24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage Read online

  When Randall was finished, he deleted the original photos that Foy and Almeida had taken, replacing them with the pictures he’d selected. Then he printed them out.

  A final check of the hard copies revealed no obvious flaws that might give his ploy away.

  Ibrahim Noor owes me for this. Big time. Peter Randall’s boyish face broke into a smile. And he’s going to pay . . .

  Satisfied with a job well done, Randall shut down the security console and swung around in his office chair—to find the interim director and two security men standing over him.

  “D-Director Henderson, c-can I help you—”

  The tranquilizer dart hit Randall in the throat, and he gagged once. The drug took immediate effect, and he slipped out of the chair and hit the floor.

  “Put this son of a bitch in a detention cell and prep him for interrogation,” Henderson said.

  The security men each grabbed an arm and roughly hauled the unconscious man toward the elevator.

  Henderson faced Morris O’Brian, who’d been lurking in the hallway.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 233

  “Good job, O’Brian,” Henderson said. “But how did you know Peter Randall was a mole?”

  Morris shrugged. “I was suspicious of him already, but the real trap was the cache number I gave him. Access to cache twenty-two is only permitted to personnel one level above Randall’s security clearance. Randall was so overconfident, he didn’t think to ask me for the password to cover his buttocks. That’s when I knew something was up—that he had all of the passwords already.”

  Henderson offered the man a thin smile. “So what made you suspicious of him in the first place?”

  “Everyone resisted us when we first got here, Agent Abernathy included. They dodged Jack Bauer’s direct questions and all but refused to cooperate. Peter Randall was the exception. He was there from the start, ready to step in and do anything we asked of him.”

  Morris paused. “I figured the little bugger had to have something up his sleeve. No one is that helpful without an ulterior motive.”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE

  BETWEEN THE HOURS OF

  1:00 A.M. AND 2:00 A.M.

  EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  1:02:10 A.M. EDT

  Conference Room

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Jack Bauer was the last participant to appear on the vid-eoconferencing screen. He sat in a Danish modern living room. Behind him, a sliding glass door framed the night sky above Central Park’s treetops. A few feet away, on a chair of cream-colored leather, a pale form sat limply, bound by electrical cords. Blood pooled on the polished hardwood floor at the corpse’s feet.

  Christ, what a mess, thought Christopher Henderson, sitting up in his chair. Bauer better have something.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 235

  Jack peered into the computer camera, then his hand disappeared from view while he adjusted the volume. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

  “We hear you, Jack.” Henderson tossed his pen onto the tabletop. “We can see you, too. And I know you can’t see us from your location, so I’ll make the introductions.

  Richard Walsh is on the line from Los Angeles. Hershel Berkovic, Director of CTU’s Economic Warfare Division, is conferencing in from Langley, and Dr. Guilling from the Satellite Surveillance Division is here with me in New York.”

  “What’s the current status on the trucks from Kurmastan?” Jack asked.

  Sitting across the table from Henderson, the portly man with the brown comb-over and horn-rimmed glasses said,

  “Ted Guilling here. The trucks in Carlisle and Atlantic City were intercepted and neutralized. Another truck detonated its explosives at the General Aviation plant in Rutland, with many casualties.”

  Wheezing, Guilling paused to suck on an asthma atomizer. “But there’s good news, too. Fifteen minutes ago, U.S. Navy military police intercepted two trucks outside the Bethesda Naval Station. Our forces suffered some casualties, but the terrorists were stopped and their bombs failed to detonate—”

  “What about the trucks heading for Boston?” Jack interrupted.

  “We think that intelligence may be bogus,” Guilling replied.

  “What do you mean may,” Jack quietly challenged.

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  Crap, here it comes . . . Henderson glared a warning at Guilling to be careful. It was Jack who’d brought in that information, and they really didn’t need Bauer blowing his top with Walsh and Langley on the line.

  Guilling took another hit on his asthma atomizer, then earnestly explained, “We’ve combed all the routes from New Jersey to Boston with satellites, surveillance cameras, state and local police, and we haven’t located a single truck, let alone two.”

