second-guesser and doubter whose private nickname was “Other Way Wayans.” He wasn’t spineless, but his backbone was frail enough that he often had to be propped up. Wayans, just shy of fifty, also had a weakness for strong-willed women, a fact that Debrah had discovered early and used often.
“Sure I am,” Wayans replied in a flat, Northern Plains drawl. “You wouldn’t believe the pressure, though.”
“I had Latt from Tennessee drop hints that if I switched votes, they’d allow that rider into the appropriations bill for me.”
“Don’t go for it, Way,” she said. “This thing’s too important. And it’ll all be over in twenty-four hours. Just hang tight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She hung up and checked the time. After one o’clock East Coast time now. She could make the call. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the phone on her desk. There was no turning back from the call she was about to make, and it frightened her. Debrah had defied riot police, locked arm in arm with other globalization protesters in Davos and Italy. She’d faced the bright lights of the media and the displeasure of opposing administrations in voting against war in other countries. But this…this was more dangerous than anything she’d done before. The morality of her goals could not mask the fact that what she was about to do was illegal.
She snatched the phone up and dialed before she could reconsider. It rang twice before her contact answered. “Gonzales,” said a firm female voice, not unlike her own.
“Sela, it’s Senator Drexler,” Debrah said.
“Yes, Senator.”
In a small cubicle in an office in Langley, Virginia, Sela Gonzales’s heart thumped. Drexler never called her for small talk. But she kept her voice impersonal and professional.
“I need information on someone. The name is Frank Newhouse. I’m not sure who he works for. All I am sure of is that he’s doing something for the DOJ right now. Can you get me his file?”
Sela hesitated. She spoke in business tones, using everyday phrases, for the sake of anyone who might wander by her cubicle. “I’m not sure I can help you with that request, ma’am. We’ve had a. change in policy lately.”
Debrah understood her to mean that there was an increase in security. The Barnes Administration was notoriously tight-lipped. Technically, the intelligence agencies worked for the entire government, not just the executive branch, but Barnes and his people considered all parts of government as theirs. They disliked prying eyes, and rejected congressional requests for information on everything from environmental impact reports to judicial nominees.
“This is important,” Debrah said. “Very important.”
“I suggest you try going through other channels,” Sela said cautiously.
“I can’t,” Debrah said. “I have a contact at CTU that can’t get the information. But it’s life or death.”
“I. ” Sela abandoned her professional tone and lowered her voice. “If it’s information like that, then I may not be able to help. And if I can find something, I can’t copy it, I guarantee.”
“Can I have someone meet you?”
Sela hesitated. Sela Gonzales had no illusions about herself. She had never imagined when she joined the CIA that she would become a national hero, or save the world, or even help overthrow evil dictators by traveling on camelback across arid deserts to support freedom fighters. She did not even pretend to know who was right and who was wrong in the endless internecine wars inside and outside the intelligence community. The issues were too enormous for her brain, and the political stakes were so high over her head that she did not even pretend to comprehend them. In an effort to find some solid ground in the whirls and eddies of politics, she had grasped one solid rock of understanding: the elected officials have a right to know. Beyond that, she made no claims, and she was perfectly willing to hide behind her credo and let those same politicians hang in the wind if need be. She was no martyr. But she would sing that credo to herself like a mantra: the elected officials have a right to know.
“Yes,” she said at last. “Zachary Taylor Park in half an hour. Tell them to meet me by the stream.”
He had been Frank Newhouse for so long that when he thought of himself (when he thought of himself at all), he used that name. But the truth was, when he looked in the mirror, as he did at that moment, he did not think of himself at all. He thought of the mission and his ability to accomplish it. He thought of the steps between where he was and where he planned to be. And he only felt satisfaction when those steps were clearly laid out before him. It didn’t matter if they were difficult steps — he was no stranger to difficult missions. He cared only that the steps were clear, that the goal was quantifiable.
Frank Newhouse hated abstracts. Though not especially well-educated, he understood enough about art to recognize Impressionism, Cubism, and Surrealism, and to know that he despised them. He looked at his reflection and did not see squares, circles, triangles. He saw pale eyes and arched eyebrows under a protruding forehead and black hair short enough to spike out of his skull. He observed a face that no woman had loved and few had tolerated. He saw experience etched definitely into his skin with lines more accurate than memory could ever be. His eyes traced a thin scar along the ridge of his left eyebrow, a record of mortar fire more concise than any CNN report. He did not begrudge a single line or scar. They were real, they were honest. He had passed through the great museums of the world unmoved, but would pause appreciatively at any photograph of war and death. There was no pretense in pictures like these. They were real.
This mission was becoming real, at last. Frank was tired of the subterfuge. He tolerated it without complaint, of course, because it was necessary for the completion of the mission. But he was relieved now that the clandestine part of his task was near its end. No more pretending to serve a false master.
Frank’s mobile phone rang. “What?” he answered. Only two people had this number: his superior and his contact. His superior, he knew, was otherwise occupied at the moment. His contact didn’t rate much courtesy.
He listened to the voice on the other end, telling him what he wanted to hear. The plans they had carefully laid during the last six months were falling into place. But his contact ended with a warning: “Just be careful. CTU is getting warmer. They don’t realize it yet, but they might.”
Newhouse shrugged. “We expect them to sniff around. It’s part of the plan. If they get too close, they get too close, and we’ll deal with them.”
“You might want to ditch that apartment, though.”
Newhouse considered. “Yes,” he said, and hung up.
Jack Bauer double-parked the SUV on Exposition near the campus of the University of Southern California, and the address Marks had supplied after a little more prodding. It was a six-story beige structure with dark brown trim on the railings of the tiny, unusable balconies outside each front window. Four broad steps climbed up to the glass double doors and the rust-framed intercom that served as security. On the way over, Jack had Nina Myers call the building for him, talk to the manager, and get the pass code. He beeped the code into the panel. The door buzzed and he entered a hallway with dark brown carpet, stained by two decades’ worth of parties hosted by USC college students indigenous to this region.
Jack ignored the elevator and entered the stairwell, a stone shaft rising up, criss-crossed with stone steps and metal rails. Jack climbed as quietly as he could in the echoing shaft, until he reached the fourth floor. He slipped out into a hallway that smelled of mildew and Lysol and hurried to apartment 409. The door, like all the others, was eggshell white and dirty. Jack knocked once. When no one answered, he pressed his ear to the door. Hearing nothing, he stepped back and kicked the door hard. It didn’t give on the first try. Hurrying before anyone came to investigate, he stomped on the door again. The dead-bolt held, but the wood frame did not, and the door flew inward.
Jack drew his gun and moved inside. He really didn’t expect to find anything, since the Greater Nation had been there before, but he preferred to enter any room with a gun in his hand if he could.
He was in a one-bedroom apartment with a tiny kitchen on his left, a dining table beyond that, and a living room, bathroom, and bedroom ahead. There was nothing on the walls and minimal furniture, causing Jack to reach three conclusions in sequence as he moved down the hall. First, that the Greater Nation had stripped the place; but that wasn’t true because there were a few items left. Second, that he was in a typical college dorm, where cinder blocks and plywood served as bookshelves; but that didn’t feel right, because it was missing the posters and Ansel Adams or museum art reprints that were typical of college students. Third, that whoever lived here had no interest
