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Meanwhile, Jack was assigned to the Domestic Threat Section, which was, considering the current world climate, the fetid backwater of U.S. counterterrorist work.
    4:43 A . M . PST 405 Freeway Southbound
    Memories of that investigation bounced around in Jack’s mind as his SUV hurtled down the 405 Freeway in the predawn hours. It wasn’t often that you could travel from Palmdale to Beverlywood in twenty minutes. From 7 a.m. to well after sunset the main artery from the West Los Angeles coast to the inland suburbs was a parking lot. Even at four-thirty in the morning there were cars on the road as suburbanites who had moved away to escape the grind now plunged back into it. In a few hours, Jack’s drive would take two hours. But the dearth of cars and a speed of a hundred miles an hour made for good time. Jack reached the top of the Sepulveda Pass and hurtled down into the city, exiting at Pico and turning east, his car flying straight as a black arrow into the Beverly Hills-adjacent neighborhood of Beverlywood.
    The Rafizadehs’ address had changed in the six months since he’d investigated them. They had lived in staff housing provided by USC where the elder Rafizadeh had been a tenured professor. Now Jack pulled up to Spanish-style duplex on National Avenue that worked hard to keep its appearances up, but failed. Jack’s habitual eye for detail absorbed information quickly—rusted rain gutters, badly painted eaves, dying grass. The Rafizadehs had moved down in the world.
    They lived in the upper apartment. Jack took the stairs three at a time. He rang the bell and knocked on the door firmly. He waited a few seconds, knowing the first knock would only wake them into confusion, then he knocked again. He heard footsteps on the other side of the door. A light turned on inside, and then a muffled female voice demanded, “Who is it?”
    Jack winced. “It’s Bauer.”
    There was a long pause while Jack stared at the wood grains in the door. The female voice finally said, “Are you joking?”
    “No,” Jack said, trying to soften the habitual growl in his voice. “It’s Jack Bauer. I need to talk to you and your father.”
    A bolt slid back and the door opened to the length of the security chain. A young woman looked furtively out from the space between the jamb and the door. Her dark, beautiful face was a mixture of sleep and anger. Her thick black hair was pulled away from her face by a terry cloth headband.
    “Get the hell out of here,” she said and slammed the door shut.
    He pounded on the door again. “Nazila! I’m here to help you!”
    “We’ve had about all the help we can take, thanks,” thewoman said fromthe othersideofthe door.
    “Open the door, Nazila,” Jack said, releasing the growl from his throat. “I’m not here to arrest you. I’m here to protect you.”
    The door opened again. The chain was still attached. Nazila’s dark eyes studied him in the porch light. “From what?”
    “Let me in, and I’ll explain. I promise, I’m not here to arrest anyone.”
    “Do you know what you did to us?” she asked.
    “Yes. And I think someone else is making the same mistake. I want to protect you. Open the door.”
    Jack wanted to believe it was his sincerity that made her open the door. More likely, it was her resignation. Months ago he had cajoled his way into their lives. He had first posed as a graduate student interested in learning more about the Middle East—one of the contrarians who sought to understand 9/11 by looking in the mirror. He had been charming and disarming, not only convincing Professor Rafizadeh of his desire to become a scholar of Islamic history, but also casting a spell over Nazila. She was a grad student at Cal Poly, working on her Ph.D. in applied mathematics. Like her father, she was brilliant, but unlike him, she’d allowed herself to become a little more westernized. They had shared dinners together, visited museums and concerts, and seen movies. Nazila Rafizadeh had