24 Declassified: Trojan Horse

Vice President is unable to attend—”

“Regretfully unable to attend.”

Megan Gleason looked up from the monitor, rolled her gold-flecked green eyes. A resident of the Vice President’s home state, she was the very pretty daughter of a very wealthy and generous political contributor with strong ties to the state party.

“I always forget that regretfully part,” Megan said, her pale, delicate features reddening.

Standing over her, Adam Carlisle smiled patiently.

“That’s why you’re the intern and I’m the internturned-almost-staff member.”

“You’re the ‘almost-staff member’ because you graduated in June and can take the job in the fall. I’ve got another two years before I’m sprung.”

“But you can still enjoy the perks.”

Megan frowned, curled straight brown hair behind an ear. “Perks? What perks? My pay is nonexistent. I live in a two bedroom Georgetown apartment with three roommates, and I work twelve hours a day.”

“Oh, the humanity,” said Adam. He removed the blue blazer from his athletic frame, hung it on the back of the chair beside Megan, then sat down and pointed to the document on the screen. “And let’s not use the word deadlock. It has negative connotations.”

“But aren’t the President and Vice President having a problem getting their legislation passed?”

“Yes, but we never, ever admit something like that,” Adam replied.

“Why not?”

Adam shook his head. “So young, so naive.”

“I’m only two years younger than you, Adam.”

“In the ways of the world, you are a mere babe.” He pointed to the computer screen. “Let’s say ‘because of a legislative impasse.’ That sounds nice and diplomatic. You can smooth over anything — even gridlock in Congress — with a word like impasse.”

Megan retyped the line. “It’s amazing how much disputation can go into a simple press release.”

“Welcome to Washington,” said Adam. “Nothing inside the Beltway is ever simple. You cannot just say ‘the Vice President is stuck here and can’t make the Silver Screen Awards so his wife is going without him,’ even though that’s exactly what’s happening.”

“Why not? I mean really. I’d like to know.”

“There are so many reasons.” Adam ticked them off with his fingers. “One: by not going, the VP could appear to be snubbing the wife of the Russian President, even though both she and her husband will attend a White House State Dinner in two days’ time — which is why we’re going to make a little joke about the Russian President’s wife and our VP’s wife having ‘girl time’ without their husbands. But just a little joke because we don’t want to offend the feminists.”

“Why don’t we say the two wives can go to Chippendale’s together?”

Adam raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re being flip, but that joke actually worked at the annual Correspondents Dinner. It’s a little too raw for a presidential press release, however. Still, if you come up with more like that, let me know. I’ll have someone feed it to the writers over at The Tonight Show.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

Adam stared.

“Okay, okay, give me another reason for your release rhetoric,” said Megan.

“Reason two: we don’t want to tell the Hollywood community — which was so generous during the President’s campaign — that a stalled farm bill is more important that the Veep showing his face at their annual awards show—”

“But it is true!”

Adam shook his head again. “You can never, never tell wealthy people they are not important. Especially wealthy movie stars. That just won’t do.”

Megan rubbed her tired eyes. Adam checked his watch. “Let’s get back to work. We have to finish this in the next hour.”

“What’s the rush?” Megan asked.

“We have to catch Air Force Two in ninety minutes.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“It’s true. We’re flying with the Vice President’s wife, and we have tickets for the awards show tonight. We’ll be sitting right behind the Russian contingent.”

Megan was gaping. Speechless.

“I told you this job has perks,” said Adam with a flirtatious wink.

9. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

1:01:03 P.M.PDT Palm Drive Beverly Hills

Jack Bauer had patiently reconnoitered the lushly manicured grounds around Nareesa al-Bustani’s estate — the carefully tended gardens, the tall stone fence that completely circled the property — before he set foot into its perimeter. Jack had found no cameras, no motion detectors or sound sensors, yet he knew that many of these affluent homes had invisible motion and sound monitors buried in the ground, or security cameras the size of a plum nestled among the branches of trees. It would take a specialist and a brace of high-tech gear to breach that kind of security without detection, and Jack had no time to summon such help.

After carefully examining the area for tripwires, Jack scaled the fence near an overgrown section of the garden. He came down among a thick tangle of palms trees and razor grass. The vegetation was dry from the prolonged drought and it rustled like crumpled newspaper as he moved through it. He could only hope the swish of the grass in the hot, dry breeze would mask the sound of his footsteps.

Jack emerged from the tangle behind the pool house, where an air conditioning unit hummed. He didn’t want to risk crossing the expansive stone patio, so instead he skirted the adobe wall until he was within reach of the sliding glass doors of the main house.

Peering around the wall, Jack saw that one of the glass doors was ajar. Behind the pane, virgin white curtains rippled in the hot wind. Jack’s instincts bristled. Everything about this entry was too easy, too convenient — the open door was either an invitation or a trap. Whatever it was, he knew he had no choice. If he’d been discovered already, he would soon be stopped. It would be wiser for him to have the confrontation now.

Jack slipped the USP Tactical from its shoulder holster. Though it was heavier than the 9mm version used by most CTU field agents, Jack had recently come to value the stopping power of the.45-caliber model. Right now, however, Jack drew little comfort from the cold weapon in his grip as he moved silently across the sun-baked stone patio and through the door.

The interior was spartan — steel recliner chairs arranged around a curved glass table, a mirrored wall with a recessed bar, stocked with glass sculptures in stead of spirits. Near a standing lamp Jack found another doorway that led deeper into the mansion. He’d just stepped over that threshold when someone moved behind him, shoved the barrel of a gun into his kidney.

“Please sheath your weapon, or my men will be forced to take it from you.”

Men emerged from cover, M-16s held shoulder high, trained on Jack Bauer. Their black battle suits were scorched and scuffed, a bloody bandage encircled one man’s forearm. Their masks were gone, to reveal close- cropped hair over steely-calm eyes.

Jack slipped the Tactical under his jacket, raised his arms. The weapon pressed into his torso withdrew and the man clutching it moved to face him. He was as tall as Jack, eyes tree-bark brown, hair as black as an imam’s robes. A deep scar divided the flesh around his right eye, from hairline to cheekbone.

“You may put your arms down, Special Agent Bauer. We mean you no harm. There’s been enough killing today.”