24 Declassified: Collateral Damage

5. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11:00 A.M. AND 12:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

On the ground, the silencer digging into his temple, Jack had no time to make a move before the final gunshot.

When it came, Jack felt no pain. Instead, the pressure against his skull simply fell away.

Jack instantly realized he hadn’t been shot. The blond man lurched backward, onto the fire escape, one limp hand brushing at the quickly spreading red stain on his blue shirt.

As Jack pulled his weapon, a second bullet caught the blond man in the throat. The blond dropped his gun, and his body pitched against the metal railing. Limply, without a sound, he fell headfirst into the street below.

Glancing around, Jack saw Tony Almeida, Glock still in hand. Tony walked over, helped Jack to his feet.

“Jack, are you—”

“I’m fine,” Jack said hoarsely.

Tony stepped back, holstered his weapon.

Jack closed his eyes, took a breath. With every move, he was battered by waves of dizziness. Ignoring the pain, he opened his eyes, reholstered his own Glock.

Tony stepped to the fire escape and peered over the railing. “Sorry, Jack. I know you wanted one of them alive.”

“Forget it,” Jack rasped. “Let’s find out what they were up to.”

It took them less than a minute to find the bomb. It was planted at the base of the microwave communications array — a digital clock connected to a two-pound bundle of C–4.

Jack crouched low, fighting a wave of nausea. “I can defuse this,” he said.

Tony pulled him away. “You’re in no condition to do this. Let me handle it.”

Before Jack could protest, the cell phone went off in his pocket. He answered, “Bauer.”

“It’s me, Jack-o,” Morris said. “Where have you run off to?”

“I’ve been… busy,” Jack said.

“I have news,” Morris continued. “Both good and bad.”

“Okay,” Jack said while he watched Tony use a gravity knife to sever the wire that led from the explosive charge to the timer. Tony then opened the back of the clock and removed a small battery. Immediately, the numbers stopped flashing and the digital face went dark.

Jack quietly exhaled.

“Are you there, Jack?” Morris demanded. “It’s not polite to ignore a man who’s called you.”

“I’m here,” Jack replied wearily. “What have you got for me? The good news.”

“I’ve broken through Brice Holman’s security firewall,”

Morris declared with a hint of pride. “The contents of the Director’s computer are yours to peruse.”

“Good work, Morris. What’s the downside?”

The memory’s been wiped clean. Holman’s cache is empty. And get this… According to the computer log, the memory was wiped this morning at six twenty-one a.m.”

“Then there’s a mole in CTU New York. Maybe more than one. We checked the entry logs. We know Brice Holman was never here today. That means somebody else deleted those files.” Jack paused, rubbed his aching temple. “How about the laptop I brought you?”

“I’m afraid all Fredo Mangella was doing was convert-ing currency. Dollars into euros. Millions of them. It was all on the up-and-up.” Morris frowned. “Might be a dead end, Jack.”

“No,” Jack insisted. “It’s important, but I don’t know why. Not yet. We’re still missing a piece of the puzzle.”

“I’ll keep looking, but all I see are recipes and payroll records. You won’t believe what an executive chef earns!”

“Listen, Morris. One more thing. Tony Almeida has a device for you to check out.”

Morris sighed. “Now what would that be, boss? A computer? Another laptop?”

“A bomb,” Jack replied.

After swallowing two cups of black coffee and three Advils, Jack felt considerably better. Tony had gone back to finishing his work on the security system, and Morris had taken the explosive device to the blast-proof room for further examination.

Now Jack was sitting behind Brice Holman’s desk, waking his computer out of hibernation. The firewalls were down and Holman’s computer cache was empty, as Morris had said.

Jack moved to the nonsecured files Holman kept, and ran a search using keywords FBI, DEA, and ATF. At first dozens of interagency alerts came up — practically all of them were Most Wanted List updates, Amber Alerts, or government releases. Jack filtered them out.

Then he found the draft of an e-mail to Judith Foy.

Holman had never finished or sent the message, but the e-mail mentioned “our friends at the FBI” and “Jello and Rollo,” obviously code names.

Jack punched the intercom and summoned Layla Abernathy.

“I want you to contact Andrew McConnell,” he told her the moment she walked in.

“The Director of the local FBI office?”

“That’s right. I want you to ask him if any of his agents are involved in an investigation of the Warriors of God, Imam Ali Rahman al Sallifi, or the compound at Kurmastan.”

Layla nodded. “Anything else?”

