Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(78)

Tears reflected on the Frenchman’s swollen cheeks and he began to sob. Whether he wept over his own fate or that of the world was impossible to know. Of course, he had broken easily. The removal of one of his fingernails had gained his cooperation and a few minor burns near his groin had ensured that it would be enthusiastic.

Halabi now had an optimized plan for spreading YARS throughout the West while sparing the Middle East to the degree possible. Individual targets had been identified, protocols had been refined, and timetables had been developed. Using software downloaded from the Internet, they had run a number of simulations based on different variables.

Even if nearly everything went wrong during deployment and the West’s reaction was more robust than anticipated, the death toll would be no less than ten million, centered on major cities in America and Europe. If everything went to plan, though, the outcome would be very different. The disease would run out of control, creating a pandemic that would fundamentally change human existence for generations.

The computer application that they were relying on had originally been designed to research the spread of the Spanish flu. Comparing that disease with YARS was a fascinating exercise, as was comparing the world it devastated to the one that existed today.

The very name “Spanish flu” was just another lie foisted on the world by America. The truth was that the disease had first taken hold in Kansas City military outposts. It killed more U.S. troops during World War I than combat, spreading easily in the cramped conditions that prevailed on ships, battlegrounds, and bases.

The initial reaction of the medical community had been slowed by its focus on the war, but when the scope of the threat was recognized, the country had pulled together. Surgical masks were worn in public to slow the spread of the disease. Stores were prohibited from having sales to prevent the congregation of people in confined spaces. Some cities demanded that passengers’ health be certified before they boarded trains.

There was no denying that the United States and its citizens had been strong in the early twentieth century—accustomed to death and hardship, led by competent politicians, and informed by an honest press.

So much had changed in the last century. The American people were now inexplicably suspicious of modern medicine and susceptible to nonsensical conspiracy theories. They were selfish and self-absorbed, willing to prioritize their own trivial desires over the lives of their countrymen. Their medical system, designed less to heal people than to generate profits, would quickly collapse as it was flooded by desperate patients and abandoned by personnel fearful of being infected.

And during all this, America’s politicians and media would use the burgeoning epidemic to augment their own power and wealth. That is, until the magnitude of the crisis became clear. Then they would flee.

The sound of a truck engine pulled him from his contemplation and he turned. His people, disinfected and wearing clean clothing, climbed into the vehicle and set off into the darkness. Halabi bowed respectfully in their direction, acknowledging their sacrifice and the enormity of the journey ahead of them. After the long drive to Mogadishu, they would board a private jet that would take them to Mexico. From there they would be smuggled across the northern border.

And then everything would change.

As he stared into the darkness beyond the fire, he recalled the black-and-white images he’d seen of the Spanish flu epidemic. The most striking, as always, were those that contained children. Like the little ones of the Middle East, they stared out from the photograph with a mix of ignorance, hope, and misplaced trust in the adults around them.

On a blurred portrait taken in a hospital ward, someone had scrawled a nursery rhyme created by minds too young to understand the collapse of their world but desperate to somehow acknowledge it.

I had a little bird,

Its name was Enza.

I opened the window,

And in-flu-enza.





CHAPTER 39


SOUTHERN MEXICO

RAPP paused to check his reflection in the glass door before exiting onto the terrace.

The set of clippers provided by María only had one setting so his previously long hair was now a uniform three eighths of an inch. The beard was completely gone, leaving smooth, slightly pale skin in its wake. A pair of aviator sunglasses hid his eyes and the sun damage around them.

Combined with clothing loose enough to obscure his muscular physique, it was a pretty effective disguise. Esparza and his people had been warned not to use his name around the Arab who was about to arrive. There was a good chance Rapp had killed someone he knew at some point.

An SUV appeared to the west as Rapp came up behind Esparza and Rossi, who were already waiting. Their impeccable clothing and expectant expressions once again demonstrated the importance of this deal to them.

The vehicle pulled up and a man carrying a large courier bag immediately stepped out. Rapp remained outwardly serene but his heart rate notched higher.

He and Muhammad Attia had never been face-to-face but Rapp knew everything about him. His height and weight. His U.S. passport number. Even the name of his first girlfriend in high school. Attia’s family had immigrated to America as refugees when he was still a toddler and done well for themselves, providing their son a life of middle-class security.

What had turned him against his adopted country was something that the Agency’s psychologists speculated on endlessly. As far as Rapp was concerned, all that mattered was that he was a smart, fanatical son of a bitch who could blend effortlessly into American society. A man that Rapp had spent a lot of time trying to hunt down and kill.