24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage Page 3

  “And these activities are permitted?”

  “Under the banner of religious freedom, the Warriors of God openly recruits new members through various social service organizations, including the prison system,” Layla replied, yanking a file from the drawer.

  “Why hasn’t CTU launched a full-scale investigation?”

  Layla raised a dark eyebrow. “The District Director of the Northeast Region nixed it.”

  Jack processed that bit of information, and he had to admit, he wasn’t all that surprised. The District Director for the Northeast was Nathan Ulysses Wheelock.

  Wheelock hadn’t worked his way up through the Agency, served in the military, or done fieldwork of any kind. The man was a political appointee of the current Adminis-24

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  tration; and his wife—before she’d retired to write legal thrillers—had been a civil rights attorney with a client list that included high-profile anti-defamation organizations.

  Jack faced Layla Abernathy. With Brice Holman and his Deputy Director, Judith Foy, out of the office, Abernathy was the ranking agent in New York. He wanted to get a handle on her.

  “You’re Iranian, aren’t you, Agent Abernathy?” Jack asked pointedly. “Did I recall that correctly from your file?”

  Layla glanced away, obviously uncomfortable. “I was born in Iran, but I left with my mother before I was two years old. I don’t remember anything—”

  “But you speak Farsi?”

  She nodded. “My stepfather saw to that. At one time, he was the U.S. Associate Ambassador to Iran. Back in the seventies, he knew the Shah—”

  “Your father was Richard Abernathy.”

  “My step father. He married my mother after my real father was executed by the thugs in charge of Iran. With the help of Canadian friends, my mother came to America.

  And just for the record, I’m also fluent in French, Spanish, Italian, and German.”

  Jack fell silent a moment, regarding her again. “So why are you posted here? With your security clearance and lin-guistic skills, you should be on the fast track at Langley, or in a job at the DOD, maybe even the White House.”

  “I’m not interested in listening to Iranian intelligence chatter from thousands of miles away or analyzing the speeches of its current ayatollahs. I made that very clear C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 25

  on threat of resignation, frankly. I want to do fieldwork, Agent Bauer. And my language skills are just as valuable here in New York, where hundreds of languages are spoken—”

  The door opened and Morris O’Brian entered. “You called, boss?”

  “What’s the status on security?” Jack asked.

  An hour ago, Bauer had hit the roof when the guards downstairs had told him the exterior cameras weren’t working, which was why they’d never noticed the firefight on the street. Jack had dispatched Morris to fix the problem.

  “I’ve got the system up and running now,” Morris replied. “It was just a little glitch, really. I left Almeida behind to establish a network that integrates the cameras in the lobby, the parking garage, and the roof with Security Station One.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I could do it in fifteen minutes. Tony should be done in an hour or so. Once the network is established, we can watch everything on the monitors.”

  Jack leaned close to Morris. “How about that other matter?”

  O’Brian fished the bloodstained wallet out of his jacket, handed it back to Jack. “It’s a fake ID,” Morris said.

  “Angelo De Salvo was living under the alias Angel Salinas, in an apartment in the Bowery. He worked for Fredo Mangella, an international restaurateur who owns four-star dining spots in Paris, Madrid, London, Rome, and here in New York. Mangella has an office above Volaré, his eatery on Mulberry Street.”

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  Bauer nodded. “Good work. Now I have another job for you. This one’s urgent. I want you to crack the security on Director Holman’s computer.”

  Morris’s eyes went from Jack Bauer to Layla Abernathy and back again. Then he dropped into the Director’s chair.

  “This might take a little time,” he warned.

  “Just do it,” Jack replied. He faced Abernathy. “You have something to show me?”

  Layla nodded. “These files contain security briefs—

  summaries of just about everything we’ve got on Kurmastan, up until the District Director shut down the investigation.”

  Jack accepted the thick file, leafed through it. Inside, he found photographs and reams of surveillance reports—

  two years’ worth.

