helicopters sat there. A large field in the southeast sector had been turned into a parking lot. It was filled with scores of luxury cars, high-end SUVs, and limousines, all arranged in neat, orderly rows. A line of trucks and delivery vans stretched along a driveway that curved around to the rear of the mansion.
Big black limos and shiny new cars followed the main drive up the rise to the front of the building, disgorging passengers and their luggage. Groups of people, guests, swarmed the grounds, wandering among the arcades, galleries, and gardens. The scene was alive with activity, vibrant color, motion.
The site was well covered by a large number of security personnel, some in uniforms, others in civilian clothes. Groups of guards patrolled the estate in golf carts. Jack thought that was a nice touch.
The open, eastern end of the park was ringed by a black iron spear fence ten feet tall. The sections of fence were interspersed with stone pillars. The park had a single entrance, a double-gated portal that controlled access to a two-lane drive into and out of the estate. The guardhouse inside the gates looked like a Tudor mini-mansion. Jack noted with a pang that it was bigger than his own house back home.
Twin guard shacks stood outside the gates, as did a half-dozen uniformed guards all equipped with sidearms. The county sheriff’s department and the state police each had several cars in place, standing well off to the edges of the property, away from the front drive and main gate.
Jack said, “Looks like the local law’s been shoved over to the sidelines.”
Anne Armstrong nodded. “That’s about the size of it. The police are good enough for keeping citizens, protestors, reporters, and other pests off the heights, but they’re barred from the sacred precincts, too. Sky Mount itself is guarded by the Brand Agency, a private security firm hired by the Masterman Trust, which runs the estate and the Round Tables.”
She drove up to the main gate, halted a dozen paces away from it by a guard. The gate was closed.
The guard came around to the driver’s side of the car. He wore a gray cruising cap with black patent leather brim, a long-sleeved gray shirt and black tie, and gray trousers with black vertical stripes on the sides. Blazoned on his left breast was a badge-shaped emblem embossed with the words “Brand Agency.” He wore a Sam Brown black patent leather belt and hip-holstered sidearm. All the uniformed guards were identically attired.
He said, “Good morning, ma’am.”
She said, “Anne Armstrong and Jack Bauer to see Don Bass, please.”
“Is Mr. Bass expecting you?”
“We have an appointment.”
“May I see your ID, please? Both of you.”
Jack and Armstrong handed over their CTU ID cards. The guard studied Anne Armstrong’s photo, comparing it with the driver. He did the same thing with Jack but he spent a lot more time doing it. Jack removed his sunglasses to facilitate the identification. The guard’s expression was dubious. He walked around the front of the car to take a better look at Jack through the passenger side window. He still seemed unhappy. It occurred to Jack that his misadventures since arriving in Red Notch had left his appearance somewhat disreputable.
T he guard returned their ID cards. He said to Armstrong, “I’ll have to contact Mr. Bass at the mansion. Please pull over to the side so you’re not blocking the gate.”
He crossed to the guard shack on the right and went inside.
Jack said, “I don’t think he liked my looks. I’ve got a feeling I might be underdressed for the occasion.”
Anne Armstrong said, “You can always say you’re working undercover.” She put the car in reverse and backed up along the roadside so the Mercedes was out of the way of any incoming traffic.
She said, “Don Bass heads the security for the conference. Dealing directly with him will cut through a lot of red tape. Among other things, we won’t have to check our
Big black limos and shiny new cars followed the main drive up the rise to the front of the building, disgorging passengers and their luggage. Groups of people, guests, swarmed the grounds, wandering among the arcades, galleries, and gardens. The scene was alive with activity, vibrant color, motion.
The site was well covered by a large number of security personnel, some in uniforms, others in civilian clothes. Groups of guards patrolled the estate in golf carts. Jack thought that was a nice touch.
The open, eastern end of the park was ringed by a black iron spear fence ten feet tall. The sections of fence were interspersed with stone pillars. The park had a single entrance, a double-gated portal that controlled access to a two-lane drive into and out of the estate. The guardhouse inside the gates looked like a Tudor mini-mansion. Jack noted with a pang that it was bigger than his own house back home.
Twin guard shacks stood outside the gates, as did a half-dozen uniformed guards all equipped with sidearms. The county sheriff’s department and the state police each had several cars in place, standing well off to the edges of the property, away from the front drive and main gate.
Jack said, “Looks like the local law’s been shoved over to the sidelines.”
Anne Armstrong nodded. “That’s about the size of it. The police are good enough for keeping citizens, protestors, reporters, and other pests off the heights, but they’re barred from the sacred precincts, too. Sky Mount itself is guarded by the Brand Agency, a private security firm hired by the Masterman Trust, which runs the estate and the Round Tables.”
She drove up to the main gate, halted a dozen paces away from it by a guard. The gate was closed.
The guard came around to the driver’s side of the car. He wore a gray cruising cap with black patent leather brim, a long-sleeved gray shirt and black tie, and gray trousers with black vertical stripes on the sides. Blazoned on his left breast was a badge-shaped emblem embossed with the words “Brand Agency.” He wore a Sam Brown black patent leather belt and hip-holstered sidearm. All the uniformed guards were identically attired.
He said, “Good morning, ma’am.”
She said, “Anne Armstrong and Jack Bauer to see Don Bass, please.”
“Is Mr. Bass expecting you?”
“We have an appointment.”
“May I see your ID, please? Both of you.”
Jack and Armstrong handed over their CTU ID cards. The guard studied Anne Armstrong’s photo, comparing it with the driver. He did the same thing with Jack but he spent a lot more time doing it. Jack removed his sunglasses to facilitate the identification. The guard’s expression was dubious. He walked around the front of the car to take a better look at Jack through the passenger side window. He still seemed unhappy. It occurred to Jack that his misadventures since arriving in Red Notch had left his appearance somewhat disreputable.
T he guard returned their ID cards. He said to Armstrong, “I’ll have to contact Mr. Bass at the mansion. Please pull over to the side so you’re not blocking the gate.”
He crossed to the guard shack on the right and went inside.
Jack said, “I don’t think he liked my looks. I’ve got a feeling I might be underdressed for the occasion.”
Anne Armstrong said, “You can always say you’re working undercover.” She put the car in reverse and backed up along the roadside so the Mercedes was out of the way of any incoming traffic.
She said, “Don Bass heads the security for the conference. Dealing directly with him will cut through a lot of red tape. Among other things, we won’t have to check our
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