Agent of Influence: A Thriller (11 page)

“Aman, they need to see you in the stables,” the boy said through pants of exhaustion. Aman immediately stood up, eager to meet with one of his superiors for the first time in years.

              “Tell him I’m on my way. Julie?” He turned to the leggy blonde showgirl who accompanied him on the trip from Las Vegas. She worked at the Flamingo Hotel, and was a gift from one of his mobster acquaintances.  “Go bet the number six horse for me in the next race. Put one hundred to win. Take the rest and play with it as you please.” He peeled off three hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. She snatched up the small stack of money and quickly vanished. Aman handed the young man a small tip and told him he would be there shortly.  He stood up, and brushed some stray peanut shells and food crumbs off his suit. He glanced down at his mid-section in disgust. His solid physique was showing the first sign of turning soft.              

Twenty minutes later, he stepped out of the breezy spring day and into the tiny, dark stable the managers of the track had allotted him.  The sinewy, gaunt figure of the trainer was tenderly brushing the stallion’s charcoal hair. The man ignored Aman.  Several dirty young men hurried about the stall hanging saddles, feeding the horse, and tossing hay around the small space. The trainer stood at the eye of the storm, and did not seem to notice the flurry of activity going on around him. Taking a hint from the trainer, Aman stepped back into the sunshine to give everyone more ro
om to move.

Five minutes later
the last boy left and the trainer ushered Aman back inside, closing the barn door behind him. Streams of sunlight shined through the tiny cracks of the wood structure, throwing rays of light across the horse, and the trainers face. The strong smell of manure permeated the small space, and the trainer cracked a window to help filter the air.

             
“How is our horse coming along?” Aman asked.

“Good. Praise Allah. He will win if he is not fatigued from the long journey. This is the first time he has traveled overseas for a race.  We have more pressing issues to deal with though.” The trainer spoke in a voice that left no doubt that he was the superior, and Aman the lackey.

“Welcome to America. It’s always an honor to speak with a member of the Brotherhood. How are you, Aziz?” Aman took a cigar out of his sport coat, struck a match, lit the cigar, and exhaled the smoke with gusto. The strong scent of Cuban tobacco helped to neutralize the offending smells of the horse.

             
“I see you have a good memory. I am Aziz A’zami.” The trainer moved around his horse and embraced Aman with a strength that did not look possible from his small frame.

“What have you brought for me?” Aman learned from Hussan that it was best to always come straight to the
point with the members of the Brotherhood. They possessed a single-minded focus that made them economical in their movements and conversations. They were true believers; each one of them using every second of their life in utter devotion to the cause. It was an insult to waste their time.

“Gold
to help keep empire running. It came with horse. It is already loaded to train for trip to Las Vegas,” Aziz said in broken English. Aman knew he was still learning the language, and he appeared to be picking it up quickly.

“It is truly an honor to meet you, Aziz,” Aman said graciously. “Hussan was in awe of you. After he told me the story of your life, I dedicated myself to the cause and yourself.” Aman bowed reverently as he recalled the incredible story of Aziz; a skinny, short, man of forty years who had already accomplished more for Islam than all the current leaders of the
Middle East combined. He remembered Hussan’s dictations almost word for word. Aziz’s father had worked in the underground resistance in 1919. The movement had tried to return Egypt to self-rule after Great Britain and the West failed to live up to their promises after World War I and the peace treaty of Paris.

Aziz followed in his father’s footsteps, and by the 1930s he had developed two passions; horse racing and a free
Egypt.  He credited his love for horses to King Farouk of Egypt, who adored thoroughbreds and maintained a large stable on the outskirts of Cairo. Aziz’s father was one of the more senior diplomats, and he took his son to the stables often. In 1935 Aziz traveled with his father to England. They were part of a delegation fighting for Egyptian sovereignty. Aziz would relax by spending weekends at the track. Here he learned the intricacies and minute details of creating a champion steed, and the first seeds of his double life began to be planted.

In 1936 a peace treaty was finally agreed upon, and
Egypt appeared to have finally achieved its long sought freedom. Aziz began to consider starting his own stable when they returned to Egypt. He had the knowledge and the connections to be incredibly successful. The dream of Egyptian autonomy did not last long though, and his life changed forever with the outbreak of World War II.  The war effectively ended the treaty. Britain needed Egypt as a staging ground to turn back the Nazi tide led by Erwin Rommel that was sweeping across the North African desert.

The war taught Aziz, who was then
in his mid-twenties, one very important lesson that his father and his compatriots never figured out during their years of negotiations with the British. The West would never give up its imperial lust until the proper amount of blood was spilled. A signed piece of paper was worthless, something that could be ignored. However, if enough of their sons returned home in wooden boxes, that could alter their plans. Aziz became a full-fledged Egyptian nationalist, determined to rid his country of Western influences for good. He used his father’s contacts in the government to put him in touch with a Nazi spy network in Cairo. He began actively working against the British war machine. Working for the Germans also meant he was assisting in the destruction of the Jews, so his employment would serve a dual purpose.

He infiltrated the British camps that circled the city, providing his German masters with as much first hand intelligence as he could get his hands on.  After the first two years of the war, he became one of Nazi Germany’s most important agents in the North African arena, and the German military sent an Abwehr agent to personally assist Aziz. He had contacts all throughout
Cairo but his funds were drying up quickly. The Germans had not been expecting such a load of information, so they snuck the Abwehr agent into Cairo along with a horde of Nazi gold on a stolen Allied boat typically used for humanitarian purposes. The millions of dollars in gold were exactly what Aziz was waiting for, a gift from the heavens so he could begin his true calling. The Abwehr agent disappeared; Aziz put a knife in his back one night and deposited the body in the Nile before vanishing into the throng of different cultures inhabiting war torn Cairo so he could wait until the struggle concluded.

