"Inside, quick," a black youth said, gesturing to her.

Beyond the door, the interior was pitch-black, and Judith could see nothing. She stepped inside anyway, heart pounding in her chest.

Another rumble of machinery, and the door closed behind her. Then brilliant spotlights ignited, blinding her. Someone s.n.a.t.c.hed the package out of her hand; other hands frisked her.

They were obviously looking for a weapon. She had none, and when they found her pa.s.sport and Dubic's cell phone, they ignored them. She hoped they hadn't broken the phone circuit, but she couldn't check now.

"Is that the aerosol dispenser?" Ibrahim Noor demanded.

"Yes, yes it is," an accented voice replied. "I can install it in less than an hour."

"Do it," Noor commanded.

Judith blinked against the light, strained to see through her tears.

"Why did you come here?" Noor asked. "Who sent you?"

"I told you. Dubic..."

"If Dubic told you to come here, he would have given you the remote control to open the door. All of my men have it. Dubic knows our security. Anyone stupid enough to bang on our door is either a neighborhood addict or a cop."

"No! Dubic must have forgotten. He was very injured. He could hardly speak..."

"You are a fraud. An impostor," roared Noor. "Take her."

Strong hands seized her arms. Judith struggled, then yelled out the panic phrase: "Semper fi! Semper fi!" "Semper fi! Semper fi!"

Someone punched her in the face, and the lab's bright lights faded.

4:38:43 A.M. EDT.

Schenley Park Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania From his position among the branches of a century-old oak, Detective Mike Gorman shifted the sniper rifle in his grip, then aimed his night vision binoculars at the trailer truck three hundred feet away.

The vehicle sat in the middle of Schenley Plaza, once the grand entrance to the 456-acre conservancy, now used as a parking area for county rangers and concession employees. The truck had arrived sometime between midnight and four A.M., when a sharp-eyed Allegheny County Parks Department ranger recognized the vehicle from a Federal government alert sent out to local authorities.

Two men slept in the cab. The driver's window was open, his arm hanging out. The guy in the pa.s.senger seat slouched so low, only the top of his New York Mets ball cap showed above the dashboard.

He's the tougher shot, and I got him, Gorman mused. Gorman mused.

For thirty minutes, Gorman and his partner, Chuck Romeo, had observed the sleeping targets, fearing they would awaken and drive away at any moment. So far they'd been lucky, but luck never lasted long - just one lesson Gorman had taken away from the McKee's Rocks mess.

I should have fired, Gorman thought, flashing back to the hostage standoff. A young mother had been held at gunpoint by an escaped convict. Gorman thought, flashing back to the hostage standoff. A young mother had been held at gunpoint by an escaped convict. I should never have waited for authorization. If I'd have pulled the trigger, that poor woman would be alive today and her murderer dead, instead of the other way around. I should never have waited for authorization. If I'd have pulled the trigger, that poor woman would be alive today and her murderer dead, instead of the other way around.

"What are we waiting for?" Gorman said into his headset.

"A biohazard team with a tent," his boss, Captain Kelly, advised. "Once it's in place, we can move."

Gorman glanced across a gra.s.sy clearing at his partner, perched in a tall maple tree. He was sure Chuck was staring back at him. Then Romeo's voice crackled in his headset.

"A biohazard team? Is there something you're not telling us, Captain?"

"Relax, boys," Kelly said. "Just do your job and the Feds will do the rest."

More baffled than alarmed, Gorman lowered his binoculars and shifted the fourteen-pound M24 sniper rifle into position. The composite stock against his armored shoulder, he peered through the infrared scope.

Placing the ball cap in the center of his crosshairs, Gorman once again adjusted the instrument for wind speed, temperature, humidity, and distance. Gorman knew he had only one shot. It had to be on the money. He wasn't going to mess up again.

Minutes pa.s.sed. Then Gorman heard the sound of an engine. He watched in disbelief as two white panel trucks rolled into the plaza and halted just inside the gate.

"I thought the road had been cordoned off to traffic," Gorman hissed.

"It's the biohazard team. They'll be ready to go in two minutes."

Gorman glanced through his scope again. His target was still snoozing, but the driver had shifted position.

Had he heard the vans, too?

"I think my mark's awake," Chuck Romeo warned.

"Do not fire," Captain Kelly commanded. "I repeat. Do not fire until I give the command."

"Son of a..." Gorman stifled his curse, remembering that everything he and the others said was being taped - just like McKee's Rocks.

Unbidden, the memory returned. Two A.M., outside a strip joint on the main drag of that sc.u.mmy little suburb. The drunk convict, using the dancer for a shield, gun to her head. Gorman had a clear shot, begged Captain Kelly for authorization to pull the trigger, but it never came. The only shot fired that night went into the dancer's skull. The single mother from Wheeling, West Virginia, died because he'd hesitated.

Through his scope, Gorman saw the driver wake up the man beside him. Both stared at the vans with open suspicion.

"If he starts that engine, the men who are supposed to be hiding inside that frailer will know something's up," Gorman warned.

"Do not not fire," Captain Kelly repeated. fire," Captain Kelly repeated.

"You ready to shoot, Chuck?" Gorman asked.

"Ready," Romeo said after a short pause.

"Fire on three," Gorman said, aiming.

"Stand down and wait for my command," Kelly warned.

"Do not fire."

"One," said Gorman.

"Stand down, I said!" Kelly cried.

"Two."

Kelly was screaming in their headsets now. "If either of you shoots I'll have your heads..."

In the truck, the driver reached for the ignition. His partner pulled a cell phone from his jacket.

"Three."

Two holes appeared in the windshield simultaneously. Inside the cab, two heads exploded. The men flopped forward, dead. The driver slumped over the steering wheel; the man in the pa.s.senger seat dropped to the floor.

