24 Declassified: Head Shot (2009) (11 page)

Twin guard shacks stood outside the gates, as did a half-dozen uniformed guards all equipped with sidearms. The county sheriff’s department and the state police each had several cars in place, standing well off to the edges of the property, away from the front drive and main gate.

Jack said, “Looks like the local law’s been shoved over to the sidelines.”

Anne Armstrong nodded. “That’s about the size of it. The police are good enough for keeping citizens, protestors, reporters, and other pests off the heights, but they’re barred from the sacred precincts, too. Sky Mount itself is guarded by the Brand Agency, a private security firm hired by the Masterman Trust, which runs the estate and the Round Tables.”

She drove up to the main gate, halted a dozen paces away from it by a guard. The gate was closed.

The guard came around to the driver’s side of the car. He wore a gray cruising cap with black patent leather brim, a long-sleeved gray shirt and black tie, and gray trousers with black vertical stripes on the sides. Blazoned on his left breast was a badge-shaped emblem embossed with the words “Brand Agency.” He wore a Sam Brown black patent leather belt and hip-holstered sidearm. All the uniformed guards were identically attired.

He said, “Good morning, ma’am.”

She said, “Anne Armstrong and Jack Bauer to see Don Bass, please.”

“Is Mr. Bass expecting you?”

“We have an appointment.”

“May I see your ID, please? Both of you.”

Jack and Armstrong handed over their CTU ID cards. The guard studied Anne Armstrong’s photo, comparing it with the driver. He did the same thing with Jack but he spent a lot more time doing it. Jack removed his sunglasses to facilitate the identification. The guard’s expression was dubious. He walked around the front of the car to take a better look at Jack through the passenger side window. He still seemed unhappy. It occurred to Jack that his misadventures since arriving in Red Notch had left his appearance somewhat disreputable.

T
he guard returned their ID cards. He said to Armstrong, “I’ll have to contact Mr. Bass at the mansion. Please pull over to the side so you’re not blocking the gate.”

He crossed to the guard shack on the right and went inside.

Jack said, “I don’t think he liked my looks. I’ve got a feeling I might be underdressed for the occasion.”

Anne Armstrong said, “You can always say you’re working undercover.”
She put the car in reverse and backed up along the roadside so the Mercedes was out of the way of any incoming traffic.

She said, “Don Bass heads the security for the conference. Dealing directly with him will cut through a lot of red tape. Among other things, we won’t have to check our sidearms at the gate.

“I’m sure you’ll like that,” she added.

Jack just grinned.

Five minutes passed before the guard returned. He walked briskly to the driver’s side of the car, said, “Mr. Bass is unavailable at this time. Mr. Noone will be coming down instead. He’s Mr. Bass’s assistant.”

Armstrong said, “Yes, I know him.”

“He’ll escort you to the mansion.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Have a nice day.” The guard said nothing to Jack, not even looking at him. He rejoined the other guards outside the gate.

Anne Armstrong said to Jack, “Larry Noone is Bass’s number two man. He’ll be just as good for facilitating our entry.”

Ten minutes later a golf cart rolled down the hill and halted just inside the gate. The driver was a uniformed guard, the passenger a heavyset, bearish man. The latter hopped out of the cart, went through a swinging door to the right of the gatepost, and hurried over to the car.

He was in his mid-fifties, about six feet, two inches and 220 pounds. He wore a canvas duckbilled cap, navy-blue blazer, green open-neck sport shirt and khaki pants. He was balding with a fringe of short blond hair and pale blond eyebrows. Clean-shaven, with a ruddy complexion.

He went to the driver’s side and reached in to shake hands with Anne Armstrong. His jacket fell open when he leaned forward, and Jack could see that he wore a short-barreled revolver in a shoulder holster under his left arm. He flashed a big toothy grin like he was glad to see her and said, “Hi, Anne.”

She said, “Hello, Larry.”

