The silver BMW entered the roundabout, then took the first exit onto New Jersey Route 12 west.
Cruising at sixty miles per hour, the Albino considered his short and expensive interaction with Congresswoman Hailey Williams.
Meanwhile, he slipped a disposable hypodermic needle out of a black bag on the floor. Holding the needle high, he pressed the plunger until a tiny bit of golden fluid pearled at the tip. Then he thrust the needle into his forearm, chewing his lower lip as he pushed the steroid and stimulant cocktail into his veins.
His heart began to race and sweat beaded his brow.
The veins on his neck and forehead quivered. The Albino clutched the wheel and stepped on the gas.
On the road back to Kurmastan, he noticed the many outlet stores for which Flemington was noted, each a huge, gaudy temple dedicated to consumerism. They sold designer shoes, designer coats, furs, jewelry — even designer foods.
His thin lips stretched into a tight smile.
Slipping into the fast lane, the Albino tossed the used needle out the window and reached for the cell in his pocket. He punched speed dial on an international exchange. It took a moment for the connection to be made.
“Ungar Financial, LLC, Geneva,” a woman said in a coolly efficient voice.
“I must speak with Soren Ungar,” the Albino rasped.
“Erno Tobias calling.”
“I’ll put you through immediately, sir.”
Jack Bauer stood inside a stairwell on the 110th floor of One World Trade Center.
He wore the Con Edison uniform taken from the intruder he’d killed on the roof of CTU, blood from the fatal head wound hastily cleaned. Jack had to roll up the sleeves to hide the fact that the shirt was too small. The collar was still damp, and he fidgeted uncomfortably.
A steel door to the roof was in front of him. Beside him, Layla Abernathy used a digital photo of the dead man’s tattoo as a model, drawing a stylized 13 on Jack’s bared forearm. Jack knew about the number 13 tattooed on members of the multinational prison gang MS–13. But this tattoo wasn’t a regular 13. Its design included a five- pointed star inside the bottom loop of the numeral 3 that suggested the star and crescent symbol of Islam.
Jack watched Layla sketch, wishing Tony had his back instead of a novice like this woman. But Tony was in Newark, and Layla was the only person he trusted from the New York office, so Jack had brought her along. While she worked, Jack lifted a cell phone to his ear.
“Where are they now, Morris?” he asked.
“The copper’s pacing on the other side of your door,”
O’Brian replied from the security console at CTU. “The men in the utility company uniforms are at the base of the tower, climbing onto a ladder.”
“Is the Port Authority cop real?”
“Don’t know, Jack-o. I could ask, but that would tip the WTC security staff that they’ve got a problem, and you don’t want that.”
Morris paused. “My best guess is they’re using the officer as cover. I suspect they were afraid to disable the cameras and arouse the suspicion of the OCC managers. But that pair of utility workers entered without signing in, and I observed the PA officer as he escorted them to the roof.”
“Then he’s working for the bad guys,” Jack concluded.
“Finished,” Layla said, displaying the phony tattoo to Jack. “Try not to sweat too much; I drew it with felt tip pens.”
Jack nodded.
“I hope this works,” the woman continued. “We don’t even know what the 13 tattoo means. There’s no match for it in CTU’s database.”
“It just has to fool them long enough for me to take them down,” Jack replied. Then he spoke into the cell. “How far away is the tower from the door in front of me?”
“A good hundred yards, Jack. The roof slopes upward, and you’ll have to climb onto a three-tiered metal platform to reach the base of the tower. There are steel support cables strung all over the roof, so be careful not to trip over one.”
Jack frowned. “So charging the bad guys would not be a good idea. Don’t worry, I don’t plan to.”
Bauer spoke to Layla while he slipped a hands-free headset over his ears and tucked the phone into the Con Ed uniform.
“Go down two flights, to level 108, and listen in to my transmission. If something happens to me, alert the NYPD
Bomb Squad and let them handle the bombers.”
“You shouldn’t do this alone,” Layla insisted. “We can have a SWAT team up here inside of five minutes.”
“I need to take one of them alive, for interrogation,”
Jack replied. “We’re working in the dark. We need some solid intelligence.”
“Good luck,” Layla called as she descended the concrete steps.
“I’m about to move,” Jack said into the headset. “Where’s the officer now?”
“About two feet away from you. On the other side of the door. Why? Are you planning to charm your way past him?”
“No time for that,” Jack hissed.
Jack clutched the metal handle, felt relief when he realized the door opened inward, which offered him a better chance to surprise the PA cop.
“Jack!” Morris cried, voice sharp in his headset. “The copper’s leaning against the door right now.”
Bauer yanked it open. A burst of sunlight and the roar of wind filled the dim stairwell. With a startled cry, the man in the navy-blue uniform fell into Jack’s arms. Bauer immediately placed him in a chokehold and dragged the struggling man into the stairwell. The door closed automatically.
The man was young and Hispanic and smaller than Jack, but very powerful. While he struggled, Jack applied just enough pressure to render him unconscious, then let the limp form slide to the floor. Jack checked the man’s arms but found no tattoo. The ID in his pocket pegged him as Hector Giamonde, a real PA police officer with just eight months on the job.
Jack heard footsteps and whirled, fist ready.
Layla jumped back. She clutched a Glock in her small hands.
“I told you to stay downstairs,” Jack hissed.
“I heard a struggle, and—”
“Cuff him,” Jack interrupted. “I’m going out.”
While Layla strapped flex cuffs around the man’s wrists and ankles, Jack slipped through the door.
Outside, high winds buffeted him, flapping the legs of his baggy pants and tugging at his hair. Jack blinked against the constant blast and scanned the roof.
He spied the intruders on a steel ladder. They’d climbed a hundred and fifty feet up the transmission tower. They were both focused on their ascent, and neither noticed the absence of the Port Authority policeman who’d been guarding their backs.
Jack bolted across the roof, leaping over steel cables, until he reached the metal platform that ringed the tower base. Still undetected, he ascended two levels of steps, wending his way around a dozen or more STLs and
