God’s hands. Only Allah had the power to decide whether he lived or died. Whether he would usher in a new age or disappear in a cloud of fire and dust.
He entered his password and waited for the secure call to connect. When it finally did, the accented voice of Carlos Esparza filled the confined space.
“Have you been following the news?”
“Of course.”
The delay created by the signal bouncing all around the world was infuriating, but unavoidable.
“Did you see the DEA grandstanding about their big bust in San Ysidro?”
“The shopping mall,” Halabi said. He’d made note of the story in passing but was more focused on the presidential election and the coverage of the anthrax threat. “Why should this be of interest to me?”
“Because your product was in that shipment.”
Halabi felt the breath catch in his chest.
“Hey. You there?” Esparza prompted. “This connection isn’t worth shit.”
“You told me you had the most sophisticated smuggling network in existence. That the Americans—”
The Mexican talked over him, causing their voices to garble for a moment. “. . . kidding me? We had a German-engineered tunnel running to a mall with a fucking Whole Foods. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get those holier-than-thou vegan pricks to open a store in your property?”
“The engineering of your tunnel and your tenants aren’t my concern,” Halabi said, beginning to sweat despite the cool temperatures. “The fact that you lost my product is.”
“Cost of doing business.”
The ISIS leader opened his mouth to speak but then caught himself. Esparza believed that the package he’d been given was nothing but a trivial amount of heroin. A display of concern and irritation would be expected. But outright anger might be met with suspicion.
The scientific equipment necessary to make another batch of anthrax was there with them in Somalia. In the end, though, the anthrax was little more than a distraction designed to keep Irene Kennedy blinded and the American people at each other’s throats. It was the fatal blow that mattered.
“I have people that you’ve assured me you can get across the border,” Halabi said finally. “They’re not as easily transported as a small package of heroin and they’re not as expendable.”
“Stop breaking my balls,” Esparza responded. “Have you not been paying attention? It took NASA for those assholes to find my operation. Fucking NASA. Your people will be fine. In fact, it’s getting easier to smuggle people every day. That nut bar putting out those anthrax videos has border security pulling resources from human trafficking and focusing on intercepting product.”
“And if I send you another package? Can I expect you to lose it again because of this increased focus?”
“Remember what I said about those assholes needing NASA to do their job for them? That intercept was a fluke. I’ve got a thousand ways across the border, and I hired a kid from MIT to tell me if we’ve got any more orbiting telescopes getting into our business. Send me another package and I guarantee it’ll get through.”
“What will happen to the heroin?”
“What heroin?”
“My package that was confiscated,” Halabi said, trying to control the frustration in his voice.
“Who gives a shit? I told you already. These kinds of losses are just the cost of doing business. Once we get this partnership up and running, your problem won’t be interceptions, it’ll be what to do with all the money you’re making.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You want an answer? Fine. Nothing’s going to happen to it. Those DEA pricks will take some pictures of themselves with it to try to convince people they’re actually earning their paychecks and then they’ll put it in an incinerator and it’ll all just go up in smoke. ”
CHAPTER 21
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
USA
IRENE Kennedy had been directed to a conference room instead of the Oval Office, where she usually met the president. She’d been told nothing of the meeting’s agenda, nor why it was urgent enough to force her to cancel a long-planned meeting with the director of the Mossad. Unusual enough to take note of, but hardly unprecedented. The president of the United States could call meetings however and whenever he wanted.
When she entered, she saw Christine Barnett sitting near the back of the long table that dominated the room. She didn’t rise, instead glaring at Kennedy and giving her an almost imperceptible nod. In contrast, the other man in the room strode over to take her hand. Robert Woodman had been the director of the DEA for just over two years but