24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Read online

  She was about to knock a third time when a spy hole opened in the middle of the big door.

  “Who the hell are you?” a voice demanded.

  “Klebb. Sonya Klebb,” Foy replied.

  She flashed the dead woman’s passport, too fast for the observer to notice the crude job she’d done replacing the picture of the dead woman with her own driver’s license photo.

  “I am a chemical engineer with Rogan Pharmaceuticals,” Foy continued. “Soren Ungar sent me.”

  There was a long pause. Foy was about to speak again when a different voice, deep and booming, emerged from the spy hole.

  “Where is Dubic?”

  It’s Noor, she realized. He’s here.

  “Dead,” Foy replied. “We were attacked on the road. I think a gang was trying to rob us. Our car was struck by another vehicle. I was hurt. Dubic more so. Before he died, he told me where to go, made me promise to deliver the package here, to this address.”

  “I see. And do you have the package?”

  “I do,” Foy replied, displaying it.

  On the other side of the garage door, she heard activity.

  Then a rumbling sound as the door partially rose.

  “Inside, quick,” a black youth said, gesturing to her.

  Beyond the door, the interior was pitch-black, and Judith could see nothing. She stepped inside anyway, heart pounding in her chest.

  Another rumble of machinery, and the door closed behind her. Then brilliant spotlights ignited, blinding her. Someone snatched the package out of her hand; other hands frisked her.

  They were obviously looking for a weapon. She had none, and when they found her passport and Dubic’s cell phone, they ignored them. She hoped they hadn’t broken the phone circuit, but she couldn’t check now.

  “Is that the aerosol dispenser?” Ibrahim Noor demanded.

  “Yes, yes it is,” an accented voice replied. “I can install it in less than an hour.”

  “Do it,” Noor commanded.

  Judith blinked against the light, strained to see through her tears.

  “Why did you come here?” Noor asked. “Who sent you?”

  “I told you. Dubic—”

  “If Dubic told you to come here, he would have given you the remote control to open the door. All of my men have it. Dubic knows our security. Anyone stupid enough to bang on our door is either a neighborhood addict or a cop.”

  “No! Dubic must have forgotten. He was very injured.

  He could hardly speak—”

  “You are a fraud. An impostor,” roared Noor. “Take her.”

  Strong hands seized her arms. Judith struggled, then yelled out the panic phrase: “Semper fi! Semper fi! ”

  Someone punched her in the face, and the lab’s bright lights faded.

  4:38:43 A.M. EDT

  Schenley Park

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  From his position among the branches of a century-old oak, Detective Mike Gorman shifted the sniper rifle in his grip, then aimed his night vision binoculars at the trailer truck three hundred feet away.

  The vehicle sat in the middle of Schenley Plaza, once the grand entrance to the 456-acre conservancy, now used as a parking area for county rangers and concession employees. The truck had arrived sometime between mid-night and four a.m., when a sharp-eyed Allegheny County Parks Department ranger recognized the vehicle from a Federal government alert sent out to local authorities.

  Two men slept in the cab. The driver’s window was open, his arm hanging out. The guy in the passenger seat slouched so low, only the top of his New York Mets ball cap showed above the dashboard.

  He’s the tougher shot, and I got him, Gorman mused.

  For thirty minutes, Gorman and his partner, Chuck Romeo, had observed the sleeping targets, fearing they would awaken and drive away at any moment. So far they’d been lucky, but luck never lasted long — just one lesson Gorman had taken away from the McKee’s Rocks mess.

  I should have fired, Gorman thought, flashing back to the hostage standoff. A young mother had been held at gunpoint by an escaped convict. I should never have waited for authorization. If I’d have pulled the trigger, that poor woman would be alive today and her murderer dead, instead of the other way around.

  “What are we waiting for?” Gorman said into his headset.

  “A biohazard team with a tent,” his boss, Captain Kelly, advised. “Once it’s in place, we can move.”

  Gorman glanced across a grassy clearing at his partner, perched in a tall maple tree. He was sure Chuck was staring back at him. Then Romeo’s voice crackled in his headset.

