He could practically hear the veins in Chappelle’s forehead popping through the telephone. “That’s not my case. Maybe that detective was on to something and they wanted him quiet. We don’t investigate murders here, we stop terrorists.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Jack said. “Biehn had information—”
“And instead of extracting it, you chauffeured him around town. And got him killed.”
“No one except us knows it was me. There’s containment here,” Jack said, trying to control his own temper. He didn’t mind getting chewed out once in a while, but this pencil neck who wasn’t even his commanding officer was starting to get under his skin. “I did what I thought necessary to get the information I needed as soon as possible. There have been no major consequences—”
“No major—!” Chappelle sputtered. “A priest in the hospital and three dead men!”
“A pedophile and two trigger-happy security men who were trying to kill me,” Jack retorted. “Biehn, they murdered.”
“Get into this office now. I’m going to decide whether you need to be put into custody or not. If you don’t show up here in the next fifteen minutes, I’m putting out a warrant for your arrest.”
Harry Driscoll could not work, but he could not go home, either. After leaving CTU, he had returned to his desk at Robbery-Homicide. But the work he had to do was unpleasant: to write a report on his transfer of Don Biehn’s custody to Jack Bauer of the CIA, and to accuse Bauer of endangering the case and, further, currently unaccused citizens, in pursuit of an unrelated investigation.
The office lights at Parker Center were all dark. Only the fluorescent lights in the hallway were awake, casting their pale greenish glow down on the beige, speckled tiles on the floor. When it was quiet like this, you could hear the fluorescent tubes buzzing like bees in a glowing hive. The sound made Driscoll feel even more alone.
He had heard about Biehn’s death a few minutes before. By morning, he’d have his captain breathing down his neck for an explanation. He’d be under water and he would have no choice but to describe how he’d turned custody over to Bauer. What would
Bauer say? What was Jack possibly thinking?
As if to answer his question, Jack Bauer called him.
“Jack,” Harry said sadly.
“You heard?”
“Yeah, one of the responding uniforms called me. It’s a mess over at St. Monica’s.”
Jack defended himself with an explanation of how gun-happy the security men were.
“But something was wrong with the Cardinal. And the security team. They were way more interested in killing us than protecting their man.”
‘So?”
“So they succeeded in doing one thing. I never learned the connection between Biehn’s vendetta and the terrorists.”
“Was there one?”
“You heard him talk about Yasin, the terrorist. And someone did all that to him. I need you to help me.”
Without hesitation, Harry said, “I’m not helping you, Jack, except to talk you into settling down before there’s any more trouble.”
“Can you look into Cardinal Mulrooney for me?” Jack asked as though Harry hadn’t spoken. “I want to know his background, who works for him. Any skeletons in his closet.”
“He’s a Cardinal in the Catholic Church,” Driscoll said, as though that concluded the matter.
The tone in his voice alerted Jack. “Harry… I never knew you were Catholic.”
“Why would you?” the detective asked. “I don’t need to wear a sign on my back.”
“No, I guess it’s not my business,” Jack replied simply. He wondered if Driscoll’s faith had affected his view of Biehn. No wonder, at least, that it had been hard for Harry to turn the man over to Jack. “You’re still the only guy I can turn to right now. This group I’m working with, it’s a new unit, and they are stretched thin. I don’t know what the CIA will have on Mulrooney. I need someone local. I just want to know the Cardinal’s background.”
Driscoll pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Damn it. All he’d wanted to do was stay involved in the potential terrorist case the Feds had taken away from his unit. How had that morphed into this debacle?
“If I help you, then you need to help me,” the detective said at last. “I’m just shy of twenty years on, Jack. This thing could kill my career when my captain hears about it in the morning. Shit, forget the Captain, I’ll probably hear from the Chief himself, and you know I don’t want to get the call.”
“What do you want me to do?” Jack offered sincerely.
“I want off the hook on this. I want it clear that I turned custody of Biehn over to you at your insistence, and you made all the decisions from there.”
Jack smiled unhappily. He remembered what he’d said to Biehn:
“Okay. I’ll do it.” “Thanks. Listen, if you need help, there’s someone I want you to call. Name’s Maddie Marianno.”
He recited an unusually long number. “Give her my name.”
“Okay,” Harry said. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”
The regular police were still milling about the crime scene, and Michael could only give thanks that the Unity Conference would be held elsewhere. He was sure they would cancel the event rather than let civilians trample over any potential evidence. He had already given an immediate interview, and had been told to wait around until more detectives arrived so that he could answer the same questions again. At the moment, though, he was alone, and decided to make a call.
Abdul Rahman Yasin, still using the name Gabriel, answered after two rings. He listened quietly while Michael updated him. “It would all be easier,” Michael said, not for the first time, “if I just did the job myself, quickly. I could probably do it right now.”
And, not for the first time, Yasin replied, “But that is just murder. Assassination, nothing more. The tool we are using is terrorism. It must be a spectacle. It must be public.”
Michael had known the answer before he heard it. He shrugged off the rejection. He had worked for enough men to be accustomed to following orders. Yasin was the man in charge at the moment, and Michael would do as he was told.
“But,” Yasin said cautiously, “there is no danger of canceling the conference?”
“There is talk of it,” Michael replied, “but I know this Pope, and he will push forward if he can. He doesn’t get sidetracked easily.”
“Good,” Yasin said. “And how are our delivery-men? All in good condition?”
“Yes,” Michael replied.
“Then all this trouble will come to nothing. Well done, Michael. We are going to have a very interesting day.”
Jack walked into CTU’s headquarters, which seemed almost morguelike at this late hour. Overhead lights had been turned off, except in the conference room, whose doorway appeared like some extra-dimensional portal in the darkness. Jack walked toward it but was met halfway by Ryan Chappelle, wearing khaki pants, a sweatshirt, and a more than usually pinched look.
“You are fucked,” Chappelle said to him.
“Right,” Jack replied, following him into the conference room. Christopher Henderson was there, as was Diana Christie. Her left arm was heavily bandaged from her wrist all the way to her shoulder.
“What happened to you?” he asked. “Later,” Chappelle snapped dismissively. “Tell him the important part.” Diana looked chagrined. She was clearly embarrassed to relay her information — not embarrassed
for herself, but for Jack. “I think…” she started, then winced a bit as she moved her injured arm. “I think you’re headed in the wrong direction, Jack. Based on my meeting with Farrigian.”