“Don was in conference with Mr. Wright and couldn’t get away. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem. Larry, this is Jack Bauer. He’s on loan from our Los Angeles division and will be working with us during the conference. Jack, this is Larry Noone.”

Noone came bustling around to the passenger side of the car. He flashed another big grin and thrust out a big right hand. “Pleased to meet you, Agent Bauer.”

Jack shook his hand. Noone’s grip was solid but he didn’t overdo it. “Glad to know you. Call me Jack.”

“Okay, Jack. Call me Larry.”

Noone climbed into the backseat of the car. “Go ahead, Anne, they’ll let you through.”

The main gate was already opening. It was powered by an electric motor that caused the gate to slide sideways. One of the guards waved her through, and the car drove into Sky Mount.

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 A.M. AND 9 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME

Sky Mount, Colorado

Larry Noone escorted Jack Bauer and Anne Arm-strong into a reception area where they were met by Marion Clary. She was a gatekeeper for Cabot Huntington Wright, the man in charge of running the Sky Mount Round Table, among his many other responsibilities. Wright’s suite of offices was on the ground floor in the southeast corner of the mansion’s east wing.

The reception area, an anteroom to the suite, was itself an imposing space, expansive and high-ceilinged, its wood- paneled walls hung with ornate-framed paintings and tapestries. Jack’s wife, Teri, was a graphic artist and designer with an art history background, and Jack had absorbed enough from her through osmosis to recognize the paintings as being in the style of Italian and Northern Renaissance masterworks of landscape and portraiture. He knew that Sky Mount’s creator, tycoon H. H. Masterman, had been a celebrated collector of the works of the Old Masters and had no doubt that these were not copies but originals worth several million dollars.

Marion Clary occupied a mahogany desk the size of a compact car. She rose and came around it to meet and greet the newcomers.

She was a handsome woman, sixtyish and well-preserved, with carefully coiffed blondish-white hair, fine features, and dark, bright eyes set in a porcelain-colored complexion.

The porcelain was webbed with a network of fine lines when seen close up.
She was slim, straight-backed, with good posture. She wore a tailored jacket and pleated skirt, both charcoal-gray; a white blouse with a thin red and yellow paisley kerchief, and black pumps with chunky three-inch heels.

She was already acquainted with Anne Armstrong and greeted her warmly. Noone introduced her to Jack. They shook hands.
Her palm was dry, her grip firm.

Noone’s handset radio squawked, prompting him to excuse himself for a moment. He stepped a few paces away and held the transceiver to the side of his head, taking a message and responding to it.

He said to the other three, “I’m needed at the guardhouse to iron out some business. Nice seeing you again, Ms. Clary. I’ll see you later, Anne—Jack.” He went out.

Marion Clary said, “Mr. Wright’s meeting with some of the event planners is running a little long. Please excuse the delay.”

Jack said, “I thought he was meeting with Don Bass.”

“He was, but Mr. Bass was called away unexpectedly a few minutes before you arrived and the planners seized the opportunity to see Mr. Wright for a few minutes.
He’s scheduled to deliver the opening keynote address at ten and there were one or two last- minute details to finalize.”

“Mr. Wright is going to speak today?”

“Oh yes, he always delivers the opening address to the conference. It’s a tradition and a high point of the Round Table, if I say so myself. Of course, I’m hardly in a position to be objective, knowing him as well as I do. His talk should be especially interesting this year, what with all the turmoil in the global markets.”

“I’m sure,” Jack said. He was thinking that if Wright and the high-finance attendees knew of the short-selling bets being made against their companies, there’d be some real turmoil right there in the conference room. But that information was being closely held by Chappelle and a handful of others.
Chappelle was as tight at disseminating confidential intelligence as a miser
would be in handing out dollars.
Which was one of his good points as far as Jack was concerned.