  “A biohazard team? Is there something you’re not telling us, Captain?”

  “Relax, boys,” Kelly said. “Just do your job and the Feds will do the rest.”

  More baffled than alarmed, Gorman lowered his binoculars and shifted the fourteen-pound M24 sniper rifle into position. The composite stock against his armored shoulder, he peered through the infrared scope.

  Placing the ball cap in the center of his crosshairs, Gorman once again adjusted the instrument for wind speed, temperature, humidity, and distance. Gorman knew he had only one shot. It had to be on the money. He wasn’t going to mess up again.

  Minutes passed. Then Gorman heard the sound of an engine. He watched in disbelief as two white panel trucks rolled into the plaza and halted just inside the gate.

  “I thought the road had been cordoned off to traffic,”

  Gorman hissed.

  “It’s the biohazard team. They’ll be ready to go in two minutes.”

  Gorman glanced through his scope again. His target was still snoozing, but the driver had shifted position.

  Had he heard the vans, too?

  “I think my mark’s awake,” Chuck Romeo warned.

  “Do not fire,” Captain Kelly commanded. “I repeat. Do not fire until I give the command.”

  “Son of a—” Gorman stifled his curse, remembering that everything he and the others said was being taped—

  just like McKee’s Rocks.

  Unbidden, the memory returned. Two a.m., outside a strip joint on the main drag of that scummy little suburb.

  The drunk convict, using the dancer for a shield, gun to her head. Gorman had a clear shot, begged Captain Kelly for authorization to pull the trigger, but it never came. The only shot fired that night went into the dancer’s skull. The single mother from Wheeling, West Virginia, died because he’d hesitated.

  Through his scope, Gorman saw the driver wake up the man beside him. Both stared at the vans with open suspicion.

  “If he starts that engine, the men who are supposed to be hiding inside that trailer will know something’s up,”

  Gorman warned.

  “Do not fire,” Captain Kelly repeated.

  “You ready to shoot, Chuck?” Gorman asked.

  “Ready,” Romeo said after a short pause.

  “Fire on three,” Gorman said, aiming.

  “Stand down and wait for my command,” Kelly warned.

  “Do not fire.”

  “One,” said Gorman.

  “Stand down, I said!” Kelly cried.

  “Two.”

  Kelly was screaming in their headsets now. “If either of you shoots I’ll have your heads—”

  In the truck, the driver reached for the ignition. His partner pulled a cell phone from his jacket.

  “Three.”

  Two holes appeared in the windshield simultaneously.

  Inside the cab, two heads exploded. The men flopped forward, dead. The driver slumped over the steering wheel; the man in the passenger seat dropped to the floor.

  “Got them,” Gorman whispered. “They’re down. I repeat. The targets are dead.”

  “So are your careers,” Kelly growled, his voice icy with rage.

  Obviously the Feds had been monitoring the conversation. As soon as Gorman announced the kills, the doors on both vans burst open. Five men in plastic biohazard suits rushed to the truck
, dragging what looked like a huge cel-lophane blanket.

  Gorman was impressed by the speed and efficiency with which the men tossed the massive tarp over the vehicle, then sealed the edges of the covering to the pavement with some sort of instant adhesive pumped out of a glue gun.

  Inside of a minute they were finished, and a third white van raced into the plaza. This one contained a huge vacuum pump that was immediately attached to the tarp.

  Before Gorman and Romeo climbed down from their respective trees, the pump was sucking the air out of the bag, hermetically sealing the vehicle and all its contents.

  When they were on the ground, a man in a black jumpsuit approached them. Gorman thought it was a Pittsburgh policeman, but revised his opinion when the man got close enough for Gorman to see the CTU crest on the uniform.

  “You’re the Feds?” Gorman asked, fully expecting to be arrested.

  “Special Agent Clark Goodson, CTU Biological Terrorism Specialist, Midwest Division.”

  Still juiced with a killer’s high, Gorman’s adrenaline was pumping and his hands trembled. He fumbled for a reply.

  Suddenly the man slapped him on the back. “Exceptional work,” Goodson said. “If you’d waited, it would have been too late.”