  Jack didn’t blink. “Maybe they stopped somewhere.”

  He leaned closer to the camera. “Maybe the trucks are hidden.”

  Guilling’s head bobbed. “It’s possible.”

  “Walsh here, Jack.”

  Henderson rubbed his bloodshot eyes, relieved to hear Walsh speak up. The big man with the walrus mustache was CTU’s Administrative Director, and the most senior person on this call. Henderson also knew that Jack Bauer respected few men in the CIA’s bureaucracy more than Richard Walsh.

  “I think we’re all in agreement that we need to keep our eyes open,” Walsh continued. “We should keep sweeping the Boston routes, but not at the exclusion of other possibilities if additional leads come in. Now . . . as I understand the situation, Jack, counting the truck you personally stopped outside the Lincoln Tunnel, half of the twelve trucks have been located and neutralized, one way or another. Which means, according to Brice Holman’s intelligence, there are still six more trucks to find.”

  “Right,” Jack said. “And what about the leaks at CTU

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 237

  New York? Christopher? Have they been plugged?”

  Henderson tensed. He hadn’t expected to discuss that particular matter on this call, and he didn’t appreciate Bauer’s bluntness. But he was careful to answer with smoothness and control.

  “We think so, Jack. Rachel Delgado, New York’s deputy head of Security, has been cross-identified as a former member of Newark’s Thirteen Gang. I haven’t interrogated Peter Randall yet, but—”

  “Randall?” Jack frowned. “I thought Layla Abernathy—”

  “She’s been cleared,” Henderson broke in. “Randall set her up, even planted incriminating information in Agent Abernathy’s personal computer, knowing we’d find it.

  Thanks to O’Brian, we know the truth now. Agent Abernathy is innocent. She’s recovering in the infirmary—”

  “Release her,” Jack demanded. “I need her in the field—”

  “Listen, Jack . . .” Henderson paused. “She’s had a rough time. A very rough time—”

  “This isn’t a request, Christopher. I need Agent Abernathy to successfully complete this mission.”

  Henderson fell silent. He didn’t like the idea of putting the woman back on line, but he could hear the steel in Jack’s voice, and bickering with Bauer in front of the other men would sound childish at best.

  What the hell, if Bauer wants her . . .

  “All right,” he finally relented. “She’ll be ready for action by the time you get back.”

  “Listen,” Jack continued, “I’ve been looking over the contents of Erno Tobias’s computer. The Albino has been 238

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  tracking currency futures. Foreign banks, financial institutions in Europe, the Middle East, Asia—they’re all lining up to dump U.S. currency. Billions of dollars.”

  “Agent Bauer is correct,” said Hershel Berkovic. Close to sixty and bald, with close-set eyes and a slight facial twitch, the man spoke on the screen out of CIA’s headquarters in Lan
gley, Virginia. “The EWD has analyzed the data coming in, including the contents of Mr. Tobias’s computer, and the threat you described is very real—and very dangerous—”

  “Excuse me?” Jack interrupted. “Would the man speaking please identify himself.”

  “This is Hershel Berkovic, Agent Bauer. I’m the director of CTU’s Economic Warfare Division, and there is no reason for these monetary speculators to dump the dollar.

  Inflation is low, productivity high. Our American economy is sound, the stock market stable—”

  “What about the terror attacks?” Richard Walsh interrupted from Los Angeles. “Don’t you think they’ll put a dent in our stock market come morning?”

  “Yes, you are correct, Director Walsh,” Berkovic replied,

  “except for one thing. Only the attack in Atlantic City has been reported as a terrorist incident, and the press and public believe it was an isolated event. Thanks to damage control from several government agencies, the Carlisle attack, the wreck outside the Lincoln Tunnel, even the blast in Rutland are perceived to be tragic accidents. The truth might eventually come out, but it hasn’t. Not yet.”

