Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(30)
He reached out and retrieved a worn notebook from his desk, flipping absently through it for a few moments. Gabriel Bertrand’s elegant scrawl was all in French but it would have been equally incomprehensible in English or even Arabic. The complex analysis of the Yemeni respiratory disease contained in the text was currently being translated and put into layman’s terms by a young Egyptian doctor.
The man’s report would be delivered later that week, but Halabi didn’t need it to know that the book contained the blueprint for overthrowing the world order that had persisted for centuries. That Gabriel Bertrand had unknowingly revealed the secret to inflicting suffering and death on a scale unimaginable in the modern era.
Muhammad Attia appeared in the doorway and Halabi returned the book to his desk. “What of Mitch Rapp, Muhammad?”
The man’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak.
The reaction was no surprise. Attia had always opposed his master’s focus on the CIA man but hesitated to give voice to that opposition. Finally, he spoke.
“Our last confirmed contact with him was almost twenty hours ago.”
Halabi leaned forward in his chair. “Does that mean you believe him to be dead?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t understand. He’s one man alone in difficult, unfamiliar terrain. On the other hand, your highly trained men have now been joined by what? Two hundred additional fighters and more than thirty vehicles?”
Attia nodded.
“Your silence isn’t an answer, Muhammad.”
Finally, a hint of resolve became visible in his disciple’s expression. “No one has even seen him since he descended into the canyon. Or, better said, no one who’s survived. Twelve of our men are dead, including three of mine. He seems to be targeting our crack troops and leaving the others alone to the degree possible. He kills them, strips them of their food, water, and weapons, and then fades back into the desert.”
“He’ll become exhausted,” Halabi said, the volume of his voice slowly rising. “He’ll get sick or injured. He can’t last out there forever. Bring in more local men loyal to us. Overwhelm him. Trap him like the animal he is.”
“Trap him?” Attia said, the frustration audible in his voice. “We can’t even find him. All we can do is make guesses based on the pattern of bodies he leaves behind. It’s likely that he buries himself during the day to sleep and moves only at night. And he has an endless supply of food, water, and ammunition because it’s being provided by his victims.”
“The desert will—”
“The desert will do nothing!” Attia said, daring to interrupt him. “This isn’t a hardship for him. It’s his home. He’s spent his entire adult life fighting in places just like this one. He could live out there for weeks. Perhaps months. Killing our people when they present an opportunity or when he needs supplies. But he won’t have to, because his comrades won’t leave him out there forever. They’ll find men loyal to him and they’ll find aircraft. When that day comes, our men will die without ever having laid eyes on Mitch Rapp. What is it you tell me every day? That with a thousand good men, you could bring America to its knees overnight? But you can’t find a thousand good men. And now you’re going to leave the few you have managed to find to be picked off one by one by a man who America’s next president will likely put in prison.”
Halabi felt the familiar hate well up inside him but then it faded into an unfamiliar sense of confusion and uncertainty. Had he fallen into the same trap that had snared him so many times before? Rapp’s life had been his for the taking in that village. But instead of ordering the helicopter destroyed on its way in, he’d insisted on Rapp’s capture. Why? Did it further the pursuit of Allah’s will?
No.
He had failed to kill God’s greatest enemy on earth because of his own desperate need to take revenge. To see the CIA man broken and groveling not at God’s feet, but at his own.
Halabi understood now that Rapp wouldn’t be caught in that desert, that God had put him beyond the reach of his men as a punishment. Once again, he could feel God’s eyes on him. This time, though, they radiated something very different from the love and approval that he had become accustomed to.
“Pull our men out, Muhammad.”
“All of them? There’s no reason not to leave the local—”
“All of them. It’s no use.”
Attia gave a short, relieved nod before speaking again. “I assume you agree that we have to move out of Yemen immediately? It’s unlikely that Rapp could have interrogated one of my men before killing him, but it’s possible that he’s learned about this place. Can I begin preparations to move our operations to our secondary site in Somalia?”
Halabi nodded and the man turned, disappearing through the door.
More retribution from God. They would trade a mountaintop fortress surrounded by people sympathetic to his goals for a maze of caverns surrounded by men whose allegiances changed like the direction of the wind.
Halabi closed his eyes and once again envisioned the dangerous path to victory. The greatest obstacle ahead wasn’t the U.S. military or Irene Kennedy or even Mitch Rapp. It was his own arrogance.
Finally the ISIS leader pushed himself to his feet and limped to the far wall. There he retrieved a whip consisting of various chains attached to a worn wooden handle. He swung it behind him, feeling the metal bite into his flesh. The blood began to flow and the pain flared, but God remained agonizingly silent.