Detective Don Biehn, but something was nagging at him. Not a clue, exactly, but an absence of explanation. If Biehn had already started his vendetta (which Jack assumed was true), and that’s when he was grabbed by Yasin, or whoever tortured him, was there some kind of connection? Why would Yasin bother with an LAPD detective? There was an enormous gap in the logical flow of events, and the only way to fill that gap was to follow Biehn down this dark hole into his own personal hell.
“Come on,” he said at last. “We’re going to see Mulrooney. “Then you’re going to tell me everything you know, or I’ll kill you myself.”
“You sure you’re up for this?” Christopher Henderson asked again.
This time Diana Christie glared at him. “Yes. I met him before. He’s not that hard to handle. I go in, I try to buy the plastic explosives. My goal is to figure out where he buys from or who else he sold to.”
“Don’t push it,” Henderson cautioned. “It’ll be enough for us to get the goods. We may be able to trace —”
“—them back to their point of origin. You said that, too,” the NTSB agent interrupted. “Look, I’ll admit. This is new for me. But I can always just play dumb. Jack’s character was the boss.” She twisted her finger in her hair and turned one knee in girlishly. “I’m just his girl Friday.”
Henderson grinned. “Works for me. Good luck.”
He watched her walk out the door, hoping to god that everything went well, and praying for the day CTU was fully staffed and able to send backup.
Michael was asleep when the phone rang. He had willed himself to bed. Years of experience had taught him that, although he needed very little sleep, his circadian rhythms demanded rest from around two o’clock to five o’clock in the morning. With those three hours of sleep he could operate at full capacity. If he remained awake during that block of time, he could sleep eight hours on any other cycle and feel exhausted.
“What,” he said grumpily.
“This is Pembrook,” said the voice of one of his men. “There’s been more trouble. The police detective was taken by Federal agents, but he’s disappeared since then. And another of our clerics, Father Dortmund, has just been hospitalized.”
“Was he attacked?”
Pembrook replied, “According to our sources, it was an accident. A dresser fell on him while he was asleep. It nearly crushed his throat. A neighbor found him. But…”
“Finish.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence. Dortmund was one of the church’s… relocations.”
Michael considered this. Biehn had most certainly killed Father Giggs. He’d been taken into custody by the Federal government, but now suddenly an other priest, whom Michael knew to have the same unsavory habits as Giggs, had been injured. “Get a man over to Dortmund. Find out what happened to him.”
He hung up and then sat up in bed. He could feel the Federal government nipping at his heels. Federal agents had captured their extra plastic explosives— thank god he’d left it in the hands of those bumblers on Sweetzer Avenue for just such a reason. Federal agents had nearly gotten their hands on Ramin. Federal agents had spoken with al-Hassan, but the man seemed to have passed with flying colors. Federal agents were tracking the plastic explosives backward, talking to the middleman he had hoped would divert curious eyes. Well, he had shored up that breach as best he could. That was the key, and Michael hoped that Yasin was right about what tactics to use in that battle. According to Yasin, it was foolish to try to hide from Federal investigators. They were relentless, and they had the resources to break down any defenses, once they spotted their objective. They could not be blocked, only redirected. So Michael, following Yasin’s advice, had prepared to redirect them. He would know within the hour.
Ironically, the government’s actual terrorist investigation was leading them only in circles. But this rogue detective was ruining everything.
Jack had no way of knowing, but he parked in exactly the same spot that Don Biehn had used hours earlier. After freeing Biehn’s feet, he pulled the man out of the car and escorted him down the street. Biehn was looking haggard, almost a walking corpse, except for his eyes, which were bright with an unhealthy glow.
“I meant it,” Jack warned, speaking for the first time since they’d left Dortmund’s. “You give me the slightest bit of trouble, and I’ll shoot you. I’m already in enough trouble over this. Shooting you is not going to make it all that much worse.”
“I’m thinking,” Biehn said in a hollow voice, “that you and I aren’t that much different. I’m throwing everything away for something really important to me. You look like you’re willing to do the same. I’m doing it for Aaron. What’s your story?”
Jack shrugged. “A terrorist kicked my dog when I was a kid.”
“No, really. Why risk your career?”
“Because someone has to care more about saving the world than saving his job.”
“Exactly!” Biehn laughed. “I knew it. You’re the hero of the story.”
“I guess that makes you the villain,” Jack answered.
“Nope, but I bet you’re about to meet him.”
Jack didn’t stand on ceremony. He led Biehn straight through the cathedral and into the grounds beyond. Biehn seemed to know his way around the place, and led Jack past the rectory to the small house standing alone at the far corner of the cathedral grounds. Lights were on in the house, and there was a man standing in front. He looked utterly dumbfounded by the appearance of the two men. “We need to see the Cardinal,” Jack said simply. “It’s urgent.”
“I’ll have to—”
But Jack hadn’t stopped walking. He brushed right past the guard and pulled on the door of the house. It was unlocked and opened easily onto a small hallway. Jack, still holding tightly to Biehn’s arm, walked down the hallway and turned left into the first lighted room, to find himself staring at an utterly average man. He had the look of a man of about sixty; his hair was medium brown and only slightly thin on top; he was of average height and medium build. Jack was immediately reminded of one of his daughter’s old “Felt Friends,” ambiguous human figures that could be dressed up in different costumes with different expressions. This man could have been dropped into the suit of a Washington politician, or a sales clerk at Nordstrom’s, or an Iowa farmer’s overalls, and he would have blended perfectly.
The nondescript man looked shocked, but said nothing to the newcomers. He looked past Jack, to the flustered guard who was coming up behind.
“I’m sorry, Your Eminence,” the guard said. “He just walked right past. I didn’t expect—” “Apologize later,” Jack interrupted. “You’re Cardinal Mulrooney?” The man, wearing black slacks and a white shirt, unbuttoned, nodded. “Tell me what this is about.” “It’s about the perverts who abused my son!”
Biehn shouted. Jack should have known he’d find the energy to work himself back into a frenzy. “The ones you knew about!”
Mulrooney was extremely self-disciplined. For a man interrupted at such a late hour, and so accused, he remained impressively calm. Jack saw the Cardinal’s eyes dart from Jack, to Biehn, to the placement of his hands behind his back, noting everything. But he said to both of them, “Are you the two who killed Father Giggs?”
“No,” Jack replied. “I’m—”
Jack felt the change in air pressure more than he heard anything. The men who rushed in through some unseen door were quiet as wraiths. Jack was already dropping to a crouched position as the first
