wouldn’t happen. The Regional Division Director was a political animal, and at that moment he was connecting an entirely different set of facts: the United States wants China in the G8, the United States plays host to China for the summit; U.S. Federal agents arrest a Chinese national whom the Chinese have already cleared…
“Let’s use kid gloves,” Chappelle said at last. “Send someone to check this Chinese national out. If there’s something suspicious, I’ll clear it higher up.”
Henderson had known this was coming. He looked at Nina. “Go pay him a visit. And be nice.”
The effects of the OC spray were finally wearing off. Jack was sitting inside a police wagon — a long truck, the back of which was designed with two long metal benches. He’d been sitting there, half blind and choking, for what seemed like hours, but he guessed it wasn’t more than five or ten minutes. His hands were still flex-cuffed behind his back. He was the first one into the paddy wagon, and he had been shoved all the way back into the corner as the police brought in more rioters.
“Hey!” he said, pounding his head against the metal wall of the vehicle. He knew there must be a driver up front. “Hey! I’m a Federal agent!” he yelled.
A small window in the wall between the cab and the container slid open to reveal a metal screen and a police officer’s face staring through it. “What?”
“I’m a Federal agent,” Jack said. “I tried to identify myself to your partners, but I didn’t get a chance.”
“You have proof of that?” the officer said.
“You guys searched me,” Jack said, remembering the hands pawing at him when he was down. “You must have found my ID.”
“Hold on.”
The metal shield slid closed. As the OC spray wore off, Jack’s anxiety increased. His daughter, al-Libbi, the G8, Mercy Bennet… not a single loose end had been tied up. He had to remind himself that it had been only a few hours.
The metal door slid open again. “Sorry, pal, we bagged everything. There was no ID on you at all. Nice try, though.” The shield started to close.
“Wait!” Jack said. He thought back to his struggle with the man in the blue shirt. His ID must have fallen out then.
“Look, I’m telling you the truth. Call CTU Los Angeles—”
“CTU?” the officer asked.
“Counter Terrorist Unit,” Jack said impatiently. Of course, CTU was a relatively clandestine unit. There was no reason for every beat cop in Los Angeles to recognize its name instantly. He recited an emergency number. “Call that number. They’ll clear me.”
The cop sounded accommodating. “Okay, look, I’ll do it, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up. The city’s pretty much gone to hell, and it may take a little while.”
“I don’t have a little while,” Jack said.
“You may not have a choice.” The metal door slid shut.
Jack Bauer fumed. He had no time to wait. For all he knew his daughter was dying, and he was sure Ayman al-Libbi was about to attack the G8. For the first time, he looked down the bench at the other rioters who’d been captured. There were four of them… including the man in the blue shirt, sitting on the bench opposite him and near the door. Jack looked at the person next to him, not more than a teenager. “Move,” he said, sliding past him so that he was near the door and across from his target. He stared at the man without asking a question. He would ask questions eventually, but only when he knew he would get answers.
The kid who had just moved looked at Bauer. “Did you say you were a cop?”
Jack didn’t answer, but the kid laughed. “You’re a cop? I love it. How does it feel to get beat up by the other fascists?”
Jack sized him up: Von Dutch T-shirt, tanned skin, with that California drawl drawn out by money and time. This was the kind of person for whom everything had come easily. He hadn’t even lived long enough to know what hardship was, hadn’t lived long enough to know that the people he called “fascists” were usually the ones who put their lives at risk so he could have an easy life.
“I guess you’re in here for no reason?” Jack asked.
The kid clearly wanted to tell his story. “Look at this bump on my forehead, man. Three cops jumped on me.”
“What were you doing right before that?” Jack said.
“I threw a rock at them, but that was only—”
Jack said, “Those cops, they spend their lives putting themselves in harm’s way so you can sleep at night. Most of them don’t ask for any thanks or praise from you at all. Think of that next time you pick up a goddamned rock.”
“I simply won’t do it,” the doctor said for the third time.
Tony Almeida ran a hand through his black hair. He looked at the doctor’s name tag. “Look, Dr. Gupta, this is a matter of national security. This man has information that could save lives.”
“I have an ethical responsibility,” Dr. Gupta said. He was young, not yet out of his twenties, with a lean, thoughtful face, dark eyes, and a stiff spine. “If I give him drugs to bring him out of the coma, it could kill him.”
“As long as he wakes up first.”
The doctor frowned at him, and turned to look for help from the group assembled behind him. There was quite a collection: a nurse holding a tray that contained a syringe full of some medication; the hospital’s chief of internal medicine; two lawyers; and two uniformed officers who’d come in just to see the show.
None of them offered Gupta any assistance, so the doctor turned back. “Agent Almeida,” the doctor said reproachfully. “I am not an executioner.”
“I’m not, either,” Tony said. “In fact, the only executioner around here is him.” He pointed at Dyson. “I’m telling you I saw his fingers move. I don’t think he’s in a coma anymore, and even if—”
“You’re hardly qualified to—”
“—and even if he is,” Tony repeated, “the risk of killing him is nothing compared to what he knows. I believe this man has knowledge of a terrorist plot that could happen any time in the next twenty-four hours, and I need to know what it is.”
The doctor hesitated. “I’ve taken an oath to do no harm.”
Tony sighed. “I haven’t.”
He reached past Gupta to the nurse and snatched the syringe off her tray. Before anyone could react, he popped the protective cap off the needle and plunged it into Dyson’s chest. The nurse gasped and Gupta cried out in alarm. He grabbed at Tony but the agent shrugged him off easily and removed the syringe. He watched the vitals monitor for a moment, the heart rate meter chirping steady and slow. After a moment the beeps came a bit faster, and then faster still. Dyson moaned. The lawyers sighed.
Tony leaned over the bed. “Dyson. Dyson, wake up.”
The FBI agent’s eyes fluttered. Tony slapped him lightly. “I said wake up.”
Dyson’s eyes opened. Dr. Gupta pushed past Tony and pulled out his penlight, shining it in Dyson’s eyes. “Pupil reaction,” he muttered. He checked the vitals. “Stable so far.”
“Dyson, who are you working for!” Tony said, moving Gupta forcefully. “Who are you working for?”
Dyson blinked once or twice. His watery eyes focused on Tony for a moment, then glazed over. A slight smile turned the edges of his mouth. A thin laugh rattled past his lips. “Monkeys… monkey gang… bitten by monkeys. ”
His lips kept moving, but the words melted into incomprehensible dribble.
“Dyson!” Tony said, shaking the agent.
The heart rate monitor picked up its pace, sounding suddenly urgent. At the same time, his blood-oxygen levels started to drop. A second later, Dyson’s heart rate went from frantic to nonexistent.
Nina Myers rolled up Mountaingate Drive to an exclusive tract in the Santa Monica Mountains that overlooked the Sepulveda Pass and the 405 Freeway to the east, and the entire Los Angeles basin to the south. The owners paid for the view, so every house had one, but one property in particular occupied the sweet spot. On the south side
