24 Declassified: Collateral Damage

24. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6:00 A.M. AND 7:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

Robert Ellis avoided the crowd at the front of the auditorium, got in line at an entrance marked “Press” in six languages. A pair of security guards checked off every name on the list as the reporters arrived.

“Ellis, Robert, Theological News Service, New York,”

he said, handing over his identification. The guard checked his name against the roster and returned his ID.

“Through the metal detector and straight ahead, Mr. Ellis,” the guard told him.

After he passed through the X-ray machine, a slight, effeminate man swathed in Armani stepped out of the shadows to greet him. His English was slightly fractured, but Ellis had to admit the man’s pronunciation was excellent.

“Mr. Ellis! How good of you to come, sir. Archbishop Holzer had many good things to say about you. When His Excellency called with this last-minute request for an invitation, I could not refuse him.”

Ellis smiled. “I appreciate your hospitality, Mr.—”

“Jorg Schactenberg,” he said, extending his hand. “I am Soren Ungar’s amanuensis.”

The man’s handshake had all the warmth and life of a dead fish.

“I understand you attended this event last year,”

Schactenberg purred.

“Two years ago,” Ellis corrected. “Last year I was away from Geneva on urgent business.”

“Ah, yes,” the other man replied. “Always with the business. His Excellency, the Archbishop, told me you have kept him up late many times, with talking about the philosophy and the religion — and your many amazing adventures. You have a seminary background?”

“A bachelor’s degree in theology, from Fordham University in New York,” Ellis replied. “And I might add that Archbishop Holzer possesses an amazing mind. I have often been a guest in his home, and it was always most stimulating.”

Everything Ellis told Schactenberg was true, though if today’s bit of wet work ever came to light, Ellis doubted he would ever be welcome in the Archbishop’s residence again.

“I’m sure Herr Ungar’s speech will be quite enlighten-ing,” Ellis added graciously.

Schactenberg offered Ellis a thin smile. “As an American, I’m sure you will hear something that interests you.”

The man led Ellis behind the massive stage, to a room packed with members of the international press.

“I have reserved a place for you in the reception line, Mr. Ellis. I do believe Herr Ungar will greet all the members of the media before he delivers his address.”

Ellis smiled. “I’m counting on it.”

In the light of a blazing dawn, Jack Bauer, Layla Abernathy, and Tony Almeida watched the Peralta Storage facility collapse in on itself from the air. Burning cinders rose into the smoky sky. Howard and Crampton Streets were packed with emergency vehicles, lights flashing.

“There’s nothing more to see here,” Jack declared, directing the pilot to return to Manhattan.

Before they lifted off, Jack used a mobile Wi-Fi broad-band communications system to forward the contents of the enemy’s computer to experts at Langley.

Agent Foy was aboard Raptor One, on her way to CTU’s infirmary, where her injuries would be treated. Jack kept the laptop at his side once he realized it belonged to Said Kabbibi or one of his technicians.

“Morris, can you hear me?” Jack said into his headset.

“Loud and clear, Jack.”

“Any sign of the missing truck?”

There was a long sigh. “Jack, you’re asking for the impossible now. We’ve established the garage under the warehouse was too small to hold a large trailer truck like the other twelve vehicles, so we really don’t know what type of truck we’re looking for.”

“There must be something—”

“Peek out your window,” Morris interrupted. “There are quite literally thousands of trucks on the road right now. It would be easier to find a needle in a haystack while blindfolded.”

Jack bit back a curse. “Anything from Langley yet?”

“The bio-weapons experts are still reviewing the contents of the computer. Director Henderson urges patience.”

“Patience is no virtue when you’re running out of time,”

Jack shot back.

“Pithy, and well said,” Morris replied. “I’m going to remember that one.”

Layla Abernathy rested her hand on Jack’s arm. “Langley will come through,” she said. “They understand how urgent the situation is.”

Jack nodded, took a swig of water from a plastic bottle.

Across the bay from the pair, Tony slouched in a seat. Like Jack, he wore new scars from this day, and it wasn’t over yet.

