by Flynn Vince
“The bottom line,” Statham continued, “is that Halabi could kill a lot more people with a bomb or mass shooter. And it would be a hell of a lot less complicated.”
“But not as terrifying,” Kennedy said, turning her attention to Barnett and locking eyes with her. “The upcoming election’s widening the already dangerous divisions in America. He understands that the fire’s already raging and now he’s passing out gas cans to anyone willing to use them.”
As expected, Barnett glared back. What wasn’t expected, though, was the nearly imperceptible smile.
“Irene,” the president said, again trying to cut through the tension between the two women, “do we have any idea where Halabi and the French scientist are now?”
“That’s why I was a little late arriving,” Kennedy said. “We had a geological appraisal done on a cave wall visible in the last video. The general consensus is that it’s consistent with what you’d find in Somalia. Unfortunately, a country where we have even fewer resources than in Yemen.”
Again, Barnett laughed. “It’s my understanding that we don’t have any resources in Yemen. From what I’ve been told, Mitch Rapp rolled into Al Hudaydah and started throwing his weight around, then flew into an ambush. We were forced to start mounting a rescue operation and in the process our operation’s cover was blown.”
It was a skillfully conceived piece of spin, typical of her and her office. Nothing she said was an outright lie, but it managed to tell a story that was more or less the opposite of the truth.
“The only lead we had was that village,” Kennedy said calmly. “Mitch went in knowing full well that an ambush was possible. A chopper pilot was killed and Mitch spent two days fighting his way out of the desert. I wonder if you’d have done the same for your country, Senator?”
“I’ve devoted my entire life to public service,” she shot back.
“And I’m sure we’re all very grateful for the sacrifices you’ve made,” Kennedy responded, but she was already starting to regret the exchange. All interactions with this woman were a bad combination of dangerous and a waste of time. Barnett placed everyone in two columns: useful to her and dangerous to her. Kennedy’s designation had been determined long ago.
“And what exactly is Mitch Rapp’s status with regard to the CIA?” Barnett asked.
Kennedy was surprised by the question. They were talking about a potential biological attack on the United States. What did Mitch’s employment details matter? She glanced at the president but he seemed to be content to give Barnett some leash. Instead of intervening, he was scrutinizing the woman as though she were a toddler trying to learn a new skill.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking, Senator.”
“Does he work for you?”
“He no longer works directly for the government, if that’s what you mean. He’s a private contractor.”
“Contractor,” Barnett repeated. “Is that a way of saying that what little oversight we once had over him is gone?”
An expression of resigned disappointment appeared on Alexander’s face and he finally stepped in. “I think we’re getting a little off topic here, Gary. As much as I hate to even contemplate this attack happening, what if it does? What are we doing to get ready for it?”
“The most important thing we can do is get the facts out there and keep the hysteria down. Though that’s easier said than done with everything getting stirred up by the media and the—” He managed to catch himself before saying politicians. “Uh, the medical community is prepared and looking for potential infections. If anything, we’re going to end up with an overreaction. People thinking they have anthrax when they don’t. But that’s not a serious problem.”
“Irene?” the president said.
“We’re marshaling what resources we can in Somalia but, as I said, they’re limited. And obviously we’re coordinating with other areas of Homeland Security to do what we can to keep any biological agent from ever making it into the United States.”
Joshua Alexander nodded. There wasn’t much more he could do. He was at the end of his last term in office and it was likely that this disaster would land in his successor’s lap. On one hand, he was incredibly thankful for that. Eight years in this job was enough for anyone and too much for most people. On the other hand, the idea of Christine Barnett taking the reins was terrifying.
“I want daily progress reports from both of you. And if anything significant changes, contact me immediately.”
Kennedy and Statham—two of the most competent and reliable people he’d ever worked with—nodded and stood. After a few strained pleasantries, his three guests began filing out. Before Barnett could fully turn toward the door, though, Alexander put a hand on her shoulder.
“Could you hang back for a minute, Christine?”
When they were alone, Alexander indicated toward the sofa Barnett had been sitting on. The senator looked a bit suspicious, but she sat and watched him take the chair opposite.
“I don’t agree with the way you’re running your campaign, but I’m a big boy and I understand that what you’re doing is effective.” He pointed to the Resolute Desk. “And that pretty soon that’ll probably be yours.”
Barnett tried to keep her expression neutral, but she was clearly pleased to hear that assessment from the leader of the opposing party.
“It’s important to understand,” Alexander said, speaking deliberately, “that the job of being president has very little to do with the job of running for president. When you sit down in that chair, you’ve won. There’s nowhere else to go. You’ll be there for a few years and then you’ll retire and end up a few pages in a history book. While you’re in this office, though, it can’t just be about politics. You have the lives of three hundred and twenty-five million people in your hands.”
Barnett nodded, considering his words for a few seconds before standing. “You rule your way, Mr. President. And I’ll rule mine.”
