by Flynn Vince
Bertrand squinted at it for a moment and then shook his head.
“It’s a population map of the United States, with transportation infrastructure overlaid—airports, bus and train routes, major highways . . .”
Not surprisingly, the man didn’t understand. And there was no delicate way to remedy his ignorance.
“I intend to infect five of my men with the virus you discovered in Yemen and transport them across the U.S. border,” Halabi said bluntly. “From there, they’ll spread the disease throughout the country and the industrialized world.”
Bertrand’s expression went blank. “I . . . I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
“I don’t know how I can be more clear.”
He stood frozen for a time before taking a few stumbling steps back. “You . . .” he stammered. “It’s . . . It’s not possible.”
“It’s not only possible, it’s quite simple. YARS is extraordinarily contagious, so infecting my people will be a trivial matter. And I have a group of smugglers in Mexico willing to transport them across the border.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I assure you that I can, Doctor. In fact it’s already in motion. I just need you to help me with a few final details.”
Bertrand squinted through the semidarkness as though he were looking at a child unable to grasp a simple concept. “This isn’t anthrax. It’s a highly contagious, extremely deadly disease with no effective medical treatment. Even Spanish flu . . .” His voice faded for a moment. “In 1918 and 1919 it killed more than thirty million people worldwide.”
“I’m aware of the history of the Spanish flu,” Halabi said calmly.
“All evidence suggests that this disease is even more contagious and has a significantly higher mortality rate. Add to that the rise in long-distance travel and the increase in the world population, and you could be talking about casualties in the hundreds of millions.”
“That’s my estimate as well.”
Still, Bertrand’s’ expression suggested that he believed he wasn’t being clear. “This can’t be controlled. It won’t just kill people you think are your enemies. It won’t be just Americans. Or Christians. It’ll come here. It’ll spread across the Middle East. It’ll kill your men, members of your family. Maybe even you.”
“If that’s God’s will.”
“Are you out of your mind?” the Frenchman said, finally starting to grasp what they were talking about. “If it was God’s will, he’d do it himself. This isn’t a bullet or nerve gas or even a nuclear bomb. You can’t target an opposing army or country. You can’t predict what it will do. And you can’t stop it once it’s started. It’s impossible to win because winning doesn’t exist.”
“You’re wrong, Doctor. With its complexity, interconnectedness, and reliance on technology, the industrialized world will completely collapse. It won’t just be disease that kills them. It will be starvation. Cold. Darkness and chaos.” He waved a hand around him. “Certainly, millions will die in this part of the world, but that isn’t enough to destroy us. It’s the way we’ve lived for millennia.”
Bertrand took another step back. “You think . . . You think you can level the playing field?”
Halabi smiled. “I’d forgotten that idiom. Thank you. It encompasses my goals perfectly. The West’s financial, human, and military resources will simply cease to exist. As will their desire and ability to interfere in the affairs of others.”
The Frenchman had finally retreated far enough that his back hit the cave’s stone wall. He seemed to be trying to speak but found himself unable to do so. Halabi filled the silence.
“As I said, infecting my men and getting them into America is relatively simple. As is selecting the cities they’ll be sent to. Based on population density, location, and airport activity, the obvious choices are Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, New York, Seattle, and Atlanta. My men will have no problem finding menial work—cleaning, food service, and the like. The details, though, are somewhat more difficult. How would this best be done? Transportation hubs seem obvious. But what about theaters where people are in very close contact and the virus wouldn’t be subject to direct sunlight? What about cashiers who handle money for hundreds of customers a day? And what about when my people begin displaying symptoms? Perhaps nightclubs where the disorienting environment would make those symptoms less noticeable to the people around them?”
“Are you . . . Are you asking me to help you?”
Halabi ignored the question. “Another issue is how to protect my American disciples who will be hosting these people. They’re all anxious to be martyred, of course, but it seems that it would be most advantageous not to infect them until my other people are near death. That would create a second wave of infection before the CDC and other authorities fully grasp what’s happening.”
“I made the anthrax,” the Frenchman responded. “And that was probably a mistake. But if you think I’m going to help you do something like this, you’re insane.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” Bertrand responded. “Once this is put into motion, I’ll no longer be of any use to you. You’ll kill me. And even if you don’t, there’s a good chance the disease will.”
The scientist fell silent and looked around him, peering into the shadows as though there was something meaningful hidden there. Halabi had seen it many times before. He was experiencing the confusion that all nonbelievers suffered when they realized their lives would soon end. The only thing ahead of him now was a dark, empty eternity.
“Come,” Halabi said, standing and walking past Bertrand into the passageway. With no other option, the Frenchman followed. As they approached the end of the corridor, two men appeared and dragged him into a chamber to the left. A strangled scream rose up and then died in Bertrand’s throat when he saw what was waiting for him.
Much of Victoria Schaefer’s body was rotted away and what was left had been mummified by the dry conditions. Her face was mostly skeletonized, with missing cheeks exposing the roots of her teeth and empty eye sockets staring out through strips of leathery skin. In truth, it was only her clothing and long blond hair that identified her.
