24 Declassified: Cat's Claw

“If he’s trying to tail me, I’ll lose him,” he said to Chris. “Better yet, I’ll catch the tail and get information.”

Jamey Farrell appeared in the doorway, pushing her dark hair back from her face.

“That was fast,” Chris Henderson said, impressed.

“Oh, we’re not nearly done,” Jamey said in a voice mixed with pride and annoyance. “But I wanted to update you. We did a first run on anyone we considered primary, including all of our liaisons to other agencies, the FBI surveillance teams at the Federal Building, and all of us.”

“Us?” Nina barked, sounding offended. “You ran checks on us?”

Jamey shrugged. “SOP,” she said, which was shorthand for “standard operating procedure.” “You’re clear, by the way,” she said with a smile. “And so is everyone else. Not even a hint of anything that might suggest contact with al-Libbi. You’d expect clear records, of course, but there’s not even a remote possibility. No one worked on anything that would put them close. No overseas assignments, no connections with intra-departmental groups that worked in Iraq, Afghanistan, or Israel.”

“How far back?” Chris asked.

“Three years,” Jamey said. “No sense in going farther, since most agents on the list were on other assignments prior. The G8 is a big deal, but we’re talking about local surveillance here. Everyone being used on this is domestic, or at least pulled from areas that are not terrorist-related. We wouldn’t even be involved if it weren’t for—” She looked at Jack.

“Yeah, I get it,” he said. “If it weren’t for me. But so far it looks like I was right. How about vacations?”

Jamey raised her hands in an expression that said, Everyone takes a vacation except you. “Sure, vacations. The Bahamas, Costa Rica, the Amazon rain forest. But no one vacationed in Iran.”

“We need to check on everyone’s contacts for the last year. See if there’s a link to their vacations with any movements of al-Libbi.”

Jamey Farrell rolled her eyes. “Jack, you’re asking for—”

“This asshole threatened my daughter!” Jack yelled. He felt pressure swell up inside him, like an angry sea rolling up under an unsteady boat. He realized that he’d been bottling up his anger at being assaulted and violated; he had focused on solving the problem. But now, at a pause in the crisis, he found his anger overwhelming him. “I don’t care what I’m asking for. Just do it!”

“Jack.” Chris Henderson’s voice was calm. He had the sort of presence that calmed passionate men like Jack, because they knew Henderson had faced the same darkness they had faced. “We haven’t been able to track al- Libbi’s movements that accurately, or we’d have picked him up.”

“Is there any chance there is no informant?” Nina asked. “This guy was bluffing about tracking you, maybe he was bluffing about everything.”

Jack waved the suggestion off. “He knew who I was. He knew I was tracking him. He didn’t read that in the L.A. Times.”

Chris Henderson appeared lost in thought for a moment. Then he said, “Jack, go get your daughter. Get her away from the demonstrations, make sure she’s okay. We’ve got eyes and ears all over the Federal Building. If they try anything, we’re as ready as we can be with or without you there. You’ll feel better once you know your daughter’s okay.”

Jack nodded reluctantly. Henderson was speaking reasonably, but Jack was in no mood to be reasonable. The violence inside him had not dissipated. He bit his lip, letting the pain focus his attention. He could hold his violence in check. He’d done it before. He would let it loose at the right time. When he found al-Libbi.

10:22 A.M. PST Culver City

Mercy slid up to the red curb in front of 16150, ignoring the fire hydrant. Two uniformed police officers were on the front lawn of a yellow three-story apartment building, wrestling with a twenty-something man in jeans and an orange T-shirt.

By the time Mercy had exited the car and crossed the lawn, the

uniforms had him on his stomach and were hooking him up.

“Hey, Willow,” she said with a smile.

The young man craned his neck to look up at her, his indignant look clearly proving that he laid the blame for his predicament squarely on her.

“Stand him up, please,” Mercy said.

The uniforms took hold of one shoulder each and pulled Willow to his feet. His hair was close-cropped and his chin was covered in a permanent fuzz.

“Man, Detective, you are turning into the man—”

She smiled. “Truth is, I was the man before we met.” They were roughly the same height, and she forced him to meet her eyes. “I need to know who your friend is. You’re going to tell me right now.”

“No, I’m not!” he protested childishly.

“Yep,” she said as though he’d agreed with her. “Because you’re a pacifist and you hate to see people get hurt, and if you don’t tell me, it’s very possible people will die. Is that what you want?”

“Well, I don’t friggin’ want this,” Willow said. “I don’t want to turn my friends over to fascists, either.”

Mercy realized she’d brandished the stick but had never offered the carrot. “Willow, you have my word. I have no interest in arresting your friends. I don’t care right now if they’ve done something illegal. I just want to know what they know so that innocent people aren’t killed.”

Now it was Willow’s turn to stare at Mercy. She allowed him to study her eyes. She wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but she let him look. She liked Willow. He had all the makings of a flake, but in truth he had found his set of beliefs and preserved them against all comers, whether assaulted by the LAPD or by friends who pursued a more violent agenda than his own.

Either Willow found what he was looking for, or he gave in to his fear of law enforcement. Mercy found herself hoping it was the former. “Her name is Frankie Michaelmas. She’s with the Earth Liberation Front. She said she heard some dudes talking about doing some serious damage at the G8.”

“Great. Where can I find Frankie?”

“She’s at the protest. Hundred percent, she’s there.”

“You have her number?”

Willow nodded.

“Great. Let’s give Frankie a call.”

10:28 A.M. PST Four Seasons Hotel, Beverly Hills

Nurmamet and Kasim had departed. Muhammad Abbas sipped a small coffee and read the New York Times as Ay-man al-Libbi walked into the deserted bar. Al-Libbi was clean-shaven, with short black hair. He wore a dark blue three-button suit over a light blue dress shirt with no tie, looking like no more than a second- or third-generation son of Middle Eastern or Latino immigrants. He spoke English with a California accent and walked with the casual confidence of a man who belonged wherever he was. These traits, along with scrupulously forged documents, had allowed him to cross the borders of dozens of countries over the years.

“How did it go?” Ayman asked as he sat down.

Muhammad folded the Times. “The money is in a briefcase beneath the table. I assume your project went well?”

“We’ll see,” Ayman said lazily. Muhammad had noticed this tone in his leader’s voice in recent months. Ayman began projects with the same ruthless efficiency of years past, but once the gears were set, he seemed to lose his personal drive. In Bali, Muhammad had feared for Ayman’s life, but these days he feared for himself. The Americans could be fooled, but once on the trail they were relentless. Muhammad had no desire to end up in Guantanamo Bay.

“Will your man do what he is told?” he asked with real concern.

“I have him under control. You counted the money?”

“They would not cheat us, Ayman. Yes!” he added hastily, fidgeting under the other’s sour glare. “Yes, I’ll count it.” A question floated through his thoughts, a question he had considered voicing before. He stared down at the folded newspaper on the table as if the answers might be there. Finally he said, “Is it only the money now, Ayman?”

Ayman al-Libbi threw his arm over the back of the chair. “Muhammad,” he said with a smile, “it was always