Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(16)
“Captured? Why?”
Halabi didn’t answer, instead lowering himself into the Land Cruiser.
Why? It was simple. He wanted to break Rapp. Over months. Perhaps even years. He’d make the CIA man beg. Crawl. Turn him into a pet, naked and helpless in his cage, looking with fear and longing into the eyes of his master.
CHAPTER 7
THE CAPITOL COMPLEX
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SENATOR Christine Barnett continued to hold the phone to her ear but had stopped listening more than a minute ago. Instead she leaned back in her chair and gazed disinterestedly around her office. The heavy, polished wood. The photos of her with powerful people throughout the world. The awards and recognition she’d received over a lifetime of successes.
There was a pause in the dialogue, and she voiced a few practiced platitudes that set the man to talking again. He was an important donor who expected this kind of personal access, but also one of the most tedious pricks alive. He’d grown up in the shadow of World War II and was still a true believer—in America, in God, in objective truth. A doddering old fool trapped in a web of things that no longer mattered.
There was a no-nonsense knock on her door and a moment later someone more interesting entered.
Kevin Gray wore the slightly disheveled suit and overly imaginative tie that everyone in Washington had come to associate with him. He was only in his mid-thirties but still had managed to rack up a series of successes that nearly rivaled her own. A Harvard master’s degree, a brief career with a top marketing firm, and finally a splashy entry into the world of politics.
He struggled sometimes to focus, but was unquestionably a creative genius—a man who could communicate with equal facility to all demographic groups and who always seemed to know what was coming next. Every new platform, every new style of messaging, and every cultural shift seemed to settle into his mind six months before anyone else even had an inkling. That, combined with his ability to act decisively on those abstractions, had made it possible for him to get a number of ostensibly unelectable people comfortable seats in Congress.
Her campaign was completely different, of course. The comfortable seat she was looking for was in the Oval Office and, with the exception of being a woman, she was eminently electable. A number of people in her party thought she’d been insane to hire Gray—dismissing him as a bottom feeder who relied on tricks and barely ethical tactics to salvage failed campaigns.
As usual, they’d been wrong and she’d been right. With a strong candidate to work with, the Gray magic became even more powerful. She was now thirty points ahead in the primary race and had become her party’s de facto candidate for the election that was already consuming the nation.
A few of her primary opponents were staying in the race, but more to position themselves for a place in her administration than any hope they could overtake her in the polls. She would be the nominee. And based on the weakness of her likely opponent in the general election, she would become the first female president of the United States.
At least that was the opinion of the idiot pollsters and television pundits. But if she’d learned anything as a woman in the most cutthroat business in the world, it was to not take anything for granted.
Gray sat in front of her desk and crossed his legs, bouncing his loafer-clad foot in a way that she’d come to recognize as a sign of impatience. The call was winding down, but she asked an open-ended question to the man on the other end of the line to prolong it. This was her office and her campaign. Gray needed to remember that.
After another five minutes, she felt like she’d made her point and wrapped up the call. “I understand exactly what you’re talking about, Henry. It’s why I’m running for president. And it’s why I’m going to win.”
Gray held up a thumb drive before she could even get the handset back in its cradle.
“Have you seen it?”
She had no idea what he was talking about but whatever it was must have been important. Normally the first words out of Gray’s mouth when she hung up with a donor were “How much?”
“I haven’t seen anything other than the inside of this office. And I haven’t talked about anything but taxes, guns, and environmental regulations. What is it?”
“Mullah Sayid Halabi.”
“What do I care about a dead terrorist?”
A smile spread slowly across his face. “You care that he’s not actually dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
He slipped the drive into his tablet and transmitted its contents to a television hanging on the wall.
Barnett watched in stunned silence as a slickly produced propaganda piece played out on the screen. Dramatic historical images of Halabi and ISIS victories accompanied by a voice-over diatribe about America and the West. In accented English and with a background of modern Arab music, he called on Muslim people throughout the world to unite against the infidels.
Just after that plea, the video stabilized, depicting him standing in front of a primitive village that was being consumed by fire. He appeared and disappeared in the smoke like a ghost, accusing the villagers of helping the Americans develop biological weapons to be used against the Muslim people.
Quick image cuts to bacteria squirming under magnification, overflowing hospitals, and diseased human flesh followed before returning to Halabi. Heavy-handed, but unquestionably effective.