Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [73]
The Albino shook his head.
"Talk!"
The Albino was breathing hard. "Before I tell you," he gasped, "I want a pardon. Signed by your President. Forgiving all my past crimes."
Looming over the man, Jack shook his head.
"You're an international war criminal. A fugitive from justice. They want you at the Hague. It's out of our government's hands..."
"You can fix this!" the Albino insisted.
"I can't, and I won't," Jack replied. "No bargains."
To Jack's surprise, the Albino actually shrugged under his bonds.
"As you Americans are fond of saying, you can't fault a man for trying," he said. A strange smile lifted his lips, and then he bit down hard. Jack heard a crunch, and Erno Tobias choked. When he opened his mouth, black blood poured from his throat.
"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...
* * *
12:59:50 A.M. EDT
Security Station Two
CTU Headquarters, NYC
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