“Warriors of God.” Jack folded his arms. “So now it’s a paramilitary organization?”
Layla nodded. “A core group of Middle Easterners live inside the compound with the Imam, but most of the people in Kurmastan are former prison inmates converted by the cleric’s followers. Some of the clerics minister to the prisons in New York and New Jersey. Others are inmates themselves.”
“And these activities are permitted?”
“Under the banner of religious freedom, the Warriors of God openly recruits new members through various social service organizations, including the prison system,” Layla replied, yanking a file from the drawer.
“Why hasn’t CTU launched a full-scale investigation?”
Layla raised a dark eyebrow. “The District Director of the Northeast Region nixed it.”
Jack processed that bit of information, and he had to admit, he wasn’t all that surprised. The District Director for the Northeast was Nathan Ulysses Wheelock.
Wheelock hadn’t worked his way up through the Agency, served in the military, or done fieldwork of any kind. The man was a political appointee of the current Administration; and his wife — before she’d retired to write legal thrillers — had been a civil rights attorney with a client list that included high-profile anti-defamation organizations.
Jack faced Layla Abernathy. With Brice Holman and his Deputy Director, Judith Foy, out of the office, Abernathy was the ranking agent in New York. He wanted to get a handle on her.
“You’re Iranian, aren’t you, Agent Abernathy?” Jack asked pointedly. “Did I recall that correctly from your file?”
Layla glanced away, obviously uncomfortable. “I was born in Iran, but I left with my mother before I was two years old. I don’t remember anything—”
“But you speak Farsi?”
She nodded. “My stepfather saw to that. At one time, he was the U.S. Associate Ambassador to Iran. Back in the seventies, he knew the Shah—”
“Your father was Richard Abernathy.”
“My step father. He married my mother after my real father was executed by the thugs in charge of Iran. With the help of Canadian friends, my mother came to America.
And just for the record, I’m also fluent in French, Spanish, Italian, and German.”
Jack fell silent a moment, regarding her again. “So why are you posted here? With your security clearance and lin-guistic skills, you should be on the fast track at Langley, or in a job at the DOD, maybe even the White House.”
“I’m not interested in listening to Iranian intelligence chatter from thousands of miles away or analyzing the speeches of its current ayatollahs. I made that very clear on threat of resignation, frankly. I want to do fieldwork, Agent Bauer. And my language skills are just as valuable here in New York, where hundreds of languages are spoken—”
The door opened and Morris O’Brian entered. “You called, boss?”
“What’s the status on security?” Jack asked.
An hour ago, Bauer had hit the roof when the guards downstairs had told him the exterior cameras weren’t working, which was why they’d never noticed the firefight on the street. Jack had dispatched Morris to fix the problem.
“I’ve got the system up and running now,” Morris replied. “It was just a little glitch, really. I left Almeida behind to establish a network that integrates the cameras in the lobby, the parking garage, and the roof with Security Station One.”
“How long will that take?”
“I could do it in fifteen minutes. Tony should be done in an hour or so. Once the network is established, we can watch everything on the monitors.”
Jack leaned close to Morris. “How about that other matter?”
O’Brian fished the bloodstained wallet out of his jacket, handed it back to Jack. “It’s a fake ID,” Morris said.
“Angelo De Salvo was living under the alias Angel Salinas, in an apartment in the Bowery. He worked for Fredo Mangella, an international restaurateur who owns four-star dining spots in Paris, Madrid, London, Rome, and here in New York. Mangella has an office above Volaré, his eatery on Mulberry Street.”
Bauer nodded. “Good work. Now I have another job for you. This one’s urgent. I want you to crack the security on Director Holman’s computer.”
Morris’s eyes went from Jack Bauer to Layla Abernathy and back again. Then he dropped into the Director’s chair.
“This might take a little time,” he warned.
“Just do it,” Jack replied. He faced Abernathy. “You have something to show me?”
Layla nodded. “These files contain security briefs—
summaries of just about everything we’ve got on Kurmastan, up until the District Director shut down the investigation.”
Jack accepted the thick file, leafed through it. Inside, he found photographs and reams of surveillance reports—
two years’ worth.
“Let’s find a conference room to review this,” he said.
A pair of utility workers blithely strode down the ramp, into the restricted parking garage ten floors beneath the CTU offices.
In the lead, a slight African-American man, in a blue Con Edison uniform under an oversized yellow vest, carried two large steel toolboxes. Under black-rimmed, bottle-thick glasses too large for his narrow face, the man’s dark brown eyes appeared wide and alert.
The other man was tall and blond, with a flat face, ghost-blue eyes, and Slavic features. His neck seemed too thick for his uniform, and the sleeves were rolled up around his burly arms. He carried a circle of electric cable over one shoulder, a hazard vest slung over the other. This one was in the middle of a story.
“. so I told the bitch I couldn’t pay her rent this month because I lost two large at OTB…”
The smaller man snorted. “Serves you right, putting your cash down on the ponies. What did your woman say to that?”
Both security guards stepped out of the glass-enclosed hutch and approached the utility workers.
“She said if I want the honey, I gotta feed the bear,” the blond man replied. “Can you believe that? And you know what I said?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” a CTU guard interrupted.
“You’re not supposed to be down here—”
The blond man dropped his hazard vest, leveled the hidden 9mm USP Tactical at the guards. The silencer took care of the noise, muffling the gunshots in the low-ceilinged garage.
The first bullet caught the guard in the throat. The second blew the back of the head off the other man.
“So what did you say?” asked the slight black man, pushing up his thick glasses.
“I told the bitch that I’d rather go bear hunting,” the big blond replied, lowering his weapon.
The black man set down his boxes, moved into the bul-letproof hutch, and jumped behind the computer console.
The big blond dragged the corpses out of sight behind a parked car.
Footsteps sounded, and the blond man paused, drawing his weapon again. He immediately relaxed when he saw the man in the CTU uniform striding quickly down the ramp.
“Have the cameras been deactivated?” the newcomer asked.
The black man stuck his head out of the hutch. “I don’t think they were functional. But if they were, they aren’t now.”
The newcomer in the CTU security uniform moved toward the blond. The blond man took the badge and name tag off one of the murdered guards and handed it to the newcomer.
“Come on,” the black man said, retrieving his steel boxes. “The access shaft to the roof is over here.”
The newcomer in the CTU uniform took over the security booth. He watched through the Plexiglas while his partners used electric screwdrivers to open a steel hatch in the wall. The blond man waited while his smaller partner crawled inside.