  Henderson grabbed up his pen, impatiently tapped the table. “Your point?”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 239

  “The people poised to sell dollars must have inside information,” said Berkovic. “They know about the terrorist threat to our country and are set to trade accordingly.”

  “There’s another possibility,” said Jack. “An endgame.”

  At CTU New York, Henderson and Guilling glanced at each other across the table. In Los Angles, Walsh leaned closer to the camera. “Go on,” he commanded.

  Jack nodded. “These currency trades appear to be coming from many sources, but Tobias’s secure files indicate that the bulk of the trades are coming through one financial institution—Ungar, Geneva, LLC.”

  “My analysts detected that pattern, too, Agent Bauer, but”—Hershel Berkovic shook his head dismissively—

  “you must remember: Ungar, Geneva, is one of the largest currency trading businesses in Europe—”

  “No,” Richard Walsh interrupted. “I think Jack’s on to something. There could me more going on here than some fanatical religious assault. Someone could have an ulterior motive. Someone could be pulling the strings.”

  “We need to look at Soren Ungar,” Jack advised. “The CEO of Ungar, Geneva, LLC. He also owns Rogan Pharmaceuticals and who knows what else. Tobias gave up his name, right before the Albino took his own life.”

  “Excuse me, Agent Bauer?” said Hershel Berkovic, raising an eyebrow. “That man behind you in the chair?

  He took his own life?”

  “Suicide capsule,” Jack replied flatly. “An autopsy will show poisoning as the cause of death.”

  Suppressing a smile, Henderson tapped the keys on his laptop, pulled up CTU’s file on Soren Ungar, and scanned 240

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  it. “Ungar sounds like our man, all right. He’s rabidly anti-American. He’s been talking down the dollar for at least two years now. He funds the Foundation for a Greater Europe, a kind of crackpot Eurocentric think-tank.”

  “Hersh,” Richard Walsh commanded from L.A., “I want you to take a hard look at all of Soren Ungar’s recent and future activities.”

  On the screen from Langley, the bald man nodded.

  “Ted,” Walsh continued, “I want you to locate the other six trucks, pronto.”

  “I’m on it,” Dr. Guilling replied at the table across from Henderson.

  “What about me?” Jack asked.

  Henderson jumped in before Walsh could—after all, Jack was now under his direct command. “Come back to New York’s Operations Center,” he ordered. “We’ll coordinate our next move from here.”

  Jack looked around the apartment. “First I’m going to search this place a little while longer, see what turns up. I should be back by two-thirty.”

  “Okay. See you then,” Henderson said, sitting back in his chair.

  Jack’s attitude could be grating at times, but Henderson wasn’t about to hold it against him. Seminars in “manag-ing up” were for pukes and analysts anyway. Bauer was a field man, the best Henderson had ever seen. Judging from the leads he’d uncovered already, Henderson could see nothing but an upside to letting Jack Bauer do what Jack Bauer did best.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 241

  1:22:21 A.M. EDT

  1313 Crampton Street

  Newark, New Jersey

  Dubic closed the phone and tucked it into his black leather sport coat. Blond and of Eastern European descent, he was easily the palest man in the brightly lit basement. Across the room, the tangle of brown-skinned men were all focused on one individual—Ibrahim Noor.

  The cult leader had traded his holy man’s robes for urban street clothes. With his muscular arms laid bare, prison tattoos and scars visible, Noor’s physical presence was even more intimidating. Worse still, the man’s mood was foul. He’d been closely monitoring the progress of his Warriors. After some initial successes, things were suddenly going awry.

  Teams had failed to take out several critical targets, and the loss of the Hawk and his crew was a particularly harsh blow. Even worse, this all came on the heels of an equipment failure that threatened to halt the final, devastating strike before it was even launched.

  I lost men today, too, Dubic thought bitterly. Two who died on the World Trade Center were comrades in arms.

  You don’t see me getting worked up about it. The business we’ve chosen is fraught with peril.

  Dubic sighed, ran a hand over the rough yellow stubble on his jawline. At least I have good news to deliver.

