by Flynn Vince
It was indeed a new era.
He was positioned in the center of a small convoy consisting of vehicles taken from the few charitable organizations still working in the country. A bulky SUV led the way and a supply truck trailed them at a distance of twenty meters, struggling with the rutted track.
The Toyota Land Cruiser he was in was the most comfortable of the three, with luxurious leather seats, air-conditioning, and the blood of its former driver painted across the dashboard.
The men crammed into the vehicles represented a significant percentage of the forces under his direct command. It was another disorienting change. He’d once led armies that had rolled across the Middle East in the modern instruments of war. His fanatical warriors had taken control of huge swaths of land, sending thousands of Western trained forces fleeing in terror. He had built the foundation of a new caliphate that had the potential to spread throughout the region.
And then he had lost it.
That defeat and his months convalescing from Mitch Rapp’s attack had left him with a great deal of time to think. About his victories. His defeats. His weaknesses as a leader and failings as a disciple of the one true God. Ironically, the words that had been the seed of his new strategy were said to have come from an agnostic Jew.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
While his current forces were limited in number, they were substantially different than those that came before. All would give their lives for him and the cause, of course. But the region was full of such fighters. What set the men with him apart was their level of education and training. All could read, write, and speak at least functional English. All were former soldiers trained by the Americans or other Westerners. And all had long, distinguished combat records.
His problems had come to parallel the ones that plagued the American military and intelligence community: finding good men and managing them effectively. The well-disciplined soldiers with him today were relatively easy to deal with—all were accustomed to the rigid command structure he’d created. The technical people spread across the globe, though, posed a different challenge. They were temperamental, fearful, and unpredictable. Unfortunately, they were also the most critical part in the machine he was building.
The lead vehicle came to a stop and Halabi rolled down his window, leaning out to read a large sign propped in a pile of rocks. It carried the Doctors Without Borders logo as well as a skull and crossbones and biohazard symbol. In the center was text in various languages explaining the existence of a severe disease in the village ahead and warning off anyone approaching. Punctuating those words was a line of large rocks blocking the road.
Muhammad Attia, his second in command, leapt from the lead vehicle and directed the removal of the improvised barrier.
It was a strangely disturbing scene. They worked with a precision that could only be described as Western. The economy of their movements, combined with their camouflage uniforms, helmets, and goggles, made them indistinguishable from the American soldiers that Halabi despised. The benefits of adopting the methods of his enemy, though, were undeniable. In less than three minutes they were moving again.
The village revealed itself fifteen minutes later, looking exactly as expected from the reconnaissance photos his team had gathered. A few people were visible moving through the spaces between stone buildings, but he was much more interested in the ones running up the road toward him. The blond woman was waving her arms in warning while the local man behind her struggled to keep up.
She stopped directly in front of their motorcade, shouting and motioning them back. When the lead car stopped, she jogged to its open side window. Halabi was surprised by the intensity of his anticipation as he watched her speak with the driver through her translator.
Of course, Halabi knew everything about her. He’d had a devoted follower call Doctors Without Borders and, in return for a sizable donation to her project, the organization’s director had been willing to answer any question he was asked. In addition, Halabi’s computer experts had gained access to her social media and email accounts, as well as a disused blog she’d once maintained.
Victoria Schaefer had spent years with the NGO, largely partnered with a German nurse named Otto Vogel. Though she was a whore who had been through multiple husbands, there was no evidence of a relationship between her and the German that went beyond friendship and mutual respect. She was ostensibly in charge of the management of the operation there, but it was the as-yet-unseen Frenchman who was the driving force behind the research being done.
Her relationship with Dr. Gabriel Bertrand was somewhat more complex. Based on intercepted messages sent to family members, she despised the man but acknowledged his genius and indispensability. Bertrand’s own Internet accounts were even more illuminating, portraying an obsessive, arrogant, and selfish man dedicated largely to the pursuit of his own ambition. He had no family he remained in regular contact with and was blandly noncommittal in his responses to correspondence sent by the various women he had relationships with in Europe.
Schaefer began stalking toward Halabi’s vehicle with her translator in tow, apparently unsatisfied by the response she was getting from the lead car.
“We speak English,” Halabi said, noting the frustration in her expression as she came alongside.
“Then what in God’s name are you doing here? Didn’t you see the sign? Why did you move the rocks we put up?”
Halabi gave a short nod and his driver fired a silenced pistol through the window. The round passed by the woman and struck her translator in the chest. He fell to the ground and she staggered back, stunned. A moment later, her instincts as a physician took over and she dropped to her knees, tearing his shirt open. When she saw the irreparable hole over his heart, she turned back toward them. Surprisingly, there was no fear in her eyes. Just hate.
Only when Halabi’s driver threw his door open did she run. Chasing her down was a trivial matter, and she was bound with the same efficiency that had been deployed to clear the rock barrier. Once she was safely in the SUV’s backseat, Halabi’s men spread out, mounting a well-ordered assault on their target.
