24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Page 9

  Jack argued.

  “Please, not that lecture,” Layla said. “I’ve heard it enough. From my stepfather. From my mother, too, a woman who should know better.”

  Jack opened his mouth. Layla silenced him with a raised hand.

  “You won’t change my mind, Agent Bauer.” Her expression was resolute. “And for the record, we’ll get along better if you don’t even try.” Then Layla Abernathy rose, unplugged the laptop, and tucked it under her arm. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

  1:53:46 P.M. EDT

  Newark General Hospital

  Tony Almeida folded his arms as the doctor briefed him.

  The physician was young, barely out of residency, but from his attitude, Tony sensed the man had already seen it all.

  While he spoke, the diminutive Asian American peered through the door, at the woman stretched out on the hospital bed.

  “Ms. Foy’s car was broadsided by a pickup truck,”

  Dr. Lei said. “A stolen pickup truck, according to the police. She has seven stitches above her hairline to close a gash in her head. I’ve just checked the X-rays and there’s no sign of a fracture, so at worst she’s suffering from a concussion. That’s the extent of her injuries, except for a few bruised ribs.

  “She was fortunate, Mr. Almeida. Very fortunate. The air bag saved her life. I’m keeping her here overnight, for observation, but I’ll most likely sign her release papers in the morning.”

  Tony nodded. “I need to speak with her immediately.”

  Dr. Lei shrugged. “She’s on pain management, but otherwise she’s alert. Just try not to get her too excited.”

  “Got it, doc,” Tony replied. Dr. Lei moved on to his next patient.

  Tony signaled Rachel Delgado, who was waiting at the nurses’ station. They entered the room together.

  Judith Foy appeared small and pale and frail on the huge hospital bed. Her head was propped, and an IV tube ran from a bottle into her arm. Her shaggy red hair stuck out from under the bandages wound around her head.

  Tony noticed some swelling around her nose and eyes—

  probably the results of the air bag deployment.

  “Deputy Director Foy. I need to speak with you,” Tony began.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”

  she demanded in a surprisingly strong voice.

  “My name’s Almeida. I’m from CTU.”

  “Then why haven’t I ever seen you before?”

  “I’m from Los Angeles Headquarters.”

  “Oh, right. The consultants from the West Coast.” The woman’s deep azure eyes drifted to Rachel Delgado. “I’ve seen you before.”

  Rachel nodded. “At the orientation meeting a few weeks ago, Deputy Director. That was during our first tour of the new facility.”

  “Delgado, right? You’re in Security.”

  Rachel nodded.

  “I need to speak with you,” Tony said. “About the ongoing operation that you and Director Holman are involved in. The rogue operation.”

  The woman shifted in her bed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said evenly.

  “We know that it involves the New Jersey settlement called Kurmastan,” Tony continued. ‘We know at least two agents from another government agency are involved—

  illegally involved.”

  Judith Foy’s eyes shifted like a trapped animal. Then she faced Tony. “I’ll talk,” she said. “But only to you.

  Agent Delgado has to go.”

  “Agent Delgado is a security agent from your own division.”

  “She’s out, now, or you both can leave and I’ll do my talking to a lawyer. It’s up to you.” Judith Foy crossed her arms and turned her head, to stare out the window.

  “I’ll be at the nurses’ station,” Rachel said.

  When she was gone, Tony closed the door behind her and returned to the side of the bed. Deputy Director Foy looked up. Tony could see the pain and trauma etched on her face.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that, but I’m taking orders directly from Brice Holman,” Judith Foy began. “Holman told me not to trust anyone at CTU New York. He said there were several security breaches at our temporary offices in Battery Park. And then last week, when Holman transferred his files to the new mainframe, there was an attempt to raid his personal database and crack his private surveillance files.”

  She touched her head, winced. “After that, Brice added many levels of additional locks to thwart more attacks.”

  “That’s all you know?” Tony asked suspiciously.

