American. Thin, bordering on scrawny from lack of sleep and a lousy diet. Black hair askew. By his own assessment, Lon didn’t really look much different than he had during his sophomore year at UCLA — the year he’d dropped out.
“The cameras are all packed and I’m heading downtown in fifteen minutes,” Lon told his boss, “just as soon as I settle on the appropriate camouflage.”
He yanked a pair of overalls out of the closet. The tag read Pacific Power and Light.
“What do you think?” Lon asked. “Should I go with the Peter’s Pizza delivery man outfit, or stick to House Dynasty Chinese Restaurant disguise?”
“You got a Singapore Airline uniform in your closet?”
Lon paused. “What’s up?”
“A stringer for Reuters spotted Abigail Heyer boarding an airplane in Singapore.”
“Yeah, so? She’s giving out an award at the Silver Screens tonight. It’s on the schedule, man.”
“Listen, Lon,” Gollob was almost whispering now. “My guy said she was pregnant. Maybe six months or more. She was showing, for sure.”
Lon dropped the overalls on the floor. “No shit? Do you think the father’s that Tarik Fareed guy, the Turk she was dating in London? Or that Nikolai Manos guy she was seeing on that last movie shoot in Romania?”
“How the hell should I know?” Gollob shot back. “I just found out the bitch was knocked up five minutes ago. I know something else, though—”
“I want a picture of Ms. Heyer on next week’s cover.”
“Jesus, boss. Wait ten hours and you’ll have photos from every wire service to choose from.”
“If I pay a wire service for my cover photo, why the hell am I paying
“Good point.”
“Listen, Lon. Abigail Heyer’s flight lands at LAX in an hour and a half, if it isn’t delayed. Get out there and get me a photo.”
“Come on, boss man—”
But the line was dead. His editor had hung up already. Angrily Lon punched the phone number of
Lon snatched up his bag of tricks — a large garment bag stuffed full of clothing collected over the years. Then he draped the camera bag over his shoulder.
For luck, Lon touched an eight-by-ten color glossy on his way out the door.
Lots of folks identified with movie characters. For some it was Batman, others adored tough guys like Humphrey Bogart. Lon’s hero was hanging on the wall near the light switch — a photograph of actor Danny DeVito from
Detective Frank Castalano could barely hear his partner’s transmission. The LAPD helicopter he rode in was cruising at top speed, at less than six hundred feet over the city’s northern suburbs. At that low altitude, the roar of the engine and the sound of the beating rotors bounced off the ground, magnifying the deafening clamor inside the aircraft.
“Say again,” Castalano roared, clutching the headset tightly to his ears to shut out all other sound.
“I said everyone’s in on the manhunt now,” Detective Jerry Alder replied. “The uniforms, the State Police, the sheriff’s office, even the goddamn Park Rangers. There’s a ring around Angeles National Park the Rams couldn’t break through, and a chopper is tracking the Jaguar—”
“Hopefully from a discreet distance.”
“You know how that goes,” Alder replied.
Castalano cursed. It was his case, but he was losing control of it. Bad enough Jack Bauer convinced him to turn over the victim’s computer. Though Castalano knew he would get an analysis of the computer’s hard drive and history faster from CTU than from his own department, it was a double bind — Jack or his bosses could also withhold information from the LAPD in the name of “national security.”
“Christ, Jerry,” Castalano moaned, “with so many squad cars and guns around here, the odds for a capture instead of a kill are looking as bad as a Vegas slot machine. And the fucking air dispatcher warned me that word was getting out about the church bus full of kids the perp ran off the road.”
“That was bad,” Alder replied. “But it gets worse.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Nina Vandervorn of TV News Nine just phoned the chief,” Alder said. “The station has got footage of the police cars in front of Vetri’s house, the ambulances coming and going. Says she’s running with the footage on the noon news—”
“Shit.”
“We can’t keep this buried much longer,” Alder warned.
“Noon is a couple of hours away,” Castalano said, his mind racing. “If we can snatch up this asshole in the Jag, we might solve our case. Go ahead and get permission to schedule a news conference for eleven o’clock. We might have our man by then. Either way, we’ll control release of the information—
Jack Bauer opened his eyes the instant Teri’s hand touched his shoulder. He didn’t need to check his watch to know he hadn’t slept long. His hair was still damp from the shower, and his head still throbbed.
Teri stood over him, the cordless phone in one hand. “Sorry to wake you, Jack. It’s Nina Myers.”
Jack sat up, took the phone. He held the receiver to his naked chest until Teri exited the bedroom. Then he put the phone to his ear.
“Nina?”
“What are you doing, Jack?” Nina cried. “Ryan Chappelle flew back from D.C. on the red-eye and hit the roof.”
“I don’t follow.” Jack rubbed his injured arm, now stiff from sleep.
“The raid at Utopia Studios. It was supposed to be a clandestine operation. Now it’s on the morning news.”
“Jesus,” Jack groaned.
“I talked to Chet Blackburn. He told me you took off with some Los Angeles detective. Something personal. Does that computer the Cyber-Unit brought in have something to do with it?”
“Yes.”
“Needless to say, I kept those facts from Ryan. He’s angry enough as it is.”
“Thanks, Nina, I’ll explain everything when I get there.”
“You’d better fly.”
Jack glanced at his watch. “Give me half an hour.”
Nina sighed. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I owe you, Nina.”
“Yes, Jack. You do.”
5. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
When CTU’s head programmer, Jamey Farrell, arrived at her workstation to start the day, she was surprised
