Agent of Influence: A Thriller (15 page)

She cautiously made her way along the front of the building, stepping gingerly to avoid slipping on the numerous patches of ice that dotted the walkway. She was
grateful for the small windows and lack of lighting along the front of the building.  As she approached the corner of the darkened office once again, she stopped and listened.  Hearing nothing, she slowly peered around the corner and saw her stalker. His back was to her, and he was doing the same thing she was; hunting his target. She brought her left hand up to assist with the grip on her weapon. She saw his hand reach for the cell phone attached to his belt, but then he stopped.

Having apparently changed his mind, he vanished around the back of the lodge. She dashed down the side of the building after him, approaching the entrance to her room. The man was an am
ateur. She recognized him from the party a few nights earlier. She stuck her head around the corner, and watched as he fiddled with the door, seeing if it would open. His hands were trembling from either nerves or the cold and the idiot was not even wearing gloves
.  He must be trying to bag us himself and get some extra money out of it.
Marilyn leveled her silenced Sig P226 pistol, and stepped away from the side of the building, revealing herself to the familiar face from a few nights before.

She preferred the Swiss pistol because it could be carried without having any safety devices to worry about turning off. She stepped into the stalker’s line of view. Her movements were graceful and smooth. Her left eye squinted as she fluidly lined up the front sight of her pistol between the two rear sights and fired one perfectly placed shot into the man’s shoulder.  He dropped his weapon on to the cold concrete. Before he could react, she lowered the target sights and blew out his kneecap with another bullet. He fell to the ground. She dashed over to the man. Just as he started to scream in pain, she kicked him across the face, silencing him into a groggy, semi-conscious state. She picked up the empty shell casings off the ground, grabbed the man’s weapon, and knocked on the door four times.

Alex opened the door, scared, but not surprised as she dragged the man’s limp body over the threshold as if it was a wild animal she had just slaughtered and brought home for dinner. He found the situation fairly emasculating even though he knew he should not. She was clearly a professional.

“Is he dead?” Alex asked. He stared at the man dressed in black skiwear lying spread eagled on the thick bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. He half-laughed at the ridiculous sight in front of him. 

              “No, but keep that gun trained on him for a second.” She stuck her head outside and listened. No one else seemed to be disturbed, and no new lights had been turned on. She shut the door, locked it, and closed the blinds for the second time in the last hour. “Let me find something to tie him up with, and then I’ll wake him to see if he is willing to answer some questions.”             

             
“What about his wounds?” Alex asked.              

“Get some towels and wrap them up. We d
on’t want to get blood on these nice hardwood floors.”

Alex grabbed some towels from the bathroom, and wrapped the man’s knee and shoulder as best he could. Marilyn bound his hands together with one of the bed sheets, grabbed a chair, and began gently slapping him across the face until his eyes began to flutter, signa
ling his return from dreamland.

             
“There you go,” she said sarcastically, as if praising a child. “Can you hear me?” The man groggily nodded an affirmative. “Good, can you talk?”

“Yes.” T
he word was barely audible.

              “Excellent, because if you want to live, you’ll answer all my questions. Now, we can do this quickly or slowly. I normally prefer the slow way, but my guess would be that you will not.” The clear threat was relayed without the slightest rise in her seductive voice. Alex stood and watched from the corner of the room, out of sight of the helpless man.

             
“Did you call in our position before getting here?” She ran the barrel of the silenced weapon across his face, letting the tip of the weapon hover over his mouth. He shook his head in the negative.

“Use it or lose it. I want to hear your voice. I barely heard you before,” she said as she moved the weapon away from his face.

              “No,” he said in accented English.

“That’s bette
r. I’ve seen you before. What’s your name?” The man hesitated and the barrel of the pistol came to a rest so that it was pointed at the man’s one good knee.  “If you want to be able to walk again you better start cooperating. I don’t have much patience, and there is a big lake out there with plenty of fish waiting for a meal.” She made a casual gesture toward the glass doors, and the serene lake beyond them.

             
“Hussein Kmal,” he blurted out as he squirmed. Beads of sweat were already starting to form on his forehead.

