intelligence.
That was why he'd steered her to CTU. Washington and communist Cuba had been mortal foes since Castro first came to power and revealed his Marxist-Leninist ties back in 1960. The mention of Beltran's involvement in the Paz/Vollard affair was sure to prod Washington into quick action, and CTU was its most effective, fast-moving domestic action and enforcement arm.
Not long after he warned Vikki, Vollard's killers had caught up with Marcel at the Belle Reve riverfront bungalow, putting a quick end to him. They took his cell phone, address book, and any documents or letters that might supply some new intelligence.
Now, armed with the knowledge of Marcel's ties to Paris, CTU Center Director Cal Randolph moved quickly to contact the man he knew was French intelligence's top agent in New Orleans.
This individual, a resident agent assigned to the French Consulate in the Crescent City, was known to Cal solely as Monsieur Armand.
Contacting him personally on a secure, scrambled phone line, Cal had succinctly laid out the background of Marcel's death, and how it tied into the events of the day: the Golden Pole massacre, the Garros abduction and ransoming, the Supremo Hat Company slaughter, and the carnage at the Kwik-Up parking lot and environs.
Monsieur Armand, expressing sorrow and regret at Marcel's death, thanked Cal for providing him with the information and vowed full cooperation. He arranged for his people to immediately send all their computer files on Vollard, especially his New Orleans activities, to CTU Center. Center analysts sent a copy of the files to headquarters in Washington, D.C., for deconstruction, permutation, and combination of the data by CTU's linked national net of supercomputers.
Monsieur Armand was able to provide Cal Randolph with one last, intriguing clue: during the final days of his life, Marcel had focused a good part of his attention at a site at Pelican Pier on the New Orleans waterfront.
Since Marcel was no painter of seascapes, there was every possibility that he'd scented some kind of link between Vollard and the site.
That was why Jack Bauer and Pete Malo now found themselves sheltering in the recessed doorway of a warehouse building adjacent the site on Pelican Pier, scanning the suspect site to see what they could see.
The answer was, literally, not much. The rain was really coming down now, a continuous, high-volume downpour whipped into greater frenzy by ever-mounting winds from the oncoming storm. It was as if those ominous, low-hanging clouds that had roofed New Orleans from morning to night had suddenly had their bellies ripped open, releasing a torrential rainfall.
Slanting sheets and curtains of rainfall now obscured their view of Pelican Pier.
Something was afoot there, to be sure. A lot of activity was centered on a barge that was berthed to a floating dock on the downriver side of the long pier.
There was movement, too, around the warehouse with corrugated tin siding that sat at the middle of the pier, its rear edging the upriver side of the wharf, leaving an open space in front where a number of SUVs were massed and where men were seen going in and out of the building, loading bundles into the vehicles.
There wasn't much that could be made of that, though. The doings could have been nothing more than the usual activity associated with a civilian, law-abiding, dockside operation. A closer look was required.
The downpour that restricted visibility was now their ally, helping to shield Jack and Pete as they made their surreptitious approach toward the pier.
Earlier observation, even through heavy rainfall, had revealed the presence of a number of video surveillance cameras mounted at key points along the landward end of the pier, which was sealed off by a gated metal fence and watchmen.
The building where Jack and Pete sheltered was upriver of the pier; abandoning the doorway where they sheltered, they moved out on foot. The waterfront was on the north, left bank of the river.
The optimum angle of approach toward Pelican Pier seemed to be on the west corner of its landward side. The chain-link fence barring entry to the pier crossed the foot of it at right angles, turning at the front corners to provide wings extending for seven or eight feet along the edge of the pier.
The top of the fence in all directions was strung with spiraled loops of razored concertina wire; no climber could get through that, so there would be no scaling the fence and going over the top.
Jack and Pete made their way to the west corner at the front of the pier. No video cameras were in evidence at the edge of the fence.
The agents came in low, crouched almost double, scurrying toward their goal.
An inch of water covered the street bordering the pier, sloshing and splashing underfoot as Jack and Pete crossed to the corner. Gusty winds coming in off the river battered them, trying to knock them down. Reaching the corner of the fence, they hunkered down.
Jack's lightweight, waterproof nylon Windbreaker jacket and Pete's supposedly water-resistant raincoat were no match for the downpour; the two of them were already soaked to the skin.
The next part was the chanciest. To get on the pier, they'd have to climb across the wing extension of the fence that did a ninety-degree turn at its front corner, extending for ten feet back along the pier's edge.
It was a metal chain-link fence, affording handholds. Even so, it was a long drop down, and once fallen in the turbulent waters surging around the pilings upholding the pier, the strongest swimmer could expect nothing more than a quick death by drowning.
Jack said, 'Here goes nothing.' Leaning around the fence corner post, he reached inward to the wing of the fence, grabbing two tight handholds of the chain links, wrapping his fingers around them.
Holding on for dear life, he swung outward, his feet leaving the curbed edge of the pavement. He now clung spiderlike to the fence wing; below lay surging river water, boiling and furious.
The fence was wet and rain-slick, winds slammed him, trying to knock him off his perch. Maintaining a death grip with his left hand, Jack reached sideways with his right, hooking his fingers into the interstices of the fence.
His right handhold secure, he released his left hand and moved it toward him, riverward. There were no footholds; the fence links were too small for that. Jack had to proceed by upper body strength alone.
He repeated the process, working his way crosswise along the fence, narrowing the gap toward the corner post anchoring it to the pier. His hands ached; the pain in his shoulder joints was intense. Rain battered the top of his head, sluicing down his face, getting into his eyes. He kept tossing his head to clear the water from his orbs.
Creeping spiderlike along the fence, he reached its end, swinging his feet around the corner post and planting them firmly on the pier. He was now inside the fence of this suspect dockside facility.
His hands were stiff claws; he flexed them, opening and closing them to restore circulation and feeling to them. When he was ready, he signaled Pete to make the crossing.
Pete hooked his hands into the fence links and swung out into empty air, over the river water twenty-five feet below. He followed the same agonizing course as Jack had; when he reached the corner post, Jack reached out to give him a hand, gripping his arm to help him swing to safety inside the fence.
They both now crouched down, huddling in the corner before making their next move. Pete panted, gasping. When he'd recovered his breath, he said, 'A safe desk job in Center doesn't look so bad now!'
Now they moved riverward, closing on the barnlike structure that stood in the middle of the pier. Scattered along the pier's west side were a number of boxy containers and stacked wooden pallets, providing welcome cover as they advanced toward the building.
The building was a simple construction, a big, looming, barnlike structure with high walls and a peaked roof. Its long walls were parallel with the sides of the pier.
The roof was made of tin; the noise made by the rain falling on it was slightly terrific. Runoff water showered down from the eaves.
Jack and Pete sheltered in the lee of the building, below a row of ground-floor windows. The sills were set at shoulder height; the windows were made of panes of glass set in gridded metal framework. The frames were flaky with corrosion and rust; the panes were opaque with grime.
The window closest to the pier's edge seemed like the likeliest choice to open on an obscure and deserted corner of the building; the CTU agents targeted it as their avenue of entry.
Pete shucked off his raincoat, wrapping folds of cloth around his right hand to protect it. He then palm-heeled