“No!” Bertrand finally got out.
Halabi’s men forced him onto the table next to the corpse and secured him there with straps. His screams quickly turned to convulsing sobs and he began begging pathetically in French.
Halabi approached and leaned over him as one of his men ignited a blowtorch. Bertrand’s face and the rotted one next to it turned bluish in the light of the flame.
“Now let’s discuss the fine points of my plan.”
CHAPTER 35
SOUTHERN MEXICO
CARLOS Esparza glanced back at the terrified family behind him and slapped a hand on the table. “Otra cerveza!”
They were huddled near the kerosene lamp throwing shadows across what passed for a kitchen. This was the building that was Mitch Rapp’s goal, an improvised restaurant that was little more than a clapboard shithole with enough solar panels sufficient to keep a refrigerator running. Outside was a broad porch where local farmers gathered on weekends, but now the plastic furniture on it was in danger of being washed away by the pounding rain.
The husband retrieved a beer, but Esparza shook his head and pointed to the man’s fifteen-year-old daughter. She took the bottle and approached hesitantly, holding it out in front of her.
She was a sexy little thing, with thick hair, coffee-colored skin, and a body that was still a bit awkward. He gave her a hard swat on the ass when she put the beer on the table and then watched her scurry off. Normally, he’d be laying plans to have her brought to his compound for a few interesting evenings, but tonight she was nothing more than an afterthought. Something to briefly distract him from the matter at hand.
They’d begun Rapp’s test at 9 a.m. and it was now 3 a.m. the next day. One of the dogs had been recovered but the others were still on the loose, running off thousands of dollars’ worth of his produ
ct. The heavy rains and loss of their tracking ability was allowing the CIA man to move through the darkness with impunity—an opportunity he was taking full advantage of.
At least seven of Esparza’s men were dead. Some from bullets, others from knife wounds, and one who had been found with a tree branch wedged in his eye socket. So much equipment had been stripped from the bodies that it seemed certain Rapp was creating caches in the jungle. Preparing to survive and fight for as long as was necessary to reach his objective.
A burst of automatic fire erupted outside and Esparza swore loudly before edging toward the open doorway. He had four vehicles at the crossroad out front, two of which were idling with their headlights on. The rain had slowed and there was enough illumination to see the five men who had taken refuge behind them. All efforts to bring in further reinforcements had gotten bogged down in the mud miles from there.
The shooting stopped and, predictably, the shouting started. Fucking idiots. If they saw or heard something, it was a guarantee that Rapp wasn’t there. Terrified for their own lives and enraged at the loss of their comrades, they’d begun shooting at ghosts and fighting among themselves. Exactly what the CIA man wanted.
Esparza stayed hidden behind the doorjamb as he scanned past the vehicles into the darkness. Was he kilometers away, planning his next move? Had he decided to run and take his chances as a fugitive? Or was he out there just beyond the circle of light?
The sound of a struggling vehicle became audible to the east and Esparza reluctantly crossed the wood deck, descending into the mud. Headlights began playing off the trees as his men dug in further. As though Rapp would just get in a car and drive up the road to them.
Idiots.
He took a position in the middle of the crossroad, shielding his eyes as the pickup drew near. One of his enforcers was driving and there were no passengers. At least no living ones. The vehicle stopped and Esparza looked at the man in the bed. He was stretched out in a bloody pool of rainwater, with his throat slashed from ear to ear.
“Find this motherfucker and bring me his head!” Esparza screamed as the rain gained force again. “Do you understand? Bring it to me now!”
No one moved. Finally, one man inched forward. “The dark and the rain are working against us, señor. Maybe we should try to get back to the compound. It’s supposed to clear tomorrow and when the sun—”
Esparza pulled a pistol from the holster on his hip and shot the man in the chest. “Does anyone else have something to say?”
None seemed to, so he stalked back toward the building and the cold beer waiting for him there. How much was he paying to be surrounded by a bunch of weaklings? If this was the best they could do, he was a dead man. The other cartels would run over him like he wasn’t there. Rapp was one man. One fucking man bumbling through jungle terrain he knew nothing about.
He stepped back onto the porch and went for the open doorway. Maybe he’d invite the girl to join him for a drink. His anger and nerves were building to the point that his head was starting to pound. It seemed almost certain that she could find some way to help him relax.
When he entered, Esparza saw a man in fatigues sitting at the table where he had left his beer. He was backlit by the kerosene lamp, but wore an immediately recognizable bandolier. Hand-tooled leather with a holster on one side and a similarly ornate scabbard for his silencer on the other. Pedro Morales had always seen himself in the romantic terms of a nineteenth-century Mexican bandit. But he’d served Esparza well. That is, until his naked body had been found in a ditch six hours ago.
“So if I remember right,” Mitch Rapp said, “our agreement was for two hundred and fifty grand a month.”
Esparza noticed that the holster was empty and Morales’s nickel-plated Colt Government Model 1911 was lying on the table inches from his hand.
“That’s your agreement with me,” Esparza said, having a hard time thinking clearly under the American’s stare. “But I’m not sure about my men. You’ve killed a lot of their friends.”