“Thank you, Hussein. You remember me, don’t you? We met a few nights ago when I was with your boss’s friend. I seem to remember you were supposed to be handing out drinks, but instead you spent the majority of the night staring at my cleavage.” As she talked she grabbed a chair with one hand, placing it over his stomach so he was pinned to the ground. She sat down with her stomach facing the back of the chair. She tipped the chair forward, balancing it on two legs, and leaned closer to his face so he could have another view o
f her chest. “I don’t think Allah would approve of your gawking.”

When he remained silent she continued. “I know you don’t approve. You can admit it. I k
now you are a good Muslim. It’s an admirable trait. I watched you during the party while your friends were pounding shots. You just sat quietly and watched all night. They probably all got laid that night. What about you?”

             
“You are nothing but a filthy whore used by a politician,” he spat out the words.

“Well, that I may be. But I
’m an infidel, so what can you expect. You are a strong man of Allah who has only been in the States for a few years, and you are already blinded by the decadence of America.”

“Fuck you. I have been true to my faith for years.”

              “Then why spend time in America, the worst of the worst? How long have you been here now?”

“Six years. I hate it all the time.”

“Why are you in Tahoe?” Marilyn asked. She needed to get back on track. He hesitated, so she brought her pistol to bear on him again. He quickly started stammering. 

“The
boss sends me here few days ago along with friends to relax. The boss has small mosque in the mountains. I go. Pray all day.”

Without warning, she pistol-whipped him across the face. “Stop stalling and answer my question!”

“We get call at mosque to head out and stay near gas stations. Boss’s man tell us to watch for silver SUV with you and a man. He offer us much money if we kill you.” He spoke in a rapid manner to avoid being struck again.

“Kill me or capture me?” Marilyn asked. She wanted to be sure.

              “He said whichever is easiest.”

             
“Why does he want me dead?”

             
“I don’t know. He just told us what to do and we obey.”             

             
“What do you do in Aman’s organization?”              

“Nothing. I pr
ovide security at his hotel. I’m a student. My father sends me here to study.”

“Where are you from?”

“Cairo.”

“What else were you brought over to do?” She asked as she continued to gently rock the chair, moving it in unison with the pistol twirling around her finger.

              “Nothing. Just study.”

“I f
ind that hard to believe. I’ve never trusted Aman. The kids he recruits, like you, always seem to vanish after they are done with their schooling. Are they still in the U.S. hiding out, or do they head back to Cairo to plan a bombing?” She decided it was time to push some buttons to see if she could get him mad.

“Aman is no help to the cause of Muslims. He h
as done nothing his entire life but make dollars and be involved with American politics. The man is an apostate. He is like the Saudi rulers. I would still be in Cairo if not for my father. He forced me to come.” His eyes fluttered and his head moved from side to side, trying to avoid the constant blaze of her stare.

“
I find it interesting that you equate bombings with helping the cause of Muslims. Enough of the lies, Hussein. What’s your boss up to? Why is he after me? All I did was sleep with his son. That doesn’t warrant a death sentence. At least not in my country.” She watched as Hussein gritted his teeth, his cheekbones protruding as if he was steeling himself for a beating he knew was inevitable. She knew it was a sign he was hiding something of consequence.

             
“I swear…” He tried to finish, but was cut off. 

“No more. What’s
your boss up to? This is your last chance.” She leveled the gun at his chest.

***

Hussein looked up at the infidel woman pinning him to the floor with her chair. The pain from his wounds was beginning to ratchet upwards due to his prone position on the floor. He now regretted not calling in his position when he had the opportunity. He thought he could take her. Now he realized it was probably the last mistake he would ever make. He would die for the cause. It was something he did not think was possible when his father first told him he was being sent to the United States.

Hussein knew his father financed some of the martyrs in the
Middle East, but he had always been kept on the periphery, never allowed to participate for fear of making him a target of their enemies. He was raised in Egypt the first twenty years of his life, and subjected to the regimen of prayer six times a day. The strict adherence to his religion instilled in him a respect for his father. It also created in him a strong desire to do more for the cause of Islam. Before he could have his moment though, his father packed him off to the U.S. to stay with Aman and go to school in America. It also kept him as far away as possible from the action.

Until a few days ago, he
thought Aman was just another Muslim selling his soul to the American political system. Then he received the phone call from Aman that changed his life. Aman was not a traitor, but a man who spent his entire life hiding in America. He was now ready to strike the ultimate blow against the West, and return the Muslim Caliphate to power.

