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Semenov turned toward his lead researcher. “And the psychoses?”
“We have no new data. Our hope was that the Italian shipmentwould allow us to expand our knowledge of real-world effects. Obviously, that didn’t materialize.”
“But the addition of the new compounds won’t affect the level of damage.”
Novikoff shook his head. “The compounds work independently. Confusion, paranoia, and aggression will set in after around six months of use. Those tendencies will intensify with continued uptake and won’t diminish even if access to the drug is cut off. The damage is structural, and once it’s done, it can’t be reversed.”
Semenov didn’t like to show emotion in front of the staff, but it was impossible to fully suppress his smile. The drug that caused the permanent brain injury had originally been seen as a glorious victory for the Soviet pharmaceutical industry. It had been developed to treat schizophrenia and was believed at the time to be a breakthrough that would bolster the country’s prestige and be a source of much-needed hard currency.
Initial indications had been extremely promising, relieving the symptoms suffered by the majority of test subjects. But as the trials continued, issues began to surface. At first, researchers thought the drug lost its efficacy over time, prompting them to increase the dosages. This, as it turned out, was exactly the wrong thing to do. The issue wasn’t that the patients’ mental problems were resurfacing, it was that the drug was causing new ones. And once those new psychoses manifested, they were permanent. None of the people in the high-dose group were ever able to rejoin society, with the last of them dying in a mental institution a decade ago.
For obvious reasons, the program was quietly shut down and largely forgotten until he’d stumbled upon it.
The drug’s potential as a weapon should have been obvious to anyone willing to open their eyes. In recent years, the West had developed yet another chink in its tattered armor: an exploding taste for opioids. The target was soft enough to be irresistible. Converting demand from heroin and fentanyl to his captagon was an entirely achievable goal.The formulation was similar in its effect, but with an even more immersive high. Further, it was virtually impossible to overdose on and could be subsidized by Moscow to be the cheapest narcotic in its class.
The West would find itself in a desperate battle against a drug with a destructiveness that far exceeded anything before encountered. The Europeans wouldn’t end up with a handful of casualties like the Soviet pharmaceutical industry had. They’d end up with millions. The burden would overwhelm their already strained health care systems. Politics would become even more polarized and nationalistic when authorities came to believe that Muslims were responsible. Conservatives would demonstrate little sympathy for the addicts and their long-term care. In contrast, liberals would expend unsustainable levels of resources on them, while fighting against a rising tide of xenophobia.
In combination with his other asymmetrical attacks, it would be enough to tear the European Union apart and leave its components turning to authoritarianism to provide the stability that freedom no longer could.
When Semenov returned to his office, he found his assistant waiting. The man was wearing a smug expression that he thought he hid well, but in fact was entirely transparent. It was a weakness that would prevent him from rising much beyond his current station.
“What do you have for me?” Semenov asked, taking a seat behind his desk. The rest of his day was fully booked, but this evening a celebration would be in order. He’d finally get to taste a treat that he’d been saving for just such an occasion.
“Our informants have identified the group that Damian Losa’s man is going to meet with: Syrian smugglers who used to work for his organization but now work for the Syrian military’s Iraqi drug operation. The details of the meeting are still being negotiated, but in all likelihood, it will take place in Saraqib two days from now.”
Losa undoubtedly viewed this as a straightforward situation. The narcotics business was about making money and he would assumethat there was a path forward in which everyone benefited. It just had to be found. What a man like him couldn’t possibly understand was that sometimes financial gain wasn’t the goal.
Further, Semenov didn’t need him for his European venture. Cheaper, better merchandise combined with the continent’s endless supply of disaffected Muslims would be enough to eventually outcompete him. Losa’s usefulness related to something much bigger.
America.
While far more powerful than Europe, the US was just as vulnerable. Its citizens suffered from the same addictions, its society was just as polarized, its health care system was similarly overextended, and it had at least as strong an anti-immigrant sentiment. Even more convenient, the Latinos who were the target of ever-intensifying hatred were the key to Damian Losa’s operations there.
Semenov was confident that if he could get control of the Mexican’s network, America would fall even faster than its allies across the Atlantic. Its democracy was old and tired. Its citizens were sick of the responsibility it demanded.
They thirsted for something new.
CHAPTER 15
SARAQIB
SYRIA
DR.Ismail Faadin was gripping the tattered steering wheel with knuckles blanched white. Whether the color was due to his current state of mind or the failing dashboard lights was hard to say. Rapp decided it wasn’t worth worrying about and turned back to the warm air flowing through his open side window. This part of Saraqib had taken too much shelling to sustain much population and the only evidence of habitation was the flicker of a few campfires. All were too distant to see detail, but in his mind’s eye, he could picture the people huddled around them. Enraged insurgents plotting revenge. Widows wondering where their next meal was going to come from. Children who didn’t know anything else.
“The men we’re going to meet used to work for me,” Faadin said. “But now they smuggle narcotics for the Syrian army. Their specialty is creating packaging designed to avoid detection. It’s rumored that they were involved in loading the container of captagon that was discovered by the Italians.”
They’d already been through this, but Rapp understood that different people dealt with fear differently. Some went silent, others talked nonstop. Faadin was in the latter category, but there was no reason to hold it against him. He was a museum director, not a SEAL.
“So that’s what brought them into contact with the Russians?” Rapp prompted.
“With a few degrees of separation. They work for Syrian army officers who, in turn, work for generals who work directly for the Russians. If they’re impressed by what you have to say, they can pass it up their chain of command. With luck, that will eventually get you to the decision makers.”
“I assume that none of them are trustworthy?”
“Not in the least. That’s not to say that our parting was adversarial. It wasn’t. But their alliances are for sale. Make no mistake about that.”
“Everyone’s for sale,” Rapp responded. “It’s just a question of how much.”
