24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage

by Marc Cerasini

  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 C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 75

  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 76

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  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.”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 77

  “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.”

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  11:57:41 P.M. EDT

  Security Station One

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  “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.”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 79

  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.

  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

  12:00 P.M. AND 1:00 P.M.

  EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  12:07:41 P.M. EDT

  The Flemington Traffic Circle Flemington, New Jersey

  The silver BMW entered the roundabout, then took the first exit onto New Jersey Route 12 west.

  Cruising at sixty miles per hour, the Albino considered his short and expensive interaction with Congresswoman Hailey Williams.

  As predicted, the woman eagerly accepted the deal we offered her. And why not? She’s a politician—a whore for money—like the rest of her ilk.

  Meanwhile, he slipped a disposable hypodermic needle C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 81

  out of a black bag on the floor. Holding the needle high, he pressed the plunger until a tiny bit of golden fluid pearled at the tip. Then he thrust the needle into his forearm, chewing his lower lip as he pushed the steroid and stimulant cocktail into his veins.

  If only I’d learned this simple fact earlier in life, he mused, shaking back his long white hair. I wasted years as an assassin, only to find that buying a politician is so much easier than killing one.

  His heart began to race and sweat beaded his brow.

  The veins on his neck and forehead quivered. The Albino clutched the wheel and stepped on the gas.

  On the road back to Kurmastan, he noticed the many outlet stores for which Flemington was noted, each a huge, gaudy temple dedicated to consumerism. They sold designer shoes, designer coats, furs, jewelry—even designer foods.

  His thin lips stretched into a tight smile.

  This will soon end. In another year, the average American will be content to eat garbage, live in a cardboard box, and wear rags on his back.

  Slipping into the fast lane, the Albino tossed the used needle out the window and reached for the cell in his pocket. He punched speed dial on an international exchange. It took a moment for the connection to be made.

  “Ungar Financial, LLC, Geneva,” a woman said in a coolly efficient voice.

  “I must speak with Soren Ungar,” the Albino rasped.

  “Erno Tobias calling.”

  “I’ll put you through immediately, sir.”

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  12:39:51 P.M. EDT

  North Tower

  World Trade Center

  Jack Bauer stood inside a stairwell on the 110th floor of One World Trade Center.

  He wore the Con Edison uniform taken from the intruder he’d killed on the roof of CTU, blood from the fatal head wound hastily cleaned. Jack had to roll up the sleeves to hide the fact that the shirt was too small. The collar was still damp, and he fidgeted uncomfortably.

  A steel door to the roof was in front of him. Beside him, Layla Abernathy used a digital photo of the dead man’s tattoo as a model, drawing a stylized 13 on Jack’s bared forearm. Jack knew about the number 13 tattooed on members of the multinational prison gang MS–13. But this tattoo wasn’t a regular 13. Its design included a five-pointed star inside the bottom loop of the numeral 3 that suggested the star and crescent symbol of Islam.

  Jack watched Layla sketch, wishing Tony had his back instead of a novice like this woman. But Tony was in Newark, and Layla was the only person he trusted from the New York office, so Jack had brought her along. While she worked, Jack lifted a cell phone to his ear.

  “Where are they now, Morris?” he asked.

  “The copper’s pacing on the other side of your door,”

  O’Brian replied from the security console at CTU. “The men in the utility company uniforms are at the base of the tower, climbing onto a ladder.”

  “Is the Port Authority cop real?”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 83

  “Don’t know, Jack-o. I could ask, but that would tip the WTC security staff that they’ve got a problem, and you don’t want that.”

  Morris paused. “My best guess is they’re using the officer as cover. I suspect they were afraid to disable the cameras and arouse the suspicion of the OCC managers. But that pair of utility workers entered without signing in, and I observed the PA officer as he escorted them to the roof.”

  “Then he’s working for the bad guys,” Jack concluded.

  “Finished,” Layla said, displaying the phony tattoo to Jack. “Try not to sweat too much; I drew it with felt tip pens.”

  Jack nodded.

  “I hope this works,” the woman continued. “We don’t even know what the 13 tattoo means. There’s no match for it in CTU’s database.”

  “It just has to fool them long enough for me to take them down,” Jack replied. Then he spoke into the cell. “How far away is the tower from the door in front of me?”

  “A good hundred yards, Jack. The roof slopes upward, and you’ll have to climb onto a three-tiered metal platform to reach the base of the tower. There are steel support cables strung all over the roof, so be careful not to trip over one.”

