stories high with a waterfall in the middle. The floor and walls were inlaid with travertine. A concierge stood behind a marble counter. Kelly crossed the lobby and flashed his badge. “I have a few questions about the condominium owned by Mr. Patrick Henry.”
The concierge was a slight young man in his twenties with perfectly messed hair. His skin was as smooth as a woman’s. His gold name tag read “Alexander.” “Yes, Agent Sharpton. I hope I can help you.”
“Me, too. Is Mr. Henry at home?”
“One moment.” Alexander lifted a phone to his ear and dialed. He smiled and nodded at Kelly, then put the phone down. “I’m sorry, there’s no answer.”
“I’m sure you don’t mind if I go up and knock.”
Alexander wrinkled his brow, something he clearly did not do often. “It’s against house policy, I’m afraid. No unannounced guests on the floors.”
“Oh, I’m the United States government,” Kelly said. “We’re very informal.”
He made for the elevator. He sensed Alexander behind him, distraught, trying to get his attention, but he ignored it. What was poor Alexander going to do, call the police?
It was a short elevator ride up to 12F, Patrick Henry’s condominium. The twelfth floor was as sumptuous as the lobby. By the design, Kelly guessed that there were only four to six condos on each floor, which meant they were huge and expensive.
The entrance to 12F was a set of beautiful teak doors ornately carved in chevrons, eagles, griffins, and other creatures that reminded Kelly vaguely of Europe. He lifted his foot and stomped on a griffin in the center of the door. The door rattled on its hinges, but held. The eagles and the griffins held on stubbornly for three more kicks, but eventually they surrendered and the fractured doors swung inward.
Kelly walked in, not really expecting to find Frank Newhouse or anyone else in the apartment. But he was hoping for evidence, so he started to walk around. There wasn’t much to see. The carpet was expensive, and the crown molding gave the expansive rooms the look of luxury, but all the rooms were empty. He went to the kitchen and looked for dishes. The first two cabinets he searched were completely empty, and looked as if they’d never been used at all.
When he opened the third cabinet, he saw the bomb.
It was counting down to detonation, and if the digital readout was correct, he had about five minutes left.
11. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Kelly sprinted for the broken front doors and ran into the hallway, but he had no illusions about leaving. In a building this size, there was no way to evacuate everyone in time. In the hallway, Kelly found a fire alarm. He shattered the glass and pulled the lever. A whooping alarm filled the hallway instantly, and ceiling mounted lights began to flash.
He ran back to the apartment, pulling out his cellular and dialing CTU. The phone was ringing by the time he reached the bomb. “Get me Chappelle, and get me someone who can defuse a bomb. Right now!”
“Agent Sharpton, this is Glenn Schneider, LAPD Bomb Squad.”
“Hey, Glenn,” Kelly said. He was sitting in front of the bomb, watching the digital timer tick down. “You better be a good conversationalist because you may be the last person I ever talk to. Hopefully, you can make small talk about bombs.”
“Describe it to me.”
Kelly had been rehearsing his speech for the last three minutes. “The timer is a digital stopwatch like they use at a track meet, but it’s hooked up to a battery. The battery wire runs off in one direction, I think back toward the front door. The timer itself is taped to several very large plastic containers of powder. The powder looks like sugar.”
“Solidox bomb,” Schneider said. “How many cartons are there?”
“I’m looking at six,” Kelly replied. “While I was waiting for your call I checked the other rooms. There are a couple wired to the heating system. There are wires running to the other rooms as well. The timer itself has at least fourteen wires leading from it to the C-4. I think it’s fourteen, but they’re all jumbled together so it’s hard to tell. And by the way, I have one minute and forty-three seconds left.”
“Most of the wires are dummies,” Schneider said.
“There’s also, believe it or not, a tennis ball sitting on top of the battery. It’s got a piece of tape over part of it.”
Schneider made a sound like someone had just poked him in the eye. “This guy took everything right out of the Anarchist Cookbook. Listen, that tennis ball is probably filled with matchheads and gasoline. If you pick the wrong wire, it’s probably going to heat up and pop all over you.”
“No problem,” Kelly said. “Just tell me which wire is the right one.”
“You need to find a wire that comes off the timer and into a heating source.”
Kelly looked around the timer. “I don’t see a heating source. Just the timer and the plastic tubs.”
“Look around. It’s probably the battery.”
Kelly looked again. “No, the timer’s connected to the battery, but the battery isn’t connected to the tubs.”
“Okay, it feeds back, then. The timer triggers the battery, but also keeps the circuit open. If you stop the timer, it automatically closes the circuit between the battery and the Solidox.”
“So I need to get rid of the battery.”
“Yes.”
Kelly jumped to his feet and looked around. There was nothing in the apartment he could use. And the timer read fifty-eight seconds. He thought about backing up and shooting the tennis ball off the battery. But he didn’t want to think about what would happen if he missed.
“Schneider, what exactly is this tennis ball thing supposed to do?”
There was a pause. “Well, it depends on what’s inside. Sometimes tennis ball bombs are just big firecrackers. They’re like a joke. But nasty ones have gasoline or napalm inside. They spread burning rubber that keeps burning whatever it lands on.”
Kelly looked at the tennis ball. It was an innocuous, ridiculous little thing to be afraid of. “Fuck it,” he said. He stepped forward and kicked the tennis ball and the battery.
The battery flew away from the timer, wires popping out of it. The tennis ball didn’t fly. It exploded with a sizzle and pop. Kelly had instinctively covered his face as he kicked, which was wise. Liquid fire splashed across his forearms, and he felt his palms start to burn.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled, dropping to his knees and pressing his hands into the carpet. He didn’t see any flames, but his hands were still burning. It felt like someone was pressing fiery coals into his palms. He jumped to his feet again and ran to the sink. He pushed the faucet on with his forearms and stuck his hands under the running water. It didn’t help. His hands were burning on the insides now.
He ran to his cell phone, which he’d dropped on the floor. He couldn’t pick it up. Kelly lay down next to it and pressed his cheek to the device. He could hear Schneider on the other end calling his name. “Get someone up here!” He yelled. “This shit is burning my hands off!”
Jack Bauer had taken the 10 Freeway past the gathered skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles and into East L.A. He turned north and entered Boyle Heights. The address matched a rundown duplex with dirt for a front yard, cracked plaster, and a car on cinder blocks settled in the driveway. As he drove, he noted the faces he passed were brown, and the style of dress tended toward baggy black pants and wife-beater T-shirts. The billboards and storefronts were exclusively in Spanish. In this neighborhood, blond Jack Bauer and his SUV stood out like white socks with black shoes, but there was nothing to be done now.
