Tony nodded. “Don’t worry. I promise we’ll get you across the border. But first we have a stop to make.”
“Samurai? Samurai, where are you, man? This is Jake. You remember. Jake Gollob? Your boss? Pick up the phone and talk to me. Where the hell are ya? I’m here, with a tape recorder in one hand and my dick in the other. Why? Because I don’t have my photographer here, that’s why. In an hour they’re going to seal off the press area and you won’t get in. If you’re in your apartment, pick up. I’m begging you—”
The message machine cut off after thirty seconds. Lonnie went right back to work, moving the cursor and isolating another section of the photograph, enhanced it to the limit. He studied the disappointing results on his computer monitor, wondering if another photo shop program would do a better job of enhancing the image without pixelation. With the Mohave program all he got was a blurry mess — a silhouette of Abigail Heyer sitting in the back of the limousine, sure — but the details he was looking for were gone, faded into a soft blur.
Lonnie cursed and saved the image. It was just habit, the picture was useless. He moved to the next digital photograph in the sequence he’d snapped earlier that day, at Abigail Heyer’s mansion. This picture was taken just a split-second after the previous one. He expanded the picture until it filled the screen, then cropped off the driver’s shoulder and head, making the actress the central figure.
Before he tampered further, Lonnie studied the photo for a long time, absorbing every detail. He stared long enough for the phone to startle him out of his cyber trance. He ignored the call and on the third ring the machine answered.
“Nobunaga you son of a bitch! You’re fired. That’s what you are you bastard. You’re fired!”
Lon tried to ignore the stream of obscenities that followed his boss’s threat.
Sorry, Jake, thought Lon. I’ll get to the Chamberlain Auditorium tonight, but on my own time. Anyway, I might just have the celebrity photograph of the year right here, and if you want it you’re going to have to be much nicer to me in the future.
The message machine clicked off. In the silence that followed, Lon exited Mohave Photo Shop and activated a similar program from a software rival. To test the resolution, he selected an image from much later in the sequence, the best of which was a shot of Abigail Heyer crossing the stone patio to her front door, looking very pregnant under her voluminous slacks and pink cashmere maternity blouse.
A good photo, Lon decided. Crisp. Clean. Perfect composition. Jake Gollob would be proud to put it on the cover of his rag, with a banner headline announcing the pregnancy, and pondering the identity of the father. A Midnight Confession exposé. It would boost the weekly circulation by thirty percent.
But it would be a lie.
Lon went backward, through the photo sequence to the very first picture he’d snapped, a photo of the interior of the limousine taken the moment the driver opened the door. He isolated a section of that image, Abigail Heyer’s torso as she leaned forward to exit the vehicle. This time, he reversed the image before he expanded it, so the dark lines would be light, the light sections dark, like a photo negative.
The computer churned and the results appeared on his screen. Lon contemplated the image without blinking.
There it is. Plain as day.
He saved the enhanced image, printed out several copies. Then he copied all of the digital photo files from the Heyer mansion shoot onto a pen drive dangling from his key chain.
Lon rose, grabbed one of the photos of Abigail Heyer that he’d just printed out and literally ran to his bedroom. He scanned the DVD collection packing his bookshelf, found his copy of Abigail’s film, Bangor, Maine, and dropped it into the player. He remembered a passage on the DVD extras. After thumbing through the interviews and deleted scenes, he finally found it in the director’s commentary.
“It was very hard to get just the right angle, especially in the long shots,” said Guy Hawkins, the film’s British director. “In several scenes, perfect shots were ruined because the pregnancy harness was clearly visible under Abigail’s clothes. Most of the time, when this happened, we used digital effects to clean things up, but this blooper got past us…”
Lon froze the image. For a long second the harness she wore was clearly visible under the flannel shirt, just as the director had said. He compared the image on the television screen with the photo in his hand.
“Abigail Heyer is no more pregnant than I am,” he murmured. “She’s wearing a goddamn pregnancy suit!”
Lon gaped at the screen, absolutely certain he’d discovered Abigail Heyer’s secret. The international star was pretending to be very pregnant. The only question was—
“Why?”
Tony crossed the inn’s deserted lobby, cradling the blanket-wrapped corpse in his arms. He moved through La Hacienda’s tiny kitchen in the rear of the building where he found the innkeeper, his wife, and a housekeeper had been herded, and then murdered, by the Chechens.
In the narrow alley behind the inn, Milo stood waiting beside the car. Keegan, Lesser, and Brandy sat inside.
When Milo saw Tony coming, he popped the trunk. Tony placed the body inside, marveling at how light Fay felt in his arms, as if much of her substance had faded away with her life.
Milo gently closed the trunk, faced Tony. “Ready?”
“Take Lesser, Keegan, and Brandy back to the United States. Rendezvous with the extraction team. And make sure forensics gets Fay’s body—”
“What about you?”
Tony peered down the alley to the busy street beyond. The white van in which he’d driven across the border was still parked on the street where he’d left it. “I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to secure the equipment up in the room, erase all evidence of CTU involvement.”
Milo stared hard at Tony. “You’re going after this guy Dobyns, aren’t you?”
Tony nodded, short and sharp. “The Chechens might have information we need, too—”
“But Tony, you’ll be alone. Don’t you think—”
Tony’s cold, lethal gaze met Milo’s anxiety-ridden eyes. “I’ll make sure I ask them a few questions before I finish them off.”
Milo sighed, giving it up. “What do I tell Chappelle?”
“Tell him I’ll be right behind you…Tell him to send another extraction team. That’s all he needs to know until it’s finished.”
A horn blared. Milo jumped. “Damn!”
“Hurry up,” Brandy cried from the passenger seat. “We ain’t got all day.”
Milo frowned, tried one last time. “Tony. Reconsider. Come back with us. A follow up strike team can take care of this—”
“You know that won’t happen.” Tony glanced away. “Chappelle doesn’t like to make waves…he’ll consider the international issues, probably balk. This is something I’m going to have to do myself.”
“But—”
“Go, Milo,” Tony snapped. “That’s an order.” Then his voice softened. “I’ll see you back at headquarters in a couple of hours.”
12. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
Stripped to the waist, lying flat on his back in a hospital bed, Jack Bauer gazed at the bomb-proof concrete ceiling. The CTU’s L.A. headquarters more resembled a military bunker than a federal office, and its infirmary reflected the same utilitarian style — windowless concrete walls, exposed ducts snaking along the ceiling or between banks of medical equipment.