“No!” Jack cried.
His body jerking spasmodically, the Albino’s eyes rolled up in his head, then he fell forward, hanging loosely from the chair. Jack felt for a pulse, but found nothing. He yanked back the man’s head, reached into his mouth to find the poison capsule. Jack was stunned.
How did I miss it? How? I searched him…
Jack quickly discovered that the toxic chemical had been stored inside a hollow tooth. The second the poison hit the man’s system, he was dead.
Jack stumbled back, dropped into a leather chair. He still needed more information, but now at least he had a name.
Soren Ungar.
Jack rose and crossed to Erno Tobias’s computer. He’d already forwarded the information stored there to Morris O’Brian. Now he began searching the files himself, looking for some clue to what was really happening, something that would lead him to an endgame…
After entering the security code that allowed him access to cache twenty-two, Peter Randall opened the file Tony Almeida had forwarded to CTU. It contained three digital images, which needed little enhancement. Two of the pictures clearly showed Ibrahim Noor’s secret bio-weapons laboratory. The black Hummer rolling into the garage obscured much of the scene in the third picture.
Not good, Randall thought. He called up several older files from the CTU database, searching for photos that would make a good match. He selected three pictures of a Cleveland methadone lab busted by the DEA in 1996.
The Ohio lab was also housed inside a brick warehouse, the surveillance photos were taken at night, and with a little Photoshop tinkering, Randall even placed the black Hummer into the third image.
The photos would not stand up to close scrutiny, but Randall gambled they wouldn’t have to.
In the mess going on now, no one will pay attention to a simple meth lab, he decided.
When Randall was finished, he deleted the original photos that Foy and Almeida had taken, replacing them with the pictures he’d selected. Then he printed them out.
A final check of the hard copies revealed no obvious flaws that might give his ploy away.
Ibrahim Noor owes me for this. Big time. Peter Randall’s boyish face broke into a smile. And he’s going to pay…
Satisfied with a job well done, Randall shut down the security console and swung around in his office chair — to find the interim director and two security men standing over him.
“D-Director Henderson, c-can I help you—”
The tranquilizer dart hit Randall in the throat, and he gagged once. The drug took immediate effect, and he slipped out of the chair and hit the floor.
“Put this son of a bitch in a detention cell and prep him for interrogation,” Henderson said.
The security men each grabbed an arm and roughly hauled the unconscious man toward the elevator.
Henderson faced Morris O’Brian, who’d been lurking in the hallway.
“Good job, O’Brian,” Henderson said. “But how did you know Peter Randall was a mole?”
Morris shrugged. “I was suspicious of him already, but the real trap was the cache number I gave him. Access to cache twenty-two is only permitted to personnel one level above Randall’s security clearance. Randall was so overconfident, he didn’t think to ask me for the password to cover his buttocks. That’s when I knew something was up — that he had all of the passwords already.”
Henderson offered the man a thin smile. “So what made you suspicious of him in the first place?”
“Everyone resisted us when we first got here, Agent Abernathy included. They dodged Jack Bauer’s direct questions and all but refused to cooperate. Peter Randall was the exception. He was there from the start, ready to step in and do anything we asked of him.”
Morris paused. “I figured the little bugger had to have something up his sleeve. No one is that helpful without an ulterior motive.”
19. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1:00 A.M. AND 2:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Jack Bauer was the last participant to appear on the vid-eoconferencing screen. He sat in a Danish modern living room. Behind him, a sliding glass door framed the night sky above Central Park’s treetops. A few feet away, on a chair of cream-colored leather, a pale form sat limply, bound by electrical cords. Blood pooled on the polished hardwood floor at the corpse’s feet.
Christ, what a mess, thought Christopher Henderson, sitting up in his chair. Bauer better have something.
Jack peered into the computer camera, then his hand disappeared from view while he adjusted the volume. “Can you hear me?” he asked.
“We hear you, Jack.” Henderson tossed his pen onto the tabletop. “We can see you, too. And I know you can’t see us from your location, so I’ll make the introductions.
Richard Walsh is on the line from Los Angeles. Hershel Berkovic, Director of CTU’s Economic Warfare Division, is conferencing in from Langley, and Dr. Guilling from the Satellite Surveillance Division is here with me in New York.”
“What’s the current status on the trucks from Kurmastan?” Jack asked.
Sitting across the table from Henderson, the portly man with the brown comb-over and horn-rimmed glasses said,
“Ted Guilling here. The trucks in Carlisle and Atlantic City were intercepted and neutralized. Another truck detonated its explosives at the General Aviation plant in Rutland, with many casualties.”
Wheezing, Guilling paused to suck on an asthma atomizer. “But there’s good news, too. Fifteen minutes ago, U.S. Navy military police intercepted two trucks outside the Bethesda Naval Station. Our forces suffered some casualties, but the terrorists were stopped and their bombs failed to detonate—”
“What about the trucks heading for Boston?” Jack interrupted.
“We think that intelligence may be bogus,” Guilling replied.
“What do you mean may,” Jack quietly challenged.
Crap, here it comes… Henderson glared a warning at Guilling to be careful. It was Jack who’d brought in that information, and they really didn’t need Bauer blowing his top with Walsh and Langley on the line.
Guilling took another hit on his asthma atomizer, then earnestly explained, “We’ve combed all the routes from New Jersey to Boston with satellites, surveillance cameras, state and local police, and we haven’t located a single truck, let alone two.”
Jack didn’t blink. “Maybe they stopped somewhere.”
He leaned closer to the camera. “Maybe the trucks are hidden.”
Guilling’s head bobbed. “It’s possible.”
“Walsh here, Jack.”
Henderson rubbed his bloodshot eyes, relieved to hear Walsh speak up. The big man with the walrus mustache was CTU’s Administrative Director, and the most senior person on this call. Henderson also knew that Jack Bauer respected few men in the CIA’s bureaucracy more than Richard Walsh.
“I think we’re all in agreement that we need to keep our eyes open,” Walsh continued. “We should keep sweeping the Boston routes, but not at the exclusion of other possibilities if additional leads come in. Now… as I understand the situation, Jack, counting the truck you personally stopped outside the Lincoln Tunnel, half of the twelve trucks have been located and neutralized, one way or another. Which means, according to Brice Holman’s intelligence, there are still six more trucks to find.”