Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [76]
"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 "managing 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.
* * *
1:22:21 A.M. EDT
1313 Crampton Street
Newark, New Jersey
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.
Squaring his narrow shoulders, Dubic crossed the basement, careful to avoid the fresh blood that stained the concrete floor. Noor was looming over Dr. Kabbibi, arguing about a damaged aerosol dispenser.
"I can install the dispenser myself," Kabbibi argued. "It is unwise to bring a stranger into the plan this late in the game."
"I have no choice," Noor replied, his deep voice booming in the cavernous space. "Someone must operate the device, too."
Kabbibi had no reply to that.
Dubic said nothing, either. He wasn't one of Noor's addled followers, and he wasn't going to be anywhere near that dispenser when the device did its work.
Once a Serbian Black Dog, Dubic was now a gun for hire, the key word being hire. The Albino had been the one to contact him, employing Dubic to assemble a strike team.
Dubic cared little about the politics involved in this operation. He was in it for the money. Lots and lots of money. Bringing down the holier-than-thou