Manos wore a talc-white London-tailored suit and coal-black silk shirt. At fifty-five he looked a decade younger — beard iron-gray, close-cropped hair more black than white, his square, Slavic face hardly lined with age. His teeth were even and white behind a modest smile, his close-set gray eyes bright and intense as they gazed out at the crowd. Flanking the billionaire bachelor, a brace of blond, blue-eyed men served as bodyguards. All were said to be former members of various Eastern European security forces.
Because the First Lady of Russia spoke slow and uncertain English, Christina took the opportunity to shift the topic to the host and yelled out a question.
“Mr. Manos! Mr. Manos! I’m Christina Hong, KHTV Seattle. Is it true you visited the set of Abigail Heyer’s last film in Romania?”
Manos seemed shy and reluctant as he stepped up to the standing microphone. Christina waited anxiously for his reply. She already knew the answer, of course, but was wondering how he would choose to respond.
“I was in Romania, Ms. Hong, visiting a new studio complex my trade organization helped build. I did meet Ms. Heyer. I’m a big fan so it was quite a thrill—”
The philanthropist spoke with a low voice, so low some of the reporters in the back strained to catch his words despite the microphone. He seemed uncomfortable in front of the cameras, and was ready to fade into the background again when Christina bellowed out her follow-up question.
“Mr. Manos. Are you the mystery man Abigail Heyer was spending her free time with during the shoot?”
Nikolai Manos blinked at the question, then focused on Christina Hong. He seemed annoyed somehow, yet managed a polite, if dismissive smile.
“You flatter me, Ms. Hong. I could only hope.”
The crowd exploded with laughter and Nikolai Manos used the interruption as an opportunity to step off the stage. Behind the raised stage, in full view of Christina Hong and the rest of the national press, Manos approached his security head, began a whispered conversation. Christina Hong, who had studied this man for so many weeks, burned to hear his words, strained to read his lips.
“Any word?” Nikolai Manos asked, one eye still focused on the persistent reporter from Seattle.
The bodyguard nodded. “Major Salah reports that CTU is flailing. They know nothing. In any case, the hit team has infiltrated the grounds. The men will strike momentarily.”
“Make sure no one is left alive. And kill the CTU agent. I don’t care what Major Salah believes. CTU is getting too close, too quickly.”
Forty minutes into the interrogation, Jack Bauer had obtained no useful information. At the start of the session, he’d placed Ibn al Farad in an upright chair in the middle of the study, the youth’s back to the glass wall, the sun streaming through curtains that were shrouded in white. As Jack began his gentle questioning, Omar al Farad and his sister Nareesa hovered in the background; Omar fretting, Nareesa in tears.
Soon it was apparent Jack’s questions would not be answered. Part of the problem was that his methods of extraction were limited. There was no time for truth serums to be administered, for sleep deprivation techniques or long periods standing in a position of maximum discomfort. And with Ibn al Farad’s father and aunt looking on, more radical physical intimidation was out of the question, though Jack doubted it would work in any case. The youth he interrogated was still in the insidious throes of the amphetamine Karma, and rational replies to hard questions were rare.
Jack didn’t know how long the effects of the drug would last, or even how much Ibn had absorbed before he’d been captured. Thus far, Ibn had alternated between chanting Muslim prayers and spewing raw, hateful venom at his father. His rational speech came between fits of sobbing, hallucinations, or episodes of trance-like inattention.
Jack began to wonder if shock therapy of some kind would work — either a physical shock, like an electric current or even a dousing in a tub of ice, or perhaps a psychological blow of some kind, one powerful enough to snap the youth back to some semblance of reality. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t know Ibn well enough to know his fears or weaknesses, and his options were running out.
As Ibn lapsed into one of his silent trances, a knock came at the door — an odd knock, Jack noted. Three taps, followed by two, then four more. The Deputy Minister did not react to the strange knock, though he seemed troubled by the interruption. His son Ibn, however, lifted his head and grinned when he heard the staccato knocking, a reaction that concerned Jack.
“What is it?” Omar al Farad demanded, crossing the study to the locked door. “I asked not to be disturbed.”
“It is Major Salah, Deputy Minister,” called Salah through the door. “You have an urgent phone call.”
“Hasan comes,” Ibn muttered, his dazed expression transforming into naked glee.
Jack heard the young man’s words and cried out, “Don’t open the door!”
But Omar al Farad had released the lock already. The door burst open, knocking the small man backward, into the wall.
Nareesa al-Bustani jumped to her feet. “What’s the meaning of—”
Salah’s M-16 shot the elegant woman through the mouth, spraying blood and brains on walls and furniture. Behind the Saudi officer, Jack saw the corpses of two of his guards — obviously killed with a silenced weapon.
Jack drew his Tactical, but had no time to bring the handgun into play before Major Salah leveled the muzzle of his M-16 at Jack’s heart. But just as the man squeezed the trigger, Omar al Farad threw himself on the Saudi officer’s back. The M-16 discharged a spray of bullets, blasting the glass wall behind Jack to shards, showering him with razor-sharp splinters that sliced his flesh in a half-dozen places. While the Deputy Minister struggled with the Major, Jack cut Ibn al Farad loose, intending to drag the young man out of the house. But Ibn was bleeding profusely— he’d been shot by one or more of the M-16’s stray bullets.
With a banshee cry, Major Salah flipped the helpless Saudi minister over his shoulder. Omar landed flat on his back at his son’s feet. Ibn opened his eyes in time to see Major Salah furiously reduce his father’s face to a splattered goo in a long burst of automatic fire. When Omar was dead, the officer again leveled his weapon at Jack. But when he squeezed the trigger, it clicked on an empty chamber. He’d fired on full automatic mode at the fallen Deputy Minister, emptying his magazine.
Jack raised his own weapon and fired twice — a double-tap that sent the Saudi officer’s brains out the back of his head. From another part of the compound, Jack heard smoke grenades pop, more gunfire, and he knew Chet Blackburn and the CTU Tactical Unit had arrived like the cavalry.
Kicking the M-16 out of Salah’s death grip, Jack bent over Ibn to check his condition. The young man’s lips were white, face pinched with dazed agony. One.22-caliber shot had torn away a chunk of his shoulder muscle, another had entered his left lung and exited through his back. Jack knew the boy didn’t have much time. Through the pain and shock, Ibn stared at the puddle that had been his father’s face.
“Hasan did this to you,” hissed Jack, speaking into the dying man’s ear. “Hasan murdered your family. Betrayed you. Who is he? How did you meet Hasan? Tell me.”
With pale, trembling lips, Ibn al Farad muttered a name. A moment later, Chet Blackburn burst into the room at the head of his assault team, weapon at the ready. He found a bleeding Jack Bauer in a room full of shattered glass and casualties.