“I know who they are,” Jack said.
“Right. We couldn’t get anything definitive, and the conversations we recorded weren’t incriminating. It took us a while to convince the judge to let us go in.”
Henderson grunted. “Damned warrants. It’s a pain in the ass to get them. It oughta be easier.”
Jamey continued undeterred. “Finally, we got evidence that one of these three had tried to call the Blind Sheik’s number, and the judge decided we had probable cause.”
“Are they booked?” Henderson asked.
“Will be. We found plastic explosives in their house.”
“Who is this?”
The voice that spoke was thin and tight as a wire. All three of them turned to see a narrow-faced man with a balding head staring at them. He wasn’t particularly small, but, oddly, Jack got the impression that he thought of himself as small. His shoulders seemed to cave in, but his chest puffed out, as though he was at once collapsing under, and resisting, his own self-image.
“Jack Bauer, CIA,” Henderson said quickly. “Jack, this is Ryan Chappelle, Division Director of CTU.”
Jack reached out to shake Chappelle’s hand, but Chappelle only looked at it and raised an eyebrow. Jack realized what he was waiting for, withdrew the hand, and produced his identification. Chappelle read it like he was studying a driver’s test, then nodded. “Welcome,” he said finally. “Excuse me a moment.” Chappelle turned to berate the carpet picnickers.
Jack took that opportunity to turn to Henderson. “I thought George Mason was Division Director,” he whispered.
Henderson shook his head. “Mason is District Director.”
Jack rolled his eyes. Henderson shrugged. “We’re new. We’re a little confused about titles, but it all works out.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
Under Chappelle’s scolding, the picnickers had vanished as if they’d never been. The room successfully cleared of any joy, Chappelle returned to Henderson and Bauer. “Bauer, Richard Walsh tells me you’re considering coming on board with us.”
Jack bit his lip to avoid scowling. “It’s a discussion we’ve had, but I’m not sure I’m right for it. I’m pretty happy over at the CIA. But I am interested in what you’re going to do with Ramin Ahmadi. I thought I–I mean, the CIA — had turned this over to the FBI.”
“It should have come to us,” Chappelle sniffed.
“That sort of case is our jurisdiction now.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.”
Jack smiled thinly. He was reminded suddenly of a story of Abraham Lincoln, who was overheard talking about another guest at a reception. “I don’t much like that man,” Lincoln was heard to say. “I’ll have to get to know him better.” Jack suspected that such efforts would not pay off with Ryan Chappelle.
“I’d like to continue with the case,” Jack said. “It started with some of the work we did in Cairo.”
Chappelle tipped his chin. “My people will tell you it started with our work in Los Angeles, but whatever. You’re welcome to read the reports. But I can’t have CIA working a domestic case for obvious reasons.”
“The FBI didn’t have a problem.”
Chappelle’s laugh was derisive. “Oh, well, if the FBI didn’t have a problem!” He shook his head. “Aren’t they the ones who let Abdul Raman Yasin walk out the front door?”
Jack decided he’d had enough. “It’s easy to pick on the other guys when you don’t have any track record at all.”
“We’re one for one,” Chappelle replied.
“Impressive,” Jack sneered. “Three wannabe terrorists talking on the Internet. You saved the planet.”
“Jack,” Henderson soothed. “There’s coffee down that hall. Why don’t you get some.”
Jack glared at Chappelle a moment longer, then turned away. Chappelle watched him go. “That’s the guy you want to bring in here?”
“Richard Walsh says he’s the best,” Henderson said. “We need him.”
“I need him like a hole in the head,” Chappelle replied.
2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Jack found the break room. There was a woman pouring herself a mug of coffee. She was thin, with sharp features and a wry look, but somehow it all came together in a nice-looking package.
“It’s barely worth drinking,” she said, stepping out of his way and leaning against a counter, sipping.
“That’s okay. I just had a conversation barely worth having. The coffee will go great.” He found a mug in the cabinet and poured it full.
“Nina Myers,” she said.
He lifted his cup at her. “Jack Bauer. You’re part of all this?”
She nodded. “Yep. Are you the new kid?”
Jack shook his head. “You guys are the new kids. And the teacher’s pets. You just pulled jurisdiction and took over my case.”
“Yep, there’s a new sheriff in town,” she said with mock pride. “Sorry you get stripped of the ball.” Her eyes lingered on Jack over the rim of her coffee mug. “Was it something to do with these three guys we’ve got in storage?”
“Maybe,” Jack said. “I was working a case that may lead to a terrorist attack in L.A. You guys seem to have found three Muslims with plastic explosives. I’m sure they’re connected.”
“You want to ask my three young Turks?”
“Your three—?”
“I collared them. I’m going down to interrogate them in a few.” She let her eyes rest on him again. “Come on, watch the tape with me first.”
She led him down the hall to a room that wanted to be a technical bay, but wasn’t yet. There was a large console, but only one screen, surrounded by empty cubbyholes with a few wires poking out like snakes. A computer had been set up. Nina woke it up and clicked a few times. The large inset monitor came to life. Jack began to watch the shaky, high-definition video footage of the backs of Federal agents wearing blue Windbreakers with “ATF” and “FBI” written across the back in yellow block letters. Jack watched with interest, but most of it was routine footage recording the interior of a house in the mid-Wilshire area. The house was totally unremarkable until the police videographer arrived at the detached garage at the back of the property. The garage was lit by only a single bare bulb sticking out of a cobwebbed socket high up on the wall. A very old, rickety, homemade workstation had been built along one wall. But next to it stood a brand-new white cabinet, the kind that could be purchased at a big box store and assembled at home. An agent opened the cabinet to reveal a crate, which two agents pulled out and placed on the floor. It was long and low — the voice narrating the description said it was four feet long by three wide by three feet high. The agents popped the lid off the top and removed it to reveal the contents.
The plastic explosives had been molded into gray-blue bricks, stacked five high and six across in the case. There were two gaps in the top layer.
“What do you think?” Nina asked. Jack had the impression she’d been watching him the whole time.
“I think there are more than two bricks missing,” Jack said. “Freeze it.”
She didn’t jump to it, so he reached for the mouse and stopped the video, running it back to a closer shot of the crate. He pointed. “There’s room for another layer. There’s discoloration—”
“Along the edge. I think so, too.” She waved her coffee mug at the screen. “Our boys denied it, of course. They say that’s all there is.”