Lethal Agent

by Flynn Vince

  “What’s this to me?”

  “That’s the best part. All you have to do is sit in a comfortable chair outside their door. They never leave the room. Basically, they eat, screw, get high, and watch TV. Almost always in that order. Two days from now, he’s doing a concert and once he leaves the hotel, the venue’s security takes over. And for this—wait for it—I’m jacking him for fifty grand a day.”

  “Visitors?”

  “Not unless Martin calls you and tells you they’re coming. Oh, and don’t go inside unless he specifically tells you to. And if he does, don’t talk to either one of them unless they ask you a question. Also, it’s better if you don’t look at them directly.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Coleman said as the elevator opened and they stepped out. “He’s not going to call, and the only time you’re going to lay eyes on them is when you turn them over to stadium security. No one’s going to try to kill them. No one’s going to shoot at you. Just sit in the comfy chair, play Angry Birds on your phone, and collect twenty grand a day.”

  “I thought you said you were charging him fifty.”

  “I gotta cover my overhead,” Coleman said and pointed to a chair set up next to a set of opulent double doors. Rapp lowered himself into it.

  “What do you think?”

  “It actually is pretty comfortable.”

  “Here’s the key to the elevator and a key to the room that you won’t need. Enjoy and don’t forget to remind Claudia to water my plants. I’ll see you when I get back in a couple weeks.”

  • • •

  “So that’s the chef’s salad to start, the filet with french fries instead of baked potato, and a Coke.” The room service guy lifted a silver cover off the plate and snapped out a napkin before dropping it in Rapp’s lap.

  “Did you forget the cheesecake?”

  “Of course not. It’s on the lower shelf. Best in the city. Did you want this on Mr. Coleman’s account or on the room?”

  “Definitely the room,” Rapp said, reaching for his silverware.

  “Anything else I can do?”

  “Put a thirty percent tip on there for yourself.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  Rapp expected him to disappear down the hallway like Coleman had a few hours ago, but instead he just stood there.

  “Problem?”

  “What are they like?”

  Rapp shrugged and cut into the steak.

  “Didier’s music makes my ears bleed, but Katy . . .” His voice faded for a moment. “That woman is smoking hot. Wouldn’t it be nice to be in there with her instead of out here?”

  Rapp shoved the bite of steak into his mouth and grunted noncommittally. In truth, he had no idea what either one of them looked like. Though it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to check Google since he was supposed to be protecting them.

  The man stared at the doors longingly for another couple of seconds and then started back for the elevator.

  Rapp watched him go and then returned his attention to his filet. It was good, but not good enough to distract him from the fact that his life suddenly felt foreign to him. Normally, he savored boredom. It generally went hand in hand with his time between operations, and it gave him a chance to sleep, heal, and plan the next mission. This was different. He wasn’t tired, he didn’t have any injuries, and there was no next mission.

  A stream of screamed curse words managed to filter through the door, breaking the hours of silence. He ignored them, taking a thoughtful sip of his Coke.

  The fight against Islamic terrorists had been, in many ways, easy. The enemy was a bunch of religious fanatics perpetrating unprovoked attacks on civilians with no real purpose other than to create suffering. There were white hats and there were black hats. And while the tunnel was long, it was also straight. When you killed all the people in the black hats, the job was done.

  The muffled crash of shattering glass became audible as he popped another piece of steak in his mouth.

  Now the operating environment was changing. More and more, threats seemed to come from within. He’d been dealing with corrupt politicians his entire life, but there had always been the cover of a few good ones. Now they were running for the exits. In a few months, Christine Barnett could be the president of the United States. Kennedy would be out, as would pretty much every other person he respected in Washington.

  What then? Comfortable chairs in hotel hallways?

  The crash that came next was a hell of a lot louder—like a piece of furniture being thrown through a plate glass window. Had to be something else, though. Architects had gotten wise to celebrities throwing things through penthouse windows and had made them shatterproof.

  Rapp leaned back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully.

  Where did he fit into a world where the definition of “enemy” was becoming a constantly shifting matter of perspective? Where people were judged by their words and not their actions? Maybe nowhere. Maybe it was time to hand things over to the younger generation.

  The next time the woman screamed, it wasn’t to swear. Her voice was filled with fear and pain, and was partially drowned out by an enraged male voice making incoherent accusations. Rapp frowned as he sliced off another piece of steak. It was a perfect example of everything he’d been thinking about. He was happy to risk his ass saving people from ISIS or the Russians or al Qaeda. But when had he signed on to stop people from inflicting wounds on themselves?

  Finally, the sobbing started. Terrified and barely audible through the door, it sounded so pathetic, Rapp figured it’d calm things down. Instead, it had the opposite effect.

  Listening to that asshole tear around the room made Rapp think about other people he’d tried to protect over the years. And about how many were dead now. The innocent women and children guilty of nothing but being born in the wrong part of the world. The men who just wanted to make a life for themselves and their families but who found themselves conscripted into terrorist groups. The soldiers who did everything they could with the shit sandwich they’d been handed.