“Don’t be upset if you don’t get any answers. Just report back to me. I want to know what McConnell says, word for word. His tone, his attitude, his inflection.”

“If you want all that, why can’t you talk to him yourself?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” was Jack’s only reply.

Layla left Holman’s office with a stiff stride. She could understand Jack Bauer’s being unhappy with the present situation, but she didn’t like being kept in the dark. Brice had kept her that way for weeks, and she’d had enough of it.

She didn’t care for Bauer’s manner, either. He was obviously a gung-ho, Type A, goal-oriented alpha male. The kind of guy who’d roll over anything or anyone who got in his way.

Layla had made some discreet inquiries about the man and wasn’t surprised to discover that Bauer had a reputation for being a loose cannon. Strangely, however, not one of Layla’s contacts had characterized him as political. Apparently, for Jack Bauer, career advancement wasn’t a high priority.

That impressed Layla, along with the man’s reputation for being one hell of a field agent. He was also tight with Richard Walsh at Langley, which Layla knew would pretty much absolve him of most Agency sins.

On her way down the hall, Layla accidentally bumped into one of Jack’s cronies. She froze when she saw the explosive in his hand.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

“No worry, luv,” Morris O’Brian said with a smile. “It’s inactive. I could crack it against the wall and absolutely nothing will happen.”

Layla shook her head. “Well, do me a favor. And don’t, okay?”

Morris grinned and punched the bricks of C–4 with his fist. “See? Perfectly harmless.”

Giving Morris a wide berth, Layla headed back to her desk. “My god,” she murmured. “These L.A. guys are all loose cannons…”

Morris opened the door to Brice Holman’s office without knocking, bounced the bomb onto the desk in front of Jack.

“What have you learned?” Jack asked.

“At first, nothing,” Morris said with a shrug. “Only that the C–4 was manufactured in Hungary, and that it didn’t take a rocket scientist to build this thing. The bomb is right out of the anarchist playbook. Except for one little thing.”

“Okay.” Jack swung around in his seat. “Explain.”

Morris sat down across from Jack. “Simple timer, two bricks of military-grade C–4, right?”

Jack nodded.

“Wrong,” Morris declared. “Watch this.”

Morris took one of the pasty, gray-white bricks of plastic explosives in his hand and broke it in half. He opened the two sections like a pomegranate, and displayed the insides to Jack.

“Is that a rock?” Jack asked.

“A pebble, actually,” Morris replied. “From a New Jersey beach no doubt. The other brick has one tucked inside of it, too.”

Jack rubbed his chin. “That doesn’t make any sense.

Stones make lousy shrapnel. Nails are better. And with half the C–4 gone from each brick—”

“More than half,” Morris replied. “The explosive potential of this device is fairly weak. In fact, this thing couldn’t do much more than bring down the microwave tower where you found it. That would put CTU New York out of action for a day or two, no longer.”

“That makes no sense,” Jack replied. “Why take all that trouble to sabotage the communications array? With a bigger bomb, the same two men could have destroyed this entire complex.”

“It’s obvious they didn’t want to do that. They wanted CTU operational. It’s the communications and satellite system they wanted disabled—”

The intercom buzzed, interrupting them.

Jack answered. “Yes?”

“It’s Tony. We just received a security alert from Langley. We’re to increase the threat level at headquarters to Code Red immediately. Specifically, we’re to pay particular attention to our communications infrastructure.”

Jack and Morris exchanged glances.

“Anything else?” Jack asked.

“Well, I put in a back-channel call to Jamey Farrell in L.A. She told me there’ve been three attacks on CTU satellite facilities — in Boston, New Haven, and Pittsburgh These attacks were successful. The comm systems ar down at all three units—”

Morris cursed.

“That’s not all,” Tony continued. “I just checked the City of New York’s emergency response system and found out that the Fire Department was summoned to FBI Headquarters fifteen minutes ago. Apparently there’s been a

‘fire’ on their roof.”

Morris met Jack’s gaze. “What do you want to bet someone took out the Agency’s satellite capabilities?”

Why satellites? Jack wondered. What is it the enemy doesn’t want us to see? Are we even looking for the thing they’re so eager to hide?

A sharp knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Jack called.

Layla Abernathy entered. “You were right, Special Agent Bauer. I spoke with Mr. McConnell personally and he blew me off.”

“What did he say, precisely?” Jack demanded.

