24 Veto Power (21 page)

Rasher nodded. “But a little more power for him is a little more power for you.”

Barnes waved that off. “If I don’t have enough power now then I’m a sick man, and so are you. This privacy act is either good for the country or it’s not.”

Rasher smiled. He put his fingers together in front of him, adopting that strange angelic pose so out of sync with his schemes. “Jim seems to believe in it enough to use this so-called threat against you as a soapbox.”

Barnes leaned against his desk. “There is no threat, right? That’s confirmed.”

“None,” Rasher said. “The source itself is questionable, and they don’t even have the right city.”

“You know, he’s forcing our hand. If I don’t get out in front of this thing, I won’t get any of the credit if it passes. I’ll look like I sat on the sidelines while important legislation was enacted by him.”

Rasher walked over to the coffee table and began to pick up pieces of broken chair. “Mr. President, do you recall who wrote the much ballyhooed campaign finance reform bill that proved useless?”

“McCain-Feingold.”

“Exactly. And, by any chance, do you recall who wrote the Personal Responsibility and Work Reconciliation Act, commonly called the Welfare Reform Act,

that was so popular a few years ago?”

Barnes searched his memory. “No.”

“Exactly. When it comes to issues like this, people don’t remember successes, they remember failures. Let Quincy be the pioneer, sir. Either he’ll get shot full of arrows or he’ll found a city. Then you’ll come in and run it. Or if the people don’t like it, you can veto the whole thing and be the people’s champion.”

Barnes frowned. He was too competitive to enjoy that advice, but he couldn’t deny its logic. He decided to make a short list of replacements for the office of Attorney General.

2:40
P
.
M
. PST Downtown Los Angeles

The last half hour had been a frantic one for Jack Bauer and the support staff at CTU. Two minutes after reaching his SUV, Jack was driving on surface streets into the downtown area and receiving a detailed description of Babak Farrah. Farrah was a legal emigre from Iran, working in the import/export business, and information from Customs suggested that while most of his business was legal, Farrah had a taste for the illegal, from exotic antiquities to Prada knockoffs to drugs. He didn’t seem to need the money. He enjoyed being a gangster.

Jack ordered CTU’s clandestine operations team to build him an identity. He needed to be someone Farrah might want to work with—no one large enough to be a rival, but not so small that he was beneath notice. By the time Jack pulled to the public parking lot at Pershing Square, he knew who he was: Jack Knudson, low-level businessman who’d made some money trading weapons for cash. It wasn’t a great cover, but it was the best they could do in fifteen minutes. Dummy phone lines were set up, and calls were made to several dealers who worked both sides of the fence, cooperating with CTU when the cash or the circumstance was right. They would back Jack’s story.

Jack left his car and crossed the street, walking up toward Flower.

2:42
P
.
M
. PST Farrah’s Loft

Babak Farrah was cutting the ring finger off a thief’s

hand when the intercom buzzed.

“What?” he barked.

“There’s a guy here to see you. Says he knows Tamar Farrigian and that you should do business with him.”

“Get his name.”

“Jack Knudson.”

“Tell him to wait.”

Farrah turned back to his victim. The thief’s hand was bleeding, but not too badly. Farrah had tied a rubber hose around his wrist. One of Farrah’s two thugs—a big Armenian who could have been the twin of the other—had lain his substantial body weight over the victim, while the other one held his right arm extended.

“You understand now that it is not in your best interest to steal from me,” Farrah said calmly.

The man, immobilized under the guard’s weight, could only sob, “Yes, yes!”

“Wait a moment and we’ll discuss this further.” He walked around the pool of blood spreading across the plastic sheet they had carefully laid down. He didn’t want blood in this apartment. The developers were charging an arm and two legs for these new lofts they were renovating downtown. He didn’t want his ruined by some idiot’s blood.

Farrah reached his desk, dialed a number, and waited to be patched through by a secretary. “Tamar, it is Babak. Yes, good, how are you?” He did not know Tamar well, but they moved in similar circles and had done some business together, and Babak trusted Tamar as far as he trusted anyone.