The pattern of shorting had of necessity been made known to CTU/DENV head Orlando Garcia, since it was the wedge that had gotten Jack involved in the local operation. Jack didn’t know how far down the line Garcia had passed the intel. He didn’t know if Anne Armstrong was aware of it. She hadn’t mentioned it, and he wasn’t about to volunteer anything on the subject until he was sure she had an irrefutable need to know.

Marion Clary said, “While you’re waiting, may I offer you some refreshments? Coffee, tea, or some other beverage?”

Jack said, “Coffee would be fine, thanks.”

Anne Armstrong said, “Yes, I’d like some, too, please.”

The process was nothing so simple as pouring a couple of cups from a coffee urn. Marion Clary spoke into her desk intercom, issuing a summons. A white-coated server appeared within less than two minutes, wheeling in a serving cart. It held silver pitchers, china cups and saucers, and an assortment of muffins, buns, and pastries. One pitcher held coffee, another held decaffeinated coffee. Jack had the full-octane coffee, black.

It was good coffee, rich, aromatic, flavorful.
His stomach growled at the sight of the pastries, but the left side of his face still felt too sore for much chewing so he reluctantly passed on them. Anne Armstrong had the decaf coffee with plenty of cream and sugar. Marion Clary had a cup of tea. The server exited, wheeling away the cart.

Jack’s eye was caught by a picture that looked out of place among the Old Masters creations. It was a full-length portrait that hung high on the wall behind the mahogany desk. Its subject was a man dressed in the garb of the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. He had a shock of white hair, a hawklike predatory face, and a white walrus mustache that failed to disguise a self- satisfied smirk. His eyes were hard, narrow, and bright, boldly, contemptuously staring out at the viewer with a go-to-hell directness. He stood in a posture of dominance, hands thrust in his jacket pockets with the thumbs hanging out over the edges, narrow feet spread shoulder- length apart.

It was a masterpiece in its own way, the painter certainly having captured the personality of his subject.

Marion Clary noticed Jack’s interest in the picture. She said, “That’s a portrait of old H. H. Masterman himself, founder of the trust which bears his name, and the builder of Sky Mount.”

Jack thought that if the likeness was an accurate one, the H.H. in his name should have stood for “Hard-Hearted.” He looked like a money-grubbing skinflint who would have thrown widows and orphans out in the cold if their eviction would have earned him an extra dime. He settled for saying, “He looks like a pretty tough old bird.”

Marion Clary said, “He was a self-made man who started with nothing. He struck it rich with a silver mine near Cripple Creek and expanded into banking, railroads, and real estate. And he did it in the days before income tax. Even in an age of robber barons he was considered something of a pirate.” She spoke of him with a kind of proprietary pride.

She said, “His financial interests were centered in Denver and in his later years he built Sky Mount as a vacation home and retreat from city living. It was originally planned as a hunting lodge, but as you can see, it developed into a far more grandiose vision.”

A faraway look came into her eyes. “ ‘In Xanadu did Kublai Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree’— according to the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. But in Sky Mount, H. H. Masterman built his own dream castle. And unlike the poem, which Coleridge never finished, Mr. Masterman finalized his creation, an architectural poem wrought in stone and timber and furnished with some of the greatest masterpieces of the Old World.”

Anne Armstrong said, “You certainly know your subject.”

Marion Clary said, “I should. Actually I’m the curator of the estate, in charge of overseeing everything from the upkeep and restoration of the art treasures to making sure the lawns get mowed and the garbage collected.”

Jack said, “Sounds like a big job.”

She said, “I love it. I live here all year round. Sky Mount is open to the public, except when the Round Tables are being held. It’s a major tourist attraction and draws thousands of visitors annually.”

Anne Armstrong said, “I shouldn’t wonder. It’s like a fairyland castle come to life.”

Marion Clary beamed. “I can say without exaggeration that it’s one of the most fantastic realms in all the world.”

“No doubt. But you live here?
I think I’d find that somewhat overwhelming, making a home in a setting as stupendous as this.
Even intimidating.”