"Got them," Gorman whispered. "They're down. I repeat. The targets are dead."

"So are your careers," Kelly growled, his voice icy with rage.

Obviously the Feds had been monitoring the conversation. As soon as Gorman announced the kills, the doors on both vans burst open. Five men in plastic biohazard suits rushed to the truck, dragging what looked like a huge cellophane blanket.

Gorman was impressed by the speed and efficiency with which the men tossed the ma.s.sive tarp over the vehicle, then sealed the edges of the covering to the pavement with some sort of instant adhesive pumped out of a glue gun.

Inside of a minute they were finished, and a third white van raced into the plaza. This one contained a huge vacuum pump that was immediately attached to the tarp.

Before Gorman and Romeo climbed down from their respective frees, the pump was sucking the air out of the bag, hermetically sealing the vehicle and all its contents.

When they were on the ground, a man in a black jumpsuit approached them. Gorman thought it was a Pittsburgh policeman, but revised his opinion when the man got close enough for Gorman to see the CTU crest on the uniform.

"You're the Feds?" Gorman asked, fully expecting to be arrested.

"Special Agent Clark Goodson, CTU Biological Terrorism Specialist, Midwest Division."

Still juiced with a killer's high, Gorman's adrenaline was pumping and his hands trembled. He fumbled for a reply.

Suddenly the man slapped him on the back. "Exceptional work," Goodson said. "If you'd waited, it would have been too late."

"Tell that to our boss," Romeo replied.

"Oh, I will." Goodson nodded. "And if that a-hole Kelly does does take your heads, I'll find you both jobs on a CTU tac team. In fact, I hear L.A. is looking for a few good men." take your heads, I'll find you both jobs on a CTU tac team. In fact, I hear L.A. is looking for a few good men."

23.

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5:00 A.M. AND 6:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME.

5:07:07 A.M. EDT.

Security Station One CTU Headquarters, NYC The euphoria of taking out the final truck was quickly dampened, once the agent at the scene delivered his report.

"That's all we found here in Pittsburgh, Special Agent Bauer," Goodson said into the computer camera.

Behind the battle-suited speaker, a boxy, six-wheeled military vehicle was visible in the predawn light. Six men in hazard suits, helmets off, cl.u.s.tered around it.

"The truck was packed with conventional explosives," Goodson continued. "C-4 manufactured in Eastern Europe. There were also maps that indicate their target was the University of Pittsburgh's Cathedral of Learning. They were planning to destroy the skysc.r.a.per during the morning rush hour. No biological or chemical agents of any kind are present."

Jack Bauer frowned at the screen. "The bio-weapon could be small, contained in a vial, an aerosol can or even a Breathalyzer."

Goodson shook his head. "We have a rolling CTU Bio-Containment Lab on scene," he said. "Along with a Fox Nuclear Biological Chemical Reconnaissance vehicle which we borrowed from the Army. Both units have scanned the entire scene with monitors so sensitive they could locate a cold germ."

The CTU operative paused. "I'm sorry, Special Agent Bauer. We found nothing."

Jack was about to protest, when Christopher Henderson stepped in front of him. "Thanks for your help, Goodson. Nice work, all the way around."

"Thank you, Director Henderson," Goodson replied, and the screen went black.

Jack sank into a chair. "So where's the bio-weapon?"

Henderson sat and swiveled toward Bauer. "The Economic Warfare Division has suggested that Kabbibi might have been brought into this operation for his political political connections, not his skills. The fact that he and the Saudi Finance Minister are cousins..." connections, not his skills. The fact that he and the Saudi Finance Minister are cousins..."

Jack's withering stare silenced his boss. "They're wrong, wrong, Christopher. Berkovic and his accountants are ignoring Agent Foy's surveillance photos of the lab in Newark." Christopher. Berkovic and his accountants are ignoring Agent Foy's surveillance photos of the lab in Newark."

Henderson shrugged. "It's possible that's a simple drug lab."

"With liquid oxygen cooling tanks?" Jack interrupted.

"You don't need that kind of technology to distill meth out of cough syrup."

Henderson sighed. "We'll know soon enough. Langley has finally authorized the raid on Noor's Newark headquarters. We're there in thirty minutes, whether Noor's home or not."

Jack nodded. "I'll command the raid. Agent Abernathy will be my backup."

Layla appeared surprised. So did Henderson, but neither challenged Jack's decree.

Bauer's mind was racing so fast, he was already past that decision. He was eager to focus on his enemy. "Have we learned anything more about Ibrahim Noor?"

"A little," Morris replied, calling up the man's profile.

"He was born Travis Bell, as you know. By the age of thirteen, he was running drugs. By eighteen, he'd created the Thirteen Gang, which took over the narcotics trade in that section of Newark."

Morris tapped keys. "Well, well. Here's a nugget. Congressman Larry Bell of Louisiana, the former NCAA player turned politician, is Travis Bell's uncle. But apparently there's been no contact between them for decades."

"The same can't be said for other government officials," Henderson interjected. "From Tobias's computer, we've got evidence that Congresswoman Hailey Williams and Chief Justice Mary Chestnut of the Ninth District Court in San Francisco have both taken bribes from Noor or his people. Their arrests are imminent."

"What about Dreizehn Trucking?" Jack asked.

"It doesn't exist on any corporate records, state, local, or Federal," Morris replied. "It's no more than a name painted on twelve trucks."

"But it fits Noor's profile," Layla said. "Dreizehn "Dreizehn is the German word for the number thirteen. Noor seems pathologically obsessed with that number." is the German word for the number thirteen. Noor seems pathologically obsessed with that number."

"Thirteen! Oh my G.o.d..." Jack rose to his feet. "That's where the biological weapon is hidden."