  “Tell that to our boss,” Romeo replied.

  “Oh, I will.” Goodson nodded. “And if that a-hole Kelly does take your heads, I’ll find you both jobs on a CTU tac team. In fact, I hear L.A. is looking for a few good men.”

  23. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5:00 A.M. AND 6:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  5:07:07 A.M. EDT

  Security Station One

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  The euphoria of taking out the final truck was quickly dampened, once the agent at the scene delivered his report.

  “That’s all we found here in Pittsburgh, Special Agent Bauer,” Goodson said into the computer camera.

  Behind the battle-suited speaker, a boxy, six-wheeled military vehicle was visible in the predawn light. Six men in hazard suits, helmets off, clustered around it.

  “The truck was packed with conventional explosives,”

  Goodson continued. “C–4 manufactured in Eastern Europe. There were also maps that indicate their target was the University of Pittsburgh’s Cathedral of Learning.

  They were planning to destroy the skyscraper during the morning rush hour. No biological or chemical agents of any kind are present.”

  Jack Bauer frowned at the screen. “The bio-weapon could be small, contained in a vial, an aerosol can or even a Breathalyzer.”

  Goodson shook his head. “We have a rolling CTU

  Bio-Containment Lab on scene,” he said. “Along with a Fox Nuclear Biological Chemical Reconnaissance vehicle which we borrowed from the Army. Both units have scanned the entire scene with monitors so sensitive they could locate a cold germ.”

  The CTU operative paused. “I’m sorry, Special Agent Bauer. We found nothing.”

  Jack was about to protest, when Christopher Henderson stepped in front of him. “Thanks for your help, Goodson.

  Nice work, all the way around.”

  “Thank you, Director Henderson,” Goodson replied, and the screen went black.

  Jack sank into a chair. “So where’s the bio-weapon?”

  Henderson sat and swiveled toward Bauer. “The Economic Warfare Division has suggested that Kabbibi might have been brought into this operation for his political connections, not his skills. The fact that he and the Saudi Finance Minister are cousins—”

  Jack’s withering stare silenced his boss. “They’re wrong, Christopher. Berkovic and his accountants are ignoring Agent Foy’s surveillance photos of the lab in Newark.”

  Henderson shrugged. “It’s possible that’s a simple drug lab.”

  “With liquid oxygen cooling tanks?” Jack interrupted.

  “You don’t need that kind of technology to distill meth out of cough syrup.”

  Henderson sighed. “We’ll know soon enough. Langley has finally authorized the raid on Noor’s Newark headquarters. We’re there in thirty minutes, whether Noor’s home or not.”

  Jack nodded. “I’ll command the raid. Agent Abernathy will be my backup.”

  Layla appeared surprised. So did Henderson, but neither challenged Jack’s decree.

  Bauer’s mind was racing so fast, he was already past that decision. He was eager to focus on his enemy. “Have we learned anything more about Ibrahim Noor?”

  “A little,” Morris replied, calling up the man’s profile.

  “He was born Travis Bell, as you know. By the age of thirteen, he was running drugs. By eighteen, he’d created the Thirteen Gang, which took over the narcotics trade in that section of Newark.”

  Morris tapped keys. “Well, well. Here’s a nugget. Con-gressman Larry Bell of Louisiana, the former NCAA player turned politician, is Travis Bell’s uncle. But apparently there’s been no contact between them for decades.”

  “The same can’t be said for other government officials,”

  Henderson interjected. “From Tobias’s computer, we’ve got evidence that Congresswoman Hailey Williams and Chief Justice Mary Chestnut of the Ninth District Court in San Francisco have both taken bribes from Noor or his people. Their arrests are imminent.”

  “What about Dreizehn Trucking?” Jack asked.

  “It doesn’t exist on any corporate records, state, local, or Federal,” Morris replied. “It’s no more than a name painted on twelve trucks.”

  “But it fits Noor’s profile,” Layla said. “Dreizehn is the German word for the number thirteen. Noor seems patho-logically obsessed with that number.”

  “Thirteen! Oh my god…” Jack rose to his feet. “That’s where the biological weapon is hidden.”