  “Let’s find a conference room to review this,” he said.

  8:31:58 A.M. EDT

  Parking garage

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  A pair of utility workers blithely strode down the ramp, into the restricted parking garage ten floors beneath the CTU offices.

  In the lead, a slight African-American man, in a blue Con Edison uniform under an oversized yellow vest, carried two large steel toolboxes. Under black-rimmed, bottle-thick glasses too large for his narrow face, the man’s dark brown eyes appeared wide and alert.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 27

  The other man was tall and blond, with a flat face, ghost-blue eyes, and Slavic features. His neck seemed too thick for his uniform, and the sleeves were rolled up around his burly arms. He carried a circle of electric cable over one shoulder, a hazard vest slung over the other. This one was in the middle of a story.

  “. . . so I told the bitch I couldn’t pay her rent this month because I lost two large at OTB . . .”

  The smaller man snorted. “Serves you right, putting your cash down on the ponies. What did your woman say to that?”

  Both security guards stepped out of the glass-enclosed hutch and approached the utility workers.

  “She said if I want the honey, I gotta feed the bear,” the blond man replied. “Can you believe that? And you know what I said?”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” a CTU guard interrupted.

  “You’re not supposed to be down here—”

  The blond man dropped his hazard vest, leveled the hidden 9mm USP Tactical at the guards. The silencer took care of the noise, muffling the gunshots in the low-ceilinged garage.

  The first bullet caught the guard in the throat. The second blew the back of the head off the other man.

  “So what did you say?” asked the slight black man, pushing up his thick glasses.

  “I told the bitch that I’d rather go bear hunting,” the big blond replied, lowering his weapon.

  The black man set down his boxes, moved into the bul-letproof hutch, and jumped behind the computer console.

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  The big blond dragged the corpses out of sight behind a parked car.

  Footsteps sounded, and the blond man paused, drawing his weapon again. He immediately relaxed when he saw the man in the CTU uniform striding quickly down the ramp.

  “Have the cameras been deactivated?” the newcomer asked.

  The black man stuck his head out of the hutch. “I don’t think they were functional. But if they were, they aren’t now.”

  The newcomer in the CTU security uniform moved toward the blond. The blond man took the badge and name tag off one of the murdered guards and handed it to the newcomer.

  “Come on,” the black man said, retrieving his steel boxes. “The access shaft to the roof is over here.”

  The newcomer in the CTU uniform took over the security booth. He watched through the Plexiglas while his partners used electric screwdrivers to open a steel hatch in the wall. The blond man waited while his smaller partner crawled inside.

  A moment later, the smaller man stuck his head out. “The cameras might not be working, but everything else is.”

  “Can we get to the roof?” the blond man demanded.

  “The
ladder goes to the top, but there are security systems and laser eyes on every floor. I’ll have to disable them one at a time, all the way to the roof.”

  The blond man sneered. “Then you better get started.”

  “It’s a bitch, man,” his partner griped. “We could be C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 29

  here all morning. It’s gonna take us forever just to get to the roof.”

  The blond glanced at his oversized watch. “You don’t have forever. The job has to be done in the next two hours.

  I suggest you get started.”

  Both men climbed through the hatch, and the blond pulled it shut behind them, leaving the screws in a pile on the concrete floor.

  8:50:03 A.M. EDT

  Central Ward

  Newark, New Jersey

  “Foy, you still on them?”

  “I got ’em,” replied Judith Foy, Deputy Director of CTU

  New York. Behind the wheel of her silver Lexus, she’d been tailing the shiny black Hummer since it exited the airport’s short-term parking garage.

  On the other end of the comm was FBI Special Agent Jason Emmerick. He and his partner were now tailing the second Hummer. Each vehicle carried a part of a “package” that had arrived that morning on a flight from Montreal. The “package” had turned out to be two Middle Eastern men.