  “There have been other leaks…”

  Her voice trailed off when she saw the doubt on Tony’s face. “You don’t believe me,” she said.

  “Who are the agents you’re working with?”

  Judith Foy seemed to ponder Tony’s question, then nodded as if she’d made up her mind about something.

  “Their names are Jason Emmerick and Douglas Leight.

  They both work out of the New York office of the FBI.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Tony frowned. “Where is Brice Holman?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Why were you in Newark today?”

  Judith Foy told Tony about the two men who arrived on the flight out of Montreal, how she and the FBI agents followed the men when they split up — she on the tail of one car, Emmerick and Leight on the other.

  “How did you know these men were coming to the United States in the first place?” Tony asked.

  “The FBI picked up some chatter between Ibrahim Noor and a guy named Farshid Amadani, a.k.a. the Hawk.

  Amadani is a known terrorist and a paramilitary instructor. Lately he’s been acting as sort of go-between for the Warriors of God. The big guys, Ibrahim Noor and al Sallifi himself, never leave the compound. It was Special Agent Emmerick who passed the intelligence on to Brice and me.”

  “Do you know the names of the two men who got off the airplane?” Tony asked.

  “One was Amadani himself, whom — surprise, surprise — we didn’t even know was coming back to the country. The other man was traveling under the name Faoud S.

  Mubajii, supposedly from Quebec. But that identity could be a phony. I didn’t have time to run a check on him.”

  Tony sensed anger and frustration in the woman’s voice; he also believed she was telling the truth, though it wasn’t his call to make.

  “Can you describe him?” Tony asked.

  “I can do better than that,” she replied. “I shot pictures — even some close-ups — at the airport this morning. The digital camera is in my purse, which was in my car—”

  “Then it’s in the hospital property room,” Tony said.

  “Get it, Agent Almeida. Before someone else does.”

  “Someone else? Like who?”

  “Listen, what happened to me wasn’t an accident. They knew I was following them and they set me up to be killed.

  They might try to get my stuff next — or they might try to kill me again and succeed this time.”

  Tony nodded. “All right, I’ll get the camera.”

  “Get my cell phone, too. I have Emmerick’s and Leight’s numbers stored inside. If you don’t believe what I told you, you can talk to them and they’ll back me up. At this point, I don’t think secrecy matters anymore.”

  The woman touched the IV needle in her arm. “I think something bigger is going on,” she said.

  “I’m gone.” Tony moved to the door.

  “One more thing, Agent Almeida…”

  He paused, one hand on the doorknob.

  “I have a cyber lock on the camera’s digital contents. If you try to retrieve the data without my password, you’ll lose it all.”

  Tony nodded. “At least I know where I stand.”

  “I’ve been an agent too long to trust anyone,” said Foy.

  In the busy hallway, Tony saw Rachel Del
gado. The moment she noticed him, she closed her cell phone.

  Who was she speaking to? Tony wondered.

  “Do you have a weapon?” he asked, walking up to her.

  “Standard nine-millimeter.” Rachel held up the bag on her shoulder.

  “Guard Deputy Director Foy’s door,” he commanded.

  “Don’t let anyone in or out except Dr. Lei and the nurses—

  and then I want you with them the whole time.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just do it,” Tony replied. “I’ll be right back.”

  1:59:16 P.M. EDT

  Property Room

  Newark General Hospital

  The property room was adjacent to the hospital morgue, and the two departments shared the same security desk, which Alexi Szudamenko found suitably moronic.

  Sure, some of the stuff in the property room was probably valuable, but who would want a corpse?

  With his Russian father and Polish mother, Alexi had emigrated from Krakow with his parents in the early 1980s, when he was just a boy. But even after twelve years living in nearby Jersey City, he still didn’t quite understand why Americans did some of the things they did.

  Like guard dead people.

