24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8

by Marc A. Cerasini

  Farshid Amadani — the man they called “the Hawk” — wisely abstained, though he waited with the rest for their spiritual leader to address them from the raised platform at the front of the room.

  Earlier that morning, the martyrs had bid their final goodbyes to their families. They’d completed their ritual cleansing in the communal showers, and donned overalls and shoes that had never been worn. With skullcaps on their shorn heads, the men then proceeded to the mosque to pray.

  Precisely at noon, Farshid Amadani had gone to the house of worship to collect them. Single file, he had led the procession out of the mosque and into one of the underground tunnels. He had marched them through a long, low-ceilinged corridor to a spacious chamber inside the main bunker.

  There he had showed them what had been done to the infidel woman captured on their property the day before.

  As their paramilitary trainer, the Hawk had been impressed by the martyrs’ reactions.

  He’d expected the older men — all felons convicted of violent crimes — to show no emotion when the miserable remains of the woman were displayed, and they did not disappoint him. But even the younger men, those who had not yet spilled blood, had hardened their hearts sufficiently to gaze at the grisly remains without flinching.

  Truly these are the Warriors of God.

  The Hawk noticed movement in the kitchen, and he knew Ibrahim Noor would soon appear. He settled onto his prayer rug and waited for their spiritual leader to arrive.

  1:11:32 P.M. EDT

  Warriors of God Community Center

  From his vantage point behind a curtain that separated the dining hall from the kitchen, Ibrahim Noor watched his martyrs.

  A powerfully built African American in his forties, Noor wore a skullcap over his shaven head. The prayer shawl on his broad shoulders did not cover the jailhouse tattoos that crisscrossed his bull neck, and his holy man’s robes — a loose-fitting shalwat kameez—barely concealed the scars from multiple knife wounds and gunshots that puckered the flesh on his thick-muscled torso.

  Noor waited for the powerful beverage to take effect before he deigned to make an appearance. Meanwhile the men nervously gulped cup after cup of the bitter brew, a concoction of tea laced with amphetamines and mingled with the same powerful steroids that had been pumped into his disciples since paramilitary exercises began many months ago.

  The amphetamines were a stimulant created for, and then rejected by the NATO forces because they caused psychotic episodes. It had been supplied by Erno Tobias and his employer, the Swiss-based firm Rogan Pharmaceuticals. The food and water stored inside the trucks were laced with the same chemical. The dangerous potion would send his Warriors of God to the very edge of reason, where the urge to kill would be strong.

  Already Noor observed the effects of the drug. After a few minutes the men began to perspire, then fidget on their prayer rugs. Voices became loud, almost shrill. Soon the drug-induced tension was palpable — then almost unbearable.

  When the moment was right, Noor stepped through the curtains and mounted the platform. An almost fearful silence greeted him, all eyes following the massive man as he stepped up to the podium.

  After an opening prayer, during which Noor seemed to slip into an almost mystical trance, the holy man opened his eyes again, and his intense gaze swept the room. There were men of many races present — Middle Easterners, Albanians, Afghanis, and Saudis among them — but the vast majority of the men in this room were African Americans, former inmates of the Federal and state prison systems.

  “The Imam Ali Rahman al Sallifi sends his regards and his blessings to you, his Shahid, his Warriors of God,”

  Noor began, his voice so low that men in the back of the room strained to hear him.

  “The Imam wants you to know that with our actions and our sacrifices this day and in days to come, the world will take its first step on the long road to Khilafah, to a world ruled by Muslim law—”

  Both cheers and imprecations greeted Noor’s words.

  Men cried out in praise of God and the Imam, while they cursed the Great Satan America and her evil, godless allies.

  When the walls began to shake from their cries, Noor waved the men to silence, then his own voice boomed.

  “To you, my Shahid, I repeat the words that Ali Rahman al Sallifi said to me when he came to me in my prison cell, ten years ago,” Noor declared, his voice becoming louder with each word.