CHAPTER 16
WEST OF MANASSAS
VIRGINIA
USA
“I CALL her Betty, Mitch. Doesn’t she seem like a Betty?”
Anna ran one of her tiny hands along the sheep’s woolly back. It nuzzled her briefly and then went back to whatever it was that it found so fascinating in the dirt.
The sun was directly overhead and the humidity kept pushing higher, creating a haze on the mountains around them. The barn they were standing next to was designed to be shared by the homeowners in the subdivision and had been set up with stalls for horses.
Rapp’s plan had been to rip them out in favor of a gym and shooting range. Unfortunately, Scott Coleman and his wily seven-year-old co-conspirator had commandeered the space while Rapp was in Iraq. He’d left for Baghdad with visions of a thirty-foot climbing wall and returned to a petting zoo.
“That animal’s not a pet, Anna. Wouldn’t a better name be something like Shank? Or maybe Stew?”
She spun, pressing her back against the sheep and spreading her arms protectively. “Betty’s not dinner! And neither is Jo-Jo or Merinda!”
“He’s just being a grouch,” Claudia said. “Look how fluffy they are. Maybe we could shear them and make him a nice sweater instead.”
Anna’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and she pointed to another knot of animals near the south fence line. “The goats aren’t fluffy.”
“But they eat grass,” her mother assured her. “We won’t need to mow anymore.”
Rapp frowned. Was he really destined to live in a subdivision with thirty people and two hundred ungulates?
“Scott told me people have ostriches.”
And a flock of eight-foot-tall flightless birds.
“They make really big eggs,” Anna said, picking up on his reaction. “You can have them for breakfast. Mom could make like a gallon of that eggs benny dick sauce.”
“Benedict,” her mother corrected.
Rapp’s phone rang and he glanced down at the screen. “I’ve got to take this. Why don’t you
go see how Cutlet’s doing?”
“Her name’s not Cutlet!”
“Vindaloo?”
Anna wagged a finger at him in a gesture she’d picked up from her mother and then ran off to join her new friends.
“Hello, Irene,” Rapp said, fighting off a vague sense of disorientation. Having one foot in two completely different worlds took some getting used to. But learning to switch immediately between them was even harder. “How’d the meeting go?”
“Not as well as I’d hoped.”
He watched Claudia follow her daughter across the grass. She looked like a French fashion magazine’s idea of a cowgirl. Spotless jeans and work shirt, straw hat, and a pair of boots that suggested ostriches weren’t just good for eggs.
“What’d Gary say?”
“The anthrax threat is real. Halabi just needs a way to smuggle it in.”
“Take your choice,” Rapp said.
“We’re ramping up border security on every point of entry in the country, but it’s not an easy thing to intercept. We’re not talking about a large package or a package with contents that would look particularly remarkable.”
“I assume we still don’t know anything about Halabi or the lab’s location?”
“Probably Somalia. That’s it.”
“I killed a bunch of his people and he’s going to have to replace them. Maybe we could get to him that way. I can go back and—”
“No, you can’t.”
“What?”
“Christine Barnett’s blaming you for failing to kill Halabi in Iraq and then blowing the cover of our operation in Yemen.”
“She was opposed to that operation in Yemen. And she made us starve it to the point that it was useless.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how she’s going to portray the situation.”
The malleability of truth was another disorienting thing that had crept into his world. There were hours of video and thousands of pages of documents demonstrating Barnett’s history of opposing U.S. operations in the Middle East. But it didn’t matter. All she had to do was get on TV and deny it. For her supporters, history would be erased.
“Barnett sees the intelligence agencies as a check on her power,” Kennedy said. “And she’s going to do everything she can to either weaken us or turn us into part of her political apparatus.”
“What about Alexander?”
“He’s reconciled himself to her being president and doesn’t want to make any more waves than he has to. This election is tearing the country apart as it is.”
“Rolling over for her isn’t going to pull the country together.”
“To be completely honest, I also think he’s concerned about becoming a target once he’s out of power. At this point, I think he’d be happy to just ride off into the sunset, never to be seen again.”
“So he’s going to leave us hanging just like any other politician.”
“Yes. The only difference is that he’ll regret it.”
“Doesn’t mean much when you’re swinging from a rope.”
“Maybe not. But I’m more sympathetic to his position than you are. He’s a fundamentally decent man in an impossible job.”
Rapp moved into the shade of the barn. “I don’t work for the Agency anymore. Seems to me that there’s no law against a private citizen and a few of his friends going on vacation in Yemen or Somalia. And if in the course of that vacation Sayid Halabi were to get shot in the face or beaten to death with a hockey stick, no harm done, right? Better to stop the anthrax there than to hang your hopes on some TSA guy stumbling on it in a piece of luggage.”
“That’s the real reason I called, Mitch. President Alexander knew you’d say something like that and wants to impress on you that it’s a nonstarter. He and his party are in defense mode right now and he doesn’t want any explosions that Barnett could use to strengthen her position.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not. Do you see them yet?”
“See what?”
“Wait for it. They should be almost there.”