Morris’s voice suddenly came on in Jack’s headset. “I have the Director of CTU’s Biological and Chemical Warfare Unit on line now,” he said. “I’ll put him through.”

As the connection was made, Tony sat up, adjusting his own headset. Layla tapped her foot nervously.

“Dr. Vogel here,” the Director began.

“What are we dealing with?” Jack asked without pre-amble. “Is it a biological or a chemical agent?”

“Both,” Vogel replied with equal bluntness. “The agent is called Zahhak, after a demonic snake of Persian my-thology, sometimes depicted with two heads. The name is apt because this substance brings death in two ways.”

“Explain,” Jack ordered.

“At first we thought we were dealing with a simple sarin compound,” Vogel replied. “Sarin, or O-Isopropyl meth-ylphosphonofluoridate, is a clear, colorless, and odorless nerve agent classified by the United Nations as a weapon of mass destruction. Sarin is nothing new, of course. It was developed in the late 1930s by German researchers looking for a better pesticide. What they created instead is one of the deadliest compounds on earth. Sarin has been used—”

“Zahhak is not sarin, then?” Jack interrupted.

“Not precisely,” Vogel said. “Like sarin, Zahhak is very unstable. It can break down in days, which is why Kabbibi needed a lab here in America to produce the weapon.

Various substances have been tried to make the agent more stable and increase its shelf life. A stabilizer chemical called tributylamine has been used in the past, with mixed results. Dr. Said Kabbibi tried something different, something revolutionary, and it worked.”

Jack’s impatience with the technician threatened to boil over. He opened his mouth to speak; Layla restrained him with a gesture.

“Layla Abernathy here,” she interrupted. “You said this was both a chemical and a biological weapon?”

“I was getting to that,” Vogel said testily. “Kabbibi initially tried to bond various bacteria with the sarin substance, hoping to make the chemical more stable. He tried many organics without success, until he stumbled upon bacteria called Clostridium perfringens. The result was a two-pronged weapon of mass destruction more deadly than anything previously encountered.”

“Two-prong?” Jack cut in.

“Let me explain,” Vogel said with a sigh. “A terrorist attack in the Middle East often involves two sets of explosive devices. After the initial blast and resulting casualties, emergency workers stream to the scene of the attack.

That’s when the terrorists unleash a second string of blasts, to kill those rushing to aid the victims.”

Jack frowned, recalling accounts he’d read of such dia-bolical attacks.

“When Zahhak is unleashed, the sarin compound immediately attacks the nervous system of its victims,” Vogel continued. “Symptoms present in minutes include runny nose, tightness in the chest, constriction of the pupils, nausea, drooling. Difficulty in breathing increases as the victims lose control of their bodily functions. They urinate.

Defecate. Vomit. Bleed from the nose and mouth. Death soon follows — but Zahhak’s threat doesn’t end there.”

“Explain,” Jack said tightly.

“The biological agent— Clostridium perfringens—is introduced into the victim’s body along with the gas, causing an outbreak of necrotizing fasciitis.”

“Of what?” Abernathy asked.

“A condition commonly known as ‘flesh-eating bacteria’ occurs. The bacteria work too slowly to affect the initial victims of the gas, but their bodies and their bodily fluids are immediately contaminated with the bacteria.

Clostridium perfringens is highly contagious. Exposure from a single touch, or even breathing the weaponized bacteria, can cause infection and a slow and agonizing death. There is no cure.”

“This is monstrous,” Layla whispered. “Emergency workers and hospital personnel would end up becoming the ones infected — emergency response would be taken out first.”

“It gets worse,” Vogel informed them. “Within minutes of dispersal through an aerosol dispenser, Zahhak forms a solid. In that state, the effects of the sarin are neutralized, but the malignant bacteria live on. In fact, it is virtually indestructible at this point. And the solid particles are mi-croscopic in size, so they become airborne, spreading the contagion across hundreds of miles.”

“Dr. Vogel, is there a vaccine or countermeasure to combat Zahhak?” Jack asked.

