Jack sat up, alarmed. “Where?”
“Top of the World Trade Center, Jack.”
“Can you tap into the WTC security system from this console?”
Morris shrugged. “Sure.”
“Get to work.”
While Morris keyed in the protocols, Jack summoned Layla Abernathy.
“Contact the Operations Control Center of the World Trade Center. Ask them if they’ve authorized any maintenance work near the microwave tower — specifically workers from Consolidated Edison.”
Five minutes later they were scanning the streets around the twin towers for Con Edison trucks and men in blue uniforms.
“I’ve got nothing, Jack. Nobody on the streets. Nobody on the roof of the North Tower, where the antenna is located.”
“Try the security cameras inside the maintenance shafts and freight elevators,” Jack commanded.
Layla returned, and Jack faced her.
“The OC center at the World Trade Center has authorized no work on or near the microwave tower,” she told him. “No one from Con Edison has passed through their security checkpoints today, either.”
“Then who are these guys?” Morris replied, jerking his head at the monitor.
On screen, two men in Con Ed blue entered a freight elevator, accompanied by a man in a Port Authority policeman’s uniform.
“The enemy,” Bauer said grimly.
6. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12:00 P.M. AND 1:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
12:07:41 P.M. EDT
The Flemington Traffic Circle
Flemington, New Jersey
The silver BMW entered the roundabout, then took the first exit onto New Jersey Route 12 west.
Cruising at sixty miles per hour, the Albino considered his short and expensive interaction with Congresswoman Hailey Williams.
As predicted, the woman eagerly accepted the deal we offered her. And why not? She’s a politician — a whore for money — like the rest of her ilk.
Meanwhile, he slipped a disposable hypodermic needle out of a black bag on the floor. Holding the needle high, he pressed the plunger until a tiny bit of golden fluid pearled at the tip. Then he thrust the needle into his forearm, chewing his lower lip as he pushed the steroid and stimulant cocktail into his veins.
If only I’d learned this simple fact earlier in life, he mused, shaking back his long white hair. I wasted years as an assassin, only to find that buying a politician is so much easier than killing one.
His heart began to race and sweat beaded his brow.
The veins on his neck and forehead quivered. The Albino clutched the wheel and stepped on the gas.
On the road back to Kurmastan, he noticed the many outlet stores for which Flemington was noted, each a huge, gaudy temple dedicated to consumerism. They sold designer shoes, designer coats, furs, jewelry — even designer foods.
His thin lips stretched into a tight smile.
This will soon end. In another year, the average American will be content to eat garbage, live in a cardboard box, and wear rags on his back.
Slipping into the fast lane, the Albino tossed the used needle out the window and reached for the cell in his pocket. He punched speed dial on an international exchange. It took a moment for the connection to be made.
“Ungar Financial, LLC, Geneva,” a woman said in a coolly efficient voice.
“I must speak with Soren Ungar,” the Albino rasped.
“Erno Tobias calling.”
“I’ll put you through immediately, sir.”
12:39:51 P.M. EDT
North Tower
World Trade Center
Jack Bauer stood inside a stairwell on the 110th floor of One World Trade Center.
He wore the Con Edison uniform taken from the intruder he’d killed on the roof of CTU, blood from the fatal head wound hastily cleaned. Jack had to roll up the sleeves to hide the fact that the shirt was too small. The collar was still damp, and he fidgeted uncomfortably.
A steel door to the roof was in front of him. Beside him, Layla Abernathy used a digital photo of the dead man’s tattoo as a model, drawing a stylized 13 on Jack’s bared forearm. Jack knew about the number 13 tattooed on members of the multinational prison gang MS–13. But this tattoo wasn’t a regular 13. Its design included a five-pointed star inside the bottom loop of the numeral 3 that suggested the star and crescent symbol of Islam.
Jack watched Layla sketch, wishing Tony had his back instead of a novice like this woman. But Tony was in Newark, and Layla was the only person he trusted from the New York office, so Jack had brought her along. While she worked, Jack lifted a cell phone to his ear.
“Where are they now, Morris?” he asked.
“The copper’s pacing on the other side of your door,”
O’Brian replied from the security console at CTU. “The men in the utility company uniforms are at the base of the tower, climbing onto a ladder.”
“Is the Port Authority cop real?”
“Don’t know, Jack-o. I could ask, but that would tip the WTC security staff that they’ve got a problem, and you don’t want that.”
Morris paused. “My best guess is they’re using the officer as cover. I suspect they were afraid to disable the cameras and arouse the suspicion of the OCC managers. But that pair of utility workers entered without signing in, and I observed the PA officer as he escorted them to the roof.”
“Then he’s working for the bad guys,” Jack concluded.
“Finished,” Layla said, displaying the phony tattoo to Jack. “Try not to sweat too much; I drew it with felt tip pens.”
Jack nodded.
“I hope this works,” the woman continued. “We don’t even know what the 13 tattoo means. There’s no match for it in CTU’s database.”