“Listen, do you know someone named Knudson? Yeah, Jack Knudson. He’s okay? Okay, thanks. Keep your head down.” He hung up. He walked calmly past the sobbing man, buzzed his intercom, and said, “Okay, let him come up.”

He had put his knife down gently on a glass coffee table nearby. He picked it up now and signaled his men to hold firm. They bore down on the thief’s arm and body. Farrah gripped another finger and laid the knife edge against it. The blade sank through the first millimeter like it was butter. After that, he had to work, just like with the last one. He was still sawing away when the elevator doors opened.

Jack walked into Babak Farrah’s loft just as the second finger came off. One of the bodyguards stood up quickly and intercepted Jack, searching him. He pulled Jack’s SigSauer off and tucked it into his pants. Then he nodded to Farrah and resumed his position over the victim. “So you take from my inventory and think I won’t notice,” Babak said. “You think because I have money now I don’t count what I have. You did not grow up where I did. A man who has nothing counts everything, my friend. You, I think, will count fingers for the rest of your life.” He reached down and patted the victim on the head. “Keep him there,” he said to his bodyguards.

Farrah raised himself up to his full height, which was not impressive. He was five and a half feet tall and nearly as wide, with a thick, short mustache and a head of hair that nature never intended him to have. His eyes were dark and wet—disturbingly, they reminded Jack of Nazila’s—and his mouth was small. He was wearing an expensive Ermenegildo Zegna suit. He nodded at Jack. “So, why do I want to meet with you?”

Jack said, “Tamar Farrigian said—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you know Tamar, so what? Why are we talking, you and me?”

Farrah’s loft was beautiful. One entire wall was a window that looked out on the city. By day, the view was ugly—the browns and grays of the city set beneath smog-shrouded mountains—but at night it must be breathtaking. The loft was one gigantic room divided by Japanese screens. A set of gleaming mahogany stairs rose up to the loft itself, which served as Farrah’s bedroom.

Jack sat down on the couch as though he belonged there. “I’m here because I’m new in town and I want to work with the best. You’re listening because I’m the best.”

“Best what, my friend?” Farrah said. He looked amused, which told Jack he’d struck the right tone.

“Jack of all trades, master of none,” Jack said. “But I’m good at putting people who buy weapons together with people who sell them without my name getting on anybody’s lips, and I know how to use a little muscle when I need to. You can ask Tamar about that.”

“Well, it just so happens I could have an opening.” Farrah laughed. “Stumpy there was one of my guys, but I caught him stealing. Didn’t I catch you stealing?” he said, raising his voice. He tapped the man’s head with the toe of his shoe.

“Y-yes,” the man sobbed. The stumps of his fingers were still seeping blood onto the plastic sheet all around them.

“You’re not a thief, are you?” Farrah asked Jack. “Tell me you’re not a thief.”

“If I do a good job for you and you pay me well, there’s no need for stealing.”

“Ah,” Farrah said, still amused. “You are a closer. That is worse than a thief!” He laughed. “Okay, okay, look, maybe I hire you, maybe I don’t. I have to check with some people. But for today, stay with me. A friend of Tamar’s is a friend of mine, at least for this afternoon. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jack said.

“Good. Just one thing. Let him up.” He motioned to his two big bodyguards. The guards obeyed and got off the man, pulling him to his feet. He was bigger than Farrah, smaller than the two Armenian giants. His face was pale and contorted with pain. Farrah went to a desk half-hidden by one of the Japanese screens. He opened a desk drawer and took out a handgun, a very nice Kimber 1911, Jack noted, and walked back. He offered the Kimber to Jack. “Shoot him. Then we go.”

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
9
10 11 12
13
14 15 16 17
18 19 20 21 22 23 24

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLAC
E
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
3 P.M. AND 4 P.M.
PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

3:01
P
.
M
. PST Farrah’s Loft

Farrah pushed the Kimber into Jack’s hand. “The head or the chest, I don’t care. But try to keep the blood on the plastic.”

Jack hesitated for a fraction of a second. This was a test, of course. No law enforcement agent would com
mit murder to maintain his cover. Jack Bauer, however, was not a police officer.

