Odolova’s appearance matched her voice. Her limbs were long, lean, and toned, and she moved them in slow, dramatic flourishes when she spoke, as though she were used to holding something like a cigarette in her hand. Her face was angular and pretty, framed by straight blond hair. Oddly, she wore heavy black mascara under her blue eyes. Set against the stark white of her outfit and skin, the heavy eye makeup looked disturbing and hypnotic.
“You’re Jessi, of course,” Anna said. “What will you drink?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Jessi said.
Anna leaned forward, catching Jessi with her mesmerizing eyes. “Of course you will, my Jessi. What else are we here for?”
“You know what you like, don’t you?” Odolova said, seeming genuinely pleased. “Now, what is it I can help you with?” Her voice was breezy, nothing that stood out.
Jessi did not have her skill, and did not pretend to. “Is Novartov having a classified meeting with us and the Chinese tonight? Is that Tuman’s target?” she asked softly.
Odolova flicked her wrist as though tapping away the ashes of an imaginary cigarette. “See, you can tell a lot about a person from the way they order a drink. You, for instance, are very straightforward. Strong. You’d make a good Russian.” She smiled lightly, and continued. “Obviously, I can’t discuss scheduling matters with you. But you may be on the right track. Would you like to know more about Nurmamet Tuman?”
“Sure,” Jessi said.
Odolova spoke in long, dramatic sentences, but the story she told was this: Nurmamet Tuman had been a Chinese espionage agent for more than twenty years. Although he was an ethnic Uygur, he had lost his parents and been taken to an orphanage, where he was indoctrinated first as a Maoist and then as a member of the newer, more “progressive” Communist Party. He had climbed the ranks of the People’s Army and proved to be adept at intelligence. But during a purge a few years earlier, superiors who disliked and mistrusted his Uygur heritage retired him. He was dumped in the United States with a new name and a faked dossier, where he started and ran a small software company. The Chinese government kept in contact, and even used him now and then, but for all intents and purposes he was in exile.
What Beijing did not know was that Marcus Lee had never stopped being Nurmamet Tuman, never stopped being a Uygur. Even while deep inside Chinese intelligence, he continued to work secretly for the independence of Eastern Turkistan. The Russians were sure that he had saved ETIM members from capture at least twice in his career. Once he was in the United States, he had a much easier time strengthening his contacts with ETIM until he became their largest backer. His native Uygur loyalties were bolstered by bitterness over his removal from the espionage community.
“But why attack here?” Jessi asked. “Why not do it in China?”
“The security is too tight,” Odolova answered. “Besides, ETIM is frustrated that they do not get more attention from the West. China controls the flow of information, especially in the rural provinces. ETIM commits terrorist attacks in Urumchi to draw attention, but no one ever hears about them. If they make an attack in Los Angeles, the whole world will start paying attention.”
“How do you know so much?” Jessi asked, unable to disguise her naivete. “You’re so far ahead of us. How do you know?”
“It is not so impressive,” Odolova said in a way that indicated how impressive it really was. “In fact, we learned much of our information because of a minor arms dealer in Los Angeles. Some Russian-made RPG–29s were stolen, and we tracked them to this arms dealer, assuming he had bought them, when, in fact, they’d been stolen by ETIM and delivered to this arms dealer for safekeeping.”
“Farrigian,” Jessi said matter-of-factly.
Odolova smiled warmly. “You see, you are good at this after all. It was the missing RPGs that made us look more closely at ETIM, and that led us to Tuman.”
“Do you have any proof of this?”
“None whatsoever.”
Jessi’s heart sank. She knew Chappelle would want evidence before moving against a Chinese national. “I thought—”
“This is not always a business of hard facts.”
“Why do the Chinese trust him? They’re telling us he’s clean.”
The Russian cast the thought aside. “No one likes to be wrong.” When Jessi continued to look puzzled, she added, “They believe their own propaganda. They have no reason to think ETIM can do harm if half of them don’t believe the separatists exist. They don’t want to believe one of their own is a traitor.”
Odolova smiled at her as though waiting. Then, after an uncomfortable pause, she drained her own drink with a flourish and said, “Now I think it’s time for you to buy a drink for me.”
“Oh,” Jessi said. “Would you like another one of—”
The Russian agent laughed. “I mean it’s your turn to share information.”
Jessi felt her cheeks burn as she blushed. “Infor—? I don’t know if I have any…”
Odolova’s face hardened. The dark mascara, which before had appeared hypnotic, became ugly and severe. “The RPG–29s. Who has them? Where are they?”
“Oh,” Jessi said, realizing she actually did know that information, and only too late deciding that she shouldn’t have revealed it. “I…I don’t know that I’m allowed to—”
Her counterpart brushed blond wisps away from her forehead. “I’m not running a charity service, Jessi. I gave you information because I expect something in return.”
Suddenly there was weight and pressure behind Jessi. She glanced over her shoulder to find a man in a blue T-shirt standing very close, his hard stomach pressed against her elbow.
“Let’s go for a drive and talk some more,” Anastasia said pleasantly; but it was not a request.
The man put his heavy hand on Jessi’s arm. Then things happened very quickly. As the man squeezed her arm, Jessi heard a dull thud and a loud pop. The man’s eyes flew very wide, and then he crumpled straight down like a building falling in on itself. And suddenly Jack Bauer was standing there.
Jack had listened to bits and pieces of the conversation, though he missed most of it. Odolova was skilled at sounding natural while keeping her voice low. When the Russian babysitter made his move, Jack made his. He slid up behind him and dropped him as soon as he laid hands on Bandison.
The Russian man was still on the ground, sobbing and holding his broken knee.
“We’re done talking,” Jack said to Odolova. He took Jessi by the same arm the Russian had grabbed. His grip was gentler but still firm as he guided the analyst away from the bar and past the patrons wondering what had happened to the man on the ground. Jack and Jessi walked outside into the twilight of Sunset Boulevard.
Jack carried a borrowed phone, and it rang now. He leaned back into the alcove that led into the bar, but away from the door in case the Russians followed. “Bauer.”
“Jack.”
It was Mercy Bennet. “Where are you? Are you safe?” he asked.
“Well, there are degrees of safe,” she said with a morose tone. “CTU contacted me and gave me this number. It’s been quite a day.”
“The Monkey Wrench Gang,” Jack said. “Smith. All those things you said. They’re all true.”
Mercy laughed bitterly. “I’ve been waiting for someone to say that to me. It’s just a little too late.” She told him quickly how she’d tracked Smith, whose real name was Copeland, and watched him die; she also told him that before he had died he’d told her she’d been exposed to a virus. “I got checked out at UCLA, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet.”
Jack felt a great weight settle on his shoulders. “Are you sure he said that?”
“Pretty damned sure.”
“Mercy—” the weight that settled on him was guilt; guilt that he hadn’t told her earlier what he was really doing; guilt that he had turned her into an unwitting victim in the war on terror. He still couldn’t tell her the truth, not quite yet. But she did have a right to know her own fate. “Mercy, the virus is deadly. It’s a hemorrhagic fever.”
