up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Gelson said. “It’ll all blow over soon enough.”
Boorstein heaved a dramatic sigh. “Maybe, maybe not. Here’s the problem, my friend. You are moving out of the where-are-they-now file and into the what-have-they-done-with-their-life file. That means that people aren’t doing bios on you, but when you fall on your face, they want to tell that story.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Gelson said. “You pitch that to
Boorstein snorted. “Them I tell about your next this, your upcoming that. But you I level with. The mug shot was already in the paper. But I know two reporters who are doing a follow-up, digging up dirt.” Boorstein’s voice grew suddenly grave, and his cavalier movements settled into focused attentiveness. “So tell me, is anyone going to find out about this whole Catholic Church thing?”
Gelson looked calm, almost serene. “I don’t think I care anymore, Jonny. I don’t scream and shout about it. Why should they care?”
“Because Catholics go see movies. And if they hear that you are a schizophrenic—” “Schismatic,” Gelson corrected.
“Yeah, that. Then they might stop going to see your movies, and then people would stop paying you, and I wouldn’t get paid, and that would be bad.”
Gelson looked out at the ocean. “You know, the Catholic Church is the oldest continuously existing entity in the Western world. That’s a powerful thing all by itself. Then of course you add the grace of God and — well, never mind. But it’s been around. And it’s worked. It brought education and enlightenment. It was Catholic priests in Ireland that preserved Western civilization during the Dark Ages. One church, unbroken, unchanged. That’s why it lasted. It remained true. Until the sixties.”
Boorstein wished he didn’t need the history lesson, but he did. If anyone had ever told him about Vatican II, and the massive changes the Pope had ordered, he didn’t remember. But Gelson told him in detail about the changes in the catechisms, in the Mass, and so many other vital parts of the service.
“Hundreds of years, Jonny. Hundreds. And then, wham! It all gets changed by one man.”
“By… the Pope,” Boorstein reminded him.
“Not my Pope,” Gelson said.
Boorstein shrugged. “Look, none of your fans are going to care about a theological debate. Just don’t say or do anything crazy. Okay?”
Gelson shrugged. “No promises.”
17. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 A.M. AND 11 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
“You know, I came across an honest-to-god coincidence once,” Harry Driscoll said as he and Jack Bauer drove back to Jack’s car. “When I got out of the academy, I moved into apartment 432 at 1812 Delaware Avenue, and I got a new phone number. Swear to god the phone number was 432–1812.”
“No kidding,” Jack said.
“No kidding,” Harry repeated. “But in twenty years of detective work, that’s the only goddamned coincidence I ever came across. There are no coincidences. Ever.”
“St. Monica’s,” Jack said, cutting to the chase.
“Saint friggin’ Monica’s,” the fireplug of a detective replied. “Why is it you go there twice in one night. The priest that I arrest, who works there, gets shot. And now the guy who rented the car that shot me up, who seems to have disappeared, runs a business that takes care of the place.” Harry shook his head in disbelief. “You keep chasing this C–4 all over the city, and we keep ending up back at St. Monica’s every time.”
“I’m with you,” Jack said, “but where’s the next step? At least, where is it as far as the terrorists are concerned? You’ve absolutely got a criminal investigation to chase down, with child molestation and priests who should probably be castrated. But what about the plastic explosives? There’s no connection for me, as far as I can tell.”
Driscoll said, “You know the connection. Biehn said that whoever kidnapped him also knew about the terrorist, Yasin’s his name, right?” Jack nodded. “So the kidnapper takes Biehn, who was shadowing Collins. Same kidnapper has knowledge of some terrorist thing connected with Yasin. You got to figure that the same terrorist tried to kill me when I went after Collins.”
“We need that autopsy,” Jack said.
Not that Santa Monica PD’s team was bad. But even if they did everything by the book, there would be bureaucracy. Information would have to flow up the chain at the local PD, then back down through the Federal agencies. And by that time it might be too late.
These guys hadn’t even treated her like a colleague. The fire truck and black-and-white that arrived together on the scene had first treated her like an accident victim, then the cops had briefly put handcuffs on her when they realized a bomb had gone off, and then they had ignored her when someone checked her credentials through the State Department.
Now one of the forensics techs, a tall, ugly man with lanky black hair and pockmarks, approached her with a quizzical look on his face. “Ma’am, a question?”
“Fire away,” she said. “What have you guys got?”
“Well,” he said, then stopped. He furrowed his brow, creating deep lines above his pockmarked cheeks. Finally, he asked, “Was the victim… was she holding anything when the bomb went off?”
Nina tried to think back. At first her memory was fuzzy, but then she recalled Christie dropping her handgun. Her right hand had been empty. Her left arm had been in a sling. “No. Not unless she was hiding something in the sling on her arm. Why?”
The tech’s quizzical look deepened. “Well, only because the explosion… well, the explosion looks like it happened right where she was standing. Was she wearing a bomb?”
Nina shook her head. “I guess she might have been. I didn’t see anything big on her. But my brain is pretty banged up.”
“Okay, thanks,” the tech said, but he left looking even more perplexed.
Nina took out her cell phone, thankful that it still worked, and dialed the number for Jack Bauer. He answered quickly. “It’s Nina Myers,” she said.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m headed back to CTU. Are you there?”
“Santa Monica. I’ve got news for you. I went to see Diana Christie to talk to her about her and Farrigian.”
“What did she say.”
“She blew up.” Nina described her brief, explosive encounter with the NTSB investigator. She was gratified when Bauer said, “It sounds like Ramin. You may have been right. Are we running a background check on her?”
“I’ll do it. But you know this thing is getting crazier, right? Yesterday she was the one pushing for an investigation. Then last night she sends us on a wild-goose chase. Today she blows up.”
Jack agreed. “This whole thing is convoluted. Someone set it up that way.”
“Yasin?”
“Has to be. But there’s someone else. Someone on the front line who can move around without arousing suspicion. And they planned so that we’ve spent the last twelve hours running after everything but their target.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I’m done playing. I’m going to go ask some people some hard questions. Starting with that weasel of an
