24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage Read online

The driver of the Hummer, a man wearing a black leather blazer, with Eastern European features, a crew cut, and an unshaven chin, was obviously dead. Tony ripped open the back door, peered inside, then cursed.

  Judith pushed Tony aside and looked in the backseat.

  Neither the driver nor his passenger had been wearing a seatbelt. Judith Foy touched the woman’s throat.

  “She’s dead,” Foy declared.

  272

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  “So is our plan,” grunted Tony.

  “What? You can’t be serious?” Foy cried. “The device they were delivering is right there, next to the corpse.”

  Tony barely glanced at the large metal box, just slightly dented from the crash. “The plan was for me to pass myself off as this passenger,” he said. “We didn’t know she was a woman.”

  “Lucky you have me, then,” Foy replied. “We’ll just reverse roles. I’ll infiltrate the Thirteen Gang’s headquarters, and you’ll watch my back from outside.”

  Tony shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

  Judith’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to do it.”

  Tony didn’t reply. Judith grabbed his arm. “Listen, I’m a field agent, too. And I outrank you. I’m going in!”

  She snatched the dead woman’s purse, then fumbled through the driver’s pockets until she found his ID and cell phone. Tony stood by and watched, feeling momentarily confused by Judith Foy’s pulling rank on him. Up to now, he was used to her following his lead.

  “Wake up, Almeida!” Judith barked like one of his old drill sergeants. “Grab that box, and let’s get out of here before the police show up and arrest us.”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 273

  3:57:33 A.M. EDT

  Security Station One

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Morris O’Brian felt a presence at his shoulder and turned away from the monitor screens.

  “Jack! Good to have you back again,” he said, then winced when he noticed the butterfly sutures on the man’s temple, the blackened eye, the cuts on his face.

  “Bloody hell,” Morris said. “Look at you. If you won that fight, I’d hate to see the losers.”

  “The losers aren’t breathing,” Jack replied.

  “You heard about the attacks in Boston?”

  Jack nodded. “While they were patching me up in the infirmary. But I need details.”

  “There were three trucks. Two were bombs and detonated. A tunnel under construction collapsed, and so did the neighborhood around it. Casualty figures are not in yet. The second truck leveled Harvard Medical Center.

  Estimates count over a hundred dead.”

  “What about the third truck?”

  “Apparently it disgorged a veritable army onto Boston Commons. The firefight still rages all over that part of the city.”

  “They should have listened to me and issued a terror warning for the Boston metro area,” Jack said. “I knew my intelligence was good.”

  Expression grim, Jack glanced at the monitors. “What am I seeing now?”

  “That wreck on the right monitor is what’s left of the 274

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  truck that tried to take out CIA headquarters in Virginia.

  Cheeky, eh?” Morris shook his head. “Two CTU strike teams stopped the vehicle on Herndon Parkway. The terrorists were wiped out. No casualties on our side.”

  Jack nodded.

  “The monitor on the left is showing us a truck that was stopped on the Mall in Washington, D.C., right in front of the Smithsonian. The terrorists fought to the last man.

  Again, no casualties on our side. Bomb squads are deactivating the explosives now.”

  “So there’s only one truck still out there.”

  The phone chirped. Morris answered. “Yes, sir,” he replied a moment later. Then he hung up and faced Jack.

  “Christopher Henderson would like a word with you. He’s in the late Brice Holman’s office.”

  “Find that truck,” Jack called over his shoulder.

  Morris sighed. “How many times have I heard that phrase today?”

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

  18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE

  BETWEEN THE HOURS OF

  4:00 A.M. AND 5:00 A.M.

  EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  4:01:22 A.M. EDT

  District Director’s Office

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  “Come in, Jack. Have a seat.”

  Christopher Henderson sat behind Brice Holman’s desk.

  At the computer station, Jack saw Layla Abernathy, an un-smiling figure in a black battle suit, Glock strapped to her hip. Her hair was pulled back and she wore no makeup, her sallow face expressionless.

  When Jack entered the room, Layla turned her back on him.

  “I want you to listen to something Hershel Berkovic, 276

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  CTU’s economic warfare guru, sent me,” Henderson purred.

  Jack sat down. Layla breezed past him and out the door, avoiding his gaze. Henderson activated a digital recorder on the desk. Jack heard a voice speaking Arabic, then the translator talking over him.

  “America’s alliance with our enemy has torn the Middle East apart,” the translator said in a robotic voice. “The people of America spit in our faces every day. They must be punished for their transgressions and they soon will be. And we, the Arab peoples, can profit from America’s pain.”

  A pause, then the Arabic voice spoke again.

  “The Muslim world is ready to rise up and smite America,” said the translator. “When the terrorism comes . . .

  America’s economy will suffer enormous losses. Europe is much more stable, and so is its currency. It would be wise to switch our currency standard from dollars to euros before catastrophe strikes . . .”

  The speech continued, but Henderson turned the recorder off.

  “The man you heard was Abbad al Kabbibi, the finance minister for the Saudi government,” he told Jack. “Minister Kabbibi made those remarks last month, in a secret meeting with key representatives of the Arab League.”