  “Huh?” Henderson grunted.

  “There’s a thirteenth truck, Christopher. And Noor is on it!” Jack gripped Morris’s shoulder. “Has Tony checked in?”

  “Not since he lost contact with Agent Foy. She’s inside the Thirteen Gang’s headquarters, but their cell phone connection has been severed. I’m afraid Tony’s a bit fran-tic over Agent Foy’s situation.”

  “Call Almeida,” Jack commanded. “Tell Tony to stay put. Tell him we’re coming — with a strike team.”

  5:29:53 A.M. EDT

  1313 Crampton Street

  Newark, New Jersey

  “Your name is Judith Foy, Deputy Director of the New York Counter Terrorist Unit,” Ibrahim Noor declared, looming over her.

  Shaking the icy water from her body, Judith Foy defi-antly met the gang leader’s gaze. Only half conscious after her violent capture, Judith Foy had been dragged through a stinking sewer, tossed into a hole blasted in the wall, and dumped on a cold concrete floor. She lay there for an inde-terminate amount of time, until someone poured a bucket of ice water over her.

  Gasping against the freezing torrent, she found herself in a circle of street thugs, some white, most black or Hispanic. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed over her head. Soon she realized she wasn’t in the garage anymore. There was no lab here, and the room stank of sweat and spilled blood.

  Judith saw two headless corpses piled in the corner.

  “I ordered your death many hours ago, but my command was not obeyed,” Noor continued.

  Head throbbing, she studied the speaker. Noor had a body like a black bear, tattoo-etched arms thicker than her waist. His voice was deep, like Darth Vader’s without the asthma. Everything she knew about this man suggested he suffered from a delusional messiah complex. But when Agent Foy locked eyes with Noor, she saw no madness there — only a fierce and terrible cunning.

  “And you’re Ibrahim Noor, alias Travis Bell,” she replied evenly. “Counterfeit holy man, full-time felon, and total wack job.”

  A youth lashed out, plunged the toe of his boot into her abdomen. Judith grunted, felt the world recede again. She fought to stay conscious, and by some miracle prevailed.

  “Don’t be so tough on Rach
el Delgado,” Judith gasped, tasting bile. “Someone killed her first.”

  The punk moved to kick her again. Noor stopped him with a gesture. Foy spit on the kicker’s leg.

  Judith should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Instead, she was filled with an all-consuming fury, a savage hatred.

  She would have given her soul to kill Noor right now, tear out his throat with her teeth.

  “We all thought you were a religious fanatic, but you’re not, are you, Travis?” Foy challenged. “You’re just a street punk with delusions of grandeur, using people like pawns because they’re too stupid to know better.”

  Noor didn’t prevent the youth from kicking her this time. Judith howled in agony when she felt a bruised rib snap. “Tough… tough guys,” she gasped. “Beat up on a… helpless woman.”

  “Did CTU send you?” Noor demanded.

  “Actually… It was the neighborhood cleanup committee,” Foy replied, fighting the urge to throw up. “This place… is such a pigsty… You really should clean it up.”

  The youth kicked out again. This time she managed to protect her vitals with her elbows. Her left arm felt para-lyzed now, but at least her bruised ribs were still intact.

  “If CTU sent you, they made a tragic blunder,” Noor continued. “You have delivered the one tool I need to bring America to its knees.”

  “A boombox blasting hip-hop?”

  She waited for a fourth kick, but it never came. Instead a newcomer approached Noor. “Kabbibi is finished,” he whispered.

  A smile tugged at Noor’s lips, then he faced the others.

  “It is time for me to go, my friends. When next we meet, it will be in Paradise.”

  The men lined up to receive Noor’s final blessings, completely ignoring the woman on the ground. Foy used the time to gather her strength, examine her environment.

  She saw a red steel door at one end of the windowless room and realized she was inside 1313 Crampton Street, Noor’s gang headquarters.

  The sewer must connect this place with the old Peralta Storage facility at the end of the block.

  Meanwhile Noor waved his men back. “Give me thirty minutes to get clear of this place. After that, you may release yourselves from this world of corruption.”