of trucks and delivery vans stretched along a driveway that curved around to the rear of the mansion.
Big black limos and shiny new cars followed the main drive up the rise to the front of the building, disgorging passengers and their luggage. Groups of people, guests, swarmed the grounds, wandering among the arcades, galleries, and gardens. The scene was alive with activity, vibrant color, motion.
The site was well covered by a large number of security personnel, some in uniforms, others in civilian clothes. Groups of guards patrolled the estate in golf carts. Jack thought that was a nice touch.
The open, eastern end of the park was ringed by a black iron spear fence ten feet tall. The sections of fence were interspersed with stone pillars. The park had a single entrance, a double-gated portal that controlled access to a two-lane drive into and out of the estate. The guardhouse inside the gates looked like a Tudor mini-mansion. Jack noted with a pang that it was bigger than his own house back home.
Twin guard shacks stood outside the gates, as did a half-dozen uniformed guards all equipped with sidearms. The county sheriff’s department and the state police each had several cars in place, standing well off to the edges of the property, away from the front drive and main gate.
Jack said, “Looks like the local law’s been shoved over to the sidelines.”
Anne Armstrong nodded. “That’s about the size of it. The police are good enough for keeping citizens, protestors, reporters, and other pests off the heights, but they’re barred from the sacred precincts, too. Sky Mount itself is guarded by the Brand Agency, a private security firm hired by the Masterman Trust, which runs the estate and the Round Tables.”
She drove up to the main gate, halted a dozen paces away from it by a guard. The gate was closed.
The guard came around to the driver’s side of the car. He wore a gray cruising cap with black patent leather brim, a long-sleeved gray shirt and black tie, and gray trousers with black vertical stripes on the sides. Blazoned on his left breast was a badge-shaped emblem embossed with the words “Brand Agency.” He wore a Sam Brown black patent leather belt and hip-holstered sidearm. All the uniformed guards were identically attired.
He said, “Good morning, ma’am.”
She said, “Anne Armstrong and Jack Bauer to see Don Bass, please.”
“Is Mr. Bass expecting you?”
“We have an appointment.”
“May I see your ID, please? Both of you.”
Jack and Armstrong handed over their CTU ID cards. The guard studied Anne Armstrong’s photo, comparing it with the driver. He did the same thing with Jack but he spent a lot more time doing it. Jack removed his sunglasses to facilitate the identification. The guard’s expression was dubious. He walked around the front of the car to take a better look at Jack through the passenger side window. He still seemed unhappy. It occurred to Jack that his misadventures since arriving in Red Notch had left his appearance somewhat disreputable.
The guard returned their ID cards. He said to Armstrong, “I’ll have to contact Mr. Bass at the mansion. Please pull over to the side so you’re not blocking the gate.”
He crossed to the guard shack on the right and went inside.
Jack said, “I don’t think he liked my looks. I’ve got a feeling I might be underdressed for the occasion.”
Anne Armstrong said, “You can always say you’re working undercover.” She put the car in reverse and backed up along the roadside so the Mercedes was out of the way of any incoming traffic.
She said, “Don Bass heads the security for the conference. Dealing directly with him will cut through a lot of red tape. Among other things, we won’t have to check our sidearms at the gate.
“I’m sure you’ll like that,” she added.
Jack just grinned.
Five minutes passed before the guard returned. He walked briskly to the driver’s side of the car, said, “Mr. Bass is unavailable at this time. Mr. Noone will be coming down instead. He’s Mr. Bass’s assistant.”
Armstrong said, “Yes, I know him.”
“He’ll escort you to the mansion.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am. Have a nice day.” The guard said nothing to Jack, not even looking at him. He rejoined the other guards outside the gate.
Anne Armstrong said to Jack, “Larry Noone is Bass’s number two man. He’ll be just as good for facilitating our entry.”
Ten minutes later a golf cart rolled down the hill and halted just inside the gate. The driver was a uniformed guard, the passenger a heavyset, bearish man. The latter hopped out of the cart, went through a swinging door to the right of the gatepost, and hurried over to the car.
He was in his mid-fifties, about six feet, two inches and 220 pounds. He wore a canvas duckbilled cap, navy- blue blazer, green open-neck sport shirt and khaki pants. He was balding with a fringe of short blond hair and pale blond eyebrows. Clean-shaven, with a ruddy complexion.
He went to the driver’s side and reached in to shake hands with Anne Armstrong. His jacket fell open when he leaned forward, and Jack could see that he wore a short-barreled revolver in a shoulder holster under his left arm. He flashed a big toothy grin like he was glad to see her and said, “Hi, Anne.”
She said, “Hello, Larry.”
“Don was in conference with Mr. Wright and couldn’t get away. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem. Larry, this is Jack Bauer. He’s on loan from our Los Angeles division and will be working with us during the conference. Jack, this is Larry Noone.”
Noone came bustling around to the passenger side of the car. He flashed another big grin and thrust out a big right hand. “Pleased to meet you, Agent Bauer.”
Jack shook his hand. Noone’s grip was solid but he didn’t overdo it. “Glad to know you. Call me Jack.”
“Okay, Jack. Call me Larry.”
Noone climbed into the backseat of the car. “Go ahead, Anne, they’ll let you through.”
The main gate was already opening. It was powered by an electric motor that caused the gate to slide sideways. One of the guards waved her through, and the car drove into Sky Mount.
6. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 A.M. AND 9 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME
Larry Noone escorted Jack Bauer and Anne Arm-strong into a reception area where they were met by Marion Clary. She was a gatekeeper for Cabot Huntington Wright, the man in charge of running the Sky Mount Round Table, among his many other responsibilities. Wright’s suite of offices was on the ground floor in the southeast corner of the mansion’s east wing.
The reception area, an anteroom to the suite, was itself an imposing space, expansive and high-ceilinged, its wood- paneled walls hung with ornate-framed paintings and tapestries. Jack’s wife, Teri, was a graphic artist and designer with an art history background, and Jack had absorbed enough from her through osmosis to recognize the paintings as being in the style of Italian and Northern Renaissance masterworks of landscape and portraiture. He knew that Sky Mount’s creator, tycoon H. H. Masterman, had been a celebrated collector of the works of the Old Masters and had no doubt that these were not copies but originals worth several million dollars.
Marion Clary occupied a mahogany desk the size of a compact car. She rose and came around it to meet and greet the newcomers.
She was a handsome woman, sixtyish and well-preserved, with carefully coiffed blondish-white hair, fine features, and dark, bright eyes set in a porcelain-colored complexion.
The porcelain was webbed with a network of fine lines when seen close up. She was slim, straight-backed, with good posture. She wore a tailored jacket and pleated skirt, both charcoal-gray; a white blouse with a thin red and yellow paisley kerchief, and black pumps with chunky three-inch heels.
She was already acquainted with Anne Armstrong and greeted her warmly. Noone introduced her to Jack. They shook hands. Her palm was dry, her grip firm.
Noone’s handset radio squawked, prompting him to excuse himself for a moment. He stepped a few paces