  “Kabbibi,” Jack said. “As in Said Kabbibi?”

  “Turns out our fugitive terrorist Biohazard Bob is the first cousin of the Saudi Arabian Finance Minister. What a coincidence.”

  Jack frowned. “And Soren Ungar?”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 277

  “Kabbibi has formed an alliance with Ungar,” Henderson replied. “And Ungar, in turn, has aligned himself with French financial institutions and banks in Greece, Austria, Italy, Belgium, Germany, and Japan. As far as we can tell, Soren Ungar now controls two-thirds of the U.S. dollars on the currency market. Perhaps more.”

  “So he is engineering a currency crash,” Jack said.

  “That’s what Berkovic thinks now, too,” Henderson said with a nod. “But this goes further than that. Finance Minister Kabbibi is talking about switching the Saudi currency standard from the dollar to the euro. The harm that would do to our economy would be irreparable.”

  Henderson rose, placed the palms of his hands on the desk.

  “Think back to what happened to Great Britain’s economy when the world switched from the pound to the dollar.

  Their standard of living dropped and continues to fall, un-employment rose, investments fled for greener pastures.

  The Brits have never recovered from the blow.”

  “What about the currency reserve held by the Chinese?”

  Jack asked.

  “The Chi-Coms would have no choice but to dump dollars, too, once a run starts. That, or they collapse along with us.”

  Jack’s face flushed. His fingers tightened on the chair’s armrest. “These attacks were nothing but a ploy,” he said, unable to hide his outrage. “Just an excuse for Soren Ungar and the Arabs to dump our currency. The Hawk, the
zeal-ots from Kurmastan, maybe even Ibrahim Noor himself, they’re nothing but pawns in the world’s biggest currency 278

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  scam. Collateral damage, just like their victims.” Jack locked eyes with Henderson. “Will Ungar pull the trigger when the markets open in the morning?”

  Henderson shook his head. “He’s going to wait until the full impact of the U.S. attacks set in. He’s got the perfect forum, too. In two hours and fifty minutes—two-thirty in the afternoon, Geneva time—Soren Ungar is scheduled to make his annual speech before the International Board of Currency Traders in Switzerland. That’s when the little bastard is going to drop the bomb.”

  Jack leaned forward, his voice quiet but tight. “He has to be stopped.”

  “How? Assassination of a foreign national is illegal, under penalty of U.S. law. Besides . . . we don’t have the assets to move that quickly.”

  “Yes we do.” For the first time since he entered the office, Jack smiled. “I know a man stationed in Geneva right now. If anyone can pull off an assassination like this, it’s Robert Ellis.”

  “Ellis, huh?” Henderson nodded. “Yeah, he is good . . .

  but it’s doubtful anyone at CTU will green light the operation. Not even Richard Walsh would sign off on that—

  too much heat. And you can forget Nathan Wheelock.

  Mr. Clean would never get his hands dirty with authoriz-ing an assassination on foreign soil; besides, the internal buzz is pretty ugly on the Northeast District Director.”

  “Is that so?” Jack folded his arms.

  “Sure. You and I will probably be asked to testify when all of this is over, but let’s face it: this mess happened in his region, under his watch, as a direct result of his mana-C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 279

  gerial policies.” Henderson shook his head. “If Brice Holman had been supported instead of shut down, the terrorists could have been stopped. I’d say Wheelock’s career is hanging by a thread that’s about to snap, which doesn’t leave anyone high enough to authorize the action.”

  Jack’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about Wheelock’s career. What I can’t believe is you, trying to find another authority to hide behind.” He rose to his feet.

  “We can take action now. You and I. So we face charges, go to prison? So what? It’s a small price to pay to save our country.”

  Henderson arched an eyebrow. “Spoken like a true patriot.”

  Jack loomed over Henderson. “You’re forgetting that Brice Holman and others have already paid the ultimate price. If we do this, they won’t have died in vain. And we’ll be ensuring America’s security.”

  Henderson glanced away.

  “Look,” Jack said in a calmer voice, “if you want to pass the buck, then I have a name for you. Tell him everything you know and he’ll back you. He’s got the clout to bury an assassination, too. I know, because he’s done it before. I haven’t met him, you understand? And I can’t tell you how I know, but I know . . .”

  As Jack’s voice trailed off, Henderson rose to his full height, finally meeting Jack’s eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Who is this magic man?”

  “The Chairman of the Special Defense Appropria-tion Committee,” Jack replied. “Senator David Palmer of Maryland.”

  280

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  4:18:16 A.M. EDT

  Crampton Street

  Newark, New Jersey

  “Slip this into your pocket,” Tony said, handing Judith Foy the dead driver’s cell phone.

  “What’s it for?”

  “Keep the line open and I can hear most of what’s going on around you, though obviously you can’t hear me.” Tony shrugged. “It’s not like wearing a wire, but it will do in a pinch.”

  “So if this plan all turns to crap, you’ll rush in like the cavalry in a John Ford movie?” Judith said with a smile.

  “Something like that,” he replied. “CTU knows everything we know, and probably more. CTU knows there’s a biological warfare lab in the warehouse, and they know the address of the Thirteen Gang’s headquarters. Once we determine Ibrahim Noor is inside, the tactical teams will be dispatched and CTU will raid the entire block.”