  Jack frowned. “So charging the bad guys would not be a good idea. Don’t worry, I don’t plan to.”

  Bauer spoke to Layla while he slipped a hands-free headset over his ears and tucked the phone into the Con Ed uniform.

  “Go down two flights, to level 108, and listen in to my 84

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  transmission. If something happens to me, alert the NYPD

  Bomb Squad and let them handle the bombers.”

  “You shouldn’t do this alone,” Layla insisted. “We can have a SWAT team up here inside of five minutes.”

  “I need to take one of them alive, for interrogation,”

  Jack replied. “We’re working in the dark. We need some solid intelligence.”

  “Good luck,” Layla called as she descended the concrete steps.

  “I’m about to move,” Jack said into the headset. “Where’s the officer now?”

  “About two feet away from you. On the other side of the door. Why? Are you planning to charm your way past him?”

  “No time for that,” Jack hissed.

  Jack clutched the metal handle, felt relief when he realized the door opened inward, which offered him a better chance to surprise the PA cop.

  “Jack!” Morris cried, voice sharp in his headset. “The copper’s leaning against the door right now.”

  Bauer yanked it open. A burst of sunlight and the roar of wind filled the dim stairwell. With a startled cry, the man in the navy-blue uniform fell into Jack’s arms. Bauer immediately placed him in a chokehold and dragged the struggling man into the stairwell. The door closed automatically.

  The man was young and Hispanic and smaller than Jack, but very powerful. While he struggled, Jack applied just enough pressure to render him unconscious, then let the limp form slide to the floor. Jack checked the man’s C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 85

  arms but found no tattoo. The ID in his pocket pegged him as Hector Giamonde, a real PA police officer with just eight months on the job.

  Jack heard footsteps and whirled, fist ready.

  Layla jumped back. She clutched a Glock in her small hands.

  “I told you to stay downstairs,” Jack hissed.

  “I heard a struggle, and—”

  “Cuff him,” Jack interrupted. “I’m going out.”

  While Layla strapped flex cuffs around the man’s wrists and ankles, Jack slipped through the door.

  Outside, high winds buffeted him, flapping the legs of his baggy pants and tugging at his hair. Jack blinked against the constant blast and scanned the roof.

  He spied the intruders on a steel ladder. They’d climbed a hundred and fifty feet up the transmis
sion tower. They were both focused on their ascent, and neither noticed the absence of the Port Authority policeman who’d been guarding their backs.

  Jack bolted across the roof, leaping over steel cables, until he reached the metal platform that ringed the tower base. Still undetected, he ascended two levels of steps, wending his way around a dozen or more STLs and ENG

  receiver dishes. Amid an electronic hum mixed with the howl of the winds, Jack reached the bottom of the ladder.

  The tower was a building in its own right, a square structure eighteen hundred feet high and perhaps a hundred feet around. The ladder in front of him snaked up the side.

  Eyes squinting against the bright sunshine, Jack gripped 86

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  the steel rail and began to climb. After twenty rungs, he knew why the intruders weren’t looking down. The vistas around him were incredibly vast, the height dizzying.

  Jack battled a constant wind that whistled in his ears and threatened to rip him off the ladder.

  “Can you hear me, Morris? I need to know the location of the intruders.”

  The voice in his headset was drowned out by the gale.

  Jack muttered a curse and kept climbing.

  He couldn’t find the intruders now. He did come across three bombs taped to the tower wall—solid bricks of C–4

  wired with detonation cords instead of timers. Jack ripped the cords out as he went.

  About two hundred feet above him, between rows of saucer-shaped dishes, Jack saw a steel mesh platform that circled the tower. The men had apparently exited the ladder there, and moved to the opposite side of the transmission tower.

  Jack continued his ascent until the platform was less than twenty feet above him. Here the climbing space narrowed because the ladder was sandwiched between two massive receiver dishes. As Jack moved between them, strong hands grabbed his throat and threatened to tear him from the ladder.

  “Te morati poginuti! ” the attacker cried.

  Jack understood the language from his Delta Force missions in Eastern Europe. Rather than resisting, he threw up his arm so his attacker could see the tattoo.

  “Prekid JA sam jedan prijatelj,” Jack rasped in Serbian.

  “JA mocí pomoc´.”

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 87

  The big man saw the tattoo, heard Jack’s words. Suddenly the pressure on his throat eased. Jack did not resist when the man grabbed his forearm and dragged him onto the top of a massive receiver dish, where he sprawled, gasping. The man loomed over him, stocky build, dark eyes, a once aquiline nose twisted by too many breaks.