“What do I care about a dead terrorist?”
A smile spread slowly across his face. “You care that he’s not actually dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
He slipped the drive into his tablet and transmitted its contents to a television hanging on the wall.
Barnett watched in stunned silence as a slickly produced propaganda piece played out on the screen. Dramatic historical images of Halabi and ISIS victories accompanied by a voice-over diatribe about America and the West. In accented English and with a background of modern Arab music, he called on Muslim people throughout the world to unite against the infidels.
Just after that plea, the video stabilized, depicting him standing in front of a primitive village that was being consumed by fire. He appeared and disappeared in the smoke like a ghost, accusing the villagers of helping the Americans develop biological weapons to be used against the Muslim people.
Quick image cuts to bacteria squirming under magnification, overflowing hospitals, and diseased human flesh followed before returning to Halabi. Heavy-handed, but unquestionably effective.
The camera angle widened to encompass three people bound at the ISIS leader’s feet.
“Now I have your biological weapons experts,” he said, staring directly into the lens. “Now I have the power to use your weapons against you.”
The screen faded to black and Christine Barnett just stared at it, her mind bogging down on the almost infinite political possibilities Halabi’s survival provided.
“That video hit the Internet a few hours ago in Arabic and English,” Gray said. “And it’s expanding into other languages every few minutes.”
“Are we sure that the footage of Halabi isn’t old? From before Mitch Rapp supposedly killed him?”
“One hundred percent. According to the CIA, that video from that burning village was taken three days ago in Yemen.”
Barnett felt her mouth start to go dry. “Who are the people tied up?”
“Doctors Without Borders. They were there treating the villagers for some respiratory infection.”
“Do any of them really know anything about bioweapons?”
“One of them is a microbiologist from the Sorbonne in France. Obviously, his field isn’t bioweapons, but he certainly has that kind of expertise. The woman is an American doctor and the other man is a nurse.”
Barnett stood and began pacing around the spacious office. At this point the kidnapped doctors were a secondary consideration. Window dressing for the real issue at hand. Mitch Rapp and Irene Kennedy had screwed up. Badly.
“So Halabi isn’t dead like the Agency told us.”
“Actually, they said that Rapp threw a grenade at him but they couldn’t confirm the kill because of the collapse of the cave system.”
“The American people don’t do nuance and they have the attention span of a goldfish. What they’re going to remember is President Alexander telling them that we hit him with a bomb and that we haven’t heard from him since. Now we find out he’s been around all along. Hiding. Planning. And now capturing a Frenchman capable of building a bioweapon. All right under the noses of Irene Kennedy and Mitch Rapp.” She spun toward Gray. “I assume the video’s starting to get traction in the media?”
“It started on the jihadist sites and now it’s all over Al Jazeera. The U.S. stations are just starting to pick it up. Of course the Internet is way ahead of all of them. It’s lighting up with hysterical predictions and partisan finger pointing. Half the trolls are saying we brought this on ourselves and the other half are proposing war with every country in the Middle East.”
She started pacing again, turning what she’d been told over in her head. Alexander had been in power for almost eight years, with only one moderately successful attack on the United States and a number thwarted—largely by some combination of Rapp and Kennedy. The economy was solid with a deficit that was starting to decline. And the president was a generally well-liked former University of Alabama quarterback. It didn’t leave much room to generate the kind of fear, rage, and sense of victimization that was necessary to win an election. Up to now, she’d been forced to focus on humanity’s natural tendency toward tribalism to fuel her campaign. And while it had been effective thus far, it was really just smoke that could dissipate at the slightest breeze.
“Could this be it, Kevin? Could this be our issue?”
“It’s not an attack, Senator. It’s just a video. A good one for sure, but—”
“The danger exists now, though. It’s not theoretical. It’s right there. On TV. This administration failed to kill Halabi and now he has bioweapon technology. Maybe the only reason there hasn’t been a successful attack on U.S. soil is because ISIS was concentrating on the Middle East. But now they’re focused on us and the CIA has no idea what to do about it.”
Gray folded his arms across his chest and stared out the window for a few seconds before speaking. “The American people like their safety. It’s an issue that cuts across partisan lines and resonates with the undecideds. And it’s something real to go after Alexander on. This happened on his watch.”
She nodded. Alexander’s vice president was likely going to be the nominee and he wasn’t much of a threat in and of himself—a seventy-two-year-old blue-blood with an increasing tendency to babble about the past. It was Alexander’s support for him that made the man dangerous. Halabi’s survival, though, could take the president’s legs out from under him. If he could be forced to focus on his own political survival and legacy, there wouldn’t be much capital left for him to expend supporting his party’s candidate.
“Can we use this to bring down Alexander? Maybe even make him a liability?”
“I’m not sure,” Gray hedged. “There hasn’t—”
“Bullshit, you’re not sure. With the right message, repeated enough times on enough media outlets, you could turn the American people against Jesus Christ himself.”
He frowned. “You shouldn’t blaspheme.”
“When did you turn into a Boy Scout?”
“One of these days you’re going to slip and say something like that on a hot mike.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. How hard can this be? Halabi’s churning out propaganda videos left and right. The media’s going to eat it up and the Internet is going to turn it toxic. All we have to do is make sure it hits our target.”
His enthusiasm for her idea seemed unusually muted. The man loved manipulating people. The strange truth was that he didn’t care about the trappings of power, just the exercise of it. He wanted to bend people to his will. To force them to turn away from reality and replace it with his carefully crafted speeches, tweets, and ads. Instead of the calculating excitement she’d expected, though, he looked worried.
“What?” she said.
“Do you think Halabi could actually succeed in an attack?”
She didn’t answer, instead walking to the window and pretending to look out. In truth, she was focused on her own reflection, searching her carefully curated appearance for anything that didn’t seem presidential. At fifty-two, she was still an extremely attractive woman—a product of good genetics, a rigid workout schedule, and a few discreet cosmetic procedures. The blue suit was conservative in style but fit her curves in a way that treaded the line between sex and power. Her still largely unlined face was framed by dark hair that could be used as a surprisingly versatile prop depending on her audience.