24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Page 2

  A dozen clapboard houses sat within the dusty compound, along with seventeen rusty mobile homes, all of them centered around a communal dining hall made of cinder block. A dirty boulevard ran through the center of town. One end was dominated by Kurmastan’s only visible source of income — a factory that turned recycled pulp into cardboard boxes.

  The other end held a house of worship, by far the most luxurious structure in the place: prefabricated steel with a resin facade sculpted to look like a Middle Eastern mosque, complete with a metal-framed minaret.

  The mosque was no surprise to Holman because the settlement had been founded by Ali Rahman al Sallifi, an Islamic cleric with ties to radical elements in Pakistan and Egypt — and it had been on CTU’s watch list since the agency was established.

  Unfortunately, most of the “watching” of Kurmastan had been done by satellite. Things had changed about a month earlier, when Brice Holman’s own boss, the Northeast District Director, ordered any active investigation of this compound to cease. The unit had limited resources, Holman was told, and they were needed elsewhere.

  Holman privately disagreed. Just before he’d been ordered to stop investigating Kurmastan, a well-connected activist group had begun loudly leveling “profiling”

  charges on Executive Branch agencies, and Holman suspected the decision to give Kurmastan a wide berth was at least partly political.

  Deciding to have a look for himself, Holman had driven out to the compound, watching it for an entire weekend.

  During that time, he encountered an FBI agent who’d also been watching the place, and had received a similar command from his own boss in Washington.

  It wasn’t unusual for FBI surveillance units to trip over CTU in the field. Agents occasionally even shared information, sidestepping the current “wall” between agencies.

  When Holman met Jason Emmerick of the FBI, that’s exactly what had happened. The two agents silently agreed to disregard the law prohibiting them from swapping intel.

  All by themselves, they connected the dots on “Meccaville,” and a frightening picture began to emerge.

  Both men had observed military-style exercises, including weapons training and obstacle courses. There was suspicion of stockpiled armaments and chatter between residents of the compound and parties in Pakistan and Afghanistan.

  Holman and Emmerick came up with a plan to continue watching the “Meccaville” compound, in violation of their superiors’ directives. And surveillance chatter soon suggested something was about to go down. Something big.

  Unfortunately, the agents were still lacking hard evidence to prove it.

  Today, with luck, they would finally get that evidence.

  According to recent chatter inside the compound, a “package” from Canada was expected to arrive at Newark Airport. Holman and Emmerick believed the arrival of this “package” was the key to setting off whatever powder keg the men inside this compound had primed.

  An hour earlier, two African-American males had left this compound to “pick up the package.” One of the men was bald; the other wore his hair in long cornrow braids.

  Both were in their early thirties, clad in blue suits.

  Holman recognized the bald man as a former gang-banger from Jersey City. His name was Montel Tanner, or at least it used to be. Holman didn’t know what Tanner called himself now that he’d found religion. The other man, with the cornrows, Holman hadn’t seen before.

  Each of these men had slipped behind the wheel of a brand-new black Hummer and took off. Jason Emmerick and his partner took off, too, tailing the two Hummers.

  Holman was so certain something major was about to happen, he’d finally briefed his own CTU Deputy Director, Judith Foy, on their rogue operation. Now Judy was on board, too, and due to hook up with Emmerick and his partner at the airport to aid in the surveillance.

  Meanwhile, Holman had positioned himself on a hill above the compound. He’d been staked out here since the wee hours of the morning. As a breeze rippled the grass, stirring his black tangle of hair, he lowered his micro-binoculars and shook his canteen.

  Empty.

  Thirsty and hot, Holman was about to return to his vehicle for a refill when a flash of sunlight off chrome caught his eye. He zoomed his binoculars in on the factory. The loading bay doors stood open, and a semi rolled out.

  In itself, this wasn’t unusual. At four that morning, a truck had departed the factory, full of flattened cardboard boxes. One had left at five as well, also packed with paper.

  Adhan came next — the call to prayer — sung from the mosque’s metal-frame minaret by a young African-American man in denims and a Yankees T-shirt.

