24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage

by Marc Cerasini

  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 C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 101

  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.

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  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 perC O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 103

  sonnel 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 104

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  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 question, 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 C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 105

  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,”

  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 m
y 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.”

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  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 C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 107

  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.”

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  “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?”

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  “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—

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  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 Delgado. 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.

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  “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 112

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  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?”