Rapp looked around him and finally spotted what she was talking about. Two black SUVs with heavily tinted glass rolling up the street. They approached close enough to get a good view of his house and then parked by the still-unfinished sidewalk.
“They’re FBI,” Kennedy explained. “Alexander ordered round-the-clock surveillance on you to make sure you don’t cause him any trouble.”
He stared at the vehicles for a few seconds before responding. “So after more than twenty years that’s how it is.”
“I’m sorry, Mitch. And even though I know you won’t believe it, so is the president.”
He stepped out of the shade of the barn and started toward Claudia and Anna without bothering to look back.
“Good-bye, Irene.”
CHAPTER 17
NORTH OF HARGEISA
SOMALIA
THE sandy earth allowed Sayid Halabi to move silently, even with the knurled walking stick that he now relied on. The cave’s ceiling was low enough to brush the top of his head, a sandstone slab decorated with crude drawings that had been forgotten for thousands of years.
It was a less comfortable and versatile location than the one he’d been forced to abandon in Yemen, but in many ways far more secure. The area was remote enough to avoid prying eyes, but not so remote that the movements of his men would seem unusual. The cavern itself was in a strong defensive position with deep chambers and multiple widely spaced exits. Most important, though, Somalia’s unfamiliar operating environment would degrade Mitch Rapp’s effectiveness.
A glow ahead began to overpower the dim LEDs spread out on the ground, and Halabi increased his pace slightly. When he reached the end of the corridor, he stopped and silently scanned the semicircular chamber beyond. The nonessential scientific equipment had served its propaganda purpose and had been abandoned in Yemen. The lab was now less impressive to look at, but also far more functional—a space designed for nothing but the production of anthrax.
Photos of it had already been disseminated on the Internet, transforming the general threat to a specific one. Western experts had immediately identified the facility’s purpose and capabilities, providing ammunition to the politicians and media companies. The airwaves were now filled with the most sensational and lurid depictions of a large-scale anthrax attack. Partisan disputes continued to grow in intensity, with Christine Barnett spinning the threat into a purely political issue.
America was nearing complete paralysis. Politicians were focused entirely on the battle for the White House. Homeland Security executives were scrambling to position themselves to survive the change in administration. And the American people were turning increasingly inward, focusing on imaginary internal enemies while largely ignoring the external forces bent on their destruction.
Halabi watched silently as Dr. Gabriel Bertrand moved from a stainless steel incubator to the table next to it. If it hadn’t been for the stone walls, he could have been at home in France. The cool, dry environment inside the cave left his clean-shaven face without a hint of perspiration. Carefully combed hair hung just above the collar of a spotless lab coat and crisply creased slacks covered what was visible of his legs.
All very much intentional. The Frenchman had been provided a place to wash, living quarters far more luxurious than even Halabi’s own, and a beautiful young Yemeni girl who had been instructed to attend to his every need. The more he had, the more he had to lose.
From Halabi’s perspective, it was an unfamiliar and rather intolerable situation but one without a viable alternative. The physical coercion he would have normally used would be counterproductive in this case. While the anthrax was a simple matter, Bertrand’s role going forward was to become increasingly critical and complex. He needed to be healthy and clearheaded to complete the tasks ahead of him.
“I understand you’ve made a great deal of progress,” Halabi said, moving out of the shadows.
Startled, Bertrand spun, pressing his back against the table and staring silently as Halabi approached.
“Am I correct that your first batch of anthrax will be ready for deployment later this week?”
The Frenchman nodded numbly.
“And you’re aware that the effectiveness of our attack has bearing on your situation here? That I expect a number of Americans to be infected?”
“I can’t guarantee that,” he blurted. “I don’t know how you’re going to deliver it and to whom. And if people know they’re infected they can get antibiotics to cure—”
“I’m not concerned about whether people are cured. Only that they contract the disease. I’m interested in causing panic, not in a specific death toll.”
He didn’t respond and Halabi smiled. What wouldn’t this man do to protect his own life and comfort? Perhaps it was time to find out.
“Come with me, Doctor.”
“Where?”
Halabi ignored the question and started back down the narrow corridor. Only a few seconds passed before the Frenchman’s footsteps fell in behind. The circuitous route finally took them out into the starlight and they used it to cross to another cave entrance two hundred meters to the north. Halabi motioned the Frenchman inside and they began to descend.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked again, the numbness in his voice now replaced by fear.
This time Halabi answered. “To see if you can help me with a problem that’s arisen.”
They’d barely penetrated twenty meters when they came upon a computer monitor resting on a boulder. It was connected wirelessly to a camera set up in the depths of the cavern. Halabi pointed to the monitor and Bertrand’s eyes widened as he looked at the two women depicted on it. One was lying motionless on a cot, so still that it was unclear if she was alive. The other was convulsing with a coughing fit violent enough that it caused her to vomit.
“One of my men was infected with the virus you were studying. Before he died, he infected his family. These are the two that are left.”