  “This world does not want you, the Imam said. Because this world is diseased and decadent, it has no place for the Faithful. This world has no place for you, because you do not grasp for money, nor do you fornicate with tainted women. This world does not want you because of the color of your skin…”

  Noor paused; his expression darkened.

  “I wept when I heard those words because I knew they were true, and you know they are true, too. From the womb to the ghetto to the Great Satan’s jails, that is the path the godless have set out for us! A path as deadly as the slavery they inflicted on our ancestors!”

  Boos and catcalls greeted Noor’s words.

  “But do not despair, the Imam told me that day. Do not despair, Ibrahim, he said, because Allah wants you, and He has a special place in Paradise for all of His faithful servants…”

  Noor’s voice trailed off, until they feared he would say no more. But suddenly he cried out, the sound of his mighty voice shaking the rafters.

  “It’s true!” he roared, raising his arms and throwing his head back. “I know, for I have seen the place in Paradise reserved for each and every one of you! Your great mansion, your forty virgins, your seat at the One God’s table.”

  The wild shouts swelled in volume, until they battered the ears of every man in the room. With difficulty, Noor waved the martyrs to silence.

  “Today you will secure a place in Paradise. By defend-ing the only true faith, you will take your place in a long line of martyrs,” Noor continued. “Like our brothers in Palestine, in Sri Lanka, in Pakistan, in Egypt, and in Saudi Arabia, you will find favor with Allah, and you will never be forgotten.”

  Noor paused, as if to collect his thoughts.

  “But you will not merely martyr yourselves,” he continued, his voice tight with emotion. “You will become a warrior for the cause — a sword of God. And with that sword, you will take many thousands of infidels with you when you die. They will plunge into the fires of hell, while each one of you climbs to the very Gates of Paradise!”

  The martyrs leaped to their feet, shook their fists in the air, and howled for the blood of the infidel.

  “Your chariots await you!” Noor cried. “Go and smite the enemies of God. With each blow of your sword, cut out their lying tongues. Pierce their evil hearts with your spears. Open their throats with your knives! Blow them up with your explosives. Shoot them with your guns. Burn them with your fire!”

  Faces contorted by hatred and anger, the narcotics mag-nifying their emotions, the men howled like maddened wolves.

  “Go, Warriors of God,” Noor shouted. “Shower destruction and death on our enemies and show no mercy toward the infidel’s children or their women. Go! Go and smite the unfaithful. End this abomination and enslavement the West calls civilization. End it forever!”

  “Yes!” Farshid Amadani cried when he heard his cue.

  He leaped in front of the podium, brandishing an AK–47 over his head.

  “Come,” bellowed the Hawk, “let us rain destruction down on the unfaithful!”

  The martyrs burst from the Community Center and charged down Kurmastan’s deserted main street. Crying for blood, they reached the factory and swarmed around their assigned trucks. Some ran final checks on the vehicles; others armed themselves from their cache of weapons.

  The sound of roaring engines filled the hot afternoon.

  Diesel fumes belched, filling the compound with blue smoke. Then, one by one, the trucks rolled toward the gate.

  As they rumbled through town, wives and children peeked ou
t of their windows to watch the vehicles pass.

  They peered through dust kicked up by a hundred spinning wheels, hoping for a final glance at their husbands, their fathers, their brothers, their uncles.

  Those billowing clouds hung over the tiny settlement long after the last truck rumbled through the security gate.

  1:17:35 P.M. EDT

  Central Ward

  Newark, New Jersey

  “I’m really sorry, Agent Almeida,” the woman said, a frown curling her glossed lips. “On a good day, you can make this trip in twenty minutes, but that mess at the Holland Tunnel really set us back.”

  While she spoke, Rachel Delgado kept her eyes on the road. Tony Almeida, unaccustomed to riding in the passenger seat, mostly watched her.

  “Don’t apologize,” he replied. “Anyway, the sign says that we’re almost there.”

  Rachel slipped into the left lane. As she steered them onto the exit ramp, she gave Tony a sidelong glance.

  “Next stop, Newark. My hometown.”