  And now here he was sitting in some swanky hotel listening to two pampered screwups try to kill each other. They might as well have been spitting on those people’s graves.

  When something hit the door hard enough to knock off part of the molding, Rapp finally stood. His preference would have been to let them finish each other off, but one of them ending up dead wasn’t going to reflect particularly well on Coleman’s organization. He owed the man too much to let his company’s name get splashed across every newspaper in the world.

  Rapp tapped his key card against the lock and pushed reluctantly through the door. The scene inside was pretty much what he’d expected. Martin was in the middle of the room in his boxer shorts, high as a kite and slurring some nonsense that Rapp didn’t bother to listen to. His pale skin was covered in tattoos and a baseball hat turned sideways completed the impression of a suburban kid playing gangster.

  At his feet was a skinny young girl wearing nothing but panties and a cut-off T-shirt. She was beautiful in that over-the-top reality star kind of way, but the blood flowing from her nose and the heavily dilated pupils didn’t enhance the package. When her gaze shifted to Rapp, Martin spun.

  “What the fuck are you doing in here?” he screamed.

  “I keep asking myself that.”

  Rapp was surprised when the little prick grabbed a lamp and rushed him. He deflected the lamp with one hand and rammed the other into his stomach, leaving the singer spewing his dinner all over the marble floor.

  Then it was the girl’s turn. She leapt to her feet with energy Rapp would have bet she didn’t have and mounted a similar charge. This time he just stepped aside. Her momentum took her right past him but then she hit the vomit. Her feet went out from under her and she landed hard, cracking the back of her head on the tile.

  Rapp looked down at them for a few seconds and then went back out into the hallway, closing the door behin
d him. He sat and pulled the cheesecake from the lower shelf of the cart before digging his phone from his pocket. Coleman picked up on the first ring.

  “What? Why are you calling me?”

  “There’s been a problem,” Rapp said through a mouthful of dessert.

  “You didn’t kill them. Please tell me you didn’t kill them.”

  “No, I didn’t fucking kill them.” He paused to swallow. “But you might want to call an ambulance.”

  CHAPTER 20

  NORTH OF HARGEISA

  SOMALIA

  WHILE his objective was still within sight, the vantage point from which Sayid Halabi was viewing it had changed significantly. The Western-style office he’d constructed in Yemen had been left far behind. He was now sitting on a broken stool behind a desk constructed of scavenged plywood. Lighting was minimal—an exposed bulb dangling from a spike driven into the rock overhead. It provided barely enough illumination to see a map of North America similarly anchored to the cave’s wall. The few creature comforts they’d managed to bring into Somalia had been given to the Frenchman to keep him motivated.

  In many ways, Halabi welcomed the change. The laptop on his improvised desk remained turned off. His worldly belongings were contained in a modest wooden crate in the corner. A prayer rug, faded and worn, was neatly rolled at his feet. The austerity made him feel closer to God, though he recognized that the sensation was a false one. In order to succeed in a world ruled by the enemies of Islam, he would have to return to the sophisticated tools they so deftly wielded. But for now, he’d allow himself to revel in the stillness.

  He pushed himself to his feet and limped over to the map. It was difficult to make out detail in the dim light so he leaned in close, examining the line depicting the border between the United States and Mexico.

  America’s refusal to deal with its addiction to narcotics and cheap labor was yet another gift from God. Instead of creating a coherent framework to provide those products and services, the very country that demanded them insisted that they be illegal. Predictably, the result was a spectacularly profitable black market that had generated a smuggling infrastructure unparalleled in human history.

  Halabi had recently partnered with a Mexican drug cartel that was desperate for a reliable Middle Eastern heroin supplier. It was a business he knew well, having used the trade to destroy the lives of millions of Westerners while using the profits to wage war on their countries.

  In their first, tentative transaction, a small package that supposedly contained heroin had been hidden in a shipment of Mexican cocaine four days ago. The stated goal was a proof of concept—to ensure that Esparza’s cartel could circumvent border security and deliver the package as promised to one of Halabi’s representatives in California.

  The weaponized anthrax that the package actually contained would then be deployed where it would have the biggest impact: politicians who backed Middle East intervention, business and tech leaders, the celebrities who were worshipped as though they were gods. And, of course, Mitch Rapp.

  Delivery vectors would be far more sophisticated than the anonymous delivery of suspicious white powder that the Americans had experienced before and were expecting again. Careful profiles had been made of desirable targets, with ones that were difficult to access being ruled out. In truth, though, he’d been forced to discard surprisingly few. Politicians and captains of industry tended to be creatures of habit, and with America’s low unemployment, getting ISIS operatives into kitchens, behind service counters, and even in the business of repairing sensitive HVAC systems was laughably simple.

  More complicated, but in the end perhaps more fruitful, were the celebrities. Physical access to them, their food, and their homes tended to be more difficult. In the end, though, the answer had been obvious: identify the ones who were drug users and infiltrate their supply chain.

  If all went well with the anthrax delivery, shipments of actual Afghan heroin would ensue, cementing his relationship with the Esparza cartel and providing a reliable means of getting whatever and whomever he wanted across the U.S. border.