The handful of villagers outside realized what was happening and began to run just as the woman had. All were taken out in the same way as the translator—with a single suppressed round. It was an admittedly impressive display. The last victim, a child of around ten, was dead before the first victim had hit the ground. It was unlikely that America’s SEALs or Britain’s SAS could have acted more quickly or silently.
His driver stopped fifty meters from the first building and Halabi watched the operation through the dusty windshield.
Two men went directly for the building that their spotter confirmed was currently occupied by both Gabriel Bertrand and Otto Vogel. The other men penetrated the tiny village to carry out a plan developed by Muhammad Attia.
Each carried a battery-powered nail gun and they moved quickly through the tightly packed stone dwellings, firing nails through the wood doors and frames, sealing the people in their homes. As anticipated, the entire operation took less than four minutes. The muffled shouts of confused inhabitants started as they tried futilely to open their doors. One woman opened shutters that had been closed against the heat and was hit in the forehead by another perfectly aimed bullet. The round wasn’t audible from Halabi’s position, but the shouts of her husband and shrieks of her children penetrated the vehicle easily.
As the Frenchman and German were dragged from the lab, Halabi’s men began prying open shutters and throwing purpose-built incendiary devices into the homes and other buildings, carefully avoiding the structure that had been repurposed as a hospital. The screams of the inhabitants became deafening as they began to burn.
Halabi finally stepped from the vehicle, walking toward the village as a man followed along, filming with an elaborate high-definition camera. He focused on Halabi’s face for a moment, drawing in on the pa
tch covering his useless left eye—a battle scar all the more dramatic for having been inflicted by the infamous Mitch Rapp. Halabi’s awkward use of a cane to help him walk, on the other hand, would be artistically obscured. While that too was a result of Rapp’s attack, it made him appear old and physically weak—things that were unacceptable in this part of the world.
Smoke billowed dramatically over him as he gazed into the flames. A woman managed to shove a crying child through a window but he was shot before he could even get to his feet. The Frenchman was blubbering similarly, lying on the ground in front of his still-intact lab while the woman and the German were pushed down next to him.
Halabi took a position next to them and his videographer crouched to frame the bound Westerners with the mullah towering over them. Halabi looked down at the helpless people at his feet and then back at the camera.
“Now I have your biological weapons experts,” he said in practiced English. “Now I have the power to use your weapons against you.”
The man with the camera seemed a bit dazed by the brutal reality of the operation, but gave a weak thumbs-up. In postproduction he would add music, terrifying stock images, and whatever else was necessary to turn the footage into a propaganda tool far more potent than any IED or suicide bomber.
A few moments later, Muhammad Attia took Halabi by the arm and helped him back to the vehicle. His driver already had the door open, but Halabi resisted being assisted inside.
“The smoke could attract the attention of the Saudis,” Attia warned. “We need to be far from this place before that happens.”
Halabi nodded as the medical people were dragged to another of the vehicles.
“Be that as it may, your men will stay.”
“Stay? Why? I don’t understand.”
“Because he’s coming, Muhammad.”
“Who?”
“Rapp.”
One of his men had survived the recent assault on the cave where Halabi had recovered from his injuries. The description of the attackers could be no one but Rapp and the former American soldiers he worked with.
“He missed you in the cave,” Attia protested. “Why would he still be in Yemen?”
“Because he doesn’t give up, Muhammad. He’s still here. I can feel him. And when he finds out I was in this village, he’ll come.”
“Even if that’s true, we can’t spare—”
“Tell your men not to kill him,” Halabi interjected. “I want him captured.”
“Captured? Why?”
Halabi didn’t answer, instead lowering himself into the Land Cruiser.
Why? It was simple. He wanted to break Rapp. Over months. Perhaps even years. He’d make the CIA man beg. Crawl. Turn him into a pet, naked and helpless in his cage, looking with fear and longing into the eyes of his master.
CHAPTER 7
THE CAPITOL COMPLEX
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SENATOR Christine Barnett continued to hold the phone to her ear but had stopped listening more than a minute ago. Instead she leaned back in her chair and gazed disinterestedly around her office. The heavy, polished wood. The photos of her with powerful people throughout the world. The awards and recognition she’d received over a lifetime of successes.
There was a pause in the dialogue, and she voiced a few practiced platitudes that set the man to talking again. He was an important donor who expected this kind of personal access, but also one of the most tedious pricks alive. He’d grown up in the shadow of World War II and was still a true believer—in America, in God, in objective truth. A doddering old fool trapped in a web of things that no longer mattered.
There was a no-nonsense knock on her door and a moment later someone more interesting entered.
Kevin Gray wore the slightly disheveled suit and overly imaginative tie that everyone in Washington had come to associate with him. He was only in his mid-thirties but still had managed to rack up a series of successes that nearly rivaled her own. A Harvard master’s degree, a brief career with a top marketing firm, and finally a splashy entry into the world of politics.