  They drove for a few minutes in silence. As in many urban areas, Newark’s hospital was in the older part of town. Soon they reached a squalid street lined with graffiti-scarred bodegas, check-cashing outlets, liquor stores, and boarded-up businesses.

  “Are you really from Newark?” Tony asked.

  Rachel’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Born and raised in University Heights, right here in the Central Ward. See that place with the tall fence and the barbed wire at the top? That’s the junior high school I almost flunked out of.”

  She grinned. “Not the nicest community in America, maybe, but it’s my hood.”

  Her expression was suddenly guarded. “I admit it wasn’t easy. I made a lot of mistakes when I was young. But there were people who took an interest. Saw a future for me that I couldn’t see.”

  “People?”

  The silence hung heavy for a moment. “People,” Rachel said at last. “Community groups. Mentors. Teachers.

  People. With their help, I got a college scholarship and a Get Out of Newark Free card.”

  At a traffic light, she faced Tony. “You have that look, you know.”

  Tony frowned. “Look? What look?”

  “That swagger. Don’t con a con man. You were a street kid, too, Agent Almeida.”

  Tony snorted, and a smile flashed across his guarded face. “Yeah. And call me Tony.”

  Rachel waited a moment, then two, for Tony to say more, but he stopped talking. Finally, she nodded. “Okay, Mr. Mysterious. I get it. Chitchat’s over and it’s back to business. There’s the hospital, anyway.”

  Rachel twisted the steering wheel. Tires squealed in protest, and the van swerved into the visitors’ parking lot.

  1:26:06 P.M. EDT

  The Novelty Inn, off Route 12

  Clinton, New Jersey

  Brice Holman stepped out of the shabby motel room, into the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. Head throbbing, he slipped a pair of dark glasses over his eyes, then popped the top of a small bottle of Advil with his teeth. He quickly gulped down the last three pills dry, then tossed the plastic bottle into a trash bin.

  Holman had checked into the Novelty Inn a few hours before. As soon as he got to the room, he had showered and shaved. Still dripping, he tried to call Judy Foy again, and then again, but got only her voice mail. He wanted to call Jason Emmerick next, to see if the two “packages”

  had arrived on the Montreal to Newark flight, but it was just too risky.

  Bad enough Emmerick and his partner, Leight, were communicating with Judy nearly every day. At least the three of them had concocted a phony cover story about a smuggling ring working out of Newark International to cover their tracks.

  If Holman tried to contact Emmerick, it would set off alarms at the Bureau and prompt an investigation that might compromise, or even expose the rogue operation.

  Better to wait for the rendezvous at noon, Holman had decided. He could talk to the two FBI agents then.

  But noon came and went with no sign of Emmerick or Leight. When Holman finally relented and called them, he got voice mail and left no message.

  By one p.m., Holmen knew something had gone wrong.

  Either the situation at the compound was exploding, and Foy, Emmerick, and Leight were caught up in it. Or his Deputy Director and the two FBI agents had been taken into custody by their superiors, the rogue operation exposed. If that was the case, they were looking for him right now.

  Either way, Holman was effectively alone. He knew he had to act, had to get inside that compound in Kurmastan.

  Unfortunately, there was only one way to do that, now, and it involved endangering civilians who might already be in danger.

  His decision made, Holman hurriedly dressed in fresh clothes and left the motel room. His destination was the Nazareth Unitarian Church in Milton, New Jersey, where a group led by United States Congresswoman Hailey Williams and the pastor, Reverend James Wendell Ahern, were scheduled to travel to the compound and meet with one of its leaders, Ibrahim Noor.

  As Holman guided his Ford Explorer out of the motel parking lot, he watched a truck rumble down Route 12, heading west. Holman realized the vehicle was from Kurmastan when he saw the Dreizehn Trucking logo on the unpainted aluminum trailer.

  Holman wondered if the truck was carrying cardboard containers, or a more deadly cargo, like the one he’d seen earlier. If he was lucky, he’d know in a few hours.