“It just has to fool them long enough for me to take them down,” Jack replied. Then he spoke into the cell. “How far away is the tower from the door in front of me?”
“A good hundred yards, Jack. The roof slopes upward, and you’ll have to climb onto a three-tiered metal platform to reach the base of the tower. There are steel support cables strung all over the roof, so be careful not to trip over one.”
Jack frowned. “So charging the bad guys would not be a good idea. Don’t worry, I don’t plan to.”
Bauer spoke to Layla while he slipped a hands-free headset over his ears and tucked the phone into the Con Ed uniform.
“Go down two flights, to level 108, and listen in to my transmission. If something happens to me, alert the NYPD
Bomb Squad and let them handle the bombers.”
“You shouldn’t do this alone,” Layla insisted. “We can have a SWAT team up here inside of five minutes.”
“I need to take one of them alive, for interrogation,”
Jack replied. “We’re working in the dark. We need some solid intelligence.”
“Good luck,” Layla called as she descended the concrete steps.
“I’m about to move,” Jack said into the headset. “Where’s the officer now?”
“About two feet away from you. On the other side of the door. Why? Are you planning to charm your way past him?”
“No time for that,” Jack hissed.
Jack clutched the metal handle, felt relief when he realized the door opened inward, which offered him a better chance to surprise the PA cop.
“Jack!” Morris cried, voice sharp in his headset. “The copper’s leaning against the door right now.”
Bauer yanked it open. A burst of sunlight and the roar of wind filled the dim stairwell. With a startled cry, the man in the navy-blue uniform fell into Jack’s arms. Bauer immediately placed him in a chokehold and dragged the struggling man into the stairwell. The door closed automatically.
The man was young and Hispanic and smaller than Jack, but very powerful. While he struggled, Jack applied just enough pressure to render him unconscious, then let the limp form slide to the floor. Jack checked the man’s arms but found no tatto
o. The ID in his pocket pegged him as Hector Giamonde, a real PA police officer with just eight months on the job.
Jack heard footsteps and whirled, fist ready.
Layla jumped back. She clutched a Glock in her small hands.
“I told you to stay downstairs,” Jack hissed.
“I heard a struggle, and—”
“Cuff him,” Jack interrupted. “I’m going out.”
While Layla strapped flex cuffs around the man’s wrists and ankles, Jack slipped through the door.
Outside, high winds buffeted him, flapping the legs of his baggy pants and tugging at his hair. Jack blinked against the constant blast and scanned the roof.
He spied the intruders on a steel ladder. They’d climbed a hundred and fifty feet up the transmission tower. They were both focused on their ascent, and neither noticed the absence of the Port Authority policeman who’d been guarding their backs.
Jack bolted across the roof, leaping over steel cables, until he reached the metal platform that ringed the tower base. Still undetected, he ascended two levels of steps, wending his way around a dozen or more STLs and ENG
receiver dishes. Amid an electronic hum mixed with the howl of the winds, Jack reached the bottom of the ladder.
The tower was a building in its own right, a square structure eighteen hundred feet high and perhaps a hundred feet around. The ladder in front of him snaked up the side.
Eyes squinting against the bright sunshine, Jack gripped the steel rail and began to climb. After twenty rungs, he knew why the intruders weren’t looking down. The vistas around him were incredibly vast, the height dizzying.
Jack battled a constant wind that whistled in his ears and threatened to rip him off the ladder.
“Can you hear me, Morris? I need to know the location of the intruders.”
The voice in his headset was drowned out by the gale.
Jack muttered a curse and kept climbing.
He couldn’t find the intruders now. He did come across three bombs taped to the tower wall — solid bricks of C–4
wired with detonation cords instead of timers. Jack ripped the cords out as he went.
About two hundred feet above him, between rows of saucer-shaped dishes, Jack saw a steel mesh platform that circled the tower. The men had apparently exited the ladder there, and moved to the opposite side of the transmission tower.
Jack continued his ascent until the platform was less than twenty feet above him. Here the climbing space narrowed because the ladder was sandwiched between two massive receiver dishes. As Jack moved between them, strong hands grabbed his throat and threatened to tear him from the ladder.
“Te morati poginuti! ” the attacker cried.
Jack understood the language from his Delta Force missions in Eastern Europe. Rather than resisting, he threw up his arm so his attacker could see the tattoo.
“Prekid JA sam jedan prijatelj,” Jack rasped in Serbian.
“JA mocí pomoc´.”
The big man saw the tattoo, heard Jack’s words. Suddenly the pressure on his throat eased. Jack did not resist when the man grabbed his forearm and dragged him onto the top of a massive receiver dish, where he sprawled, gasping. The man loomed over him, stocky build, dark eyes, a once aquiline nose twisted by too many breaks.
“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.
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.
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 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-gr
andfa-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 expediting 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.”
7. 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.
24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Page 7