24 Declassified: Chaos Theory

“What I’m here for. What do you need?”

“Look at that Marriott bombing in Jakarta from a

while back. The local police report and the Indonesian government’s published investigation. Also whatever briefs the CIA put out to us and anyone at other intelligence agencies.”

Jamey was already at her computer, her fingers bouncing over the keyboard. “Okay, but what am I looking for?”

“If I remember it right, the Indonesians put a plant in that story?”

“Hold on.”

Jamey buzzed through several reports in her data

base before coming back on the line. “Yes,” she said finally. “It wasn’t much, though, because so much of it was public. But the official report said that the bomb was delivered by a truck that exploded in the parking lot.”

“Did the news media pick that up?”

“Hold on.” Again, there was a pause. “I’d have to take more time to give you a comprehensive answer, but most of the outlets reported the story as is.”

“Truck bomb.”

“Right.”

“When the vehicle was really a—” “A van,” she finished for him.

“Thank you.”

11:26 P.M. PST Staples Center, Los Angeles

His real name, if he had been willing to admit it to anyone, was Jorge Rafael Marquez, and he was a genius. This wasn’t a boast. He had known it from an early age as surely as one knew one’s gender. The same way a little boy knows he is different from a little girl, Jorge knew he was different from all the children around him, different even from the adults. In the little school in the Chiapas province of Mexico where he grew up, when the teacher was trying to teach addition to the others, he was already mapping out multiplication tables, and without knowing its name, he used algebra and calculus to help his father map out his soybean farm to produce its maximum yield.

He read, and anything he wished to commit to memory, he remembered forever. When his uncle showed him a guitar, he had memorized the chords in a single day, and though he himself denied that he had mastered the art of music, the science and organization of music he understood with ease.

Because the real gift of Jorge Rafael Marquez was in patterns. He recognized them easily, and could project them forward to their logical ends based on any changes he was presented. He still remembered the day he was handed a Rubik’s Cube, battered, some of the cubes chipped. It was a gift from an older cousin who had made the long migration to El Norte and come back after several years. In America, he had said, there were lots of geniuses, and all of them could solve this puzzle.

Rafael, twelve years old, had stared at the cube for a moment without touching it. His cousin laughed, thinking he was intimidated. His father patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, Rafael,” he had said with a laugh. “If your gift helps me farm, it’s enough for me!”

But Rafael hadn’t been intimidated. He had been spinning the cube in his mind. In the few seconds of his cousin’s laugher he had identified three different methods of solving the puzzle. Finally he picked it up, his hands spinning the cube faster than his cousin’s eyes could follow. He put it down, each side a solid color, thirty-seven seconds later.

The next day he had started out for America.

These days he left the name of Marquez far behind, and his associates knew him as Zapata. He had come to the United States on this trip under the name of Ossipon, guessing correctly that no one who heard the name would know or recall the name of the anarchist in one of Joseph Conrad’s books.

Zapata and Aguillar walked freely into the Staples Center — the concert, whatever it was, was nearly over. No one would bother entering the event now. Zapata had only a small bag with him. He took a camera out of the bag and handed it to Aguillar. “Put this around your neck.”

They walked around the wide promenade that ringed the actual center, passing rows of concession stands, upscale bars, and kiosks that sold food and souvenirs to a few people, all of whom seemed eager to get back into the concert. Zapata ignored them all. At one of the kiosks, Zapata stopped near a large pot that held a small tree. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then dug into the plant, placed a small package there, and covered it with soil.

They continued until they came to a set of double doors that read, “No Admittance.”

11:33 P.M. PST Federal Holding Facility, Los Angeles

Ramirez was reading a book picked up from the library. Jack went to his bunk and dug his fingernails into the seam of his mattress. With a tug, the seam parted. He stuffed his hand inside and came out with a shank. Unlike a shiv, which was any weapon made of nonmetal, a shank was a makeshift knife. This one was a razor blade embedded into three plastic knives that had been melted together for added strength and to hold the razor in place. The Federal Holding Facility was a maze of metal detectors, so shanks were impossible to move around. Impossible for other people, but not for Jack.

“What’s up?” Ramirez asked, looking up over the edge of his book. “Jesus!” he yelled, as Jack slashed his left palm with the blade. “Stop it!” Ramirez shrieked as Jack made a second cut along the side of his own neck.

“Help!” he shouted. “Goddamn Christ! Help!”

A guard came running. “What the hell’s wrong.

Holy shit!” He saw blood all over Jack’s hands and face, his appearance made worse by rubbing his hands over his shirt and face to spread the blood.

“Open her up!” the guard shouted. “Call the infirmary!”

“He cut me!” Jack yelled, making his voice high-pitched and panicked. “He’s loose on the block and he ran by and cut me!”

“Who’s loose?” the guard said. “Somebody’s loose.”

“Yes,” Jack said. He punched the guard in the face, putting him back on his heels, and before he could react, Jack was behind him, holding the razor to his throat. “Don’t struggle or you’ll end up looking a lot worse than I do.”

Jack turned to Ramirez. “Come on, you’re going with me.”

Ramirez was stunned. Thirty seconds ago he’d been sitting quietly reading his book. “Me? What?”

“I’m not going to let those gang-bangers kill me, and you said yourself they’d come after you, too.”

“But—”

“Come on!” Jack dragged the guard out of the cell and down the hall. By the time he got to the choke point at the edge of the block, the guard behind the Plexiglas could see him.

“Open it!” he said, brandishing the razor blade.

The guard hit an alarm and sirens sounded. But the door remained closed.

Everything depended on fast reactions, sudden movements, drama. It was like using the element of surprise to attack a larger force. Move fast, strike hard, don’t let the enemy’s training kick in. Jack cut his hostage across the scalp. The wound was all but harmless, but the scalp gushes blood, and it had the desired effect. Gouts of blood dripped over the guard’s face, and he screamed. “Do it!”

The guard panicked and slapped another button. The security door buzzed and Jack pulled it open. Now he was inside. Before the second guard could say or do anything, Jack kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over, and Jack kicked him in the head. He went down and didn’t get up. Jack scanned the room; there were riot batons but no firearms, not this deep inside the facility. He did, however, have another weapon.

He threw the switches that opened all the cells, and spoke over a loudspeaker. “Free time, everyone. Come out and play.”

He heard the first whoops before he saw anyone move. Jail was, he had noticed, an oxymoron. If society was the establishment of procedures and organization, then prison was a much more efficient society than any neighborhood or town. It was, in that sense, the epitome of society. At the same time, it was far closer to the edge of disaster than any other social group. Prison was routine, routine, routine, all just one step away from riot.

Jack was satisfied to note that Ramirez had followed him. Tentative, shocked by what Jack had done, but compliant nonetheless.