warnings in his file.
“It was grunt work, really,” Nina had explained on the way over. “We did what the FBI had done back in ’93 to get the Blind Sheik. We just looked at the names at the center of the web and started following strands outward. It was really supposed to be a practice run to test our procedures. We didn’t expect to find anything.”
“But you found—?”
“Abu Mousa’s brother was a member at the New Jersey mosque. He changed his name and someone missed it. Mousa wasn’t a recorded member, but he had lived with his brother in Jersey. We found him here in Los Angeles and knocked on his door. Lo and behold, he and his housemates are sitting on a crate full of plastic explosives.”
Jack nodded. “You mind if I—?”
“Go ahead and take the lead,” Nina allowed. “But just this once.”
Jack opened the door to the holding room.
Abu Mousa sat in the chair, his wrists shackled together and attached to a chain that had been bolted into the floor. He looked short sitting in the chair, and although his face was young, his hair was already thinning. He wore a frail mustache and a short beard. His eyes were brown and muddy, staring out over huge black bags that, by the looks of them, were permanent.
Jack walked over to the chair on the far side of the metal table and sat down, staring at the prisoner. Nina stayed behind Mousa, not moving, but she was adept at emitting malice. Jack stared at Mousa for a while, silent, until the prisoner began to fidget.
“I would like to see my lawyer,” Mousa said finally.
“I haven’t even asked you anything,” Jack said. He continued to study the prisoner as though he were a zoo exhibit. Mousa caught on to his game and tried to return his gaze. It worked for a while, but Jack was patient, and it was easier to feel that you had the upper hand when you weren’t shackled to the floor. Finally, Mousa gave in. “Come on, man, what is it you want?”
Jack said, “We want to know what you were planning on doing with that plastic explosive. And we want to know who has the rest of it.”
Mousa clenched his shackled fists. “Man, I told you guys already, I wasn’t going to do anything with it. Guy I know asked me to hold on to the crate for him. He said it was modeling clay, but expensive so I shouldn’t mess with it. I didn’t even open the thing, so I don’t know if any of it is missing.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“A friend.”
Jack lunged across the table and grabbed Mousa by the front of his prison jumpsuit.
Mark Brodell watched the man in the suit approach, walking like he had a flagpole up his ass, flag and all. When Brodell said the word
The man gave Brodell’s hand a perfunctory shake and showed his identification. It read: “Ryan Chappelle, Division Director, Counter Terrorist Unit.” “Is there a Jack Bauer here interrogating one of our prisoners?”
Jack had pulled Mousa up across the table. Because the shackles held his arms back, Mousa was bent over the table with his arms pinned painfully beneath him.
“You don’t have any friends,” Jack was saying. “All you have are the names you’re going to give me and the names I’m going to beat out of you. Understood?”
Mousa looked genuinely terrified, which was very informative. It told Jack that Mousa wasn’t a professional, and that he had no real training. To Jack’s way of thinking, that ruled out Syrian or Iranian intelligence, and probably Hezbollah as well. No trained intelligence officer would be afraid of a beat-ing — not because he could take the punishment, but because a beating rarely gathered any significant information. The real tools of interrogation were sleep deprivation, drugs, and psychological duress. Only an amateur afraid for his own skin balked at physical punishment.
“Please,” Mousa whimpered. “My arms…”
“Stop complaining, they’re still attached,” Jack said.
“What the hell is this!”
Ryan Chappelle walked into the room, flanked by a couple of suits Jack didn’t know.
“Get your hands off that man. Now!” Chappelle barked.
Despite the order, Jack didn’t let go immediately. He kept his eyes on Mousa and thought he saw, as Chappelle shouted again, the faintest hint of a smile on the man’s face. Maybe he was wrong about Mousa’s training.
“Let him go!” Chappelle practically shrieked.
Jack released Mousa. The man slumped forward over the table edge with a yelp, then slid backward to the floor. He winced as he stood up and took his seat in the chair again. His wrists around the manacles were red and raw. The fact created in Jack no sense of pity.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Chappelle was in his face. “This isn’t even your case. That is not your prisoner. And you are not allowed to use force in interrogations.”
Jack weathered Chappelle’s shrill storm with antipathy. When the Director paused for breath, Jack said calmly, “Someone is going to blow up something with a bunch of plastic explosives tomorrow night. We need to find out who they are and what they are planning, and we need to find out now.”
Chappelle flapped his hands in the air. “Not this way!”
Jack’s tone was like ice. “Then what way? Show me.” He looked at Mousa. “Should we just ask you where Abdul Rahman Yasin is hiding?”
He had asked facetiously, but he kept his eyes on Mousa, searching for any signs of recognition. He was disappointed. If Mousa knew the name of the World Trade Center bomber, he hid the fact like an expert.
“…drummed out of the CIA when the Director of Operations hears about this,” Chappelle was saying.
“Sir,” Jack said, bringing his attention back to Chappelle. “It probably isn’t good to be arguing in front of the prisoner.”
Chappelle’s neck turned purple, but he realized that Jack was right. He spun around and stormed out, gesturing for Bauer to follow. Jack did, casting a wry look at Nina Myers, who seemed to be enjoying herself.
Outside, in the hallway, Chappelle fumed. “You had no right to be here. You are not part of this unit, you are not authorized to perform operations on U.S. soil. You are not even on this case!”
Jack had no idea how much authority Chappelle really had. Even if he was the big dick in this Counter Terrorist Unit, the political influence of these agencies waxed and waned with their budgets and their successes. Unless CTU had some heavy hitters backing it in Congress, it was doubtful Chappelle could pull many strings. Domestic terrorism just wasn’t that big an issue, even after ’93.
“Take it up with the Director.” Jack shrugged.
“I’ll do better than that,” Chappelle said. “You, Brodell!”
Several sheriff’s deputies, including watch commander Brodell, had gathered around to watch the pissing contest. Chappelle had spotted the watch commander and called him out. “I want you to arrest this man. Jail him here, and call the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Brodell’s brow furrowed deeply. “Arrest him? Him? For what?”
Chappelle waved dismissively. “Excessive force. Assault. Violation of the Executive Order 12036 banning domestic surveillance. Trespassing, for all I care. Just lock him up and let the CIA come find him.”
The watch commander looked perplexed, but then said, “Uh, no, sir.”
Chappelle’s neck reddened again. “What!”
“Well, sir, we didn’t see any harm being done. We can’t arrest him for nothing.”
“Arrest him because I’m telling you to. I have the authority to do it.”