“Countermeasure?” Vogel replied, his tone bitter. “My colleagues and I are not precisely sure how this substance works. A countermeasure or vaccine may be years away—

or a pipe dream. Once Zahhak is unleashed, it is like a genie that can never be returned to its bottle.”

“What can we do?” rasped Jack.

“Stop it before it’s released,” Vogel replied. “In its liquid or gaseous state, Zahhak is very sensitive to moisture and heat, which is why Kabbibi needed liquid oxygen to keep the substance cool. Zahhak can be destroyed by heating it to a temperature above 160 degrees centigrade. It is also completely soluble in water — steam would be ideal to render the agent inert, but only in its liquid or gaseous state. Once it becomes a solid, there is nothing that can be done to contain its deadly effects.”

Vogel ended the call at that point, informing Jack he was scheduled to brief the President. Christopher Henderson came on line.

“Any thoughts, Jack?”

Bauer’s mind raced. “When I was talking to Dubic, and he believed he was talking to the Albino, Dubic said something about a rendezvous at the bull this morning. Is that a section of New York? A building, plaza, or park?”

Layla blinked. “You’re kidding, right? Wait. I forgot you’re from Los Angeles.”

“Cut to the chase,” Tony growled.

“There is a bull,” Layla told them. “The Wall Street Bull, a two-and-a-half-ton bronze sculpture of a charging bull. It sits in Bowling Green Park. The statue was erected after the 1987 stock market crash, and it’s become the symbol of the Financial District.”

“That’s it, then!” Jack said. “Noor’s heading for Wall Street, and we’re going to be there to meet him.”

Ibrahim Noor steered the truck onto Broadway, joined the flow of traffic heading downtown. Though it was early, rush hour was already in full swing in the Financial District. The morning sun was bright, heralding a warm day.

In the passenger seat, Said Kabbibi twitched nervously.

He was about to speak when the traffic light turned red, forcing Noor to brake. Cross traffic from Cedar Street quickly crammed the intersection.

Kabbibi groaned, tugged on the collar of his utility worker’s uniform. “I fear we will not make it to the park in time. Unfortunately I cannot stop the timer now. The aerosol device will release the toxin at precisely seven-thirty.”

“Relax,” Noor said. “We’re only a few blocks away.”

“Good,” Kabbibi replied, moping his brow with a hand-kerchief. “I do not want to be anywhere near this place when the Zahhak is released.”

The light turned green, but so many cars blocked the intersection that they couldn’t make it through. Kabbibi became even more agitated.

“I told you to relax,” Noor rumbled. “By nine o’clock, we’ll be on a private jet to Geneva, and America will be on its knees.”

The roof of the mid-rise Bartleby Tower, right across the street from the Cunard Building, provided a perfect perch to observe traffic rolling down Broadway.

Jack Bauer was there, along with Tony Almeida, Layla Abernathy, and Director Christopher Henderson. Three telescopes had been set up, each focused on downtown traffic.

“I’m checking the truck that just turned onto Broadway from Exchange Street,” Jack said, peering through the lens. “The logo says Carvel Ice Cream.”

He zoomed in, spied a bored Asian man behind the steering wheel. “Looks like a negative,” Jack said.

His headset crackled. “This is Bio-Monitor One. That truck is clean.”

Jack exhaled.

“Are you sure the explosive charge is powerful enough?”

Bauer asked for the third time.

“The demolition boys know how to do their jobs, Jack,”

Henderson replied, his expression unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses.

Jack spoke into his headset. “Morris? How about the traffic lights? We need to isolate the vehicle as soon as it’s spotted.”

“I’m in control of the lights along Broadway, Jack,”

Morris said from Security Station One. “Give me the word and I’ll put in the fix. Frankly, I wish I had this kind of control in Los Angeles.”

Jack tensed. “Check the Consolidated Edison truck at the Pine Street intersection. Noor’s used that trick before.”

All three telescopes focused on the blue and white Con Edison van, and the two men inside the cab.

“That’s Noor, behind the wheel,” Jack hissed, clutching the telescope reflexively.