The Nazi advance was eventually destroyed as Allied ships intercepted Rommel’s supplies traveling across the
Mediterranean Sea. This, combined with the Fuhrer’s rash decision-making, ended the siege of Egypt. The Germans retreated back to the European front to try to prevent their homeland from being run over by the increasing juggernaut of the Allied Forces. Aziz spent the last few months of the war dashing from safe house to safe house trying to stay one step ahead of the small fraternity of German spies determined to recover the millions of dollars in gold they entrusted him with. At the same time, Aziz managed to avoid the British as well. There were enemies around every corner, and Aziz relied on a small group of his father’s most trusted contacts to stay alive.

             
In 1945, with the war finally over, Aziz emerged from hiding and began orchestrating his plan. With his finances in order he returned to the Al-Zahraa horse farm, twenty kilometers from Cairo in Kafr Gamos, where his father’s agents had stashed the gold in cellars underneath the horses’ stables.  He began training horses for King Farouk, who owned the Al-Zahraa farm. At nights he had meetings with his father’s trusted confidants who had kept him alive during the latter stages of the war.  They were patient, slowly accumulating power until the timing was right to strike. To show their solidarity to their new cause, they had KK in Arabic, which was short for Caliphate Creation, burned into their inner thighs. A new fraternity was quietly taking shape. He just needed someone with more influence to join their Brotherhood.

Aziz foresaw th
e coming battle long before other groups in the Middle East. World War II opened his eyes to the raw power the United States possessed. It had gone from a country wallowing in misery in the late 1930s to a powerhouse overrunning Nazi Germany in just a few short years. Yes, the Russians assisted by softening the underbelly of Germany, but most of the major powers had considered the U.S. too weak and divided to even enter the war, much less be a deciding factor. In just a few short years the American war machine overtook the Germans and Russians in conventional forces, and beat the Germans in the race to develop the atom bomb.

Aziz understood that the return of Islam as the predominant force in the world would never be accomplished by an Arab despot wielding power from his small enclave in
Cairo. The destruction of Britain, while pleasing to him in principle, would also mean nothing. Only by bringing the United States to its knees could Islam begin its ascent back to greatness.  Aziz closely studied Sun Tzu, the classic Chinese war strategist from 500 B.C. who wrote what could best be described as a field manual to victory.  It would later become known as the Art of War, and Aziz studied it as fervently as his Koran. “Know
the enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles you will never be in peril.
”  Aziz’s father gave the book to him when Aziz first began to show his Arab nationalist tendencies. It was meant to temper him, and make him think before he acted.  After WWII Aziz now understood what his father had in mind, and why at the outset of the war, he sent Aman’s father to live in the United States.

             
The small cadre of conspirators began covertly laying the foundation inside the Egyptian government that would be necessary once they found the proper warriors. It was at this time that Aman first met Hussan in his mother’s apartment in New York, and began his long journey towards what he hoped would be immortality.  

Aman now watched as his benefactor and friend looked him in the eye and spoke with a fiery passion about their latest plan. “Today is the beginning of the end for
America, Aman. The plan will take years, but we must be patience. Your task begins soon,” Aziz said.

“Tell me what to do, and I’ll
do it.” Aman could not hide his anticipation as he listened to Aziz.  What attack on the West were they going to have him direct? Would his fledgling empire in Las Vegas launch a wave of jihadist attacks?

             
“We have found two boys with strong potential. We need you to begin making necessary contacts to make their entry into the U.S. smooth and hidden.” Aziz’s voice remained low and conspiratorial. “You have great insight to America and your empire in Las Vegas is vast. Once we get someone inside it your job will be to teach boy and make sure he fit in. We secure the rest of his training before we bring him over to you. You need be ready in five years. You will burrow him deep in American society until one day he will be so far inside the enemies’ gates, so deeply ingrained in their culture that no one suspect, and then he will strike for us. He will be like cancer that invaded the American body. Nothing will be able to stop him from spreading. Timing need be perfect. We get one chance. Understand?” Aziz asked.

             
Aman’s shoulders slumped, and he let out an exasperated sigh. He nodded his understanding. He trusted his handlers implicitly, and Aziz certainly appeared to believe in this plan, but Aman had been hoping for something quicker. Can this actually work? Raise a boy to infiltrate America? But to what end? How much damage could he inflict? Aman thought the racial strife currently engulfing America was something that could be better used to their advantage. If they assassinated one of the American Negro Civil Rights leaders, it could lead to rioting in the streets. This seemed like the perfect solution to him. If that happened even the charisma of their President would not be able to keep the county from tearing itself apart. All that was needed was a light to start the fire, and he could provide it.
If they would only give me the go ahead I will make it happen.

“You believe this can work?” Aman asked in disbelief.

              “Have faith, Aman. We know what we doing. Cairo is our home. America is yours for the moment. The boys we selected are young, but perfect. In time they be ready, and so will you. We will be in touch.” Aziz motioned for Aman to leave.

“Honestly, Aziz. This country is full of strife right now. Racial riots. It can be exploited with ease. I have the means to strike a blow,” Aman blurted out his skepticism.

Aziz became angry for the first time. “You have been in this country twenty years and you already think like them. Short term only. It will never work,” Aziz then switched to Arabic. “Patience.  Remember Sun Tzu?
It is because of disposition that a victorious general is able to make his people fight with the effect of pent-up waters which, suddenly released, plunge into a bottomless abyss.
Remember him. Our waters are not yet pent up. When the dam is full and the waters ready, then and only then, we will plunge the U.S. into that abyss. Until then, patience!”