24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage

by Marc Cerasini

  “JA sam jedan prijatelj,” Jack repeated, telling the man he was an ally.

  Jack heard a grunt of surprise. At the same instant, he realized the tattoo on his forearm had smeared. The other man was looking at his own hand—the ink was now stain-ing his fingers.

  Before the big man could make a move, Bauer lashed out with his elbow, crushing his larynx. As the man’s head jerked back, Jack grabbed him by his collar and flipped him from his perch.

  The big man tumbled silently, arms and legs windmill-ing in the blasting winds. A hundred feet above the roof, the man struck a steel cable that severed his body in half.

  Jack looked away, spied another bomb, and ripped out the det cord. Then he grasped the ladder, swung himself onto the rungs, and continued his climb.

  Grunting, he pulled himself onto the platform a moment later. There was no sign of the other utility worker, but Jack spied bundles of plastic explosives taped to the tower, and a detonation cord leading around the bend.

  Jack drew the Glock and followed the wire. He turned a corner and came face to face with the bomber a moment later.

  “Tko biti te? ” the Serb cried.

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  The lanky blond man had just inserted cord into a brick of C–4. The tiny electronic detonator dangled from his utility belt. Now he reached for the button.

  “Prekid! Predaja zatim,” Jack cried, ordering the man to surrender.

  The man grasped the detonator, lifted it. Jack had no choice. The Glock bucked, its blast muted by the howling wind.

  There was an explosion of red. The detonator, along with the hand clutching it, tumbled over the railing. The force of the concussion slammed the man against the rail, and he tumbled over it, too.

  He screamed once, before bouncing off an ENG dish.

  “Damn it!” Jack yelled, punching the rail.

  Though he had stopped the bombers, he’d failed to take either man alive. Jack was back where he’d started . . .

  6:54:30 P.M. CEST

  Ungar Financial, LLC

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Expressionless behind horn-rimmed glasses, billionaire currency speculator Soren Ungar held the phone to his ear, listening to the Albino’s rasping voice speaking from thousands of miles away.

  While Erno Tobias talked, Ungar stared at his own reflection on the glass surface of the desk. He’d worn a blank business mask for so many decades that his bland, angular face now seemed incapable of even a micro-expression.

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  Ungar believed that was for the best. One should always maintain control and hold one’s thoughts and emotions tightly. It was vulgar, unseemly, bourgeoisie to do otherwise. Even now, the anger that seethed inside him never reached Soren Ungar’s cold, dead eyes.

  “This was an expensive mistake Ibrahim Noor made,”

  Ungar interrupted. “Inviting that Congresswoman to his compound, today of all days, was a bit of insanity on his part.”

  “Noor had his reasons,” Tobias replied. “Williams and the others were to be his gift. A blood sacrifice to those who remain behind. Slaughtered lambs for them to vent their rage before the final conflagration.”

  “Nevertheless, it was an error that cost me a million euros to remedy,” Ungar said without a trace of rancor.

  “Noor and his savages can have the others to do with as they please. But I may need the Congresswoman’s services in the future. It’s never wise to squander an asset that could still prove useful.”

  Ungar paused. “Fortunately, I will only have to deal with these savages a little while longer, until they have served their purpose. When the bloodbath begins, America’s attention will be focused on stopping the threat, and I can act freely. After the final attack on their financial center and my speech tomorrow, before the International Board of Currency Traders, the final nails will be pounded into the coffin of American hegemony.”

  “You will possess wealth beyond measure,” the Albino rasped.

  “More importantly, with Europe in ascendance, a sorry 90

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  century of dangerous technological inventions, vulgar consumerism, crass commercialism, and vile popular culture will finally end.”

  “This plan is not without risks. And losses. I assume that you have accounted for them,” the Albino said evenly.

  “The outcomes are worth the risks,” Ungar replied. “A century ago, Europe ruled the world through its superior culture, its economic might, and its colonial ambitions.

  Then came the First World War, communism, fascism, nazism, and another war that obliterated all traces of the glorious Europe that was. The Second World War allowed those barbarians to enter the gate. It gave the Americans free rein over the fate of the entire world.”

  Ungar glanced up, at the painting of his great-grandfa-ther, the man who’d catapulted his Swiss family to prominence in the banking industry.

  “America’s dominance ends now,” he went on. “Though Europe can never beat the superpower militarily, there are other ways to bring defeat to your enemies.”

  “Yes, well . . . I’m going back to the compound and meet with Noor for the last time,” the Albino said. “Then I’m heading to my apartment in Manhattan, where I’ll prepare for the final strike in the morning.”

  “Very good,” Ungar replied.

  There was a long pause. “You’re quite certain the other nations are ready to go along with this scheme?” the Albino asked at last.

  “Europe is united and has once again become an economic powerhouse. It’s only a matter of time before the euro outpaces the dollar in value. All I’m doing is expedit-C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 91

  ing the inevitable,” Ungar replied. “When I dump billions upon billions of dollars’ worth of undervalued U.S. currency into the money markets, the Saudis and the Chinese will have no choice but to follow suit, and the sell-off will begin.”

  “Then the euro will replace the dollar as the world standard,” the Albino concluded.

  “And the United States will collapse into a mire of poverty from which it will never emerge. The balance of power will shift in Europe’s favor once again, as it was meant to be.”

  The Albino chuckled. “A brave new world.”

  “Indeed,” Ungar replied. “Who knows? In the twenty-first century, the poverty-stricken citizens of the new Third World America may welcome a modern wave of European colonialists. Then they can dine off the crumbs that fall from our tables.”

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  10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

  18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE

  BETWEEN THE HOURS OF

  1:00 P.M. AND 2:00 P.M.

  EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  1:00:32 P.M. EDT

  Kurmastan, New Jersey

  The eighty-eight martyrs squatted in subdued silence inside the dining hall. Tables and chairs had been cleared away and replaced by prayer rugs, dutifully positioned so the supplicants would face Mecca. Old men and young boys served them strong, bitter tea sweetened with honey.

  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.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 93

  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 th
e 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.

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  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 C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 95

  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.

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  “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 C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 97

  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.

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  “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 out 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 mak
e 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.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 99

  “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?”

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  “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.”