             
“Are you going to answer my question or do you want me to put a hole in your head?” The woman asked him.

              “I only answer to Allah. You will soon see him,” Hussein said with conviction as he lurched forward, attempting to grab the gun out of the woman’s hand. She brought the butt of the gun crashing onto his head, and then fired one round into his heart, bringing the conversation to an abrupt end.  

***

Now sitting up in bed after the long night, Alex was simply glad to be alive. Hussein’s body, which had been strewn on the floor when he fell asleep was now gone. He assumed it was at the bottom of the lake. His sleep deprived mind made the events of the previous hours seem like a bad dream, and for now he thought that would be a good way to keep things.

“You feel better?” Marilyn turned away from the window to face him, her ever-present gun tucked into her sculpted waistline.

“Yeah, I still don’t know why we’ve been waiting around here for the last several hours. We should have headed straight to the airport. You are gonna get us killed.” He had thrown a child-like temper tantrum after she killed Hussein last night, and was still perplexed that they had not moved from their current location.

“Shut up and trust me. If you want to shower, you have ten minutes. Then we’re out of here.” She had not told him that part of the reason she was lingering at the lodge was because she had left a special indicator in
Las Vegas, which once discovered, would tell Malcolm where she was heading. She just hoped he would discover it in time.

             
Alex jumped out of bed.              “How long have I been asleep?”

             
“Only a couple hours. It’s 9:30. I’ve already talked with the manager and thanked him for his hospitality.”

Alex hurried into the bathroom. As his head cleared, the danger of the situation ignited his adrenaline. He felt like he had lived a lifetime in the last twenty-four hours, and he could only guess what would be next. Looking down, he noticed that his gun was still in his hand. He slept with it under his pillow, and never relinquished his grip. The small piece of weaponry offered the slimmest bit of solace and protection in a new and dangerous world.
Am I really up to this way of life?
It was a question he hoped to live long enough to answer.

Chapter 20

             
Solomon sat in the Reno airport, sipping a poor imitation of French blended coffee sold at the airport café. He studied the local newspaper spread across the small table. He sat with his back to the wall so that anyone passing through the security area before proceeding to their flight would have to walk into his line of sight. Solomon was beginning to feel like a vagabond. His crumpled pants, and dress shirt clung to his body, but at least he was outside the stuffy cabin of the airplane. He arrived at the airport on Aman’s private jet last night, and parked in the private hangar they rented with a few other wealthy patrons. He spent the first hour making phone calls, and setting up his dragnet to catch the woman who was causing them so much trouble.

His problem was that none of Aman’s men knew anything about surveillance. They were either exchange students or muscle men, used to guarding the boss and his friends; or in the case of the students, doing whatever menial task Aman needed completed. Solomon never expected to run a full surveillance operation, and frankly, never thought it would be necessary.

He studied the sparse crowd as they hurried by. His targets still had not shown their faces. Taking another sip of coffee, he continued to ponder the situation, which was getting worse each passing hour. Solomon’s analytical mind was beginning to assess the possibilities.  He now wondered if Aman was divulging the full story to him. Several peculiarities continued to eat away at him. The fact that the woman had still not appeared at the airport validated his first instinct from early Friday morning at the Vegas airport. She was more than just a stripper. Otherwise they would have arrived at the airport last night, and already been caught by his men. If she was not a stripper looking for a score, then she was not digging for money or attention.  This meant she was targeting him for another reason. The big question was “why?” 

Aman called late last night and informed him that whoever the woman was, she was not an FBI employee. The database check and his contacts in
Washington D.C. turned up no one at the FBI who resembled her. This new piece of evidence only served to muddy the already murky waters. Solomon immediately threw out the possibility of the National Security Agency or the Drug Enforcement Agency. The NSA would just spy with a satellite, and the DEA surely had no reason to come after Aman. After all, he never dealt in narcotics.

If she worked for the CIA she would be breaking every law in the book by operating inside the
United States. Assuming for a moment she was CIA and was taking this monumental risk, Solomon could only assume that Aman was either withholding information from him or telling an outright lie. Even the spy agencies possess their share of risk adverse bureaucrats, and Solomon found it hard to believe that they would run an operation like this merely to obtain photos of the new President-Elect in a compromising sexual situation.

