“He’s a terrorist, right? I can tell you when he arrived in the city. I can tell you a lot more, but let’s start with that.” Biehn sat back in his chair, smiling out of his haggard, exhausted face.
“How the hell do you know that?” Jack was stunned.
“I’ll tell you that, too. After you let me go.”
“Let’s start with your proof,” Jack said. “When did he arrive?”
Biehn had overheard a conversation between Michael and Yasin just before Michael had begun to torture him. He had heard quite a few interesting details. “I don’t know what airline. But I know that he arrived at LAX four days ago, in the afternoon, I think. And that he’s leaving tomorrow.”
Jack really had no idea how this battered, broken cop with murderous intentions had gathered information on a terrorist suspect, but he knew he had to check it out. “Wait here,” he said.
He walked out of the conference room and through the main room, toward Christopher Henderson’s office. He entered without knocking to find Henderson sitting at his computer, though his eyes were closed. Jack rapped his knuckles on the desk.
“That’s impressive,” he said as Henderson started awake. “I haven’t learned to see through my eyelids yet.”
Henderson shuddered himself further awake. “Long friggin’ day. What’s up?”
“Is that Jamey Farrell around? I need someone to run down some intelligence.”
“Try bay one. It’s one of the data banks down the hall past the conference room. She has a cot in there.”
“A cot?”
“She’s dedicated.”
Bauer hurried down the hall and into the same technical bay he’d visited with Nina Myers. There was indeed a cot there, and Jamey Farrell was asleep on it. She was a light sleeper and popped up as soon as Jack entered.
“What?” she demanded.
“I need some data analysis,” Jack said. “Did Henderson give you any instructions earlier about downloading feed from LAX for facial recognition?”
Jamey yawned. “Yup. For the last week. That’s a lot of data. If you don’t narrow it down, it’s gonna take —”
“Four days ago. Afternoon. Let’s do 1200 to 2100.”
Jamey hopped out of the cot, grumbling, and went over to the half-finished tech bay. “It’s all here. Let me get to the right area.” She fired up the monitor and punched in some time code. A series of squares appeared within the monitor like a checkerboard, each square representing a camera. In each square was a time code set at 12:00:00. “Starting facial recognition.” Jamey punched in a few more commands, and the video started running at high speed, the travelers hurrying through the frame like Keystone cops. For a brief instant, each face flashed as the facial recognition software captured it. Jack and Jamey watched for a while as the time code ran forward from 12:00 to 13:00, then 13:22, and then suddenly pinged.
“Oh, shit,” Jamey said. She clicked on the warning window that had appeared. A face in the security footage opened up in a new window, and the system summoned another face from its own data banks, an older picture. The older picture had a mustache whereas the security photo did not, and the hair was different, but the features were the same. Under the older photo appeared the name “Abdul Rahman Yasin” and in larger letters under both pictures appeared the word
“Right,” Jack said. “Now please get me a list of all flights landing at gates—”
“—coming out of that area and passing that security camera. You want about thirty minutes prior?”
“You’re good,” Jack said. “This CTU might be in good hands after all.”
“Better damned believe it,” she muttered as he walked out.
Jack hurried back to the conference room, but his phone rang on the way. He stopped in the hall when he saw the number flashing on his screen.
“Bauer,” he said quickly. “Thanks for answering the page, Carlos.”
“Sure,” said a throaty, cigarette-induced voice on the line. “No reason I should be sleeping anyway. I mean, why should I still be sleeping when it’s already… oh, damn, look at that, I should be sleeping!”
“Can’t be helped,” Jack replied. “I need help only the NSA can give me at the moment. I need a wiretap run immediately.”
When Carlos was truly annoyed, as now, all the sarcasm left his voice. “Wiretap? Call the locals.”
“I need speed,” Jack explained briefly. “My window to gather information is hours, not days. I need it yesterday and I’ll deal with the FISA court.” The Federal Intelligence Services Act had been established in the early seventies. It allowed intelligence agencies broader surveillance powers under the supervision of a secret court. One of its primary benefits was the ability to set wiretaps and other invasive forms of surveillance prior to getting a court order.
Jack practically heard the espionage man’s shrug through the phone. “It’s your head, Jack, not mine. Gimme the info. I’m on it.”
Jack passed on Farrigian’s information, then hung up and hurried into the conference room, where Biehn and Driscoll sat in silence. Jack threw a you’re-notgoing-to-believe-this look at Harry. “Abdul Rahman Yasin was identified passing through LAX four days ago, in the afternoon.”
“Told you,” Biehn said. “We have a deal?” Driscoll said, “So what? So cooperate and you’ll get a reduced sentence.” Jack said, “What you know has to be worthwhile, or I’ll scrap any deal we make.”
Driscoll turned on Jack as though he’d just suggested they mug a cripple. “Jack, you’re not serious. No one’s making a deal with him—”
“I might be,” Jack replied firmly.
“He killed someone, Jack. Let the DA talk to him. He can cut a deal for a reduced charge, maybe even manslaughter, but—”
“I don’t have time!” Jack snapped. He knew he didn’t have to snap like that. He was getting tired, too. He steadied his voice. “I still don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’ve got all kinds of circumstantial evidence that it’s going down tomorrow. You’re talking about booking him, interviewing him, getting the DA down to talk to him, paperwork, an attorney…” Jack was frustrating himself with the list, so he stopped. “The last time Yasin was in this country, he tried to blow up the World Trade Center. Whatever he’s doing tomorrow, we need to stop it.”
Driscoll was still staring at Jack, aghast. It was as though he was staring at a stranger. “To stop it you’re going to make a deal with a murderer.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to stare at Harry, but his look was pure disdain at his old friend’s naivete. “You mean am I willing to get information on a known terrorist by releasing a guy who killed a child molester? Yes.”
It occurred to Driscoll that he had never really known Jack Bauer. Or perhaps the CIA had changed the former LAPD SWAT officer. Either way, it was clear that Jack Bauer was willing to leave closed the doors that Driscoll felt obligated to open, and was probably willing to open doors Harry wouldn’t touch. “That’s against the law,” he said quietly.
Jack pretended he hadn’t heard.
Nina Myers had tried to go home and sleep. She had told herself there was nothing left to do that night; that Jack Bauer seemed to want to play with the little blond chippie from NTSB; that she would be a better investigator after a good night’s sleep.
But that hadn’t lasted much beyond midnight. As the clock swung around toward one a.m., she was out of bed and pacing her living room, trying to think of angles she hadn’t covered. When the clock struck one she was in her car, and fifteen minutes later she was walking into CTU. She saw the log and knew Bauer was there, but he looked busy and she was feeling competitive. He hadn’t responded to the direct approach at all. Maybe he’d warm up to a girl who could keep pace with him.
Despite what she’d said earlier, she thought that the Ali Abdul/Abdul Ali mix-up might actually produce some new data. She hopped on to one of the office’s working terminals — these were in short supply during the day, but this late at night, with most of the analysts gone, she had her pick of stations — and logged into the FAA’s records. Through the FAA, she was able to look at Alaska Airlines’ manifests. That’s when she started to learn something about Abdul Ali. According to the airline, he’d been traveling in Pakistan under the mixed- up name. His flight back