  Tony paused, then met her gaze. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “Yes I do,” Judith insisted. “Noor needs this metal box, so he or his minions will let me in. Once I’m inside, I can feed you intelligence, let you know if Noor is present.

  Maybe we can stop something bad before it happens this time.”

  “I’ll be no further than across the street, even if you can’t see me,” Tony vowed. “Use the panic phrase if you get in trouble. I’ll do what I can to get you out.”

  Agent Foy nodded, her face pale under the ball cap.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 281

  “Remember: Semper fi,” Tony said.

  Judith nodded. “I should have figured you for a jarhead, Almeida,” she said before stepping into the shadowy urban landscape.

  4:20:07 A.M. EDT

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Jack Bauer barged into Layla Abernathy’s office.

  “Forgot how to knock, Agent Bauer?” she asked.

  He closed the door. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Make it quick, I’m typing my resignation—”

  Jack switched off her computer. Layla threw up her arms. Jack saw needle marks in her wrists, forearms. He pointed.

  “Henderson did that?”

  Layla dropped her hands to her lap. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Don’t resign,” Jack said. “At least wait twenty-four hours. See this crisis through. Then you can quit if you still want to.”

  “Why?” Layla cried. “For a country that betrayed me?

  For an organization that had me tortured?”

  “For innocent people who don’t deserve what’s happening to them now, or what may happen to them in the next few hours,” Jack countered. “If you quit and something terrible happens, trust me, you won’t be able to live with yourself—”

  “CTU doesn’t need me—”

  282

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  “We do need you. And I believe you’ve got what it takes to be an exceptional field agent.”

  Layla dismissed his praise with a wave. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t you think there were times when I was on the outs?” Jack pressed. “I’ve been painted as a dirty agent, more than once. I’ve had my security clearance revoked, and I’ve faced prosecution. No one comes away clean in this business. You have to learn to stick it out, soldier through, keep your focus on what you know is right. That’s the way to be true to yourself and your principles. Not quitting when things get a little rough.”

  Layla blinked and slumped back in her chair. She was quiet for a long moment.

  Jack sat down beside her. “I know what you went through was terrible. But—off the record—I sometimes think that the bad things that happen to us are a kind of punishment for the things we’re forced to do to others.”

  “It sounds like you’re talking about yourself now,” Layla softly replied.

  Jack met her gaze. “Let’s just say that I’ve done things I’d never want my family to know about. I don’t want my wife, my daughter, to ever think of me that way . . .”

  Jack’s eyes drifted, his expression haunted.

  “Twenty-four hours then,” Layla said. “I’ll give you that, Jack Bauer. We’ll see if it changes my mind.”

  Her phone rang and she put it on speaker. “Abernathy,”

  she answered.

  “Morris here. I need you in Station One, to help monitor a situation. I believe we’ve located the last truck.”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 283

  4:22:21 A.M. EDT

  Peralta Storage

  Crampton Street

  Newark, New Jersey

  “I hope you can hear me, Tony, because
I’m about to go in.”

  Judith Foy warily approached the garage door of the old warehouse. She limped a little—hoping it would add to her cover story. She shifted the heavy metal box in her hand, then knocked on the boarded-up garage.

  Silence. The place seemed to be as abandoned as it looked.

  Foy knocked again, harder this time. She kicked the door for good measure, though her sneakers didn’t make much of a sound.

  She was about to knock a third time when a spy hole opened in the middle of the big door.

  “Who the hell are you?” a voice demanded.

  “Klebb. Sonya Klebb,” Foy replied.

  She flashed the dead woman’s passport, too fast for the observer to notice the crude job she’d done replacing the picture of the dead woman with her own driver’s license photo.

  “I am a chemical engineer with Rogan Pharmaceuticals,” Foy continued. “Soren Ungar sent me.”

  There was a long pause. Foy was about to speak again when a different voice, deep and booming, emerged from the spy hole.

  “Where is Dubic?”

  284

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  It’s Noor, she realized. He’s here.

  “Dead,” Foy replied. “We were attacked on the road. I think a gang was trying to rob us. Our car was struck by another vehicle. I was hurt. Dubic more so. Before he died, he told me where to go, made me promise to deliver the package here, to this address.”

  “I see. And do you have the package?”

  “I do,” Foy replied, displaying it.

  On the other side of the garage door, she heard activity.

  Then a rumbling sound as the door partially rose.

  “Inside, quick,” a black youth said, gesturing to her.

  Beyond the door, the interior was pitch-black, and Judith could see nothing. She stepped inside anyway, heart pounding in her chest.

  Another rumble of machinery, and the door closed behind her. Then brilliant spotlights ignited, blinding her. Someone snatched the package out of her hand; other hands frisked her.

  They were obviously looking for a weapon. She had none, and when they found her passport and Dubic’s cell phone, they ignored them. She hoped they hadn’t broken the phone circuit, but she couldn’t check now.

  “Is that the aerosol dispenser?” Ibrahim Noor demanded.

  “Yes, yes it is,” an accented voice replied. “I can install it in less than an hour.”