Lethal Agent

by Flynn Vince

  When she entered, she saw Christine Barnett sitting near the back of the long table that dominated the room. She didn’t rise, instead glaring at Kennedy and giving her an almost imperceptible nod. In contrast, the other man in the room strode over to take her hand. Robert Woodman had been the director of the DEA for just over two years but Kennedy didn’t know him particularly well. He was something of an enigma in Washington—a former lawyer who had known the president since college but who had few other contacts inside the Beltway. His leadership at the DEA had been competent, but cautious. Her gut feeling was that he was a smart, patriotic man who just didn’t have much passion for his organization’s mission.

  “It’s good to see you, Bob,” Kennedy said, still in the dark as to the purpose of the meeting. Of course, she’d been briefed on the well-publicized bust in San Ysidro, but that was very much outside of her sphere of influence. When the army’s diminutive bioweapons expert entered, though, her heart sank.

  Gary Statham’s face held none of the warmth or inquisitiveness that it normally did. He remained silent as he shook hands with Kennedy and Woodman. A moment later, he was seated at the table, staring down at it as though it held some secret.

  When the president entered, Kennedy chose a seat as far from Christine Barnett as possible. Not only because of her personal distaste for the woman, but in hopes that some physical distance would keep the senator focused on the subject at hand and not her hatred of the CIA.

  “I’m sure all of you are aware of the recent drug bust at that mall in California?” the president said.

  “It’d be hard to miss,” Barnett said, responding to what was obviously a rhetorical question. “What’s next? Are we going to find levitating subterranean trains? The fact that our borders—”

  “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to you solving America’s drug problem,” Alexander said, cutting her off. “Robert? Could you bring us up to speed?”

  Woodman nodded. “The truck that came through that tunnel was carrying roughly four hundred kilos of cocaine in two hundred separate packages. As a matter of procedure, we select a random sampling of them to test for purity, contamination, and to get an idea of where it came from. When our analysts opened the bags, it was clear that one of them didn’t contain cocaine or any other narcotic. In light of everything that’s been going on, we closed it back up and called Gary’s people.”

  The president turned his attention to the army colonel, who immediately picked up the narrative.

  “It contained anthrax,” he said simply.

  “How much damage could it have done?” the president asked.

  “That depends on how it was deployed. To be clear, there’s no way to make this some kind of weapon of mass destruction. It can’t, for instance, be put in a crop duster and flown over New York. And with all the publicity, I imagine anyone opening an envelope full of suspicious powder would get in touch with the authorities pretty quickly. Having said that, Gabriel Bertrand knows what he’s doing. This is finely ground, weapons-grade stuff. Obviously it could be put in food or drinks, but a much worse scenario would be if someone who knew what they were doing got it into a building’s ventilation system. You wouldn’t know it until people started coming down with symptoms and then it would be too late for many of them.”

  “How many casualties are we talking about with the quantity that was found?”

  “The nature of this pathogen is that most of it is going to be wasted. Absolute worst case, you could have seen as many as a couple of hundred people infected, with casualty rates probably around fifty percent.”

  “Are we just going to assume that package is all that’s out there?” Barnett interjected. “The fact that the DEA tripped over this one doesn’t mean there aren’t a hundred more that made it through.” She pointed to a vent near the ceiling. “It could be coming through there right now.”

  “I don’t think so,” Statham responded. “Based on the equipment we’ve seen in the ISIS videos, this is about all the product they could have produced in the time they’ve had.”

  “What if they have equipment that wasn’t in the videos?”

  “Unlikely,” Kennedy said. “Halabi is going for maximum emotional impact. He knows that the strength of anthrax as a weapon isn’t its ability to generate a high body count. It’s its ability to generate fear. Showing off his biological weapons capability is in many ways more important than the attack itself.”

  Barnett laughed. “That’s what I’m supposed to tell my constituents?”

  “Senator,” the president cautioned, but Barnett ignored him.

  “Are we at least assuming that Halabi’s making another batch? And that we can’t count on NASA to find it for us again?”

  “I am,” Statham admitted.

  “Then what are we doing about it?” the president said. “Irene?”

  “Since he can’t go for big numbers, I think we can count on Halabi focusing on high-value targets. Politicians and business leaders concentrated in technology and defense. Maybe even celebrities. Among other things, we’ve already spoken with potential targets about securing the ventilation systems in their buildings. We’ve also tried to get our political leadership to randomize their habits, particularly where they eat and shop. We’ll go back and impress on them again the importance—”

  “So are we going public with this?” Barnett interrupted.

  “I’d strongly recommend against it,” Robert Woodman replied. “Based on what our informants are saying, the talk south of the border is about the loss of the mall, not the coke. That’s about what we’d expect with a twelve-million-dollar bust like this. The lack of concern about the contents of that truck suggests that either the traffickers aren’t aware that the anthrax was in their shipment or they assume we won’t find it.”

  “You’re trying to tell me that the drug traffickers don’t know what they’re transporting?” Barnett said incredulously.