  The truck leaving now looked like the others Holman had seen: a Mac sleeper cab hauling a steel trailer, the logo for Dreizehn Trucking painted on its side. But when Holman glimpsed the interior of the cargo bay, he didn’t see flat stacks of cardboard boxes. Instead, Holman saw bunks. Six of them lined the walls. He spied movement.

  There were men inside that trailer; he counted at least eight. One had an AK–47 resting across his knees.

  Before Holman could get a picture, an arm inside the truck slammed closed the steel doors. The truck continued rumbling toward the compound’s gate, sped through and toward the rural route beyond.

  Holman cursed, rising quickly, and left his hiding place, creeping through the tall grass, back to his van.

  That’s when he heard a woman scream.

  7:55:46 A.M. EDT

  Kurmastan, New Jersey

  Yesterday evening. That’s when they’d grabbed Janice Baker. Around six-thirty p.m., they’d put a hood over her head before dragging her away. She had a clue where she was because the men hadn’t taken her far, and they’d traveled by foot.

  It sounded like her abductors had carried her into their compound, then down a flight of stairs. There they’d tied her up, ignoring her muffled demands to release her, to turn her over to the sheriff for trespassing.

  Gasping for breath under the thick material, Janice had struggled against the ropes that bound her to the hard chair.

  Finally, she’d heard a door slam and was left alone. The place was damp and quiet. Like a grave. When the forty-year-old stay-at-home mother had first smelled the scent of freshly turned earth, she’d gasped, her panic rising.

  Did they lock me in a cellar? Or toss me into a hole?

  Are they planning to bury me alive?

  With effort, she’d tamped down her fear. Why put me in a hole? she’d wondered. Why not just call the sheriff and have me arrested?

  Janice had been cross-country jogging for years along the same rural trails, long before Kurmastan existed. The men of the town had complained several times to her about trespassing. The first time they caught her, she hadn’t even realized she’d strayed onto private property. They cursed her out, but let her go.

  The second, third, and fourth times were just like today — she’d chosen to disregard the no trespassing signs and jog where she pleased. Men of the town saw her, yelled from a distance, cursed at her, but she ignored them. If they caught her, what could they do? Call the sheriff? Fine her fifty dollars tops?

  When she’d been spotted the evening before, however, she was stunned by what had happened next. Soon after a few men yelled at her, two of them had set a trap.

  They’d jumped out of the brush and dragged her to the ground.

  They didn’t find her easy prey. Janice had managed to kick one man in the groin. He was a big African American who looked like a football player, but her blow slowed him down. She’d also managed to rake her fingernails across the other man’s face, right before he’d put the hood over her head.

  They’d left her tied up for hours and hours. She’d lost track of time, hadn’t slept much, and now she was hungry and thirsty. When she heard a door open, she felt a mixture of terror and relief.

  “Who’s there,” she demanded. She tried, and failed, to sound fearless. “I demand you let me go!”


  Janice heard footsteps, felt strong hands fumbling with the knot around her neck. Someone was untying the hood.

  Good. Maybe they’ve finally called the sheriff. Maybe now they’re going to let me go!

  The hood was ripped off her head. Still tied to the chair, Janice was dazzled by harsh light from a naked light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. The room had earthen walls shored up with untreated logs — a root cellar? There was a small vent near the ceiling — bright sunlight slipped through. She squinted, realizing it was morning. They’d held her here all night!

  The stranger who’d torn off her veil remained behind her, out of sight. A minute went by, then another. But the man didn’t say a word. He didn’t untie her, either.

  “What are you doing?” Janice asked.

  There was silence for another minute. Then came a quiet murmuring in another language. It was crazy, but Janice thought the man was praying.

  “I demand you release me!” she cried. “This is kidnap-ping! Don’t you realize that? Let me go this instant!”

  Without a word, the man stepped around the chair to stand in front of her. Janice Baker’s eyes went wide when she saw the machete in his hand.

  Once again Janice Baker screamed.

