“I’m all right,” Juwan said from his side of the car. “I’m all right.”
Only after he’d repeated it twice did it occur to him that the two men hadn’t asked after his health. In fact, they hadn’t said anything. They each walked around one side of the car, advancing steadily on Juwan. Their faces looked neither worried nor surprised. In fact, to Juwan Burke they looked very much like the faces of corners and free safeties who had tried to take his head off at the University of Alabama.
He backed up a few steps. One of the men growled, “Where do you think you’re going. ”
“Roll tide,” Juwan murmured. He turned and ran.
They were chasing him. He could hear their footsteps, but he never looked back. That was the cardinal rule: never look back to see how close they are, because it only slows you down and lets them get closer. Keep your eyes front, focused on your goal, and fly.
“Fuck!” he heard behind him.
“Shoot him!” the other one yelled.
“Here?” the first yelled, angry and incredulous.
Juwan gritted his teeth as he ran, but no gunshot sounded. The footsteps faded a bit. He kept his eyes on the street ahead. He was only a few blocks from the Capitol Building. It was just two or three football fields away. He would make it.
Ryan Chappelle paced the length of Kelly Sharpton’s office, then he paced its width. He hated mornings like this — mornings when the trains derailed and the conductors were late. Of course, the real source of his anxiety wasn’t just the disruption in the well-established flow of information in his domain; his fear was much more personal. If Kelly Sharpton was some kind of mole, the fact would damage Chappelle’s own career. Soon the FBI would be here, and once they had Sharpton, the man was out of his hands. It would surely be the end of Sharpton’s career, but other heads might roll. Chappelle was fond of keeping his firmly attached to his shoulders.
Jack Bauer appeared in the doorway. At any other moment, Ryan Chappelle would have leaped down the field agent’s throat. Today he just said, “What?”
Jack saw that Chappelle was in no mood for small talk. He cut to the chase. “The Rafizadehs. I would like to release them.”
“Okay…no wait,” Chappelle said, distracted but suddenly coming into focus. “Released? No, they just got here. They haven’t even been questioned yet. We’re letting them stew.”
“They’re already simmering,” Jack said. “But I need them out. Nazila can help me get to a lead I need to find these terrorists.”
“Now there are terrorists again,” Chappelle said, as though the whole incident was a story Jack made up and discarded like a child’s imaginary friend. “Will there still be terrorists if we let the Rafizadehs go?” It was a sarcastic question, so Jack didn’t answer. Chappelle scowled and added, “How can she help? Is she part of the cell?”
“No. She has skills to help me break a code.”
“We have teams—”
“It’s in Arabic. Arabic poetry. Her father knows the poems, she’s a math grad student at Cal Poly. You find me a better team.”
Chappelle considered it. Jack saw the options spinning around inside Chappelle’s bald skull. The two main options opposed each other: on the one hand, Chappelle was inclined to do his job when called upon, and that might mean releasing them; on the other hand, releasing them would please Jack, and that was something Chappelle tried to avoid.
“Not the son,” he said. “We still have questions for the son. He was in Lebanon. His name was on that list. He needs to answer those questions.”
“I’ve got a terrorist cell here in Los Angeles!” Jack said. “And these people can help me find them!”
Chappelle shrugged. “So let them help while he’s answering questions. Oh, here’s the FBI.”
Two men had climbed the stairs. One was a middle-aged white guy in a gray suit, blue tie, and a bald spot atop his head. The other was a tall black man, over six foot five, with huge shoulders, wearing jeans and a windbreaker. Both were a little older than Jack, with the air of authority and suspicion that came from more than a badge. They looked at Jack and Ryan as though they both might be suspects. “Paul Meister,” said the suit. “This is Londale Johnson. We’re here for Kelly Sharpton.”
“This way,” Chappelle said. He led the two men down the steps to the holding area. Jack followed, his business with Chappelle not yet finished.
At holding room one, Chappelle had the guard step aside and opened up. Kelly was sitting alone inside. He looked annoyed at Chappelle, but when the two FBI agents entered, his face turned grave.
The suit, Meister, said, “Agent Sharpton, you are under arrest. Do you have anything you would like to say before we take you into custody?”
“That has got to be the tallest FBI agent I’ve ever seen,” Kelly said. “And you have a very nice tie.”
Behind them, Jack chuckled. He had to admit, Sharpton had style.
Meister grimaced. He and Johnson stepped forward and took out a pair of handcuffs. Kelly stood slowly, showing them that he meant no harm, and waited to be handcuffed.
“Mr. Chappelle! Mr. Chappelle!” Jessi Bandison ran at them, breathless. “There’s a call for you.”
“Later,” the Director snapped.
“An urgent call!” Jessi said. “From the Attorney General.”
Chappelle’s already pale face turned white. He looked around for an extension and saw a phone on the wall. “Send it here.”
Jessi disappeared, and a few seconds later the wall phone rang. “Chappelle.”
“Director Chappelle,” said James Quincy. “I understand that you have an agent in custody by the name of Kelly Sharpton. You are holding him on suspicion of some kind of sabotage against my computer system?”
“Er, yes, sir,” Ryan Chappelle said. He looked at the FBI agents, as though they might have an explanation for the call. They offered nothing. “We have evidence that he—”
“Please release him, Director,” Quincy said. “This man was acting on my orders. He’s done nothing wrong. Is that clear?”
“Clear? Yes, sir, but I’m not sure I—”
“Release him,” the Attorney General repeated. “There’s no harm done.”
Chappelle’s head throbbed. He had yet to get a handle on any part of this day. “Yes, sir.”
James Quincy placed the phone gently back on its receiver, willing his trembling hand to stop shaking with anger. It would not. To control himself, Quincy sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Satisfied?”
Senator Debrah Drexler, accompanied by her man Bobby, stood on the far side of the hotel room’s small coffee table. She was holding a faxed document in her hands, which she had just received a few minutes earlier from her Washington, D.C., office. She had already shown the documents to Quincy. She’d even offered to give him his own set, since she’d made a dozen copies and disbursed them to trusted associates in various parts of the country.
“No, I’m not satisfied,” she said, waving the documents. “Drop the NAP Act.”
Quincy snorted. “Don’t push it. What you’ve got there isn’t that strong.”
“It will raise a lot of questions about why you sent your own private soldier into the Greater Nation. Those are questions you don’t want to have to answer.”
Quincy was unmoved. “I’ll play this game because I tried to push you and you pushed back. Fair is fair. But you reach too high and I’ll kick the ladder right out from under you.”
Debrah hesitated, taking his measure. She rarely got this close to him. He was a handsome man, all in all, though she could have done without the annoyingly straight part in his hair. He was cool under pressure, she had to give him that. He’d hardly blinked when she presented him with the dossier on Frank Newhouse. He’d assessed the situation as coolly as a man judging a sale, and conceded dispassionately.
“All right,” she said. “Your fascist bill is going down anyway.”
“We’ll see.”
Drexler and her man left the office. As soon as the door closed, a side door opened and one of Quincy’s men appeared. If Deb or Bobby had seen him, they’d have recognized him as the same man who had spoken with the Senator in Golden Gate Park that same morning.