He struggled sometimes to focus, but was unquestionably a creative genius—a man who could communicate with equal facility to all demographic groups and who always seemed to know what was coming next. Every new platform, every new style of messaging, and every cultural shift seemed to settle into his mind six months before anyone else even had an inkling. That, combined with his ability to act decisively on those abstractions, had made it possible for him to get a number of ostensibly unelectable people comfortable seats in Congress.
Her campaign was completely different, of course. The comfortable seat she was looking for was in the Oval Office and, with the exception of being a woman, she was eminently electable. A number of people in her party thought she’d been insane to hire Gray—dismissing him as a bottom feeder who relied on tricks and barely ethical tactics to salvage failed campaigns.
As usual, they’d been wrong and she’d been right. With a strong candidate to work with, the Gray magic became even more powerful. She was now thirty points ahead in the primary race and had become her party’s de facto candidate for the election that was already consuming the nation.
A few of her primary opponents were staying in the race, but more to position themselves for a place in her administration than any hope they could overtake her in the polls. She would be the nominee. And based on the weakness of her likely opponent in the general election, she would become the first female president of the United States.
At least that was the opinion of the idiot pollsters and television pundits. But if she’d learned anything as a woman in the most cutthroat business in the world, it was to not take anything for granted.
Gray sat in front of her desk and crossed his legs, bouncing his loafer-clad foot in a way that she’d come to recognize as a sign of impatience. The call was winding down, but she asked an open-ended question to the man on the other end of the line to prolong it. This was her office and her campaign. Gray needed to remember that.
After another five minutes, she felt like she’d made her point and wrapped up the call. “I understand exactly what you’re talking about, Henry. It’s why I’m running for president. And it’s why I’m going to win.”
Gray held up a thumb drive before she could even get the handset back in its cradle.
“Have you seen it?”
She had no idea what he was talking about but whatever it was must have been important. Normally the first words out of Gray’s mouth when she hung up with a donor were “How much?”
“I haven’t seen anything other than the inside of this office. And I haven’t talked about anything but taxes, guns, and environmental regulations. What is it?”
“Mullah Sayid Halabi.”
“What do I care about a dead terrorist?”
A smile spread slowly across his face. “You care that he’s not actually dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
He slipped the drive into his tablet and transmitted its contents to a television hanging on the wall.
Barnett watched in stunned silence as a slickly produced propaganda piece played out on the screen. Dramatic historical images of Halabi and ISIS victories accompanied by a voice-over diatribe about America and the West. In accented English and with a background of modern Arab music, he called on Muslim people throughout the world to unite against the infidels.
Just after that plea, the video stabilized, depicting him standing in front of a primitive village that was being consumed by fire. He appeared and disappeared in the smoke like a ghost, accusing the villagers of helping the Americans develop biological weapons to be used against the Muslim people.
Quick image cuts to bacteria squirming under magnification, overflowing hospitals, and diseased human flesh followed before returning to Halabi. Heavy-handed, but unquestionably effective.
The camera angle widened to encompass three people bound at the ISIS leader’s feet.
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�Now I have your biological weapons experts,” he said, staring directly into the lens. “Now I have the power to use your weapons against you.”
The screen faded to black and Christine Barnett just stared at it, her mind bogging down on the almost infinite political possibilities Halabi’s survival provided.
“That video hit the Internet a few hours ago in Arabic and English,” Gray said. “And it’s expanding into other languages every few minutes.”
“Are we sure that the footage of Halabi isn’t old? From before Mitch Rapp supposedly killed him?”
“One hundred percent. According to the CIA, that video from that burning village was taken three days ago in Yemen.”
Barnett felt her mouth start to go dry. “Who are the people tied up?”
“Doctors Without Borders. They were there treating the villagers for some respiratory infection.”
“Do any of them really know anything about bioweapons?”
“One of them is a microbiologist from the Sorbonne in France. Obviously, his field isn’t bioweapons, but he certainly has that kind of expertise. The woman is an American doctor and the other man is a nurse.”
Barnett stood and began pacing around the spacious office. At this point the kidnapped doctors were a secondary consideration. Window dressing for the real issue at hand. Mitch Rapp and Irene Kennedy had screwed up. Badly.
“So Halabi isn’t dead like the Agency told us.”
“Actually, they said that Rapp threw a grenade at him but they couldn’t confirm the kill because of the collapse of the cave system.”
“The American people don’t do nuance and they have the attention span of a goldfish. What they’re going to remember is President Alexander telling them that we hit him with a bomb and that we haven’t heard from him since. Now we find out he’s been around all along. Hiding. Planning. And now capturing a Frenchman capable of building a bioweapon. All right under the noses of Irene Kennedy and Mitch Rapp.” She spun toward Gray. “I assume the video’s starting to get traction in the media?”