“Right,” Jack said. “And what about the leaks at CTU
New York? Christopher? Have they been plugged?”
Henderson tensed. He hadn’t expected to discuss that particular matter on this call, and he didn’t appreciate Bauer’s bluntness. But he was careful to answer with smoothness and control.
“We think so, Jack. Rachel Delgado, New York’s deputy head of Security, has been cross-identified as a former member of Newark’s Thirteen Gang. I haven’t interrogated Peter Randall yet, but—”
“Randall?” Jack frowned. “I thought Layla Abernathy—”
“She’s been cleared,” Henderson broke in. “Randall set her up, even planted incriminating information in Agent Abernathy’s personal computer, knowing we’d find it.
Thanks to O’Brian, we know the truth now. Agent Abernathy is innocent. She’s recovering in the infirmary—”
“Release her,” Jack demanded. “I need her in the field—”
“Listen, Jack…” Henderson paused. “She’s had a rough time. A very rough time—”
“This isn’t a request, Christopher. I need Agent Abernathy to successfully complete this mission.”
Henderson fell silent. He didn’t like the idea of putting the woman back on line, but he could hear the steel in Jack’s voice, and bickering with Bauer in front of the other men would sound childish at best.
What the hell, if Bauer wants her…
“All right,” he finally relented. “She’ll be ready for action by the time you get back.”
“Listen,” Jack continued, “I’ve been looking over the contents of Erno Tobias’s computer. The Albino has been tracking currency futures. Foreign banks, financial institutions in Europe, the Middle East, Asia — they’re all lining up to dump U.S. currency. Billions of dollars.”
“Agent Bauer is correct,” said Hershel Berkovic. Close to sixty and bald, with close-set eyes and a slight facial twitch, the man spoke on the screen out of CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia. “The EWD has analyzed the data coming in, including the contents of Mr. Tobias’s computer, and the threat you described is very real — and very dangerous—”
“Excuse me?” Jack interrupted. “Would the man speaking please identify himself.”
“This is Hershel Berkovic, Agent Bauer. I’m the director of CTU’s Economic Warfare Division, and there is no reason for these monetary speculators to dump the dollar.
Inflation is low, productivity high. Our American economy is sound, the stock market stable—”
“What about the terror attacks?” Richard Walsh interrupted from Los Angeles. “Don’t you think they’ll put a dent in our stock market come morning?”
“Yes, you are correct, Director Walsh,” Berkovic replied,
“except for one thing. Only the attack in Atlantic City has been reported as a terrorist incident, and the press and public believe it was an isolated event. Thanks to damage control from several government agencies, the Carlisle attack, the wreck outside the Lincoln Tunnel, even the blast in Rutland are perceived to be tragic accidents. The truth might eventually come out, but it hasn’t. Not yet.”
Henderson grabbed up his pen, impatiently tapped the table. “Your point?”
“The people poised to sell dollars must have inside information,” said Berkovic. “They know about the terrorist threat to our country and are set to trade accordingly.”
“There’s another possibility,” said Jack. “An endgame.”
At CTU New York, Henderson and Guilling glanced at each other across the table. In Los Angles, Walsh leaned closer to the camera. “Go on,” he commanded.
Jack nodded. “These currency trades appear to be coming from many sources, but Tobias’s secure files indicate that the bulk of the trades are coming through one financial institution — Ungar, Geneva, LLC.”
“My analysts detected that pattern, too, Agent Bauer, but”—Hershel Berkovic shook his head dismissively—
“you must remember: Ungar, Geneva, is one of the largest currency trading businesses in Europe—”
“No,” Richard Walsh interrupted. “I think Jack’s on to something. There could me more going on here than some fanatical religious assault. Someone could have an ulterior motive. Someone could be pulling the strings.”
“We need to look at Soren Ungar,” Jack advised. “The CEO of Ungar, Geneva, LLC. He also owns Rogan Pharmaceuticals and who knows what else. Tobias gave up his name, right before the Albino took his own life.”
“Excuse me, Agent Bauer?” said Hershel Berkovic, raising an eyebrow. “That man behind you in the chair?
He took his own life?”
“Suicide capsule,” Jack replied flatly. “An autopsy will show poisoning as the cause of death.”
Suppressing a smile, Henderson tapped the keys on his laptop, pulled up CTU’s file on Soren Ungar, and scanned it. “Ungar sounds like our man, all right. He’s rabidly anti-American. He’s been talking down the dollar for at least two years now. He funds the Foundation for a Greater Europe, a kind of crackpot Eurocentric think-tank.”
“Hersh,” Richard Walsh commanded from L.A., “I want you to take a hard look at all of Soren Ungar’s recent and future activities.”
On the screen from Langley, the bald man nodded.
“Ted,” Walsh continued, “I want you to locate the other six trucks, pronto.”
“I’m on it,” Dr. Guilling replied at the table across from Henderson.
“What about me?” Jack asked.
Henderson jumped in before Walsh could — after all, Jack was now under his direct command. “Come back to New York’s Operations Center,” he ordered. “We’ll coordinate our next move from here.”
Jack looked around the apartment. “First I’m going to search this place a little while longer, see what turns up. I should be back by two-thirty.”
“Okay. See you then,” Henderson said, sitting back in his chair.
Jack’s attitude could be grating at times, but Henderson wasn’t about to hold it against him. Seminars in “manag-ing up” were for pukes and analysts anyway. Bauer was a field man, the best Henderson had ever seen. Judging from the leads he’d uncovered already, Henderson could see nothing but an upside to letting Jack Bauer do what Jack Bauer did best.
Dubic closed the phone and tucked it into his black leather sport coat. Blond and of Eastern European descent, he was easily the palest man in the brightly lit basement. Across the room, the tangle of brown-skinned men were all focused on one individual — Ibrahim Noor.
The cult leader had traded his holy man’s robes for urban street clothes. With his muscular arms laid bare, prison tattoos and scars visible, Noor’s physical presence was even more intimidating. Worse still, the man’s mood was foul. He’d been closely monitoring the progress of his Warriors. After some initial successes, things were suddenly going awry.
Teams had failed to take out several critical targets, and the loss of the Hawk and his crew was a particularly harsh blow. Even worse, this all came on the heels of an equipment failure that threatened to halt the final, devastating strike before it was even launched.
I lost men today, too, Dubic thought bitterly. Two who died on the World Trade Center were comrades in arms.
You don’t see me getting worked up about it. The business we’ve chosen is fraught with peril.
Dubic sighed, ran a hand over the rough yellow stubble on his jawline. At least I have good news to deliver.