She glanced at her notepad. “I’ll quote him: ‘The Federal Bureau of Investigation cannot comment on an ongoing investigation.’ End quote. Then Director McConnell added a personal aside.”

“Go on.”

“The Director said that Frank Hensley was a personal friend of his, and that he would rather burn in hell before he shared information with Special Agent Jack Bauer of CTU.” Layla Abernathy raised an eyebrow.

“So much for cooperation among the agencies,” Morris muttered.

Jack frowned and glanced away from Agent Abernathy’s curious gaze. I knew Operation Hell Gate would come back to bite me on this assignment. “McConnell stated that Kurmastan and its citizens were part of an ‘ongoing investigation.’ Is that correct?”

Layla nodded.

“Was that before or after you used my name?” Jack asked.

Layla frowned. “After, sir.”

“He’s lying,” Jack declared. “The FBI’s investigation is as dead as CTU’s. McConnell is just trying to throw us off by feeding us misinformation — or he already suspects some of his agents are involved with Brice Holman’s rogue operation and he wants to cover their asses.”

Morris shook his head. “With the satellite system down on the East Coast and the FBI keeping us at arm’s length, we’re effectively on our own.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “What else is new?”

The intercom buzzed again. Jack answered, putting it on speaker.

“Special Agent Bauer? This is Rachel Delgado, Security. I wanted to let you know that I’ve located Deputy Director Judith Foy. She’s been injured in the line of duty. A traffic accident, according to the police. Right now, she’s a patient in Newark General Hospital.”

Jack watched Layla. She remained composed, but her expression had fallen. She was obviously upset.

“Thank you Ms. Delgado,” said Jack, disconnecting. He met Layla’s gaze. “I’m dispatching Special Agent Almeida to Newark,” he told her. “I want Tony to interrogate Deputy Director Foy as soon as possible.”

Layla nodded. “I want to go with him.”

“No,” said Jack. Then he softened his voice. “I’m sorry, Agent Abernathy. I need you here. But I’d like you to send another agent. Someone you trust. Someone who knows New Jersey.”

“Congresswoman Williams? Are you ready for your eleven forty-five?”

“Yes, Melinda,” Hailey Williams replied over the intercom. “Send him in.”

The slender, African-American Congresswoman adjusted the gray blazer of her tailored, pinstriped suit. As her office door swung wide, she rose from behind her desk to greet the man striding into the room.

Hailey frowned, expecting a black man named Montel Tanner. Montel was the usual liaison between herself and Ali Rahman al Sallifi. In fact, it had been Montel who’d called her the day before, promising another lucrative donation to her upcoming campaign in exchange for a small favor.

Hailey had been only too happy to agree to the meeting.

Her campaign coffers were alarmingly low these days, her expenses increasingly high, and she knew al Sallifi was a man who could be counted on for financial support.

Hailey had helped al Sallifi in the past, and she was more than willing to do so again. Yes, one reason was the money. Hailey was no stranger to hardball politics — and she was certainly no saint when it came to running her campaigns. But she did honestly believe in al Sallifi’s work with prisoners.

Sure, Hailey appeared to be living a charmed life now: married to a prominent public defender, a graduate of Howard University, two graduate degrees from Princeton.

But she was far from a child of privilege.

Hailey was the third daughter to a single mother, whose father had died at the hands of guards in a state penitentiary, and three of her cousins had done time in prisons.

To Hailey, prisoners were lost souls in need of guidance, and she firmly believed that once someone had served his or her time, that person deserved an unprejudiced chance to begin again.

She had proudly defended Ali Rahman al Sallifi, his Warriors of God organization, and its rural New Jersey Kurmastan settlement precisely because they held the same outlook that she did when it came to these lost souls of society.

Hailey had never actually examined the group’s specific religious teachings. As an agnostic, she personally wasn’t interested — although she did recognize and respect that any religion was a form of philosophy that could be very helpful in turning around certain troubled men and women.

For her, it was enough to know that the group was a religious-based organization that gave the state’s ex-cons direction, focus, and a halfway home after they left their prison lives. Montel always assured her of that. In fact, Montel had been very pleasant to meet with from the start.

That was another reason she was a bit taken aback to find a different sort of man greeting her today.

His manner was very cold. And his skin was so very pale. The whiteness of it looked almost unnatural to Hailey, quite off-putting, but she hid her reaction and extended her hand.

The Albino ignored it. Instead, he simply dropped his large briefcase down on the edge of her desk and opened it. There was computer inside. He tapped a few keys, and the screen came to life. The Congresswoman noted that the satellite system quickly located a remote wireless connection and locked on to it.

