Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(75)
“Then we wait,” he said, not bothering to hide his frustration. “When things slow down, a story like that could get some traction. No question it’ll get the attention of conspiracy theorists and Russian Internet trolls. They’re always looking to give the Agency a black eye.”
“We’re losing control of this thing, Kevin. We’ve got a story about incompetence and corruption in this administration that we can spin into full-on hysteria. We can’t let it get hijacked by some basement dweller who walked into a school with a gun. We’re going to end up spending the next month running in circles debating gun control.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Gray said. “I can only work with what I’ve got.”
She remained silent for almost a minute, calculating the pros and cons of every possible action. Finally she spoke.
“For now we forget about trying to tie Rapp to Kennedy. Instead we leak that the DEA intercepted the anthrax. We show the American voter that this administration allowed ISIS to transport a biological weapon across the U.S. border and the only thing that saved us was dumb luck. We tell them that Halabi’s making another batch and that the administration has been keeping it secret from the American people. That Alexander’s preventing our citizens from taking steps to protect themselves because he doesn’t want to look bad in the press.”
“I strongly disagree with that course of action, Senator. Leaking a former CIA agent’s involvement in what happened in California is one thing. But this is an ongoing terrorist investigation. That’s why the administration is keeping it secret—they’re trying to track the supply line back to Halabi. If he discovers that the authorities know about the anthrax he could—”
“He could what? Run? How does that hurt me? The last thing I need is Alexander standing on a podium saying that he tracked down Halabi and put a bullet in his eye.”
“Senator, this is—”
“Shut up and do it, Kevin.”
“It’s going to take some time. We’ll use the same procedures as before, but this leak is a whole other level. If it were ever traced back to us . . .” He fell silent, leaving the ramifications to her imagination.
CHAPTER 37
SOUTHERN MEXICO
“IT’S all opportunity now,” Esparza said, swerving his custom Humvee around a rut in the dirt road. “Your politicians are just actors. They shout all day about drugs and illegal immigrants but they don’t want to fix the problem. They just want to keep their voters angry while not pissing anyone off by taking away their coke or maid. All that shit you talk about us up north . . . separating children from their parents, the wall . . . it’s a perfect storm. It puts our politicians in a position that they have to push back. And that doesn’t just mean they look the other way. These days I’ve got more government assistance than I know what to do with. I mean, I pay. Don’t get me wrong. And the last local government piece of shit who turned on me got to watch my guys gang-rape his daughter. But even if I didn’t do any of that, a lot of our bureaucrats would screw the Americans for the hell of it.”
Rapp focused on the edges of the jungle from the passenger seat. In all likelihood it didn’t contain any imminent threats, but there was no way to know that for sure. He had no sense of his operating environment, no sense of Esparza’s position in the current drug trafficking hierarchy, and no idea what was happening in America or the rest of the world.
“So you’re looking to take the opportunity to expand,” Rapp prompted. Esparza had been running his mouth nonstop for the entire drive, but so far hadn’t said anything useful. Mostly bragging about his business genius and the meteoric growth of his operation.
“Hell yes, I’m going to take advantage. The Arab heroin is going to be big for us. The American government’s doing its normal screwup job dealing with your oxycodone problems—half because your politicians are morons and half because they’ve got their heads completely up the pharmaceutical companies’ asses.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And you saw the coke plantation.”
Rapp just nodded. He’d spent the better part of the week roaming around Esparza’s compound, eating María’s food, and drinking fresh-squeezed fruit juice. He had no access to phones, television, or computers. Discussions with Esparza tended to be centered on his excessively ambitious business plans and his passion for young girls. Unfortunately, the former subject tended to be overly vague and the latter overly detailed.
“That crop has been even more successful than we thought,” Vicente Rossi said from the backseat. “It’s obviously a long-term investment but within ten years we expect to have converted it into a significant profit center.”
Again, Rapp didn’t respond. The trail that led to Sayid Halabi was getting colder every day. He just didn’t have the patience for this undercover shit.
“You didn’t bring me out here to talk about profit centers,” Rapp said finally. “Where are we going?”
Esparza glanced at his assistant in the rearview mirror. An out-of-character nervous tic.
“A meeting.”
“Details, Carlos. Give me details.”
The cartel leader’s jaw tightened in anger, causing his response to sound a bit strangled. “We negotiated the terms of it more than a month ago, but since then things have gone to shit. The asshole we’re going to see is named Damian Losa. He’s an arrogant, aristocratic prick who’s huge but flies way under the radar. He’s doing probably a little over a billion U.S. dollars a year gross between blow, heroin, and weed. And that doesn’t include his aboveboard businesses. He’s got car dealerships in Iowa and factories in England. Son of a bitch gives money to museums and shit.”