When Tony first arrived and saw the residence, he did a double-take, figuring that hooker Brandy had played him for a fool. But after he drove around the neighborhood a few times, and past the house once or twice, Tony finally spied Dobyns waddling into the backyard like some suburban fat cat. The man was wearing shorts, his bulk settling into a lounge chair next to a small built-in pool while he sipped tequila and puffed on a thick cigar. Now that he knew he’d found the right place Tony parked the van across the street and watched the house.
After twenty minutes Tony determined that the Chechens were probably somewhere else, and Dobyns was alone. Tony’s fists crushed the steering wheel.
The data mining team had arrived and Nawaf Sanjore’s office was a high-traffic area. The noise was so thick Jack could not hear his cell phone when it rang, only felt its tremble.
“Bauer.”
“Jack? Jack. Is that you?” The voice was Frank Castalano’s. “You’re going to have to speak up, my ears still aren’t so good.”
Jack remembered the RPG hitting Castalano’s vehicle, knew the man had been lucky to walk away with only diminished hearing. “It’s me, Frank,” Jack loudly replied, eliciting stares. “How’s your partner?”
“What?”
“How’s Jerry Alder?”
“Still in surgery. His wife’s at the hospital now… What a mess.”
“How are
“Cuts and bruises. The docs say my hearing will improve in a couple of days. Meanwhile, I’ve got the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral ringing in my head.” A pause. “Jack, about an hour ago we found a cell phone Hugh Vetri hid under some papers in his desk. Turns out he bought it with a fake ID just eight days ago—”
“Vetri must have thought he was being watched.
Wiretaps, maybe. Any sign of unauthorized surveillance?”
“Not yet. But we did find out that Vetri made three calls with that phone. All of them on the night of his murder, all to the same number — the office of Valerie Dodge, CEO of the Dodge Modeling Agency.”
The helicopter swooped low over the San Gabriels, skimming a section of thick forest until it located a particular stretch of deserted roadway that had once been part of Highway 39. The aircraft descended to the road’s cracked pavement in a cloud of dust, fallen leaves, and parched pine needles. The wheels had hardly touched down when a door opened and Nawaf Sanjore jumped out. Crouching to avoid the whirling blades, the architect hurried across the concrete to the narrow shoulder of the road.
Shielding his face from the aircraft’s hot blast, Nawaf watched the helicopter lift off and soar away, the sound of its beating blades quickly fading. With mounting trepidation, Nawaf Sanjore scanned the empty road and the thick curtain of foliage on either side. Wind rustled the trees. A raptor cried out in the distance. Surrounded by wilderness, he felt quite vulnerable. He nearly cried out when he heard the sound of rock scraping against rock. He turned toward the sound and saw what appeared to be a section of ground opening up. Revealed in the gap was a narrow set of concrete stairs leading underground.
Nawaf heard footsteps. A bearded man in the black robes of an imam climbed the stairs to greet him.
“Please follow me.”
Inside the tunnel, the air was cool and scented. The robed man led Nawaf down the long corridor, into an underground maze of natural caves that led ultimately to a huge chamber deep inside the mountain. The hollow in the center of the earth had been transformed into a kind of paradise. Recessed electric lighting illuminated the breezy chamber with the colors of a fairyland. Hidden speakers filled the space with the gentle sound of wind chimes. Nawaf Sanjore estimated the cave’s ceiling was seventy or eighty feet above his head. It dripped with delicate icicles of stone — stalactites bathed in a rainbow of shifting lights.
On one end of the massive cave, a tumble of chilled mountain water plunged over a rocky ledge, into a rippling pool with underwater lights that glowed phosphorescent blue. On the other side of the cave, perhaps three hundred yards away, a three-tiered glass and stone structure had been constructed against the cave wall. Lights gleamed behind glass walls, where Nawaf Sanjore saw luxurious rooms filled with modern furnishings. The uneven stone floor under his feet glistened with bits of quartz, sparkling granite, crystals shards embedded in the stone.
At each turn, a different aroma touched his senses — jasmine, rose, honeysuckle. The placid calm of the mystical location was broken only by the rustle of the imam’s robes as they passed through a stone garden of tall, serrated stalagmites sprouting out of the cave’s floor like bizarre cacti. Crossing a crystal bridge over a small stream, they entered a pathway to the house fashioned from inlaid black quartz illuminated from behind by buried lights.
The otherworldly beauty and aesthetic perfection of the underground lair awed the architect. As they approached the entrance to the structure, the doors opened with a whispered hiss.
The robed man halted. “Please go inside. Servants will minister to your needs. Hasan has not yet arrived, but he is expected shortly.”
5:30:02 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles
Thirty minutes before the curtain rose for the Annual Silver Screen Awards, Teri could not even get to her seat. Dozens of people were bunched up in the lobby, crowding around the arched entrance to the auditorium, where a handful of ushers tried to deal with the mob.
Teri was about to snake her way to the front of the line when she heard a familiar voice. “Tereeee! Teri Bauer!”
“Nancy!”
The women embraced. “You look fantastic! What a great look for you,” Teri cried.
Nancy Colburn wore a bright red flapper dress, complete with layers of fringe. Her black hair was pressed, pre-Depression era style, and she wore a tiny hat. She’d gained a few pounds, but was happier than Teri had ever seen her.
“And aren’t you elegant,” cooed Nancy. “Is that Versace?”
Terri nodded. “Where is everyone? Why won’t they let us in?”
A male voice spoke up. “The Vice President’s wife and the First Lady of Russia’s coming through here, ma’am. She’s due any minute.”
Teri faced the police officer, a handsome, tanned Hispanic man with broad shoulders. She read the name under the badge. “Thanks for the heads up, Officer Besario.”
He smiled. “My pleasure, miss.”
“Over here, Teri. Come on!” Nancy called. She was standing with Chandra and Carla.
“Hey!” Teri cried.
She hugged her old colleagues. When they’d first worked together, Chandra was barely out of her teens, a gawky African-American garage animator who lived in oversized shirts and clunky glasses. Now she was a confident and successful filmmaker. The glasses were gone and the garage look was replaced with a svelte figure wrapped in blue-violet silk. But it was Carla who turned out to be the biggest surprise.
“Dennis tells me you’re engaged,” said Teri.
“And you can see why,” Carla said, rubbing her protruding belly. “Eight months and counting. Here’s the joke. Gary asked me to marry him three hours before the strip turned pink! Dennis said that means it’s true love.”
Teri laughed.
“Honestly,” said Carla. “I’m due to have this little bundle in seven days. I wouldn’t even be here except Gary insisted I come. Told me I’d worked on the movie, and I’d only have myself to blame if Dennis won a Silver Screen Award and I wasn’t here to share in the glory.”
“Speak of the devil. Where is the elusive Dennis Winthrop?” Teri asked, trying to hide her eagerness.
“He’s a producer. He gets to walk the red carpet,” said Nancy.
“You’re kidding?” Carla laughed. “I hope he’s wearing something besides those sweat pants of his. Otherwise Joan Rivers is going to tear him a new one.”
“Here come the VIPs,” said Chandra.
The woman watched as the First Lady of Russia and the Vice President’s wife entered the auditorium.
