around for a while, then decided to cross ten lanes of Queens Boulevard to a local diner. The place was jammed with a lunchtime crowd, so he grabbed a seat at the booth and ordered a burger and chips. He left his jacket on the seat and took the attache case to the pay phone. The steel case was starting to feel like a ball and chain.
First he dialed the number for the Lynch brothers’ store, got the electronic message giving business hours and directions. Next he dialed The Last Celt, looking for his sister. Strangely, no one answered the phone there, either. But Donnie Murphy should have been there; he was as punctual as the sun when it came to running the pub, and he was always there before nine o’clock to accept deliveries and such.
Liam hung up the phone and carried the case back to the counter. His food was waiting for him, but he’d lost his appetite. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that trouble was heading his way.
16. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 P.M. AND 1 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
The Acela had rolled into New York’s Penn Station at 11:57 a.m., four minutes ahead of schedule. Exiting onto the cavernous underground platform, Special Agent Carlos Ferrer shifted his heavy suitcase, followed the tide of passengers to the escalator and up to Penn Station’s main concourse.
When Ferrer departed Washington that morning, he had been told that CTU Los Angeles had not made contact with Jack Bauer in more than four hours. Reestablishing communication was Ferrer’s first priority. He paused under the massive hanging sign that displayed arrival and departure times and track numbers of trains with names like the Yankee Clipper, the Metroliner, the Pennsylvanian, and the Washingtonian. Agent Ferrer doubted that finding Bauer would be as easy as making a phone call, but he had to give itashot.
Unfortunately he could not acquire a signal— probably because he was beneath massive Madison Square Garden. Agent Ferrer turned, searching for an exit when he saw a man approaching him. The stranger had a dark tan, deep brown eyes, and sun-streaked yellow-blond hair. He grinned as he stepped into range, extended his hand in greeting.
“Special Agent Ferrer? I’m Jack Bauer, CTU.” The man flashed his ID. “I just got word you were on your way in from D.C., so I came to meet you.”
The FBI’s Los Angeles headquarters was one of a cluster of Federal buildings on the corner of Wilshire Drive and Veteran Boulevard, between the UCLA Medical Center and Westwood Park. Despite rush hour traffic, Tony Almeida and Captain Schneider drove there in thirty minutes. They displayed their false IDs to security and were immediately cleared.
Jeffrey Dodge, the Los Angeles District Administrator of the FBI office in Los Angeles, met them at the elevator. A balding, heavy-set man of middle age, Dodge displayed the instant affability of a trained bureaucrat. “Ms. Van Dyne, Mr. Newsom, welcome to the Bureau. I had no idea you were coming.”
Tony smiled, shook the man’s beefy hand. Then Jessica stepped forward, brushed aside her windblown, straw-blond hair. “Things have been just a whirlwind since Senator Baxter accepted a chair on the Senate Intelligence Committee,” she said breathlessly. When they shook hands, Jessica’s lingered in his.
“Please, follow me.” Dodge ushered the pair into his spacious corner office, closed the door behind them. He had trouble keeping his eyes off Jessica Schneider, who wore a black pin-striped jacket over a matching mini-skirt and stiletto heels that emphasized her tanned, athletic legs. Under the jacket, her wispy blouse was open to display the Captain’s other attributes.
While Dodge escorted Jessica to a chair, Tony studied his surroundings. The Bureau Chief’s office was spacious, its faux wood-trimmed walls decorated with framed diplomas, portraits of his two adolescent children, along with vacation snapshots. Images of the former Mrs. Dodge were noticeably absent, suggesting a bitter split. There was a photo of Bureau Chief Dodge posing with the current President. On a large, polished oaken desk, Tony spied what he was looking for — Dodge’s keyboard and monitor. The computer was idle; on-screen the FBI insignia floated on a red, white, and blue background.
Dodge took position behind his desk, waited politely for Jessica to sit down. She did — directly in front of him, crossing her long, naked legs.
“Well,” Dodge said, visibly nervous, “how can I help California’s esteemed Senator?”
Jessica leaned forward, smiled. “I’ll just get right to the point, Mr. Dodge. During her long political career, Senator Bonny Baxter has been unfairly cast as a politician who is hostile to our nation’s law enforcement and intelligence services—”
“Oh, now I wouldn’t go that far,” said Dodge.