  “It actually makes perfect sense,” Kennedy responded. “There’s no profit in terrorism, and they run the risk of bringing an enormous amount of heat down on themselves. A likely scenario is that one of Halabi’s Middle Eastern drug operations has partnered with a Mexican cartel and he slipped the anthrax into that shipment.”

  Woodman nodded in agreement. “We’re trying to trace back the owners of that mall but, as you can imagine, it’s a web of shell corporations and foreign partnerships. Based on the ambition of it all, we believe that it was a joint project between a number of different trafficking organizations. We’ve seen them spread their risk like that before on big projects. Also, we have the two men who were driving the van in custody. We’re interrogating them and hoping to figure out which cartel they’re working for. Bottom line is that if we go public with the anthrax, everyone in the supply chain is going to scatter. Our chances of tracing this package back to its source will go to zero before the first news show even finishes its report.”

  “Is your interrogation getting results?” Barnett said.

  “Not yet. These are hard men, Senator. And the consequences of them talking to authorities is high. But we’re continuing to work on them.”

  “I feel safer already,” Barnett said sarcastically.

  “If you have any thoughts on a course of action, Christine, I’d love to hear them,” Alexander said.

  Typically those kinds of questions had the power to shut her up for a while. Barnett was a prodigy at tearing down the efforts of others, but her policy proposals tended to be smoke and mirrors—designed more to pump up her base than to actually solve the complex problems facing America. This time, though, she wasn’t so easily silenced.

  “Get the hell out of the Middle East. That’s my thought. We’re spending the better part of a trillion dollars a year on a military that can’t win wars against insurgencies and won’t fight nuclear-armed countries—basically everyone we’d ever want to fight. The record’s clear. Vietnam. Iraq. Afghanistan. We’re not gaining anything. We’re just whacking aw
ay at a hornet nest and then acting surprised when we get stung.”

  “I think that’s a naïve view,” Kennedy responded.

  The senator’s eyes narrowed at the insult but Kennedy couldn’t bring herself to care. In the very likely event that Barnett became president, her first order of business would be to put someone loyal to her in as head of the CIA. And more than that, she’d almost certainly try to make an example of Kennedy by tying her up in years of bogus Senate investigations. There was little Kennedy could do or say at this point that would make her future any darker.

  “Sayid Halabi’s endgame isn’t to use anthrax to kill a few hundred—or even a few thousand—Americans,” Kennedy continued. “And while I agree that he wants us out of the Middle East, it’s not so he can create a peaceful Islamic paradise there. No, he needs a refuge to build his capability to make war on the West. We learned this lesson in Syria, where we left a vacuum that ISIS exploited, and we’ve just learned it again in Yemen. Don’t be fooled, Senator. Halabi will offer easy, seductive solutions and short-term political wins. But he won’t stop until he’s destroyed or we are. And in a world of runaway technology and political division, it might be us.”

  CHAPTER 22

  WEST OF MANASSAS

  VIRGINIA

  USA

  ONE last shove and the massive filter finally snapped into place. Rapp stepped back, wiping the sweat from his forehead and examining his handiwork. According to Gary Statham, the upgrade would filter most biological agents, complementing the existing system designed to combat gas attacks. The drawback—and there always seemed to be one—was that the motors in his ventilation system would no longer be powerful enough. Based on the manufacturer specs, they’d burn out after less than forty-eight hours under the additional load. So they’d have to be replaced, too.

  Rapp tossed his screwdriver on a greasy rag and took a seat on an ammo box. The safe room hidden in his basement was about the size of a single garage bay. Constructed entirely of reinforced concrete and steel, it included two huge batteries for storing energy from the rooftop solar panels, filtered water drawn from a well beneath the building, bunk beds, and a full bathroom. The cheerful yellow on the walls was a gift from the interior designer he’d hired to deal with the details of the house. She’d said something to the effect of “if the wolves are at the gate, a little hygge will go a long way.” What that meant, he had no idea.

  Based on the theory “two is one and one is none,” he’d had the space ridiculously overbuilt. At the time he’d figured the most dangerous thing he’d have to face was a coordinated attack by a well-trained, well-armed terrorist cell. In that scenario, all he really needed was solid blast resistance, a few weapons, and breathable air. The food, bathrooms, and well water were complete overkill in a neighborhood where a bunch of Arabs shooting rockets would be dealt with pretty quickly.

  Now, though, it all seemed ridiculously inadequate. At this point his best-case scenario was that Sayid Halabi had weaponized anthrax and that Rapp was number one on his hit list. Worst-case was . . . What? Sayid Halabi was a terrorist piece of shit, but it would be a mistake to deny that he was a brilliant and ambitious one.

  So now Rapp had biofilters in place and the already confined space had been turned claustrophobic by boxes of provisions stacked to the ceiling. Still, he only had enough to keep the three of them fed for five months and his goal was six. So much for the shower. And he might have to give up the minigun. It wasn’t the most mobile or practical weapon in his arsenal and took up a lot of space. Having said that, there were some problems that could only be solved by six thousand rounds per minute.

  He heard footsteps above and reached for a beer while Claudia came down the ladder.

  “You here to help?”