  “I know the man I’m tailing,” Emmerick informed her.

  “He’s an Afghani, goes by the name Hawk. I’ve got no ID

  on the man you’re tailing. Contact us when your mark arrives at his destination.”

  “Roger.” Judy continued following her black Hummer 30

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  to a blighted area of downtown Newark. In University Heights, the vehicle circled a sprawling Federal housing project—a breeding ground for the type of crime that had made the name Newark synonymous with urban violence since the 1967 riots.

  Despite her experience, Agent Foy felt uncomfortable cruising these mean streets. A thirty-eight-year-old Caucasian woman behind the wheel of a Lexus was not a common sight in the Central Ward, where police cars were scarce, graffiti and gang markings everywhere. Even with the car’s tinted windows, young men in gang colors, hanging out on every other block, watched her car with predatory eyes. Judith Foy recalled a DEA assessment that came across her desk last year which claimed this section of Newark was the crack cocaine capital of the Northeast.

  Foy was a Jersey girl, too, though she hailed from af-fluent Bricktown on the state’s southern shore. That safe, cozy little community was nothing like this blasted strip of urban blight.

  She’d gone into the CIA right after graduate school. Her first assignment with the Agency had been in the Middle East. After eight years, she’d come back to the United States. Then the Agency had sent her to New York, to work with Brice Holman.

  For the past three years, while red tape was being cut to allocate a fully staffed threat center, she and Brice had been the CIA’s entire counterterrorist operation in New York.

  She’d come to know and trust Brice. He had twenty years with the Agency, ten in the field. He had good in-C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 31

  stincts, and he’d always had her back. So when he came to her with this rogue operation, she didn’t hesitate to back him. If Holman thought something bad was going down today, then it was. Violation of protocol was a small price to pay for stopping what could be another WTC bombing.

  As Agent Foy rounded a corner, deftly avoiding a bunch of kids playing in the middle of the street, she saw the Hummer speed up as it raced down the block. She applied the gas, too, and easily kept them in sight.

  “Yeah, I’m following you, genius,” she muttered. “What are you going to do about it?”

  The Hummer left the projects, moved into an area of decrepit warehouses and shuttered businesses. The vehicle was about half a block ahead of her when it swerved around a lumbering garbage truck, into a narrow alley.

  Agent Foy sped up, but by the time she reached the al-leyway, the Hummer had vanished. The narrow street occupied a space between two tall brick buildings that had once housed factories or warehouses. The industry was long gone, and the crumbling buildings were abandoned.

  With a resigned sigh, she steered the Lexus into the cramped alley. The road surface was ancient cobblestone, and her tires rumbled so loudly, she feared for her suspension. Finally, she reached the opposite end of the alley and emerged onto a street lined with crumbling apartment buildings.

  She spotted the Hummer at the end of that block, waiting at a stop sign for another garbage truck to rumble by.

  “Got you,” she whispered triumphantly.

  Agent Foy stepped on the gas and pulled onto the street, 32

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  intent on catching up to the Hummer. Her concentration was shattered when she heard a squeal of tires burning pavement. Her head jerked to the right, just in time to see the rusty grille of a GM pickup barreling down on her.

  She pushed the gas to the floor, but it was already too late. The truck flew out of the hidden driveway, slammed into the passenger side of her Lexus. Foy threw up her arms just as the air bag deployed, smashing her backward in the seat. Shards of safety glass rained down on her, then the hood popped and she heard the angry hiss of steam.

  The truck continued forward, slamming her car against the telephone pole. Wheels spun, pressing the Lexus until the frame bent, then snapped. Finally, the truck’s front tire popped and its engine stalled. Smoke began to pour from under the hood. After the deafening crash, the quiet was eerie.

  Over the hiss of steam from the truck’s ruptured radiator, Agent Foy heard a door open, feet striking the pavement. Next came the sound of another vehicle approaching and skidding to a halt.

