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who hid in plain sight. He was an Iranian immigrant, naturalized in 1998, but who kept close ties in Iran. He had been an outspoken advocate for Muslim rights after 9/11 and a harsh critic of United States policies toward Muslims, including detainees held at Guantanamo Bay and other locations. At the same time, however, he published papers and had spoken on news programs lambasting fundamentalist Islamists as backward and dangerous. An Iranian ayatollah had even issued a fatwa against him in 2002 after his book, The Divided Soul: A Study of the Heart and Mind of Islam was published in the United States. What better cover, Jack thought, than to be a public figure speaking out for Muslim rights while denouncing terrorist activities.
    But a month’s worth of wiretaps, tag-team tails, and round-the-clock surveillance hadn’t dug up a shred of evidence beyond Rafizadeh’s connection to his son, whom he had apparently not seen in several years. It didn’t make sense to Jack. He’d been in the Rafizadeh house several times—both with their permission and without—and the pictures on the walls, the scrapbooks, the framed report cards, all told Jack the story of a man who adored his children and would not, could not cut ties with them. So he’d brought the professor in under the Patriot Act, hoping to sweat the truth out of him.
    The professor shrugged again. “If the fatwa is still in effect, it may be a short visit.”
    “Where is your son!” Jack yelled, slamming his fist on the table. He was surprised at the level of his anger, but he went with it. A change of rhythm might meet with success.
    “I don’t kn—”
    “Yes, you do! He’s here, in the U.S., and he’s a threat to innocent lives. You tell me now or I swear I’ll bury you so deep they’ll—”
    The door to the interrogation room had burst open. Ryan Chappelle had entered, flanked by two uniformed security men. Chappelle’s face looked more pinched and angry than usual.
    “Release this man,” Chappelle wheezed. The two uniforms entered and immediately begun unlocking the old man. “See that he’s escorted safely home. If he’s hungry or thirsty, get him anything he wants. Mr. Rafizadeh—”
    “Professor,” the old man said, rising to his feet and rubbing his wrists. He looked uncertain, as though he thought this might be one of Bauer’s tactics.
    “Professor Rafizadeh,” Chappelle restarted, “on behalf of this agency I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience we’ve caused. I hope you’ll trust that we try to act in the best interest of the country—”
    “Inconvenience!” Rafizadeh said.
    “What’s going on?” Bauer said, turning on Chappelle. Chappelle glared back, his ears turning slightly red. “He’s clear, Bauer. The connection didn’t pan out.”
    “How do you know that?” Jack said, growing upset as his only lead walked out the door. “That’s what I’m trying to find out!”
    “We found out for you,” Chappelle said. He handed Jack a manila folder. “This got missed somewhere along the way. Rafizadeh’s son died two years ago.”
    The fallout had been enormous. The press had a field day with it. “Scholar Learns Of Son’s Death During Interrogation” made a great headline. Jack’s name was never mentioned, of course, but the media sank their teeth into the story of the federal agent whose tunnel vision not only caused him to falsely imprison a known anti-fundamentalist scholar, but also caused the father to learn of his own son’s death under the worst of circumstances. The Secretary of Homeland Security had been furious and had made his displeasure known. Jack had nearly been ejected from CTU, clinging to his job, much to Ryan Chappelle’s disappointment, only by the tips of his fingers. As it was, he was taken off any and all high-profile cases and demoted as Special Agent in Charge. Jack’s mentor, Richard Walsh, had brought in another agent, Kelly Sharpton, to head up the field teams temporarily.