  Alexi pulled the collar of his dark blue security uniform tight. It might be a warm spring afternoon outside, but down here in the basement things got chilly. The reason for the arctic temperatures was cold air seeping out of the morgue’s massive refrigeration unit. The constant risk of frostbite made this particular security posting unpleasant. But at least Alexi didn’t have to deal with the public, which was infinitely worse than sitting between drawers full of dead people and a wall of steel lockboxes for eight hours a day.

  At least it was quiet. So quiet that Alexi sat down behind the security desk and pulled the latest issue of Live Nude Girls out of the drawer. He was just about to open the cover when the intercom buzzed.

  Sighing, the big man tossed the glossy magazine back into the drawer and crossed to the door. Running his hand through his light brown hair, he punched the intercom button. “Yes?”

  “I need to see someone in the properties department,” a voice replied. Alexi looked up at the security monitor. A dark-haired Hispanic man stood on the other side of the door.

  Alexi threw the lock and opened the door. “Can I help—”

  The silenced weapon barked twice. Alexi stumbled backward, but eerily, he remained on his feet despite the twin holes over his heart.

  The man stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Then he shot the guard again.

  This time Alexi’s knees gave out and he dropped to the tiled floor, one leg out, the other folded under him.

  8. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2:00 P.M. AND 3:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  2:02:06 P.M. EDT

  Security Station One

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Jack summoned his team to the security station for a briefing by Morris O’Brian. He leaned with folded arms against a desk while the cyber technician spoke.

  “This morning, when Brice Holman refused to answer our friendly phone calls, I followed CTU protocol and issued a trace command on his cell phone.”

  “A trace command? What’s that?” Layla interrupted.

  Morris glanced at Jack, then smiled indulgently. “I used the unique identifiers on Holman’s phone to trace its activity. Nothing happens when the man’s phone is turned off, of course. But as soon as he turns it on, the trace commands imbedded in the telecommunications grid automatically attempt to triangulate his position, and then forward the data to me.”

  “So what have you got?” Jack demanded. He moved behind Morris’s chair to stand over the man.

  Peter Randall was there, too, doe-eyed behind his round glasses. Despite his boyish demeanor, Randall had assumed responsibility for internal security in Tony Almeida’s and Rachel Delgado’s absence.

  In the last hour, he’d proved to be a valuable asset.

  Randall had determined the intruders killed on the roof of CTU Headquarters had entered through the parking garage, and his security team also found the bodies of the murdered guards behind some parked cars.

  Now they were hunting a third accomplice, clad in a good copy of a CTU uniform. He had been taped fleeing the scene by the reactivated security cam inside the parking garage, around the same time the firefight broke out on the roof.

  “Here’s the skinny, Jack-o,” Morris replied. “At twelve twenty-eight this afternoon, Holman activated his phone for approximately thirty-nine seconds — not long enough to triangulate his position with any sort of accuracy, but I did learn that the low-power transmission from his cell went to a switch in the farming community of Alpha, New Jersey—”

  Layla interrupted again. “A switch? What kind of switch?”

  “Darling,” Morris said patiently. “In mobile lingo, or as you call it in the colonies, in cell phone lingo, a switch is a transmission tower.”

  “So Director Holman is in Alpha, New Jersey?”

  “I didn’t say that, luv. I said his cell phone signal came to the tower in Alpha. But you are correct, in a sense.

  Director Holman is not far away. Cell phone signals are weak. CTU’s phones are better than most, but they only have a range of thirteen kilometers.”

  Morris looked up at Jack Bauer, who peered over his shoulder at the grid map up on the HD computer monitor.

  “About twenty minutes ago, Holman tried using his phone again. It was only activated for fifty-two seconds, but this signal went to different place… a tower in Clinton, New Jersey. Using the location of the prior call and this one, I was able to triangulate his position. Assuming he hasn’t moved, I know where Holman is.”

  “Where?” Jack demanded, though he thought he already knew the answer.