  Squaring his narrow shoulders, Dubic crossed the basement, careful to avoid the fresh blood that stained the concrete floor. Noor was looming over Dr. Kabbibi, arguing about a damaged aerosol dispenser.

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  “I can install the dispenser myself,” Kabbibi argued. “It is unwise to bring a stranger into the plan this late in the game.”

  “I have no choice,” Noor replied, his deep voice booming in the cavernous space. “Someone must operate the device, too.”

  Kabbibi had no reply to that.

  Dubic said nothing, either. He wasn’t one of Noor’s addled followers, and he wasn’t going to be anywhere near that dispenser when the device did its work.

  Once a Serbian Black Dog, Dubic was now a gun for hire, the key word being hire. The Albino had been the one to contact him, employing Dubic to assemble a strike team.

  Dubic cared little about the politics involved in this operation. He was in it for the money. Lots and lots of money.

  Bringing down the holier-than-thou Americans was merely a happy by-product.

  Just then, Noor spied Dubic. “You have news?”

  “Good news,” Dubic said. “Our operative is on the way to Newark International in a chartered plane—with the device. I’m going to the airport now to pick them up.”

  “Why the delay?” Noor demanded.

  “Ungar told me the part came from NATO military stores. Difficult to replace, though he managed to do it.”

  “Take the Hummer,” said Noor. “I’ll send someone with you.”

  Dubic nodded. “How about Tanner?” He looked around for the muscular, charismatic black man with the shaved head, but failed to see him.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 243

  “Tanner’s not here,” said Noor. “I sent him to Manhattan to pick up your friend, the Albino.”

  Dubic glanced around the basement for a second choice, but Montel Tanner was about the only man he’d ever liked in this group. The remaining pool consisted of twitchy felons and adolescent gang members—sociopathic personalities all.

  “I’ll go myself,” he said. “It’s better that way.”

  Dubic snatched the Hummer’s keys from one of Noor’s wild-eyed lieutenants. He could feel th
e crazy cultist staring daggers in his back as he walked to the hole cut into the basement wall, and entered the dimly lit sewer. The tunnel was dark and damp and nearly a block long.

  The stench was overpowering, and though Dubic was not particularly tall, he had to crouch to prevent brushing his blond crew cut against the filth-covered ceiling. Water trickled along the floor. In the shadows, Dubic could hear rats scurrying.

  Relieved to be out of the horrid pit, Dubic emerged in another brightly lit basement a few moments later. More of Noor’s brown-skinned followers clustered around a moderately sized tanker truck that was parked in the back of the interior space, away from the makeshift laboratory.

  Dubic thought about the vehicle’s deadly contents and shuddered.

  He climbed into the shiny black Hummer and gunned the engine. He drove up the ramp, and the door opened automatically. As he swerved off Crampton Street toward Howard Boulevard, Dubic pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it onto the dash.

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  When he reached the highway, he’d contact the Albino.

  But first he had to get this monster American vehicle through these littered ghetto streets.

  1:35:21 A.M. EDT

  Peralta Storage

  One block south of 1313 Crampton Street Newark, New Jersey

  Tony checked his watch, reached for his cell phone, and hit speed dial.

  “O’Brian here.”

  “It’s Almeida.” Tony was sitting in the shadows, his back against a run-down brick row house across the street from the abandoned warehouse, just a block away from the Thirteen Gang’s reputed headquarters. “That black Hummer I told you about eighty minutes ago. It just departed the location, heading east.”

  “You sure it was the same one?” Morris recited the license plate.

  “Yeah,” said Tony. “Same one. I got a look at the driver this time through the windshield. Caucasian, male, blond crew cut, black leather jacket.”

  “Okay . . .” On the other end of the line, computer keys tapped. “I’ve logged it,” said Morris. “Any other activity?”

  “Nothing,” said Tony, glancing up and down the block.

  “It’s as dead as a morgue around here.”

  “Deputy Director Foy still with you?”