“Ibrahim Noor sent me,” the man began, speaking in a thin, raspy voice.

“Noor?” Hailey Williams said, frowning. “Not Ali Rahman al Sallifi?”

A tight-lipped smile of regret spread across the man’s ghost-pale features. “I’m afraid the Imam is quite busy with his clerical duties. Ibrahim Noor is handling political matters these days.”

“I see.”

Hailey sank back into her chair, waiting while the albino man stooped over the portable computer, long fingers drumming the miniature keyboard. Finally, he straightened up, turned the computer so it faced the Congresswoman.

“The site for the Palm Bank of the Cayman Islands is displayed,” he said. “Please punch in the password to your account.”

The woman’s jaw dropped. “How do you know about that account?” she demanded, half rising from her chair again.

“Just enter the password, please,” he repeated.

With a frown, the Congresswoman punched in the numbers. Her balance and a list of transactions came up immediately.

“Don’t go messing with my account,” she warned.

The man smiled again. “Ibrahim Noor has a proposal for you. He wants you to cancel your appearance with Reverend Ahern this afternoon.”

“But… I don’t understand… my meeting with the Reverend was precisely to smooth things over for the Warriors of God. It’s been members of Reverend Ahern’s congregation who’ve been complaining about activities at Kurmastan—”

“Ibrahim Noor desires to meet with the neighboring group personally,” said the Albino. “What he does not desire is further publicity about Kurmastan.”

“But publicity is the point!” Hailey argued. “My meeting was supposed to be covered by the local press. I was hoping to use it as the kickoff for my reelection campaign.

To show my support for diversity. Tolerance. Why should I give up on it?”

“For money,” the Albino said flatly. “A quite substantial amount of money, wired anonymously to your account.

Money no one will ever have to know about. Not the Federal Elections Commission, not the Treasury Department nor the IRS.”

Hailey frowned, considering this. “Why would Mr. Noor make such an offer? Surely there are strings attached.”

The Albino shook his head. “It is a gift, truly. We only ask that you stay away from Reverend Ahern, and not join him on his visit to Kurmastan. Send your sincere regrets instead. In return, we offer you this token of our friendship—

one million euros.”

“Euros!” The Congresswoman shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather be paid in U.S. currency.”

The man tossed his blond mane in an almost effeminate gesture of disdain. “In time you will thank Ibrahim Noor for his generosity and foresight.”

Hailey narrowed her eyes. “Now why would I do that?”

The Albino offered her a thin smile. “Because in two weeks, Madam Congresswoman, a sheet of toilet paper will be far more valuable than United States currency.”

“Sorry, our satellite bandwidth is all tied up right now.

Have a nice day.”

Morris hung up the phone.

“Was that the FBI?” Jack asked.

“The Drug Enforcement Agency. Something about a cocaine shipment coming ashore on Fire Island. They wanted us to track it for them.”

“Then the local DEA has lost satellite capabilities, too.”

“Apparently.” Morris touched his finger to his chin.

“You know, Jack-o. None of these agencies are really thinking. If the situation was critical, they could always appropriate bandwidth from the civilian broadcast stations in the area. Practically all of them use the most powerful microwave tower in the city.”

Jack sat up, alarmed. “Where?”

“Top of the World Trade Center, Jack.”

“Can you tap into the WTC security system from this console?”

Morris shrugged. “Sure.”

“Get to work.”

While Morris keyed in the protocols, Jack summoned Layla Abernathy.

“Contact the Operations Control Center of the World Trade Center. Ask them if they’ve authorized any maintenance work near the microwave tower — specifically workers from Consolidated Edison.”

Five minutes later they were scanning the streets around the twin towers for Con Edison trucks and men in blue uniforms.

“I’ve got nothing, Jack. Nobody on the streets. Nobody on the roof of the North Tower, where the antenna is located.”

“Try the security cameras inside the maintenance shafts and freight elevators,” Jack commanded.

Layla returned, and Jack faced her.

“The OC center at the World Trade Center has authorized no work on or near the microwave tower,” she told him. “No one from Con Edison has passed through their security checkpoints today, either.”

“Then who are these guys?” Morris replied, jerking his head at the monitor.

On screen, two men in Con Ed blue entered a freight elevator, accompanied by a man in a Port Authority policeman’s uniform.

“The enemy,” Bauer said grimly.