Nawaf heard footsteps. A bearded man in the black robes of an imam climbed the stairs to greet him.
“Please follow me.”
Inside the tunnel, the air was cool and scented. The robed man led Nawaf down the long corridor, into an underground maze of natural caves that led ultimately to a huge chamber deep inside the mountain. The hollow in the center of the earth had been transformed into a kind of paradise. Recessed electric lighting illuminated the breezy chamber with the colors of a fairyland. Hidden speakers filled the space with the gentle sound of wind chimes. Nawaf Sanjore estimated the cave’s ceiling was seventy or eighty feet above his head. It dripped with delicate icicles of stone — stalactites bathed in a rainbow of shifting lights.
On one end of the massive cave, a tumble of chilled mountain water plunged over a rocky ledge, into a rippling pool with underwater lights that glowed phosphorescent blue. On the other side of the cave, perhaps three hundred yards away, a three-tiered glass and stone structure had been constructed against the cave wall. Lights gleamed behind glass walls, where Nawaf Sanjore saw luxurious rooms filled with modern furnishings. The uneven stone floor under his feet glistened with bits of quartz, sparkling granite, crystals shards embedded in the stone.
At each turn, a different aroma touched his senses — jasmine, rose, honeysuckle. The placid calm of the mystical location was broken only by the rustle of the imam’s robes as they passed through a stone garden of tall, serrated stalagmites sprouting out of the cave’s floor like bizarre cacti. Crossing a crystal bridge over a small stream, they entered a pathway to the house fashioned from inlaid black quartz illuminated from behind by buried lights.
The otherworldly beauty and aesthetic perfection of the underground lair awed the architect. As they approached the entrance to the structure, the doors opened with a whispered hiss.
The robed man halted. “Please go inside. Servants will minister to your needs. Hasan has not yet arrived, but he is expected shortly.”
5:30:02 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles
Thirty minutes before the curtain rose for the Annual Silver Screen Awards, Teri could not even get to her seat. Dozens of people were bunched up in the lobby, crowding around the arched entrance to the auditorium, where a handful of ushers tried to deal with the mob.
Teri was about to snake her way to the front of the line when she heard a familiar voice. “Tereeee! Teri Bauer!”
“Nancy!”
The women embraced. “You look fantastic! What a great look for you,” Teri cried.
Nancy Colburn wore a bright red flapper dress, complete with layers of fringe. Her black hair was pressed, pre-Depression era style, and she wore a tiny hat. She’d gained a few pounds, but was happier than Teri had ever seen her.
“And aren’t you elegant,” cooed Nancy. “Is that Versace?”
Terri nodded. “Where is everyone? Why won’t they let us in?”
A male voice spoke up. “The Vice President’s wife and the First Lady of Russia’s coming through here, ma’am. She’s due any minute.”
Teri faced the police officer, a handsome, tanned Hispanic man with broad shoulders. She read the name under the badge. “Thanks for the heads up, Officer Besario.”
He smiled. “My pleasure, miss.”
“Over here, Teri. Come on!” Nancy called. She was standing with Chandra and Carla.
“Hey!” Teri cried.
She hugged her old colleagues. When they’d first worked together, Chandra was barely out of her teens, a gawky African-American garage animator who lived in oversized shirts and clunky glasses. Now she was a confident and successful filmmaker. The glasses were gone and the garage look was replaced with a svelte figure wrapped in blue-violet silk. But it was Carla who turned out to be the biggest surprise.
“Dennis tells me you’re engaged,” said Teri.
“And you can see why,” Carla said, rubbing her protruding belly. “Eight months and counting. Here’s the joke. Gary asked me to marry him three hours before the strip turned pink! Dennis said that means it’s true love.”
Teri laughed.
“Honestly,” said Carla. “I’m due to have this little bundle in seven days. I wouldn’t even be here except Gary insisted I come. Told me I’d worked on the movie, and I’d only have myself to blame if Dennis won a Silver Screen Award and I wasn’t here to share in the glory.”
“Speak of the devil. Where is the elusive Dennis Winthrop?” Teri asked, trying to hide her eagerness.
“He’s a producer. He gets to walk the red carpet,” said Nancy.
“You’re kidding?” Carla laughed. “I hope he’s wearing something besides those sweat pants of his. Otherwise Joan Rivers is going to tear him a new one.”
“Here come the VIPs,” said Chandra.
The woman watched as the First Lady of Russia and the Vice President’s wife entered the auditorium. Flanked by grave-faced men wearing dark suits and headsets, the ladies swept through the crowd, which parted like a body of water in a Cecil B. DeMille biblical epic.
Teri noted how much older the Vice President’s wife looked in person, and how tall Russia’s First Lady was — the tallest woman ever accepted to the Bolshoi, she had read somewhere. The dazzling women and their entourage were whisked through the archway and gone in a flash.
A moment later, a brace of uniformed ushers appeared in the doorway and began escorting singles and groups to their assigned seats inside the auditorium.
“God,” groaned Carla. “I hope they seat me near a bathroom. This close to the big day, I have to go all the time.”
“You know award shows,” said Nancy. “If this thing goes into double overtime, you might just have your baby right here.”
Alerted to their arrival, Ryan Chappelle intercepted Milo Pressman at the security desk. Flanked by four CTU agents who’d met them at the airport, the fugitives were hustled into a waiting area. On the way, a gurney rolled by carrying the shrouded figure of Fay Hubley to CTU’s morgue.
“Where’s Tony?” Chappelle demanded.
Milo cleared his throat. “He’s still down in Tijuana, following up some leads on Hasan.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Tony’s down there playing John Wayne.” Ryan eyed the gurney rumbling down the corridor. “What he’s doing is fine with me, as long as I don’t have to read about it in the morning papers — or get a call from the State Department.”
“I’m sure he’ll be discreet,” said Milo.
Ryan’s gaze shifted to the newcomers. “Introduce me to your friends.”
“This is Richard Lesser—”
“You’re Chappelle, right? Milo’s told me all about you.” Lesser offered his hand. Ryan ignored it.
“This is Cole Keegan, Lesser’s bodyguard. And this young woman is Brandy—”
The woman stepped forward, offered Ryan her hand. “Pleased to meet you Regional Director Chappelle. My name is Special Agent Renata Hernandez, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I was on an undercover mission in cooperation with the Mexican government, investigating a string of kidnappings of young girls in Texas and California, when I met up with your agents.”
Milo blinked in shock. Cole Keegan’s jaw went slack. Even Richard Lesser’s typically confident demeanor appeared stunned by the revelation.