into full-fledged panic and intensifying the chaos already present in America’s political system.
He turned his attention to the only thing in the room that wasn’t modern and polished—a sheep’s diseased carcass lying on a cart near the center of the room. As promised, the matted hair and dried blood around its nose and mouth contrasted terrifyingly with the sterile environment.
Halabi’s cane thudded dully as he walked the length of the room, finally finding the three Westerners near the back. They were huddled together on the floor beneath the watchful eye of an armed guard. None made a move to stand as he approached, instead staring up at him with expressions that were easily read. The German’s face reflected calm resignation. Bertrand’s, in contrast, projected desperation and terror. Finally, the American woman was consumed with hate.
It was exactly the reaction he’d expected. While social media was one of the most powerful weapons ever devised by man, it wasn’t that platform’s ability to disseminate false information that was useful to him at the moment. It was other people’s willingness to use it to strip themselves of their secrets. The intimate knowledge he had of these three infidels would have been impossible only a few years ago. Organizations like the FBI, Stasi, and KGB had spent billions on wiretaps, physical surveillance, and informants to learn less than he could with a few keystrokes.
Halabi understood their hopes and motivations. Their strengths and weaknesses. Their allegiances and the subtle dynamics within those allegiances. Enough to assign each of them a very specific role in the drama that was unfolding.
“Who are you? Why are you keeping us here?”
As expected, Victoria Schaefer was the first to speak. And while he had a strong distaste for dealing with women, there was no alternative in this case.
“I am Sayid Halabi.”
The recognition was immediate. Some of the defiance drained from the woman’s eyes, and the Frenchman appeared to be on the verge of fainting. The German, as was his nature, seemed unaffected.
Halabi swept a hand around the room. “All this is for you. So that you can build a biological weapon.”
“A biological weapon?” Schaefer said after a brief silence. “I’m a doctor. Otto’s a nurse. And Gabriel’s a scientist who researches how to stop diseases. Not how to cause them.”
“The skills are the same,” Halabi said, and then pointed at the dead sheep. “It was taken from a flock infected with anthrax. The bacteria are simple to incubate and weaponize. It’s my understanding that a second-year biology student could do it.”
She stared at him for a few seconds and then began slowly shaking her head. “No way in hell.”
There was a time when he would have immediately turned to violence in order to coerce them. Now, though, he understood that this tendency was just another facet of his arrogance. Less an opportunity to carry out God’s plans than to vent his own hate. And while the time for savagery would undoubtedly come, it hadn’t yet arrived. Manipulation was the secret to victory in the modern world. Not force.
He turned his attention to Gabriel Bertrand, the weakest and most knowledgeable of the three. “I assume you’re aware that while anthrax is a simple weapon to create, it’s not particularly effective. In order to contract a deadly form of it, you’d have to inhale the spores and then not seek the widely available antibiotics capable of curing it. I’m a terrorist, yes? Isn’t that how your government and media portrays me? If this is true, then it’s my goal to spread terror, not death. I’ll use you and this equipment to create propaganda videos—”
“Like the one you made in the village,” the woman said, cutting him off. “You sealed innocent women and children in their homes and burned them alive. And now you want us to believe that all you want to do is a little marketing?”
“What you believe isn’t important to me. Only what you do.”
• • •
After a life dedicated to battle, the scene playing out in front of Halabi seemed laughably banal. The Crimean documentary filmmaker whose artistry had thus far exceeded all expectations was now entirely in his element. He had the three Westerners dressed up in elaborate hazmat suits and was orchestrating their every movement as they dissected the sheep. Lighting was constantly adjusted, camera angles were tested, close-ups were taken and retaken. He’d even experimented with some rudimentary dialogue, though it was unclear whether he thought it would be dramatic enough to make the final cut.
For