  “He’s in a town called Milton, New Jersey. A pictur-esque little community on the Delaware River. According to our geographic database, parts of the Erie Canal still exist in the area—”

  “Cut the regional history tour and show me the map.”

  “All right, Jack-o.” Morris tapped a key, and a flashing red dot appeared on the grid. “That’s Milton.”

  Jack nodded. “Where’s Kurmastan?”

  Layla moved behind him while Morris tapped another key. Instantly a second blip appeared, nearly on top of the first.

  “Now we know where Director Holman is,” Layla said.

  “But what is he doing there? And why hasn’t he responded to our calls?”

  “We’re going to find out the answer, right now.” Jack faced Peter Randall. “Where are your choppers?”

  “Two blocks away,” Randall replied. “There’s a secure compound on the banks of the Hudson River. The detention block is there, too.”

  “Alert them,” Jack said. “Tell them to prep a helicopter, and get clearance for an immediate takeoff. Tell them they’re carrying two passengers to Milton, New Jersey.”

  Jack turned to Layla. “You’ll need your weapon for this trip. And tactical assault gear, too.”

  The woman’s lips parted in surprise. “You’re taking me?”

  “You wanted fieldwork, didn’t you?”

  “I… I’ll secure my gear from the armory,” Layla stammered.

  2:16:06 P.M. EDT

  Property Room

  Newark General Hospital

  It took Tony a while to locate the property room. Finally, he cornered an orderly in the ER and asked him where to go.

  “Through that door over there and down one flight. You make a left and follow the corridor. The property room will be on your right. You can’t miss it. The sign on the door says morgue.”

  Tony frowned. “Morgue?”

  The orderly shrugged. “That’s the way it is, mon.”

  Tony thanked the man and entered the stairwell. He took the stairs two at a time, the heels of his shoes clicking hollowly in the cavernous space.

  At the bottom of the steps, Tony bumped into a
youth in a white smock.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  The dark-haired Hispanic did not reply. Hands in his bulging pockets, he hurried up the stairs. Tony shrugged off the encounter and followed the corridor until he spotted the door to the morgue. To his surprise it was ajar, cool air from the massive refrigerators streaming into the stuffy corridor.

  Suspicious, Tony slipped his hand into his jacket and drew the Glock from its holster. He peered around the open door, into the room. A security guard was sprawled on the floor. Tony moved forward, examined the guard.

  Dead. Then he noticed the banks of steel lockers lining one wall.

  The one marked “Room 424” had been pried open. The axe used for the job lay on the floor. Tony stepped around the corpse and examined the contents of the small square locker. Agent Foy’s purse, wallet, and CTU ID were still inside, but her cell phone and the digital surveillance camera were both gone.

  Tony cursed, recalling the man who’d bumped him.

  Glock pointed at the floor, he chased after him, certain the Hispanic youth was the culprit.

  In the corridor, Tony collided with a nurse. “Call the police,” he told her. “The security guard in the morgue has been shot.”

  2:19:36 P.M. EDT

  Administration Level B

  Newark General Hospital

  The woman saw the gun clutched in the dark-haired man’s hand, and her eyes went wide. The man turned his back on her, raced up the stairs and out of sight.

  Alarmed, the nurse proceeded to the morgue and pushed through the door. Only after she saw the man on the ground, and checked his pulse, did the woman use the emergency phone to call the security desk.

  She reported the murder, and gave the security chief a description of the dark-haired man she’d bumped into.

  “He still has the gun! I saw it…”

  2:28:42 P.M. EDT

  On the road to Kurmastan, New Jersey

  Inside the church bus, Brice Holman sat beside a scare-crow of a woman named Mrs. Hocklinger. During the entire trip from the Nazareth Unitarian Church of Milton, New Jersey, she’d spoken only once. As they pulled out of the church parking lot, Mrs. Hocklinger used the con-descending tone of an elementary schoolteacher to order Holman to fasten his seatbelt.