  Halabi stepped back from the map, continuing to contemplate the blurry image and wondering idly where the anthrax was now. An empty Mexican desert? Hidden in an innocuous vehicle waiting to cross a U.S. checkpoint? Already in California and on its way to his representative there?

  How long until he saw the fruits of his labor? Reports of famous and powerful Americans being rushed to hospitals. Images of men in hazmat suits searching opulent mansions, glass office towers, and cordoned sections of the Capitol Building. Distant shots of elaborate funerals and furtive video of intensive care units.

  Of course, Christine Barnett would not be targeted. She was too useful. He relished the thought of her using the attacks to further undermine the intelligence agencies that were her country’s only hope. She would turn the American people against them, replacing their leadership with people whose only qualification was loyalty to her. Soon the organizations that had been America’s first line of defense would exist only to protect and augment her power.

  Muhammad Attia appeared at the cavern’s entrance and pointed to the computer on Halabi’s desk. “You have a call from Mexico. It’s urgent.”

  The ISIS leader nodded and Attia disappeared again.

  Even deep in the Somali cave system, it was impossible not to turn his gaze upward when he turned on the device. The assurances he’d been given by his communications experts were of little value. No one could fully grasp the evolving technology of the Americans. It was a never-ending arms race—terrorist groups discovered how to hide their networks and the Americans learned how to find them.

  Unfortunately, the only way to know for certain where that arms race stood was to test it. To flip a fateful switch and wonder if somewhere overhead a warning light had begun to flash in one of America’s drone fleet.

  Halabi returned to the stool, reminding himself that his future was in God’s hands. Only Allah had the power to decide whether he lived or died. Whether he would usher in a new age or disappear in a cloud of fire and dust.

  He entered his password and waited for the secure call to connect. When it finally did, the accented voice of Carlos Esparza filled the confined space.

  “Have you been following the news?”

  “Of course.”

  The delay created by the signal bouncing all around the world was infuriating, but unavoidable.

  “Did you see the DEA grandstanding about their big bust in San Ysidro?”

  “The shopping mall,” Halabi said. He’d made note of the story in passing but was more focused on the presidential election and the coverage of the anthrax threat. “Why should this be of interest to me?”

  “Because your product was in that shipment.”

  Halabi felt the breath catch in his chest.

  “Hey. You there?” Esparza prompted. “This connection isn’t worth shit.”

  “You told me you had the most sophisticated smuggling network in existence. That the Americans—”

  The Mexican talked over him, causing their voices to garble for a moment. “. . . kidding me? We had a German-engineered tunnel running to a mall with a fucking Whole Foods. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get those holier-than-thou vegan pricks to open a store in your property?”

  “The engineering of your tunnel and your tenants aren’t my concern,” Halabi said, beginning to sweat despite the cool temperatures. “The fact that you lost my product is.”

  “Cost of doing business.”

  The ISIS leader opened his mouth to speak but then caught himself. Esparza believed that the package he’d been given was nothing but a trivial amount of heroin. A display of concern and irritation would be expected. But outright anger might be met with suspicion.

  The scientific equipment necessary to make another batch of anthrax was there with them in Somalia. In the end, though, the anthrax was little more than a distraction designed to keep Irene Kennedy blinded and the Amer
ican people at each other’s throats. It was the fatal blow that mattered.

  “I have people that you’ve assured me you can get across the border,” Halabi said finally. “They’re not as easily transported as a small package of heroin and they’re not as expendable.”

  “Stop breaking my balls,” Esparza responded. “Have you not been paying attention? It took NASA for those assholes to find my operation. Fucking NASA. Your people will be fine. In fact, it’s getting easier to smuggle people every day. That nut bar putting out those anthrax videos has border security pulling resources from human trafficking and focusing on intercepting product.”

  “And if I send you another package? Can I expect you to lose it again because of this increased focus?”

  “Remember what I said about those assholes needing NASA to do their job for them? That intercept was a fluke. I’ve got a thousand ways across the border, and I hired a kid from MIT to tell me if we’ve got any more orbiting telescopes getting into our business. Send me another package and I guarantee it’ll get through.”

  “What will happen to the heroin?”

  “What heroin?”

  “My package that was confiscated,” Halabi said, trying to control the frustration in his voice.

  “Who gives a shit? I told you already. These kinds of losses are just the cost of doing business. Once we get this partnership up and running, your problem won’t be interceptions, it’ll be what to do with all the money you’re making.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You want an answer? Fine. Nothing’s going to happen to it. Those DEA pricks will take some pictures of themselves with it to try to convince people they’re actually earning their paychecks and then they’ll put it in an incinerator and it’ll all just go up in smoke. ”

  CHAPTER 21

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  USA

  IRENE Kennedy had been directed to a conference room instead of the Oval Office, where she usually met the president. She’d been told nothing of the meeting’s agenda, nor why it was urgent enough to force her to cancel a long-planned meeting with the director of the Mossad. Unusual enough to take note of, but hardly unprecedented. The president of the United States could call meetings however and whenever he wanted.