  She peered through a gap in the wreckage. The black Hummer was back. The driver of the GM pickup that had hit her—a teenager wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the number 13 emblazoned on the back—dived into the Hummer through an open window. Then the Hummer sped away, the teen’s legs still dangling out the window.

  Agent Foy tried to move. With one arm pinned by the air bag, she unbuckled her seatbelt with her free hand.

  Most of the pressure on her abdomen vanished, but when she took a deep breath, bruised ribs ground together, and she cried out in a rattling gasp.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 33

  Every move a Herculean labor, she reached into her torn blazer for her cell phone. Hands slick with blood, she managed to press the speed dial button.

  CTU Director Brice Holman’s cell rang three times, before she was connected to his voice mail. From somewhere on the street she heard cries, then a face appeared at the window. The man wore a red ’do-rag over a retro Afro, a pair of gray city sanitation overalls.

  “Jesus, lady, you okay?”

  “I’m pinned,” she replied weakly.

  “Don’t try to move. An ambulance is on the way.”

  She tried to reply, but waves of nausea and dizziness suddenly overwhelmed her. Desperate to report to someone, Agent Foy placed a second call, this one to CTU

  Headquarters in Manhattan.

  8:55:57 A.M. EDT

  Bilson Avenue, Central Ward

  Newark, New Jersey

  Paramedic Darnell Peasley saw the accident scene as soon as he swung his ambulance around the corner. “Damn,” he said. “It’s a bad one.”

  A silver Lexus was wrapped around a telephone pole; a faded red pickup truck had smashed into it. Smoke poured from under both hoods.

  Darnell noticed a sanitation truck had stopped at the scene. Two workers were waving at him. A third was poking his head through the Lexus’s window.

  “The cops are here,” said Darnell’s partner, Luis. He 34

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  pointed through the windshield as Darnell parked his ambulance next to the sanitation truck.

  Darnell was relieved to see the patrol car rolling toward them. Sometimes he and Lu
is had to wait for the police to arrive at scenes like this, which meant they remained inside their locked ambulance until the cops finally did show. On streets like Bilson Avenue, a paramedic took his life into his hands if he did anything else.

  Two cops emerged from their car, and a police van was just arriving as Darnell popped his door and ran forward, clutching his medical kit.

  “She’s pinned!” called the sanitation worker, standing next to the Lexus.

  “What about the truck driver?” Darnell asked.

  “Punk ran away,” one of the other sanitation workers cried. “Hopped into a black Hummer with tinted windows and took off.”

  “You got a license number for that?” the older cop demanded, showing attitude.

  “I got the first couple of numbers,” replied the black sanitation worker, mopping sweat off his forehead with his ’do-rag. He avoided eye contact with the white cop, directed his comments at Darnell and Luis.

  The older cop and his partner immediately hauled him to their van for a statement. Darnell moved to climb into the twisted car. A third policeman tried to help.

  “Anything I can do?” the cop asked.

  The officer was young and white and earnest.

  “I’ll call when I need you,” Darnell replied. “Now get out of the way and let me get this done before the Fire Department gets here and takes over.”

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  The policeman quickly gave Darnell space.

  That line always works, the paramedic mused. Cops and firemen got no love for each other.

  He pulled a pair of disposable gloves out of his kit and slipped the white latex over his brown hands. Then he touched his fingers to the woman’s throat.

  The pulse was strong, but she was unconscious and probably in shock. He pushed the red hair away from her forehead and saw the bloody gouge where the rearview mirror had caught her. He slapped a pressure pad on the wound to stop the bleeding.

  “How she doin’?” Luis called.

  “Probably a concussion,” Darnell replied.

  He thought for a second that he’d heard a tiny voice—

  the car’s radio? Darnell inspected the Lexus interior, spied the woman’s purse on the dashboard, the bloody cell phone in her hand. He gently slipped the device from her limp fingers and dropped the phone into the bag he’d retrieved.