He raised the gun and fired. The round blew off the victim’s pinky finger before lodging itself in the desk. The victim screamed and crumpled to his knees, grabbing his mutilated hand.

“Hey!” Farrah shouted angrily. “That desk cost money!”

Jack handed the gun back to him. “If you want me to do more than that, you have to pay for it. I’m a businessman, just like you.”

Farrah grabbed the gun away, but his anger was already turning into amusement. “Okay, okay, my friend, I understand your point. You’re a good man, I’m liking you already. Come with me on a little errand I have to run. You two, let’s go.”

The two Armenian giants followed Jack and Farrah to the door, leaving the mutilated victim behind. Farrah pressed a button and the elevator doors opened with a whoosh. “Oh, wait,” Farrah said. He raised the Kimber and fired twice, both rounds puncturing the victim’s chest. He fell over onto the plastic. “Okay,” Farrah said. The elevator doors closed.

3:10
P
.
M
. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

“Where the hell is Jack Bauer!” Ryan Chappelle demanded. “He’s got a prisoner gathering dust in a holding cell and he’s nowhere to be found. And where’s Kelly Sharpton!”

He zeroed in on Jessi Bandison, who was the only analyst not cowering under his tirade.

“Jack Bauer is following leads from the terrorist threat,” she stated. “He tracked down a man who may have smuggled the terrorists into the country, and he is now checking into the man they were dropped off with. Kelly Sharpton went to investigate an address for a militia member who has not been accounted for. He discovered a bomb there. He managed to defuse it, but nearly got his hands burned off. He’s being checked out at the UCLA emergency room before being okayed to return here.”

Chappelle was caught mid-rant. The analysts in the room, and Chappelle himself, experienced a shared vision of Bauer and Sharpton, two rugged field agents, out in the world doing their jobs, while Chappelle, pale-faced and blue-blooded, raged inside the sunless CTU office. As his ears turned red, Chappelle merely grunted and turned away.

3:36
P
.
M
. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

Kelly walked back into CTU under his own steam, with both hands still wrapped in bandages. The prognosis was good. He’d have scars, but no permanent damage.

Jessi met him halfway through the door, resisting the urge to hug him. “Chappelle wants to see you.”

Kelly nodded. A meeting with Ryan Chappelle was the perfect homecoming after a date being sprayed with napalm.

Chappelle had camped out in Kelly’s office anyway, so Kelly went up there and sat down in the guest chair.

“Do you want—?” Chappelle offered him the desk chair.

Kelly held him off. “No, I’m fine here. You wanted to see me.”

“Yes.” Chappelle took a deep breath, trying to excise the pedantry from his voice. “I’d like it if you could tell me what’s going on. What’s really going on.”

“Why do you ask like that?”

Chappelle chuckled. “Look, I may not be a field agent like you and mighty Jack Bauer, but I’m not an idiot. You’re caught hacking the Attorney General’s computer and the next thing I know the AG himself is calling to exonerate you. Jack Bauer’s running all over Los Angeles looking for terrorists no one else believes exists. You try to blow yourself up. Tell me everything.” He made his voice as gentle as possible. “Maybe I can help.”

Kelly was impressed by the monumental effort it must have taken for Chappelle to sound like a human being. He proceeded to summarize every piece of information that he and Jack had gathered. He even— against his better judgment—included the Attorney General’s attempt to blackmail Senator Drexler.

He expected Chappelle to reject his story about blackmail. Instead the District Director touched his fingers to his thin lips, then said, “But you don’t have any proof of this blackmail?”

“I erased everything from Quincy’s computer. Drexler is a witness, of course, but she won’t testify. If she does, she’ll drag her staff in and it will hurt them. She’s also got some contact with the CIA that she’s protecting.”

Chappelle nodded. “It’d be impossible to prove anyway. A politician that high up doesn’t make a play of that nature without having an out.” He switched gears mentally. “So Bauer’s sure these terrorists exist? He’s got eight of them being smuggled into the country?”

“The only piece that doesn’t fit,” Kelly said, repeating information Jessi had gathered from Jack, “is that his informant told him they were brought in a couple of months ago. If these guys are attached to the same rumor Jack first heard, they’d have to have been here for at least six months.”