Rapp remained motionless for a moment but then began screwing the matching silencer onto the pistol. He stood and Esparza silently cursed himself for his own stupidity.
Rapp walked past him and the cartel leader heard the sound of his footsteps on the wood porch. He didn’t bother to turn, though. It was clear what was coming. His words had condemned what was left of his men to death. They’d see the camouflage-clad man coming from the restaurant and assume he was one of theirs.
Esparza could shout a warning of course. Or even pull out his own weapon and shoot. But then his role in this would fundamentally change. At that moment, he was the man with the job and money Rapp so desperately needed. All it would take was one sound, though. One wrong move. And then he would become just another of the CIA man’s victims.
So he remained silent, imagining the scene playing out behind him. The silencer and the rain would keep his men from knowing what was happening until two of them were already dead. One more would die in the ensuing confusion. And the last would be shot in the back as he fled in panic.
Esparza’s gaze moved again to the family huddled at the back of the building. They flinched noticeably at a brief burst of automatic gunfire outside. A lone shout rose above the rain and then everything went silent until the sound of footfalls on the porch became audible again.
“You’re running out of guys, Carlos.”
CHAPTER 36
THE CAPITOL COMPLEX
WASHINGTON, D.C.
USA
“TO be clear, this isn’t a formal hearing,” Senator Christine Barnett said, doing a good job of sounding magnanimous. “We’re here to talk without cameras and get an understanding of where we stand in this matter.”
Despite her empty assurances, this felt very much like a formal hearing to Irene Kennedy. Barnett was in an elevated position flanked by congresspeople loyal to her. A number of aides were ensconced behind them and the gallery was scattered with people Kennedy assumed were political operatives.
“As you answer our questions, Dr. Kennedy, please keep in mind we’re performing our own investigation into these matters.”
The implication, of course, was that she’d lie. And that was exactly what she was there to do, but not for the reasons Barnett thought.
Kennedy leaned into the microphone on the table in front of her. “Thank you, Senator. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Kennedy’s initial reaction had been to find a way to avoid this kangaroo court, but it had been impossible. Barnett’s power was growing, and with it the upheaval inside the Beltway. Predicting people’s shifting loyalties was becoming impossible as they positioned themselves for what was to come next.
“What was your involvement in sending Mitch Rapp to California to interrogate those drug traffickers?”
Word was that Barnett’s inquiries into that subject had hit a dead end. The further she tracked the chain of command back, the murkier it got.
“As I’ve told you in the past, I had no involvement.”
“If you’re denying that it was you, then who was it?”
It was a question that literally might be the most dangerous in the world. According to Scott Coleman, the president of the United States had not only personally given the order, but had also signed papers giving Rapp carte blanche.
Again, Kennedy leaned into the microphone. “I don’t know who authorized Mr. Rapp’s involvement, though my people are continuing to look into the matter. Has your office’s investigation been able to shed any light on the issue?”
“I’m asking the questions in this hearing!”
Kennedy poured herself a glass of water. The truth was that this meeting served no real purpose. It was a fishing expedition. Barnett was trying to find something explosive for the very public hearing she was undoubtedly planning. But she wasn’t going to get it.
“Let me make another clarification, Senator. Mitch Rapp doesn’t work for the Central Intelligence Agency and hasn’t for some time. He func
tions as an independent contractor. The last contract the Agency had with him was in relation to tracking Sayid Halabi in Yemen.”
“Is it possible that he acted alone?” another one of the senators offered.
The fury registered on Barnett’s face before she could prevent it. She was there to gather ammunition against Kennedy and the intelligence community as a whole, not just one man.
“It’s absolutely possible,” Kennedy responded, deciding to take the gift. “Mr. Rapp is well known in the upper echelons of law enforcement and intelligence. He could have used his reputation and contacts to convince people that he was operating under the authority of the CIA when that in fact wasn’t the case.”
“In order to murder two drug traffickers, shoot three DEA agents, and steal millions of dollars’ worth of narcotics,” Barnett interjected.
“That appears to be correct, Senator.”
It was an uncomfortable position for Kennedy. Any defense of Rapp could weaken the undercover legend he’d created and get him killed. She wasn’t just there to stand by and let the Senate throw Mitch Rapp under the bus. No, she needed to be behind the wheel pushing the accelerator to the floor.
“And this all relates to his illegal financial dealings?” Barnett said, continuing to probe.
“Our investigation is in its initial stages, but that also appears to be correct. Mr. Rapp had a number of foreign accounts and investments of questionable legality. One of his main investments—a financial services company in Poland—collapsed and came under the scrutiny of EU officials. That created a cascade effect.”
“Meaning the house of cards he’d built came tumbling down, prompting him to steal those drugs in order to put together enough money to run.”
“That’s a reasonable conclusion based on the facts that we have at this time, Senator.”
“Where did he get all the money to invest, Dr. Kennedy? And how long have those investments existed? We all know what the man does for a living and we’re now very aware that he doesn’t have any qualms about shooting innocent people.”