you?”
There was a pause on the line. The faint electric hiss of fiber optics and electricity sounded somehow ominous. Finally, Attorney General James Quincy said, “You and I both know what you can do for me. For the country.”
“I work on behalf of my country every day, Mr. Attorney General. And it’s early. You’ll have to be more specific.”
She knew this would irk him. The AG was famous for quick decisions and short conversations. He despised those who wasted time, especially his time. But since he was already quite public about his loathing for the female senator from California, she wasn’t worried about losing points with him.
“Give me your vote on the NAP Act,” he said with his legendary bluntness. “Then I’ll carry Wayans and D’Aquino, and this thing will pass.”
“Sir, are you calling on behalf of the President?” she asked.
“I’m calling on behalf of the country.”
She almost laughed. “Ah, the cheery sound of jingoism in the morning is so pleasant. You should have “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” on in the background when you talk like that.”
Even through the phone line, she could tell that his spine had stiffened at her remarks. “I expect a little more respect than that, Senator. I am the Attorney General of the United States—”
“Then stop acting like a politician,” she snapped. She knew he hated to be interrupted. She’d done the same thing during his nomination hearings, and the press had had a field day with his apoplectic reactions. It almost made her happy he’d been approved, just so she could do it again. “Since when does the Attorney General get on the phone and lobby senators to pass a bill? Use the right wing media like all the other fascists.”
She smiled, waiting for the volcano to erupt. She wasn’t afraid of Quincy’s vesuvian temper. She wasn’t daunted by angry male voices. Her first husband had beaten those weaker tendencies out of her. He’d nearly lost an eye that last time he’d tried to rough her up, and the combination of a painful divorce court and a scar on his neck made her former husband relent. She got alimony and custody of their baby daughter. With her newfound freedom, she’d moved from New York to San Francisco decades ago. It was hard at the beginning— very hard — but with her newfound strength, she’d gotten on her feet and, after a few years, she’d entered local politics. Now here she was, arm wrestling with one of the most powerful men in the world. She loved it.
But Quincy didn’t explode. His voice was, in fact, cold and calculated. “I may just use the media, now that you mention it. But I did want to give you one more chance. The New American Privacy Act gives us the power to root out terrorists no matter how they try to hide. The Justice Department needs to be able to dig into records, set up phone taps immediately when we identify a suspect—”
“The only problem with your theory — no, one of the
“The individuals we focused on had ties to—”
“If you want to debate, let’s go on Sunday morning television,” Drexler said impatiently. “Otherwise, accept the fact that my vote is going to be a no. And I’ll tell anyone who listens to me to vote the same.”
There was another pause on the line. Somehow, Drexler didn’t like it. Quincy wasn’t the kind to give up, and he certainly wasn’t the type to let someone else get the last word in. His calm demeanor put all her empathic sensors on alert. He wasn’t giving up. He was coiling like a cobra.
“Senator, I strongly recommend that you reconsider. Otherwise you may end up regretting your decision.”
Drexler snorted. “You’re not the first man to say that to me.”
As the Senator hung up her phone, five hundred miles to the south, Jack Bauer threw open the door of the black SUV. He grabbed Brett Marks by one handcuffed arm and pulled him out of the car. Marks grunted — he was belted into his seat. Bauer barked as though it was the militia man’s fault. He unbuckled Marks, then pulled him, stumbling, out of the car.
“What the hell is this?” Jack said, holding up the notebook from the munitions house.
Marks squinted. There was just enough light from the houses around for him to see the cover of the notebook. He smiled. “Ah, that’s Operation Backup.”
Bauer tapped the notebook against Marks’s head. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”
Marks looked amused by Jack’s loss of composure. “It’s not that complicated, Jack. There is a terrorist cell operating around Los Angeles. Since the Federal government wasn’t doing anything about them, we decided that we would. After all, that’s what the militia is for, if you want to read the Second Amend—”
“No sermons,” Jack rumbled. “Tell me about these terrorists.”
The Greater Nation leader nodded at the notebook. “It’s all in there. We got a tip from some contacts overseas that some terrorists had slipped past the border. We started snooping around a little and we found out how they were connected here. We were going to take them out before they did any harm. See, Jack, it’s like I was saying when you were pretending to be part of the cause. We are patriots.”
“My hero,” Jack mocked. “Wouldn’t it have been simpler — and legal — just to inform the authorities?”
Oddly, for the first time in this whole affair, Brett Marks actually looked surprised. “We did. We called Homeland Security. We called the FBI. They wouldn’t listen to us.”
“Imagine that,” Jack snorted. He flipped open his cell phone and speed dialed the office. “Bauer here,” he said when the gravediggers answered. “Give me Sharpton.”
Kelly was on the line in a moment. “Don’t hang up on me again.”
“Chew me out later,” Jack growled. “I’ve got something here, maybe. There’s some indication here that the Greater Nation was on to an Islamic terrorist cell here.”
“The militia guys were working with Islamic terrorists?”
“No, they were targeting them. Marks claims they uncovered a sleeper cell or something in Los Angeles. He says they reported it. The notes say three months ago. It also says here that these terrorists were planning something soon. Can you check the Domestic Security Alerts?”
“On it. Call you back.”
In his office, Kelly pressed a button on his phone and Jack’s call vanished. He flipped the intercom line and said, “Jessi.”
The voice of Jessi Bandison, the most capable of the gravediggers, came on. “Here.”
“I need you to scan the tip sheets for me. Check Homeland Security’s DSAs for the last six months. Also the FBI logs from local and national.”
“Kelly, I’m not cleared for—”
“When you get to the logs, buzz me and I’ll code you through. I’m looking for anything about tips on terrorists in Los Angeles.”
Jessi buzzed back quickly — she was good at her job — and Kelly half walked, half jumped down the stairs from his loft to the pit where the gravediggers worked. Jessi Bandison — mocha-skinned, curvy, and attractive in all the ways a fashion model was not— watched unblinking as lines of code flashed from bottom to top on her screen. “Nothing in our logs about Islamic terrorists. At least not here in L.A.”
“Okay. Link up with Homeland Security and go through their servers and the FBI logs.”
She did, and a moment later a password screen came up. Kelly typed in his i.d. and password, and a second later they were through to a new level of security.
“So what is this?” Jessi asked.
“The FBI puts out formal alerts to all departments associated with Homeland Security. But they also keep their own logs for internal use. It’s an ongoing intra-net brainstorming session set up after 9/11. Everyone and anyone doing field work or receiving data is supposed to log information of interest here.”
Jessi looked pleasantly surprised. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s bullshit,” Kelly said. He leaned over Jessi. There was a faint smell of jasmine on her neck. He was careful to stare at the screen. “It’s just a CYA gimmick. Everyone’s afraid to miss something, so there’s so much garbage poured into the log all the time that it’s impossible to study it in real time. All it really does is allow you to