  7:58:46 A.M. EDT

  Just outside Kurmastan

  Hunterdon County, New Jersey At the sound of the bloodcurdling scream, Holman had tensed and begun snaking on his belly, moving as close to the compound as he dared. Using his binoculars, he continued to scan the area for any sign of violence. Any sign of the woman who’d screamed.

  But he saw nothing out of the ordinary. A few male residents were talking casually outside the mosque. Two females strolled out of the cinder-block dining hall, chatting with each other as if nothing was wrong.

  He listened for more screams, but now heard nothing more than the birds chirping in the trees.

  Holman knew he hadn’t imagined that scream, and he knew how dangerous some of the men in Kurmastan could be — many of them were lifelong criminals with rap sheets as long as a bureaucrat’s career.

  Part of him wanted to charge through the front gate, find out what had happened. But that would compromise the investigation. They’d probably call the local sheriff and accuse him of trespassing. Holman couldn’t even begin to consider explaining his rogue operation to a local official.

  Seething, he carefully moved away from the compound again, backtracking to his van. He retrieved water and an energy bar, and then returned to the hill to continue his surveillance of the compound. At noon, he was scheduled to leave the area and hook up with Emmerick at a nearby motel, where they’d compare notes and plan their next move.

  Holman needed to brief Emmerick about that tractor trailer he’d seen with armed men in bunks inside. And Emmerick needed to brief him about that “package” from Canada.

  Until then, Holman would continue to keep his eyes open for any sign of that woman, whose terrified cry kept playing through his head.

  2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8:00 A.M. AND 9:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  8:05:48 A.M. EDT

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  “This is wrong, Agent Bauer,” Layla Abernathy declared.

  “You have no authority to do this. I’m sure Director Holman will be here any minute. Why can’t you just wait to hear his explanation?”

  Jack Bauer’s features darkened. “You’ve called the Director. Repeatedly. And so have I. Brice Holman either can’t respond, or refuses to—”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you’ve tried to locate the Director using the GPS

  chip in his phone, correct?” Jack interrupted.

  Layla frowned. “Apparently Holman deactivated it.”

  Jack clenched his fists, trying like hell to maintain his composure. “The Director and his deputy are unreachable, your guards downstairs say your exterior cameras are of-fline, and someone tried to assassinate me and my team on the street outside. You do see a problem here, don’t you, Agent Abernathy?”

  They were standing at the computer console on Brice Holman’s desk, inside the Director’s corner office. Jack had powered up the man’s computer, only to find it double password protected. He now intended to break into his system.

  Jack punched the intercom. “O’Brian, report to Director Holman’s office.”

  Jack faintly heard his own voice amplified inside the massive threat room. He stood up straight and faced Agent Abernathy. “You mentioned a place,” he said.

  Layla nodded. “Kurmastan. It’s a seventy-five-acre compound in New Jersey populated by an Islamic religious group — most of them prison converts. Ali Rahman al Sallifi runs it. He’s a radical cleric who sought political asylum in America after he was expelled from Egypt.”

  Jack blanched. “Our government granted asylum to this guy?”

  “The Imam received political support from several powerful individuals. The Saudi Arabian Ambassador made a personal appeal to the President — probably because he didn’t want al Sallifi and his followers stirring up unrest in his own country.”

  Jack briefly closed his eyes. He liked to believe elected officials had the best interests of its country’s citizens at heart. But when a Federal agent had to ask himself what side his own President was on, it was a bad day.

  “By far the Imam’s biggest sponsor is New Jersey Congresswoman Hailey Williams,” Layla continued. “She’s a close advisor to the President. Anyway, six years ago, the Imam established a community called Kurmastan, then renamed his flock the Warriors of God.”

  “Warriors of God.” Jack folded his arms. “So now it’s a paramilitary organization?”

  Layla nodded. “A core group of Middle Easterners live inside the compound with the Imam, but most of the people in Kurmastan are former prison inmates converted by the cleric’s followers. Some of the clerics minister to the prisons in New York and New Jersey. Others are inmates themselves.”

  “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 Administration; 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 t
rack 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 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.”

  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.