in creature comforts.
The living room was decorated only with a futon, a few bookshelves, and a desk that, by the telltale signs of stray wires and plugs, had been stripped of its computer. Jack glanced into the bedroom, where he found four sets of bunk beds crowded into one small room.
The bathroom was bare except for a thin sliver of soap left in a bone-dry soap dish in the bathroom. Even the medicine cabinet was empty. Jack opened and closed it, then stared at the mirror as though he might see the remnants of some previous reflection.
Jack went back into the living room. The desk was bare, but he guessed that the occupants had used a laptop computer there — there was a data port in the wall and a generic mouse pad sitting on the desktop. The drawers were empty, as far as he could tell, but he would leave the real investigation to forensics.
He activated his cell phone and called in. “Get me Sharpton,” he said to the operator.
“I’m sorry, Agent Bauer, he’s unavailable,” the receptionist replied.
“What do you mean unavailable? Get him out of the toilet and—”
“No, sir, he’s…he’s been put on disciplinary leave.”
What the—? Jack wondered. What had happened in the last forty minutes? “Where’d he go? I need to reach him. Is he on cell phone?”
“N-no, sir, he hasn’t left the building. He’s still with Mr. Chappelle.”
Jack’s felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. On disciplinary leave but not left the building was longhand for “under arrest.” Kelly Sharpton was in some kind of trouble.
“Okay, Nina Myers or Paulson,” he said. He’d worry about Sharpton when he had time.
After a series of clicks, Nina Myers picked up. “Another party?”
“Same party, different host,” Jack said. “I need a rundown on the tenants for this apartment. And I need a forensics team over here right away. Also…” He scanned the room, trying to think of anything else he might need at the moment. His eyes skimmed across the spines of the books, spines with writing that flowed up and down like an elegant scribble.
The name on the lease was Richard Brighton, a perfectly normal-sounding name until CTU’s computers chewed it up and spit back exactly nothing. No Richard Brighton registered at USC, no Richard Brighton attached to the social security number written on the lease. Landlords were required to take photocopies of driver’s licenses. Nina had a copy faxed to CTU.
“I’ve got a photo of him. If this guy’s name is Richard Brighton then I’m Jessica Simpson,” Nina said.
“Can you run face recognition?” Jack asked.
“We will, but the photo’s not good. It’ll take a while.”
“Okay, get going, and tell the forensics guys to hurry up. Hey, what’s up with Kelly Sharpton?”
There was a pause as Nina swiveled away from her phone, then swiveled back. “He’s not in his office.”
“I know. I heard he was in some trouble.”
“I don’t know anything about it. You want me to check?”
“No, stay on this. Just curious.”
Debrah dialed CTU Los Angeles to give Kelly an update on the information he wanted.
“Special Agent Sharpton, please,” she said, calling from her private line.
“I’m sorry, he’s unavailable,” said the operator.
“He’ll take my call. Tell him Dee from D.C.—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Sharpton is unavailable for any kind of telephone call. He can’t be interrupted right now.”
Debrah paused. It could be anything, of course. Kelly worked in a counter terrorism unit, for chrissakes. He could have been called out on an investigation, or in a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, for all she knew. But she did know. She guessed with the inerring talent of politicians who sniff out danger that Kelly Sharpton was not in a meeting, not on an assignment. He was in trouble. She hung up.
Juwan Burke hated being an errand boy. Star running back for his high school football team, second string receiver and academic all-American at Alabama, commencement speaker for the political science department, he was used to carrying much heavier and more important loads. He couldn’t complain out loud, though — partly because this was how the system worked but mostly because all of Senator Drexler’s support staff had both seniority over him and resumes that equaled his. Drexler was one of the most popular up-and-comers in the party, and everyone with plans for advancement wanted to get there riding on her coattails. Burke knew he’d go farther making lunch runs for Drexler than he would writing policy for half the representatives in Congress.
This wasn’t a lunch run, he knew, but what exactly it was, he didn’t know. He’d just gotten a call from the Senator herself telling him to get to Zachary Taylor Park over in Arlington by one-thirty, where he’d be met by a dark-haired woman named Sela Gonzales. She’d been given his description and she would find him.
He pulled into the parking lot at the park right at the bottom of the hour. At one-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon it wasn’t crowded, although he saw a mother pushing a stroller and a groundskeeper picking up trash.
Juwan had never been to this park and he didn’t know where the stream was, but water always flowed downhill so he followed the slope of the grass toward a line of trees. He found a path readily enough. It led down to the water, a small stream flowing east and south toward D.C., reminding anyone who cared to notice that D.C. had once been a swamp. He’d barely reached the water when he noticed a woman hurrying toward him. She was small, wearing a dark blue business suit. Her hair was glossy, like black satin, and her face was aquiline. She was not pretty, but she was striking. This became more apparent the closer she got, especially when Juwan noticed her sharply hooked nose. Juwan just had time to admire her bright eyes, like burning black coals, before she threw herself at him and kissed him full on the lips.
It wasn’t often that a strange woman threw herself into a man’s arms, even for a former college football star like Juwan. He was understandably surprised, but he wrapped his arms around her automatically. When he finally remembered to return her kiss, though, he felt the lack of passion in it. The woman continued for a few seconds, then pulled away just enough to press her nose affectionately to his. But when she spoke, she was all business. “So if anyone’s watching, we’re lovers,” she explained.
“Uh, okay,” he said. “What else are we doing here?”
“I have documents in my jacket,” she said. Then she laughed as though he’d said something charming. “You have to photocopy them and get them back to me in—” she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it, checking her watch at the same time. “Twenty minutes. The file needs to be back in its place by two o’clock.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Here.” She kissed him again, her hands groping his back, even probing inside his suit jacket and running her hands along his chest. Breaking off from the kiss, she smiled sincerely for the first time. “Nice build.”
“I…played football,” Juwan said lamely.
“Okay, find a copy place and be back here in twenty minutes.”
“Where are the documents?” Juwan asked.
“It’s in your coat already,” she said, patting his chest again. Only then did Juwan feel the file folder pressed between his dress shirt and suit jacket. This woman was either a nutcase or a spy. Either way, Juwan decided, this was definitely not another lunch run.
“Nineteen minutes,” she reminded, tapping her watch.
Jack stepped out onto the tiny, unserviceable balcony to get out of the forensics team’s way. They were dusting down the entire apartment, pulling up as many fingerprint samples as possible. Jack assumed they’d find a lot of Greater Nation prints, since Marks had already admitted that his people had visited the apartment, but he hoped to find additional prints as well.
There was a second reason he’d stepped out onto the balcony. He didn’t want anyone on the team to see his anxiety. The truth was, Jack’s heart was pounding harder now than it had during the firefight this morning. He thought his ribs would crack under the constant barrage of his heart against his chest. He needed to find solid
