“That’s it. I was just told to call.”
Jamey Farrell put down the phone and went back to her database. She was so focused on her searches that she nearly forgot the message as soon as she’d hung up. Just in time, she grabbed a pen and scribbled the name on the back of some other notes. Someday they’d need receptionists and lower-level staff for that sort of thing.
Khalid decided he’d waited long enough. There had been no activity on the street. For all he knew, the police might be combing the city for him, but they weren’t looking here. This was Khalid’s old mail route, and he knew every car that parked here regularly. Nothing was out of order.
Khalid got out of his car and walked down the street toward the house where Mousa and the others had lived. The three men were more complicit than they let on, of course, but much less than the authorities had suspected. In the end, they were dupes, enjoying the thrill of living on the edge of danger but really knowing nothing of what went on. If they’d known the crate had contained explosives, they probably would have run screaming like girls.
Gerry walked up to the Sweetzer house and opened it with a key hidden under a rock in the garden. He ducked under the police tape still strung across the porch and opened the door. He was sure the authorities would not have taken his bag. It was well-hidden, and the documents and cash inside were in a secret compartment.
Khalid walked through the living room and toward the bedroom when he heard the female voice behind him. “Hello, Gary.”
Jack moved through the reception hall, every sense heightened, as though he might be able to hear or smell a bomb. There was still a substantial reception line waiting to greet the Pope, and he walked along it casually. It was a surreal moment, imagining that one of them was a human bomb.
“Jack Bauer,” said someone in line. Bauer, who had been looking at hands and bodies, focused on a face and recognized Amy Weiss, the
She was canny enough not to mention his profession when he was in plainclothes. “Amy,” he said. “You’ve become enlightened, I guess.” He pointed to the religious leaders all around her.
She laughed. “Well, I do write the truth for a living,” she said. “But I still do it for the papers. I just got to interview the Pope, so I was given an invitation to the reception.”
Amy’s voice was light, but her eyes were staring into Jack, and he was instantly on his guard. He could practically read her thoughts: murder at St. Monica’s, Pope’s reception, LAPD undercover. She’d have flipped if she’d known he was now with the CIA.
“Are you enjoying it so far?” he asked.
“I love standing in line!” she joked. “But yeah, I have to tell you, I talked to him this morning, and he’s committed to this. He believes it will save the world.”
“He’s definitely committed,” Jack agreed, still glancing around.
“Is there something I should know about?” she asked casually.
“No,” he said. “But if you wanted to go powder your nose for a couple of hours, that wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
Amy’s face went pale.
Nina had proned Khalid out, putting his face in the carpet, and did a cursory search. As she reached to cuff one of his wrists, he spun quickly. He was much stronger than his lanky frame indicated. She tried to jam her knee into his neck, but she lost her balance and fell back. He tried to jump her, but she kicked his shin and he staggered back. She leveled her weapon, but didn’t try to shoot him.
He ran.
Jamey was coming up with nothing. It was a stupid assignment anyway. There was no way the Vatican’s security people had missed anything in the backgrounds of these guests.
She sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. As she brought her knuckles away from her face, her eyes focused on the note on the back of the papers. Abdul al-Hassan.
“Oh shit,” she said.
Nina vaulted over a backyard fence three houses down. Khalid was taller and maybe faster, but he wasn’t nearly as stubborn as she was, so she caught up to him by the fourth backyard and dragged him off the fence. Before he could use his size and strength against her, she kicked him in the groin while he was down. He curled up into a ball and she stomped on his ankle. He screamed, and she stomped on his elbow, too.
Only two people left, Marwan thought. It would have been unbearable, to stand in this line to greet the spiritual leader of the Crusaders; unbearable, if not for the fact that the Pope would soon be dead, and he himself would be in Paradise.
The room’s length away, Michael reached into his pocket for the keyless entry remote control that he had not surrendered to the valet.
Jack’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. “Bauer,” he said formally, although he knew it was Jamey Farrell.
“Abdul al-Hassan!” she blurted out. “He’s an impostor.”
“What do you—?”
“They found his dead body dumped off the freeway this morning. You’re looking for Abdul al-Hassan.”
Jack snapped the phone shut. He scanned the crowded room for Giancarlo and hurried over to the Swiss Guard. “The bomber is Abdul al-Hassan. Which one is he? We need to know now!”
To his credit, Giancarlo did not waste words or motions. He spoke quickly in Italian to his security office. Unseen cameras whirred around the crowded room. Giancarlo touched a hand to his ear as he listened. His eyes went wide. “The bearded man. With the Pope!”
They bolted forward together.
Michael watched Marwan al-Hassan, smiling pleasantly, take the hand of the Pope. Gingerly, according to plan, al-Hassan put his left hand atop their clasped grip. It was only in that moment that anyone might have noticed his shriveled left arm.
Michael pointed the keyless remote toward them and…
…a body came flying across his field of vision, tackling Marwan away from the heretical Pope. People screamed and scattered away from the sudden violence. Black-suited Swiss Guards materialized out of nowhere to surround John Paul.
Michael hesitated to trigger the bomb. If Marwan could get close enough…
Jack tried to take al-Hassan all the way to the floor, but the man was as hard to hold as a cat. He shook free of Jack and tried to claw at him, screaming something in Arabic and surging toward the wall of black suits surrounding the Pope.
Jack grabbed him from behind.
Jack lunged toward a set of French doors to his left and crashed through them, al-Hassan in tow. The human bomb spun toward him and scratched at his face. He was not a human being, he was an animal. But Jack was not so different from him. He dug a thumb into al-Hassan’s eye and raked his fingernails across the terrorist’s face, scooping out flesh. Al-Hassan screamed.
Jack didn’t know how powerful the bomb would be, so he had to get rid of al-Hassan now. He pushed the man up against the balcony wall and hefted him over. Al-Hassan, suddenly terrified, grabbed hold of Jack’s arm and
