Part 30 (1/2)

6:52:37 A.M. EDT.

The Bartleby ”The truck's slowing down,” Layla warned.

Jack Bauer stared through the telescope. ”Don't worry. He's almost reached the mark.”

Through the scope, Jack watched the vehicle approach a freshly painted yellow cross on the pavement, right in the middle of the downtown lane.

When the van reached the symbol. Jack faced Henderson.

”Now,” he rasped.

Henderson pressed the detonator...

6:53:01 A.M. EDT.

Broadway Kabbibi cried out when a powerful jolt rocked the van. Before either man could react, the pavement opened up under their wheels.

The Con Ed van plunged six feet, landing atop a ma.s.sive steam pipe - part of the Financial District's underground infrastructure.

Noor cursed.

”Let me out!” Kabbibi howled, fumbling with the handle.

”Too late,” Noor whispered.

At that moment, a second blast shattered the pipe beneath them.

Instantly, the vehicle was engulfed in sizzling steam. In under a second, the temperature inside the truck soared to a thousand degrees.

As he howled, Noor's scalded flesh blistered, then began to slough off his bones like chicken in a soup pot. Kabbibi's eyes popped from the searing heat, and he clutched his face with fleshless fingers.

Behind them, in the cargo bay, the aluminum tank containing the Zahhak burst with a m.u.f.fled thump.

A fountain of white steam erupted from the pit, filling the near-empty street. Millions of gallons of boiling water gushed out. Then the flow turned dark brown, as rocks and soil spewed out of the seething pit. Hot mud splattered buildings. Windows broke as high as the eighth floor.

Like a raging volcano, the lavalike mixture continued to stream up from around the ruptured pipe.

2:56:24 P.M. CEST.

Ungar Financial Building Geneva, Switzerland Robert Ellis was the fifth man in the reception line. He waited patiently, watching Soren Ungar greet each member of the press with a handshake, smile plastered across his rigid face.

Jorg Schactenberg stood at Ungar's shoulder, making introductions as his boss moved down the line.

”This is Robert Ellis of the Theological News Service in New York,” Schactenberg said.

Under thick gla.s.ses, Soren Ungar's expressionless eyes regarded him. Stiffly, the financial leader extended his hand.

Ellis twisted the faux Fordham University ring on his left hand with his thumb, enfolded Ungar's pale hand with his right.

”A pleasure, Herr Ellis,” Ungar said formally.

Still clutching Ungar's hand in his right, Ellis covered it with his left. He felt the tiny needle plunge into Soren Ungar's pale flesh.

”Greetings from the U. S. of A.,” Ellis hissed. Then he released the man.

Ungar stepped back, obviously surprised, though his face registered no expression. The currency trader turned to speak with the sixth man in line, and suddenly his knees buckled.

”Herr Ungar,” Schactenberg said. ”What is wrong?”

”Nothing,” Ungar replied, waving him off. ”I...”

Suddenly white foam flecked the corner of Soren Ungar's thin lips, then a gush of dark red blood stained his chin. A stain appeared in the front of Ungar's London tailored pants, too, as his bladder released its contents.

”Mem Gott,” Schactenberg cried in German. ”Someone call an ambulance.” Schactenberg cried in German. ”Someone call an ambulance.”

Soren Ungar reeled, then pitched to the floor. Almost immediately, violent convulsions wrenched the man's body, twisting his limbs unnaturally as he writhed on the thick carpet.

Reporters instinctively rushed forward. Cameras appeared and flashbulbs flashed as Jorg Schactenberg tried to wave them back.