“And Kabbibi is beside him,” Layla cried.

“I see some kind of nozzle sticking out of the top of the truck,” Tony warned.

“This is Bio-Monitor One. Our meters are off the chart.

That truck is dirty.”

“I’ve got the vehicle on my monitor,” Morris declared.

“Facial recognition software has confirmed Noor’s and Kabbibi’s identities on this end.”

“Okay,” Jack declared. “This is it.”

On Broadway at Bowling Green Park, the uptown lights suddenly turned red. Cars braked abruptly. It was obvious to the drivers that something was wrong with the signals, but before anyone could jump the light, an FDNY ladder truck rolled into the middle of the intersection, blocking all traffic.

“Uptown traffic flow has been cut off,” Morris declared.

“Downtown traffic is next. I’ll have that vehicle isolated in less than a minute.”

Henderson touched the detonator in his hand. “This is your plan and your show, Bauer. Give the word and I’ll set off the fireworks.”

At the head of the pack, Ibrahim Noor was the first driver through the intersection when the light turned green. He was also the only vehicle to make the light, which immediately turned red again, stopping all traffic behind him.

With two blocks of Broadway wide open, Noor picked up speed. But halfway down the block he slowed again, glanced into his rearview mirror.

“A fire truck has blocked traffic behind us,” he announced.

“There’s one ahead of us, too,” Kabbibi cried, pointing to the red vehicle two blocks away.

“Something’s wrong,” whispered Noor.

The big man checked his right. The uptown lane was empty, too. Noor frowned when he realized the Con Edison truck was the only vehicle on the block. Bowling Green Park was directly ahead of them, and Kabbibi urged Noor to speed up.

Noor slowed the van instead, eyes scanning Broadway like a hunted animal.

“The truck’s slowing down,” Layla warned.

Jack Bauer stared through the telescope. “Don’t worry.

He’s almost reached the mark.”

Through the scope, Jack watched the vehicle approach a freshly painted yellow cross on the pavement, right in the middle of the downtown lane.

When the van reached the symbol. Jack faced Henderson.

“Now,” he rasped.

Henderson pressed the detonator…

Kabbibi cried out when a powerful jolt rocked the van.

Before either man could react, the pavement opened up under their wheels.

The Con Ed van plunged six feet, landing atop a massive steam pipe — part of the Financial District’s underground infrastructure.

Noor cursed.

“Let me out!” Kabbibi howled, fumbling with the handle.

“Too late,” Noor whispered.

At that moment, a second blast shattered the pipe beneath them.

Instantly, the vehicle was engulfed in sizzling steam. In under a second, the temperature inside the truck soared to a thousand degrees.

As he howled, Noor’s scalded flesh blistered, then began to slough off his bones like chicken in a soup pot. Kabbibi’s eyes popped from the searing heat, and he clutched his face with fleshless fingers.

Behind them, in the cargo bay, the aluminum tank containing the Zahhak burst with a muffled thump.

A fountain of white steam erupted from the pit, filling the near-empty street. Millions of gallons of boiling water gushed out. Then the flow turned dark brown, as rocks and soil spewed out of the seething pit. Hot mud splattered buildings. Windows broke as high as the eighth floor.

Like a raging volcano, the lavalike mixture continued to stream up from around the ruptured pipe.

Robert Ellis was the fifth man in the reception line. He waited patiently, watching Soren Ungar greet each member of the press with a handshake, smile plastered across his rigid face.

Jorg Schactenberg stood at Ungar’s shoulder, making introductions as his boss moved down the line.

“This is Robert Ellis of the Theological News Service in New York,” Schactenberg said.

Under thick glasses, Soren Ungar’s expressionless eyes regarded him. Stiffly, the financial leader extended his hand.

Ellis twisted the faux Fordham University ring on his left hand with his thumb, enfolded Ungar’s pale hand with his right.

“A pleasure, Herr Ellis,” Ungar said formally.

Still clutching Ungar’s hand in his right, Ellis covered it with his left. He felt the tiny needle plunge into Soren Ungar’s pale flesh.