There were many less risky ways to obtain sound blackmail intel. Surely old J. Edgar Hoover had bequeathed some of his secret techniques to his followers, Solomon thought sarcastically. He could not find a reason why they would run the risk, unless the reward was worth the consequences. Getting caught in such an illegal operation would be devastating
for all involved.

The other nagging
concern for Solomon was the photos themselves. If they were
just
photos, why not involve the Secret Service in the hunt? There were plenty of agents in town. One order by Zach, and they would put the full force of the government behind the search. He suggested the idea to Aman, who immediately brushed it off with a few poor excuses about not wanting to bother them with Zach’s personal issues. Solomon found the argument unconvincing, but did not pursue the matter. Whatever was going on, Aman was trying to keep it low-key. It could be simply vanity, and an attempt to avoid bad publicity at the start of an administration, but Solomon guessed it was something more sinister. If Aman found it necessary to lie to him, then Solomon knew he would be seen as expendable at the end of the crisis. He went through the options before him, and formulated a plan of action for how to stay alive when, and if, he got his hands on this woman and her stolen treasure.

Chapter 21

Sean Hill stepped off the government plane, and into the stifling heat of the Egyptian desert. It was hotter than the worst summer day in
Washington D.C., and he could not imagine ever being permanently posted to this region of the world. The local CIA station chief had a limousine waiting for him on the runway. As he assumed, the CIA officer chose to retain a low profile and did not meet him at the airport. Sean bounded down the stairs of the plane, and was immediately ushered into the air-conditioned comfort of the limousine waiting for him on the tarmac. He squeezed his large body into the back seat, his privileged status as a government official preventing his suitcase from having to pass through the routine check that all other visitors were normally subjected to.

             
The bulletproof limo exited the airport and headed towards the embassy with two Ford Explorers guarding the front and rear of the vehicle. Sean wiped the sweat off his brow, and stared absent-mindedly out the window. The vehicle merged onto the Sari Salah Salim Highway, heading southwest towards the American embassy. He received a brief email from Bret just before they touched down. There was still no word from Marilyn. The inauguration was only a few weeks away, and even if he found what he came to look for, it may be too late. Sean found it easier to think of her as her code name instead of her real name. Thinking of her as Marilyn helped him concentrate on the mission instead of dwelling on their friendship that had blossomed over the last several months.             

             
The sounds of blaring horns mixed with screams and yells caused him to look up and survey the highway in front of him.

“What’s
going on up there?” He asked the driver. The window separating the front and back of the limo was rolled down so they could communicate freely.

“Looks like a big accident, sir.” The driver gently tapped the brake, and began to slow the speed of the limo. They were approaching a line of parked cars less than a mile in front of them. The highway was quickly becoming a parking lot. There were crowds of people hopping out of vehicles, gesturing wildly at each other, and at the other vehicles stopped in front of them.

Without warning the SUV on guard duty in front of him darted quickly to the right. It swerved off the freeway just before becoming trapped in the snarl of traffic up ahead. Sean’s driver followed suit. He yanked the steering wheel too hard, and the vehicle shuddered before regaining its balance.

“
Hope this guy knows where he’s going,” Sean muttered. He sat back in his seat as they exited the highway and merged onto Galam Al-Murur Street. He turned his attention to the road in front of him. It was quickly narrowing, and he stiffened as he watched the bustle of the local markets they were driving past.  A mass of humanity was going about their daily lives, darting around the limousine with baskets full of goods to be sold or bartered.  The limo’s pace slowed to a crawl, and the close proximity of the crowds made Sean nervous. He was in a prime area to be attacked if some fanatic happened to be nearby.  He flicked off the safety of his pistol just to be safe.

             
Five minutes later the street finally began to widen. The convoy of three vehicles increased their speed slightly. Sean watched the crowds, most of whom were gawking at his limousine, trying to see the important person that was surely inside. They were now on the outskirts of medieval Cairo, one of the oldest parts of the city. Sean stared in awe at the massive structure of the northern gate of Bab al-Futuh just in front and to the left of them. He thought it bore a resemblance to an ancient castle of a Scottish laird.