  Minutes later, Holman spied another Dreizehn Trucking trailer roar past him on the highway. This time he managed to snap a few pictures with the secure CTU cell phone camera, including a close-up of the license plate, before the truck roared around the bend and out of sight.

  With a grim feeling that something ominous was stirring, Holman headed for the tiny town of Milton, on the banks of the Delaware River.

  1:32:14 P.M. EDT

  Security Station One

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  As soon as Jack Bauer returned to CTU Headquarters, he cleaned up and changed back into his own clothes. Sandy hair still damp, he summoned Morris and Layla to the security station.

  “The bombers were Serbian,” Jack declared.

  Morris appeared skeptical. “Serbs working with Muslims? That doesn’t make sense.”

  The screen behind O’Brian displayed images of personnel from the NYPD Bomb Squad. The officers were swarming the roof and ascending the microwave tower on One World Trade Center, collecting the bombs that Jack had defused.

  “I know about the religious tensions in Eastern Europe better than anyone,” Jack said. “But those men were Serbs. I know because I spoke to one of them in his own language.”

  Jack rubbed his forearm, where traces of ink still lingered. “That man definitely recognized the 13 tattoo, and took me for an ally because I had one on my arm. It fooled him, long enough for me to get the drop on him, anyway.”

  “Yet neither of these men had the 13 tattoo on any part of their bodies,” Layla observed. “Neither did the PA policeman.”

  Morris shook his head. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “What did you learn from that Port Authority cop?”

  Jack demanded.

  “He admitted his guilt immediately,” said Layla. “He claimed that he took a bribe to give those men access to the roof. They told him they were putting a device on the tower to steal cable signals.”

  “And the idiot bought it?” Morris cried.

  Layla shrugged. “He didn’t appear to be particularly bright.”

  Jack glanced at the security camera images of the bomb squad at work. “There’s more to this than a bunch of paramilitary fanatics on a compound in New Jersey. We have to find out what the 13 symbol means and how it’s connected to the compound at Kurmastan. And we need to know who’s paying for out-of-town attack teams like the Serbs, and the hit men who tried to assassinate my team this morning.”

  “You think it’s all connected?” Layla asked.

  Bauer ignored the qu
estion, posed his own. “Do you know of any mystical, cultural, or political meaning to the number 13 in the Islamic faith?”

  Frowning, Layla closed her laptop. Jack sensed her anger.

  “Is something wrong with my question?”

  Layla nodded. “Earlier, you asked me why I was here in New York, and not at Langley, using my language skills to monitor the chatter among Middle Eastern terrorists.”

  “That’s right, I did.”

  Layla’s dark eyes remained fixed on the laptop. “Here’s my honest answer,” she said. “These people on the compound, and the imams who inspire them, they are atavisms, perverted throwbacks to the seventh century. Medieval monsters who hearken back to a dark and terrible time. Their beliefs are an affront to reason. Frankly, as a Muslim — former Muslim, in my case — they are an embarrassment.”

  “You’ve lost your faith, then?” Jack asked.

  Layla looked up. “I’ve rejected it, Special Agent Bauer.

  My religion. My heritage. All of it.”

  “Listen,” Jack said. “My last name. Bauer. It means

  ‘farmer’ in German.”

  “So?” Layla replied.

  “So I’m German. Should I be ashamed?”

  She blinked. “Ashamed of what?”

  “The Nazis? They brought Europe to its knees. They are responsible for the Holocaust. That’s my heritage, according to your logic.”

  Layla shook her head. “That’s not a reasonable comparison,” she replied. “For starters, nazism was a political movement, not a religious jihad. And the only American religious community with roots in Germany are the Amish. And as far as I know, the Pennsylvania Dutch are not a pack of paramilitary fanatics.”

  Morris chuckled. “She’s got you by the bollocks on that one, Jack-o.”

  “As an American, I choose to live in this century,” Layla continued. “And as a woman, I have no desire to spend my life in a burka, or in an arranged marriage, or traded for a goat.”

  “There are bad seeds in every race, creed, and religion,”