Christina Hong’s image vanished, replaced by a man swathed head to toe in black, an ebony head-scarf obscuring his features. Only his eyes were visible. He clutched an Agram 2000 in the crook of his elbow. Jack winced when he recognized the green and black flag of the United Liberation Front for a Free Chechnya, an ultra violent splinter group of indeterminate size.
Though it was a menace to peace and stability within the region it operated, Jack Bauer had never regarded the United Liberation Front as a threat to national security, nor did he believe they had the intelligence or the resources to pull off a masterful takeover like this one — not without help.
Meanwhile Christina Hong’s impromptu voiceover continued. “Perhaps we will learn what these people want, and what cause they represent, and what drove them to such a desperate act. Here is their statement, coming to you live…”
After a pause, the masked man began to speak. He issued a long list of impossible demands — Russia was to end its presence in Chechnya, release all political prisoners, pay restitution to the victims of its occupation.
Jack noted that the masked terrorist claimed to be holding Russian First Lady and the U.S. Vice President’s wife hostage — lies, and Jack knew it. He’d briefly spoken with Craig Auburn in the sub-basement under the Chamberlain before the broadcast began, and they were still secure in their hiding place. This told Jack that he was facing a man willing to bluff his way through a difficult position.
Near the end of the masked Chechen’s twenty-minute tirade, Jack’s cell rang. It was Nina Myers.
“Jack, we have a positive voice match on the terrorist leader.”
“Great!”
“The first phone conversation you sent us was inconclusive, but this broadcast provided us with all the voice samples the audio lab needed to make a positive match—”
“How positive?”
“Our audio people and the voice analysts are ninety-eight percent sure the man speaking right now is Bastian Grost, forty-four years old, a former associate of Victor Drazen and a member of his secret police force the Black Dogs.”
“Damn,” muttered Jack. “Drazen again.”
“You know Drazen?”
“I’ve…read a few files,” Jack replied.
“Bastian Grost is wanted by the United Nations War Crimes Tribunal,” Nina continued. “He fled arrest, vanished. Interpol suspected he’d been hired to train terrorist groups in Chechnya.”
“I can believe Grost is training terrorists,” said Jack. “But this type of suicide assault, it doesn’t fit his profile. Drazen’s legions were made up of political opportunists. They’re survivors not suicidal fanatics willing to die for a cause.”
“Unless Grost was brainwashed,” Nina replied, “like Ibn al Farad and Richard Lesser.”
Jack nodded. “Brainwashed by Hasan.”
19. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 P.M. AND 12 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
White House intern Adam Carlisle was worried. Secret Service Agent Craig Auburn had been sweating more than normal. Even in the recessed emergency lights dimly glowing in the walls, Adam could see the man’s face was gray. He didn’t look good.
For the past four hours Craig Auburn had been crouched in a dark corner, huddled with the battered portable phone, black plastic receiver in hand. Every few minutes he would speak in whispered words with someone on the other end of the line. Another Secret Service agent? The FBI? CTU? Adam didn’t know. All he knew was that there were probably hundreds of people working feverishly to rescue them from this sub-basement—
The two political wives sat at a card table in two folding chairs, the only furniture in the dank, dark sub- basement. They’d kept pretty much to themselves, keeping stiff upper lips.
In the first hour, after they’d left the service elevator, Adam had found a steel lunchbox. Among its contents was an empty thermos. He cleaned it at a spigot mounted in the wall on the opposite end of the sub-basement, the water draining through a circular hole in the inclined floor. He brought the ladies water and asked them to please let him know if they needed anything else. After that, he and fellow intern Megan Gleason had kept pretty much to themselves.
About an hour before, Megan, exhausted from the adrenaline spike of fear followed by inaction, had drifted off to sleep. Now she began to stir. Suddenly she opened her eyes wide. They were filled with panic.
“It’s okay,” Adam whispered, worried she’d scream or something — Special Agent Auburn had cautioned them early and often to keep quiet. At one point, they’d heard crashing sounds and voices echoing through the vents from above, and they knew the terrorists were hunting them.
“What time is it?” Megan asked, sitting up and brushing back her straight brown hair.
“After eleven,” Adam replied.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep,” she whispered.
“You were close to shock. We all were. But the phone still works, and the Special Agent vows they’re coming for us.”
The concrete floor was cold. Megan had lost her heels in the chase and her stockings were shredded, her feet bare. Clad only in a filmy black dress, she began to shiver. Adam took off his evening jacket and wrapped her in it.
“Thanks,” she said, teeth chattering. “God, I’m starved. I didn’t have time to eat anything since this morning.”
Adam smiled. “Look at this,” he whispered conspiratorially. From his jacket’s pocket he pulled a cellophane- wrapped Ho Ho he’d found in that battered lunchbox. “It’s only a day or two past the freshness date, I checked. Frankly I think these things contain so many chemicals they’re eatable after a decade.”
Megan reached for the cake with a shaky hand, then paused. “Shouldn’t we offer the Ho Ho to First Lady Novartov, as a point of protocol?”
Adam glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t you remember, while we were helping the VP’s personal assistant coordinate post-show party appearances, they were stuffing themselves with a gourmet dinner at Spago’s. I think they can wait a little longer…and the VP’s wife doesn’t look like she’s in any danger of starving.”
Megan gaped at her fellow intern, then shook her head. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“Eat,” Adam commanded. “I told you this job had perks.”
“Adam.”
Special Agent Auburn waved him over. It took only one glance to see why. The man was having trouble breathing. His features were twisted. He was obviously in pain.
“Sir, are you all right?” Adam whispered in alarm.
He leaned close. “I think it’s my heart.”
“Sir, what can I do for you?”
“Don’t tell the others.” He reached into his jacket, pulled something out and thrust it into Adam’s hands.
The intern looked down. He saw two pounds of black metal.
“I’m going to instruct you how to use it,” whispered the agent, “just in case anything happens to me. Okay? You with me?”
Adam nodded.
“This weapon is a forty-five caliber USP Tactical— a Universal Self-loading Pistol,” Craig Auburn whispered. “It’s hard-hitting, but it’s got a good recoil-reduction system, so when you fire, the kick will be dampened. Are you following me, son? Don’t be afraid.”
Actually Adam wasn’t afraid. After seeing who the terrorists had hurt and killed, knowing who they intended to hurt and kill…mostly what Adam felt was anger.
