Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(42)
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” he screamed.
“I keep asking myself that.”
Rapp was surprised when the little prick grabbed a lamp and rushed him. He deflected the lamp with one hand and rammed the other into his stomach, leaving the singer spewing his dinner all over the marble floor.
Then it was the girl’s turn. She leapt to her feet with energy Rapp would have bet she didn’t have and mounted a similar charge. This time he just stepped aside. Her momentum took her right past him but then she hit the vomit. Her feet went out from under her and she landed hard, cracking the back of her head on the tile.
Rapp looked down at them for a few seconds and then went back out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He sat and pulled the cheesecake from the lower shelf of the cart before digging his phone from his pocket. Coleman picked up on the first ring.
“What? Why are you calling me?”
“There’s been a problem,” Rapp said through a mouthful of dessert.
“You didn’t kill them. Please tell me you didn’t kill them.”
“No, I didn’t fucking kill them.” He paused to swallow. “But you might want to call an ambulance.”
CHAPTER 20
NORTH OF HARGEISA
SOMALIA
WHILE his objective was still within sight, the vantage point from which Sayid Halabi was viewing it had changed significantly. The Western-style office he’d constructed in Yemen had been left far behind. He was now sitting on a broken stool behind a desk constructed of scavenged plywood. Lighting was minimal—an exposed bulb dangling from a spike driven into the rock overhead. It provided barely enough illumination to see a map of North America similarly anchored to the cave’s wall. The few creature comforts they’d managed to bring into Somalia had been given to the Frenchman to keep him motivated.
In many ways, Halabi welcomed the change. The laptop on his improvised desk remained turned off. His worldly belongings were contained in a modest wooden crate in the corner. A prayer rug, faded and worn, was neatly rolled at his feet. The austerity made him feel closer to God, though he recognized that the sensation was a false one. In order to succeed in a world ruled by the enemies of Islam, he would have to return to the sophisticated tools they so deftly wielded. But for now, he’d allow himself to revel in the stillness.
He pushed himself to his feet and limped over to the map. It was difficult to make out detail in the dim light so he leaned in close, examining the line depicting the border between the United States and Mexico.
America’s refusal to deal with its addiction to narcotics and cheap labor was yet another gift from God. Instead of creating a coherent framework to provide those products and services, the very country that demanded them insisted that they be illegal. Predictably, the result was a spectacularly profitable black market that had generated a smuggling infrastructure unparalleled in human history.
Halabi had recently partnered with a Mexican drug cartel that was desperate for a reliable Middle Eastern heroin supplier. It was a business he knew well, having used the trade to destroy the lives of millions of Westerners while using the profits to wage war on their countries.
In their first, tentative transaction, a small package that supposedly contained heroin had been hidden in a shipment of Mexican cocaine four days ago. The stated goal was a proof of concept—to ensure that Esparza’s cartel could circumvent border security and deliver the package as promised to one of Halabi’s representatives in California.
The weaponized anthrax that the package actually contained would then be deployed where it would have the biggest impact: politicians who backed Middle East intervention, business and tech leaders, the celebrities who were worshipped as though they were gods. And, of course, Mitch Rapp.
Delivery vectors would be far more sophisticated than the anonymous delivery of suspicious white powder that the Americans had experienced before and were expecting again. Careful profiles had been made of desirable targets, with ones that were difficult to access being ruled out. In truth, though, he’d been forced to discard surprisingly few. Politicians and captains of industry tended to be creatures of habit, and with America’s low unemployment, getting ISIS operatives into kitchens, behind service counters, and even in the business of repairing sensitive HVAC systems was laughably simple.
More complicated, but in the end perhaps more fruitful, were the celebrities. Physical access to them, their food, and their homes tended to be more difficult. In the end, though, the answer had been obvious: identify the ones who were drug users and infiltrate their supply chain.
If all went well with the anthrax delivery, shipments of actual Afghan heroin would ensue, cementing his relationship with the Esparza cartel and providing a reliable means of getting whatever and whomever he wanted across the U.S. border.
Halabi stepped back from the map, continuing to contemplate the blurry image and wondering idly where the anthrax was now. An empty Mexican desert? Hidden in an innocuous vehicle waiting to cross a U.S. checkpoint? Already in California and on its way to his representative there?
How long until he saw the fruits of his labor? Reports of famous and powerful Americans being rushed to hospitals. Images of men in hazmat suits searching opulent mansions, glass office towers, and cordoned sections of the Capitol Building. Distant shots of elaborate funerals and furtive video of intensive care units.