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.
Of course, Christine Barnett would not be targeted. She was too useful. He relished the thought of her using the attacks to further undermine the intelligence agencies that were her country’s only hope. She would turn the American people against them, replacing their leadership with people whose only qualification was loyalty to her. Soon the organizations that had been America’s first line of defense would exist only to protect and augment her power.
Muhammad Attia appeared at the cavern’s entrance and pointed to the computer on Halabi’s desk. “You have a call from Mexico. It’s urgent.”
The ISIS leader nodded and Attia disappeared again.
Even deep in the Somali cave system, it was impossible not to turn his gaze upward when he turned on the device. The assurances he’d been given by his communications experts were of little value. No one could fully grasp the evolving technology of the Americans. It was a never-ending arms race—terrorist groups discovered how to hide their networks and the Americans learned how to find them.
Unfortunately, the only way to know for certain where that arms race stood was to test it. To flip a fateful switch and wonder if somewhere overhead a warning light had begun to flash in one of America’s drone fleet.
Halabi returned to the stool, reminding himself that his future was in