“That’s a Stretch.”
Jack turned, mildly surprised that he’d let someone enter a room without his knowledge. “Excuse me?”
“The painting. It’s a Stretch. Ronnie Stretch, the artist. You know his work?”
“I didn’t even know it was a painting at first,” Jack admitted. “But it’s interesting how things come into focus if you give them time.”
He turned fully to face Mark Gelson. Somehow, Jack always expected actors to be taller than they really were. Gelson was about five feet, seven inches. He looked younger than his fifty-plus years, and still carried the square jaw and bright blue eyes Jack remembered from the movies, even though there was more salt than pepper in his hair. He was wearing blue jeans and an American Eagle T-shirt, the kind of clothes you might see on twenty-somethings at Chia Venice.
Gelson approached and shook Jack’s hand firmly. “Detective Driscoll?”
Jack pointed over at Harry. “My name is Bauer. That’s Driscoll.”
“Detective Bauer, then,” Gelson said before turning to Harry. “Can I get you guys something to drink?”
“No, but thanks for seeing us so late in the evening,” the detective took over. “We have some questions about—”
“Last night.” Gelson sat down. He shook his head gravely. “Look, I’m not sure why detectives are involved, but I don’t make a habit of driving drunk. It was stupid. I know I’m going to take a hit in the papers tomorrow.”
“It’s not the drunk driving part we’re here about, Mr. Gelson,” Harry interrupted. “It’s about what you said. You talked about—” Harry flipped a page in his notepad. “You said, ‘I hope my guys blow your fat asses up with the rest of them.’ ”
Gelson blushed. “Doesn’t sound like me, does it. Jesus, I hope not, anyway. I’m sorry, I was drunk…”
“And then you said, ‘I’m so fucking glad I bought them the plastic explosives.’ ”
Mark Gelson froze like a DVD on pause. “What do you mean?
Harry Driscoll folded his notebook and said simply, “The question, Mr. Gelson, is what did you mean? When did you get the plastic explosives? Who are your friends?”
“I don’t…” The actor’s face had gone from red to white in a split second. “I’m not… Do you mean explosives?”
Abu Mousa had been a better actor. Driscoll’s disdain showed clearly on his face as he said, “We can just as easily do this downtown. In fact, I’d rather do it down there. We’ve got video cameras, tape recorders, it’s more convenient; isn’t it, Jack?”
Bauer nodded.
“Yeah, so let’s go down there—” He reached for Gelson’s arm. The actor squirmed away and sank back into the couch.
“No, look, okay. Okay.” Some of Gelson’s good looks seemed to have faded away, the reverse action of the picture on the wall. “Look, can I tell you the truth?”
“That is the general idea,” Jack said.
Gelson put his head in his hands. He didn’t cry, but he was close to it. Jack was just about to step forward and shake him when the actor rubbed his face and looked up. “I’ve got some friends. They’re guys I hang out with sometimes. It’s stupid, maybe just something I do to relive the old days, you know? There was a time when I used this whole town like a cheap whore, and all anyone did was scream for more. I rode bikes with gangs, I did coke like it was vitamin C. I used to fire directors off the set. I—”
“The plastic explosives,” Jack demanded.
Gelson jumped a little. “Okay. Um, I didn’t really buy it. I just gave money. I was hanging out with some guys I knew from back then. They said they could buy some stuff to raise some real hell. I gave them the money.”
“Who were these guys?” Jack asked. “Were any of them from another country?”
Gelson looked bewildered. “Another…? No. They’re from here. They’re bikers.”
“Where were they buying the plastic explosives from?”
“They didn’t tell me. Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know they were serious. I don’t want anyone getting hurt. I swear. I just… I just wanted to raise a little hell, you know?”
“Nice job,” Jack grunted.
Gelson looked “Is this… will this get into the papers?”
Driscoll rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just tell us where to find your biker friends.”
Cardinal Mulrooney swooped down the hallway of St. Monica’s cloister. The walls looked shabby to him. The decor was old and worn; Mulrooney could see ruts worn into the tiles before his feet. St. Monica’s was old and rickety. The Cardinal feared the next earthquake.
He was embarrassed at the look of his cathedral in the eyes of the Pope, and angry at himself for being embarrassed. As if he should worry about the opinion of that sanctimonious old man. A person able to hear Mulrooney’s thoughts at that moment would be surprised to learn that he did, indeed, believe in the infallibility of the Pope. Just not this Pope.
Christopher Henderson was finishing his review of an early forensics report from the Panorama City explosion. Someone had used plastic explosives to rig a homemade land mine into Ramin’s chair. The fat man’s enormous weight had activated it, and the minute he stood up, it had gone off. Ramin had been killed instantly, and Burchanel was in critical condition. CTU was coordinating with the CIA and foreign agencies — mostly the Israelis, who’d had plenty of experience with this sort of thing — to compare this bombing strategy to the methods of any known terrorists.
What bothered Henderson most was the wide-ranging nature of the operation. Bauer’s investigation had started in Cairo. CTU’s had started in West Los Angeles. Ramin’s original connections were in New York, and if Abdul Rahman Yasin was involved, the most recent reports put him in Iraq. This suggested a fairly extensive network.
Henderson looked at the notes he’d put together from his brief conversation with Bauer. The only pertinent piece of information was the timing. Ramin seemed certain that whatever Yasin and his people were planning, they were going to do it tomorrow night. Ramin’s murder lent credence to that belief. That gave CTU twenty-four hours, maybe less, to disrupt the plot.
Henderson’s cell phone rang. “Henderson.”
“Christopher, it’s Jack Bauer.”
“I was just thinking about you,” Henderson said. “I know you’re declining the offer, but I could really use help on this, Jack.”
“I’m already helping,” Bauer replied. “I’ve got a lead on the source of the plastic explosives.” He explained his call from Driscoll and the interrogation of Mark Gelson. “You know how some of the explosive seemed to be missing? I’m thinking whoever sold it to the Sweetzer Avenue group also sold some to Gelson’s people. If we find them, we may be able to track it back to the source.”
“How do you know it’s even the same batch of plastic explosives?” Henderson asked.
“I don’t,” Jack replied over the phone. “But how much plastic explosive is there floating around the city?”
“Jesus, I hope not much.”
“Exactly. There’s a chance that Abu Mousa and the other guys in custody don’t know much. Maybe if I track the plastic explosive back to its source, I can get a stronger lead.” Jack paused. “Christopher, you know the clock is ticking on this, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, listen, if I get my hands on someone who knows something, I’m going to ask them a few questions before I turn them over to Chappelle.”
Henderson wasn’t sure whether to wince or smile. “I didn’t hear that.”
“Good, just as long as you didn’t hear it loud and clear. In the meantime, I was hoping your new CTU group could lend a hand on something. We have to assume that Ramin was right and the target is going to get hit tomorrow night. I’d like your CTU people to run an analysis of Yasin’s profile, and the Blind Sheik’s profile, and come up with a list of likely targets in Los Angeles. You can probably coordinate with LAPD. I would cross-reference with Beverly Hills PD, too, because a lot of dignitaries stay in Beverly Hills when they visit L.A. Also, there’s a large Persian population there, and the target may be an Iranian immigrant trying to influence politics back home. You can probably coordinate that with the State Department. If you guys have any facial recognition equipment up and running, I’d download as much video from the Los Angeles airport as you can get and start running it. We may get lucky. Bauer out.”