“Greetings from the U. S. of A.,” Ellis hissed. Then he released the man.

Ungar stepped back, obviously surprised, though his face registered no expression. The currency trader turned to speak with the sixth man in line, and suddenly his knees buckled.

“Herr Ungar,” Schactenberg said. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ungar replied, waving him off. “I…”

Suddenly white foam flecked the corner of Soren Ungar’s thin lips, then a gush of dark red blood stained his chin. A stain appeared in the front of Ungar’s London tailored pants, too, as his bladder released its contents.

“Mein Gott,” Schactenberg cried in German. “Someone call an ambulance.”

Soren Ungar reeled, then pitched to the floor. Almost immediately, violent convulsions wrenched the man’s body, twisting his limbs unnaturally as he writhed on the thick carpet.

Reporters instinctively rushed forward. Cameras appeared and flashbulbs flashed as Jorg Schactenberg tried to wave them back.

Robert Ellis slipped out of the press room, moved toward the exit. Security guards and paramedics rushed past him, heading in the opposite direction.

Too late, boys, Ellis mused.

The poison was a clone of something the Soviets had concocted back in the Cold War era. There was no cure for the toxin, which killed its victims after about five minutes of excruciating pain.

As Robert Ellis left the auditorium, an out-of-breath businessman called to him. “Am I too late to hear Soren Ungar’s address?”

“Mr. Ungar’s speech has just been canceled,” Robert Ellis said, and kept walking.

Jack Bauer stood with his team at the edge of the roof, watching the steaming volcano on the street far below.

A voice spoke in his headset. “This is Bio-Monitor One.

We’re detecting water vapor, iron oxides, asbestos, rubber, granite, and particulate matter. No chemical or biological agents, however. The area around the blast is clean.

Repeat, the area is clean.”

Jack exhaled, yanked away the headset, and dropped it on the tarred roof. Christopher Henderson slapped his back.

“Good job, Jack.”

Jack nodded, still numb.

Tony called out to Jack. “Morris is on the line.”

Jack waved him off. “Take a message.”

Tony listened for a moment, one hand on his ear. “It’s the latest casualty report, Jack. Eleven hundred and fifty-eight, so far. Those figures are expected to rise.”

Jack groaned, turned away.

Layla moved, too, far away from the others. In the center of the roof, she oriented herself, then faced Mecca.

She threw up her hands, then folded them across her breast as she began to mutter a prayer.

Henderson tugged off his sunglasses, stared. “What’s she saying?” he whispered.

“The Salat al-Janazah,” Jack replied. “The Muslim prayer for the dead.”

Henderson blinked. “I didn’t know Agent Abernathy was one of the Faithful, did you?”

Jack smiled. “Yeah. I did.” He faced his boss. “You’d be wise to appoint Judith Foy the new Director of CTU New York. And I’d recommend Layla for the number two spot.

She’s young, but—”

Henderson silenced Jack with a raised hand. “There isn’t going to be a CTU New York, Jack. Not after this mess.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“The orders have been issued from on high,” Henderson informed him. “Walsh and the President are in agreement on this.”

“But what happened here proves the need for a CTU presence.”

“Security was compromised from the start,” Henderson replied. “The division was infiltrated before it even opened.

The political meltdown over this hasn’t even begun yet.”

Henderson shook his head. “CTU will continue to guard the rest of the country. But from now on, New York City is on its own.”

The man curled his long arm around Jack’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Jack, you have enough on your plate with Los Angeles.”

Jack stepped away, processing everything Henderson had said. With the mention of L.A., he suddenly remembered his wife and daughter, realizing in a rush how much he missed them. He pulled out his personal cell phone, noticed a text message from Teri. A reminder.

He smiled.

“How about breakfast?” Henderson called to him. “On me. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten in a day.”

Jack glanced at his watch. “Fine, Christopher, but after that I’m heading uptown.”

Henderson looked at him askance. “Sightseeing?”

Bauer shook his head. “Just keeping a promise.”