Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(11)
She fell silent at the man’s uncharacteristic outburst.
“Do you have any idea what’s happening in the rest of Yemen? Outside your little world? We’re dealing with a cholera outbreak that’s now officially the worst in modern history. NGOs are backing out because of the bombing and growing violence. Local medical personnel are either sick themselves or haven’t been paid in months and are moving on to figure out how to feed themselves.”
“Ken—”
“I’m not done! About a third of the country is slowly starving. We’re seeing infections that none of our antibiotics work on. And there are rumors that there’s going to be a major attack on Al Hudaydah. If that port closes, most of the imports into the country are going to dry up. No more humanitarian aid. No more food or medicine. No more fuel. On top of everything else, the country’s going to slip into famine.”
“But—” she tried to interject.
“Shut it!” he said and then continued. “All this and I can barely get governments or private donors to take my calls. Why? Because no one gives a crap about Yemen. They can’t find it on a map and they’re bone tired of pouring money into Middle East projects that get blown up before they’re even finished. And that’s leaving aside the U.S. presidential election that’s already consuming every media outlet in the world. If an alien spaceship landed in Yemen tomorrow, it’d be lucky to make page nine in the Times.”
“Ken—”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” he said. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. So, after all that’s said, you want me to divert my almost nonexistent resources from the thousands of people dying in the cities to a little village of fifty people surrounded by an impassable sea of desert?”
“Screw you, Ken.”
When he spoke again, his voice had softened. “Look. I really do understand what you’re saying to me. Remember that before I sat down behind this desk I spent years doing exactly what you’re doing. I want to help you. What you’re dealing with terrifies me—”
“But you’re going to do nothing.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
She perked up. “What does that mean?”
“I wish I could take credit for this, but in truth I had nothing to do with it. A couple weeks ago, a Saudi businessman I’ve never heard of contacted me. He said he’d seen something about you in a university newspaper and wanted to help. It kind of took me by surprise, so I just threw a number out there.”
“What number?”
“Two hundred and fifty grand.”
“And?”
“Long story, but he said yes.”
“What?” Victoria stammered, unable to process what she was hearing after months of fighting for castoffs and pocket change. “I . . . I don’t even understand what that means.”
“It means that I’ve got a team putting together a drop for you. Equipment, food, medicine. I might even have someone from the University of Wyoming who’s willing to look at your bats. We’ll lower the supplies down to you from a cargo chopper so we don’t have to get anywhere near your patients. I’m working on permission from the Saudis now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this when we started talking?”
“Because I wanted you to make an ass out of yourself. Now, listen to me. This isn’t a bottomless well. I don’t even know how to get in touch with this donor. He wanted to be anonymous and he’s doing a good job of it. Get that village healthy and figure out a way to keep them that way.”
“Ken. I’m sorry about—”
The line went dead and she dropped the phone, leaning against the rock behind her.
It was hard to remember everything that had happened to get her to that particular place at that particular time. Her childhood outside of Seattle had been unremarkable. She’d never traveled much and she’d stayed in Washington through her early career as a physician. It wasn’t until she was in her early thirties that she’d felt the pull of the outside world and the billions of desperate people who inhabited it.
Schaefer scooted away from the approaching rays of sun and focused on the village below. The door to their improvised clinic opened and a man in protective clothing appeared, shading his faceplate-covered eyes as he emerged. Otto Vogel was her no-nonsense German pillar of steel. They’d met in Ghana seven years ago and had been working together ever since. Not only was he the best nurse she’d ever met, but he was perhaps the most reliable person on the planet. There was no situation that he couldn’t deal with, no disaster that could ruffle him, no objective danger that could scare him. They’d been through Haiti, Nigeria, and Laos together, to name only a few. And now here they were in Yemen. The world’s forgotten humanitarian disaster.
He scanned the terrain, finally finding her hidden among the rocks. She’d told him that she was calling Ken Dinh and it wouldn’t be hard for him to guess that she’d do it from the shade of her favorite boulder.
Vogel made an exaggerated motion toward his wrist. He wasn’t actually wearing a watch, but she understood that it was a reference to the tardiness of their third musketeer. A man who was less a pillar of steel and more a pile of shit softened by the heat.
When Vogel disappeared around the corner to begin removing his contaminated clothing, she stood and reluctantly started toward a building at the opposite edge of the village.