Collateral Damage Part 9

Already Noor observed the effects of the drug. After a few minutes the men began to perspire, then fidget on their prayer 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 ma.s.sive 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, Shahid, his Warriors of G.o.d," Noor began, his voice so low that men in the back of the room strained to hear him. his Warriors of G.o.d," 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, Khilafah, to a world ruled by Muslim law..." to a world ruled by Muslim law..."

Both cheers and imprecations greeted Noor's words. Men cried out in praise of G.o.d and the Imam, while they cursed the Great Satan America and her evil, G.o.dless 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, 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. 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.

"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, 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..." 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 G.o.dless 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 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 G.o.d'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 defending the only true faith, you will take your place in a long 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 G.o.d. And with that sword, you will take many thousands of infidels with you when you die. They will plunge into the fires of h.e.l.l, 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 G.o.d. 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 magnifying their emotions, the men howled like maddened wolves.

"Go, Warriors of G.o.d," 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.

"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 a.s.signed 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 pa.s.s. 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 make 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 pa.s.senger seat, mostly watched her.

"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 amus.e.m.e.nt. "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. People. With their help, I got a college scholarship and a Get Out of Newark Free card." 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?"

"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."

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 gla.s.ses 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 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., Holman 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.

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 frailer.

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 frailer 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 personnel 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 know who's paying for out-of-town attack teams like the Serbs, and the hit men who tried to a.s.sa.s.sinate 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 embarra.s.sment."

"You've lost your faith, then?" Jack asked.

Layla looked up. "I've rejected rejected it, Special Agent Bauer. My religion. My heritage. All of it." 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 n.a.z.is? They brought Europe to its knees. They 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, n.a.z.ism 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 b.o.l.l.o.c.ks on that one, Jack-o."

"As an American, I choose to live in this 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." 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 that lecture," Layla said. "I've heard it enough. From my stepfather. From my mother, too, a woman who should know better." 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."