the Masterman Trust was a further guarantor that what happened at Sky Mount would stay at Sky Mount.
Similar thinking lay behind the national intelligence establishment’s decision to keep the events and revelations of Silvertop hidden behind a wall of secrecy, a directive handed down from the highest levels in Washington, D.C. It was believed that disclosure of the truth about the Zealots’ mass grave and the killer strike force would trigger a panicky mass evacuation of Sky Mount.
No real, tangible evidence that those dealings involved a plot against the Round Table had as yet been unearthed. There was nothing to be taken in hand to Cabot Huntington Wright and associates to prove to them that the gathering must be gaveled to a premature and disastrous close.
Ruining the conference without good cause would create an avalanche of bad publicity and ill-will that would bury any officials rash enough to take it on themselves to cause it to be canceled simply to be on the safe side.
People resent having their lives disrupted by a false alarm. The master and guests of Sky Mount had ways of making their displeasure felt by those who’d sounded the alert because of a fire somewhere way off in the distance when the conferees hadn’t even smelled the smoke.
It was the old one about the boy who cried wolf. The wolf had better be at the door, or let the crier beware.
The BZ connection was an additional complicating factor, one that would never surface if the Army had its way, and there was no reason to expect that it wouldn’t.
That was a national security nightmare and potential public relations debacle that was best kept hidden from the power brokers at Sky Mount, to say nothing of the average citizens and taxpayers who’re generally kept in the dark as a matter of policy.
What they didn’t know couldn’t hurt all parties concerned — unless the worst happened and disaster struck. So it had better not happen.
Anything else was unthinkable.
Brad Oliver’s arrest would be handled with a maximum of discretion. Jack Bauer and Ernie Sandoval would make the pinch, quietly whisking Oliver out a side door and off the premises without the guests suspecting that anything was amiss.
The CTU agents were casually but correctly attired to blend in with the surroundings. They were armed only with their guns and wore no protective bulletproof garments. Each man was equipped with a pair of nose filters and a half-dozen slapshot ampoules containing an antidote to BZ, gear that fit comfortably in their jacket pockets and had been supplied to them earlier at Pike’s Ford by Dr. Norbert.
This precaution had been taken not because of any danger that might threaten at Sky Mount but in anticipation that an attempt might be made against them in transit while they were taking Oliver to the command post.
That was also the reason for the presence of the backup unit. They would wait outside the gates while Jack and Sandoval apprehended Oliver.
No advance notice had been given to the conference’s hosts or guardians to avoid Oliver’s learning by accident or design of his imminent arrest.
Jack and Sandoval had to endure the tedious admittance process necessary for the uninvited to gain entry to the estate.
They could have pulled a power play by using their Federal authority to bull their way in but chose not to do so for fear of prematurely alerting Oliver or any accomplices he might have inside the estate.
Oliver’s status as a wanted man was a tightly held secret known only to Chappelle, Garcia, and the two agents in the Mercedes. The backup crew knew that an arrest would be made but were unaware of the suspect’s identity.
Fifteen minutes passed before someone came down from the mansion to escort the agents beyond the gate. They were met this time by Don Bass, head of the Brand Agency’s presence on the estate.
The first of the conference’s day-long sessions had apparently not been without its rigors for the security chief, who looked considerably more rumpled and frazzled than he had early that morning. His forehead was corrugated by worry lines, his eyes were tired, and his jowly face exhibited a glum, hangdog expression.
He summoned up a cheerful grin as he climbed into the back of the car. “Hi fellows, what’s up?”
Sandoval said, “A routine visit. How goes the gathering of the high-and-mighty?”
“Hectic!” Bass settled back into the seat cushions as the Mercedes rolled through the open gate and up the long curved driveway toward the mansion.
Jack turned in his seat so he could look Bass in the face. He said, “Actually, we’re here to make an arrest.”
Sandoval added dryly, “A routine arrest.”
Bass reacted like he’d been zapped by an electric cattle prod. He bounced upright in his seat so abruptly that the top of his head barely missed hitting the roof. “What? You’re kidding!”
Jack said, “No.”
Bass sat leaning forward, his thickset upper body rigidly tilted at an acute angle. “There’s no such thing as a routine arrest here.”
Sandoval said, “We’ll try and keep it that way any how.”
Bass said eagerly, “Who’s the pigeon? Anybody I know?”
Jack said, “Brad Oliver.”
Bass’s broad face creased in lines of wonderment and disbelief. “Masterman’s stooge? What’s he done?”
“We just want to have a little chat with him.”
Bass’s expression took on a wise and knowing look. “Can’t tell, huh? More cloak and dagger stuff. Must be something big if you boys are putting the arm on him.”
Sandoval said, “Naturally we’ll be relying on your discretion, Don.”
“You’ll have my full cooperation, of course, and the entire firm’s as well.” Jack said, “We’d prefer that this be kept between the three of us. Private and confidential.”
Sandoval said, “We don’t want to rile up any of the guests. Might cause them to choke on their caviar and truffles.”
Bass said, “I understand completely. You call the signals and I’ll play them.”
“Thanks, Don, I knew we could count on you.”
“You bet!” Bass was happy and excited, like a young baseball fan with a ticket to a big league game. “Boy oh boy! This is really something. I never had much use for the pussyfooting little creep, but who’d have thought that Oliver had it in him to run afoul of Uncle Sammy? This’ll really knock old Huntington Wright back on his heels.”
The car pulled over to the side of the main drive and rolled to a halt a few lengths short of the front entrance. Sandoval said, “The three of us will handle it, Don. Please don’t mention this to your associates.”
“I’ve been to the fair before.” Sandoval switched off the car and the trio got out. A uniformed Brand guard came hurrying over to wave them away. “Hey! You can’t park here — oh, sorry Mr. Bass, I didn’t know it was you.”
Bass said, “That’s okay, they’re with me. See that nothing happens to this car.”
“Yes, sir!”
Jack, Sandoval, and Bass made for the front entrance, an elaborately pillared portico. Bass said in an aside, “Once you’ve got your man we’ll have the car brought around to the side and you can take him out that way. Makes less fuss all around.”
Sandoval said, “Sounds good.”
Bass strode a pace ahead of the two others, his mere presence assuring that they breezed past all potential obstacles of the Brand guard variety. There were few uniformed guards in the building, most of the indoor security being handled by plainclothes operatives with the agency’s emblem on the left breast of their navy blazers.
The conference’s events had ended for the day, giving the guests an hour or two to freshen up and dress for tonight’s formal dinner banquet.
Knots of attendees stood lingering in the grand hall, chatting and socializing. The women were mostly beautiful and on the thin side; the men displayed a far greater variety of age, height, weight, and physical attractiveness or the lack of it.