  “I don’t think I’m qualified,” she said. “But I know a very good psychiatrist who is.”

  “Funny.”

  “Every reasonable report I’ve seen says that the anthrax isn’t a large-scale threat, Mitch. I agree that he’ll try to target you if he can, but it looks like you’re preparing for the apocalypse down here.”

  Rapp took a pull on his beer. “I don’t trust him. Anthrax is easy to produce. He could have hired a third-year biology student to make it. But he didn’t. He took Gabriel Bertrand. My gut says there’s more to this than the anthrax.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. But what I do know is that the U.S. isn’t ready. If Halabi’s figured out a way to hit us with something big—something biological—what’s our reaction going to be? The politicians will run for the hills and point fingers at each other. And the American people . . .” His voice faded for a moment. “They faint if someone uses insensitive language in their presence and half of them couldn’t run up a set of stairs if you put a gun to their heads. What’ll happen if the real shit hits the fan? What are they going to do if they’re faced with something that can’t be fixed by a Facebook petition?”

  “Then what are we doing here, Mitch? I have a house in South Africa that no one knows about. Let’s go there. Make a life for ourselves and never come back.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  There was a glint of sympathy in her eyes that bordered on pity. Like she was talking to a child who’d lost his favorite toy.

  “The country you love is gone, Mitch. Christine Barnett is going to be the next president and she hates the CIA. She hates you.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but she kept talking. “Look at yourself. You’re not twenty-five anymore. You’ve been stabbed, shot, blown up. And nobody cares. Everything you’ve done, everything Irene’s done. Barnett sees your success and the loyalty people have to you as a threat. She’ll drag you in front of congressional hearings and twist your words and actions. Politicians who’ve never sacrificed anything for America will question your patriotism. Their followers will post lies about you on the Internet and the Russians will amplify them. Then the media will smell ratings and join in. They’ll call you and Irene traitors and cowards and demand that you be prosecuted.” She waved a hand around the room. “How is your fancy bunker going to protect you from that? Halabi doesn’t need to kill you or anyone else. He just needs to keep fanning the flames that have taken hold here. Then you’ll destroy yourselves.”

  “That was quite a speech,” Rapp said when she finally fell silent. “Been practicing long?”

  She ignored his jibe and dropped onto a box of dried pinto beans. “This is a battle you don’t know how to win, Mitch. For the first time in your life, it’s time to retreat. Let’s go so far away that you’ll be forgotten. You’ve earned that.”

  “Listen to what you’re asking, Claudia. You want me to let myself be run out of my own country by a politician and a terrorist.”

  “It’s over!” she said, the volume of her voice rising in the tiny space. “Not only have you been told to back off, there are guards parked in our neighborhood enforcing it! And Irene’s next. After her, it’ll be everyone else. Everyone who won’t bow down and kiss Christine Barnett’s ring.”

  “What do you want me to say, Claudia? That you hitched your wagon to the wrong man? I’ve been telling you that from day one.”

  “Don’t you dare try to take the easy way out of this conversation.”

  “Then what? You tell me what you want to hear.”

  “I want to hear about our future, Mitch. I want to hear about the path forward that you see but I’m blind to. Where will we be in a year’s time? Here? Barricaded in this room? Sitting with Irene in a Senate hearing? Meeting with the team of lawyers trying to keep you out of jail?”

  His phone rang and he glanced over at it. The number was immediately recognizable but not one he would have expected to see. President Alexander’s encrypted line.

  “Don’t even think of picking that up while we’re fighting.”

  She would have been surprised to know that it never crossed his mind. While Claudia could be a monumental pain in the ass, she was one of the
few people in the world who actually gave a shit about him. She wasn’t there to bask in his notoriety or for protection or to use him as a weapon. She was just . . . there.

  “We could have a life, Mitch. If you get bored, you can do some jobs with Scott. You could finally get your knee worked on. Heal. Maybe do a triathlon again.” She leaned forward and gazed intently at him. “I admire everything you’ve done. You’re the best at what you do. Maybe the best who ever lived. But there has to be an end to it one day. And that day seems to have come.”

  A ringtone sounded, but this time it wasn’t his cell. He glanced at a bank of security monitors and saw one of the FBI agents charged with surveilling him. He was standing at the front gate, repeatedly pressing the call button. After thirty seconds or so, it became clear that he wasn’t going to give up.

  Rapp stood and opened the intercom. “What?”

  The man’s expression turned a bit sheepish. “The president requests that you take his call, sir.”

  Then he got in his SUV and drove off. But not back to his normal post at the edge of the road. Instead, he and his colleagues disappeared down the hill.

  Rapp’s cell started ringing again and this time he picked up. Claudia normally left the room when Irene or the president called, but this time she stayed put.

  “Yeah.”

  Normally, his greeting would be one more respectful of the office, but on that particular day he couldn’t conjure it.

  “Has Irene briefed you on the latest developments?” Alexander asked.

  “Why would she? I’m out and you posted guards to make sure I stay that way.”

  Alexander ignored the comment. “The DEA found a shipment of anthrax mixed in with the drugs they confiscated at that mall in San Ysidro.”