Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(36)
“He’s reconciled himself to her being president and doesn’t want to make any more waves than he has to. This election is tearing the country apart as it is.”
“Rolling over for her isn’t going to pull the country together.”
“To be completely honest, I also think he’s concerned about becoming a target once he’s out of power. At this point, I think he’d be happy to just ride off into the sunset, never to be seen again.”
“So he’s going to leave us hanging just like any other politician.”
“Yes. The only difference is that he’ll regret it.”
“Doesn’t mean much when you’re swinging from a rope.”
“Maybe not. But I’m more sympathetic to his position than you are. He’s a fundamentally decent man in an impossible job.”
Rapp moved into the shade of the barn. “I don’t work for the Agency anymore. Seems to me that there’s no law against a private citizen and a few of his friends going on vacation in Yemen or Somalia. And if in the course of that vacation Sayid Halabi were to get shot in the face or beaten to death with a hockey stick, no harm done, right? Better to stop the anthrax there than to hang your hopes on some TSA guy stumbling on it in a piece of luggage.”
“That’s the real reason I called, Mitch. President Alexander knew you’d say something like that and wants to impress on you that it’s a nonstarter. He and his party are in defense mode right now and he doesn’t want any explosions that Barnett could use to strengthen her position.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not. Do you see them yet?”
“See what?”
“Wait for it. They should be almost there.”
Rapp looked around him and finally spotted what she was talking about. Two black SUVs with heavily tinted glass rolling up the street. They approached close enough to get a good view of his house and then parked by the still-unfinished sidewalk.
“They’re FBI,” Kennedy explained. “Alexander ordered round-the-clock surveillance on you to make sure you don’t cause him any trouble.”
He stared at the vehicles for a few seconds before responding. “So after more than twenty years that’s how it is.”
“I’m sorry, Mitch. And even though I know you won’t believe it, so is the president.”
He stepped out of the shade of the barn and started toward Claudia and Anna without bothering to look back.
“Good-bye, Irene.”
CHAPTER 17
NORTH OF HARGEISA
SOMALIA
THE sandy earth allowed Sayid Halabi to move silently, even with the knurled walking stick that he now relied on. The cave’s ceiling was low enough to brush the top of his head, a sandstone slab decorated with crude drawings that had been forgotten for thousands of years.
It was a less comfortable and versatile location than the one he’d been forced to abandon in Yemen, but in many ways far more secure. The area was remote enough to avoid prying eyes, but not so remote that the movements of his men would seem unusual. The cavern itself was in a strong defensive position with deep chambers and multiple widely spaced exits. Most important, though, Somalia’s unfamiliar operating environment would degrade Mitch Rapp’s effectiveness.
A glow ahead began to overpower the dim LEDs spread out on the ground, and Halabi increased his pace slightly. When he reached the end of the corridor, he stopped and silently scanned the semicircular chamber beyond. The nonessential scientific equipment had served its propaganda purpose and had been abandoned in Yemen. The lab was now less impressive to look at, but also far more functional—a space designed for nothing but the production of anthrax.
Photos of it had already been disseminated on the Internet, transforming the general threat to a specific one. Western experts had immediately identified the facility’s purpose and capabilities, providing ammunition to the politicians and media companies. The airwaves were now filled with the most sensational and lurid depictions of a large-scale anthrax attack. Partisan disputes continued to grow in intensity, with Christine Barnett spinning the threat into a purely political issue.
America was nearing complete paralysis. Politicians were focused entirely on the battle for the White House. Homeland Security executives were scrambling to position themselves to survive the change in administration. And the American people were turning increasingly inward, focusing on imaginary internal enemies while largely ignoring the external forces bent on their destruction.
Halabi watched silently as Dr. Gabriel Bertrand moved from a stainless steel incubator to the table next to it. If it hadn’t been for the stone walls, he could have been at home in France. The cool, dry environment inside the cave left his clean-shaven face without a hint of perspiration. Carefully combed hair hung just above the collar of a spotless lab coat and crisply creased slacks covered what was visible of his legs.
All very much intentional. The Frenchman had been provided a place to wash, living quarters far more luxurious than even Halabi’s own, and a beautiful young Yemeni girl who had been instructed to attend to his every need. The more he had, the more he had to lose.
From Halabi’s perspective, it was an unfamiliar and rather intolerable situation but one without a viable alternative. The physical coercion he would have normally used would be counterproductive in this case. While the anthrax was a simple matter, Bertrand’s role going forward was to become increasingly critical and complex. He needed to be healthy and clearheaded to complete the tasks ahead of him.