Agent of Influence: A Thriller Read online

  Agent of Influence

  A Thriller

  By

  Russell Hamilton

  Reviews for Agent of Influence

  “Hamilton delivers a taut political thriller that moves with speed and agility. A fast-paced thriller with an imaginative premise.” Kirkus Indie Reviews.

  “Agent of Influence is an action-packed mystery/thriller that is certain to entertain.” City Book Reviews.

  “This is one roller coaster ride readers won’t want to get off.” Foreword Clarion Reviews.

  “Hamilton has written as tightly plotted an international spy story as you are going to find in this genre.” Bookreview.com

  “Crackling with insights and rife with adventure.” Chuck Morse; talk radio host, former candidate for the US House of Representatives, and author of The Nazi Connection to Islamic Terrorism.

  Agent of Influence

  A Thriller

  Copyright 2009 Russell Hamilton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN 978162345589

  Agent of Influence – the simplest and most direct method of affecting a foreign government’s actions. An agent whose task is to influence directly government policy rather than to collect information.

  (From Silent Warfare, Understanding The World Of Intelligence by Abram N. Shulsky and Gary J. Schmitt Copyright 2002, Potomac Books Inc. Third Edition)

  “That the Turks should be deprived of Constantinople is, in my opinion, inevitable and desirable as the crowning evidence of their defeat in war; and I believe that it will be accepted with whatever wrathful reluctance by the Eastern world. But when it is realized that the fugitives are to be kicked from pillar to post and that there is to be practically no Turkish Empire and probably no Caliphate at all, I believe that we shall be giving a most dangerous and most unnecessary stimulus to Moslem passions throughout the Eastern world and that sullen resentment may easily burst into savage frenzy.”

  Lord George Curzon, Foreign Secretary of Great Britain, speaking to the Western powers at the peace conference in Paris in 1919. (From Paris, 1919 by Margaret Macmillan, Published by Random House)

  “I am more and more convinced that man is a dangerous creature; and that power, whether vested in many or a few, is ever grasping, and, like the grave, cries, ‘Give, give.’”

  Abigail Adams, wife of the second President, John Adams, in a 1775 letter to her husband.

  Prologue

  Cairo, 1967

  Streaks of white flames flashed across the night sky, followed immediately by thunderclaps of explosions that rattled the building every few minutes. A few of the windows were shattered due to the violent explosion of a missile that landed only a few blocks away.

  Ayman al-Zawahiri stood at the threshold of one of the jagged holes where a window used to be and looked down at the dusty street below. The roads and alleyways were deserted except for the occasional military vehicle that tore down the street with a load of soldiers being rushed to the front. Anyone with common sense was huddled in their home, trying to hide from the ring of fire the Israeli Air Force was raining on the city.

  The Jews have proven to be an effective and dangerous enemy, Ayman grudgingly admitted to himself as he stroked his black beard in a thoughtful manner. He gazed out over the ancient city, and pondered once again what the tiny man waiting patiently behind him had said. It was an audacious plan, that he fully admitted, but could it actually work? Ayman’s brothers within his organization already told him to refuse the man. Apparently he was developing quite a reputation as a troublesome and annoying interloper.

  “My friends believe you to be crazy,” Ayman said as he adjusted his white robes. “They say if Sayyid lost faith in you, why should we be put our trust in you?”

  “Sayyid spent many years in jail being tortured by Nasser’s animals before he was hanged. It was only a matter of time before he turned on us. A man can only sustain himself for so long. And what about you, Ayman? If my idea is so crazy then why did you agree to this meeting?” Aziz said softly as he walked up and stood beside Ayman at the open window. “You know my idea has merit, Ayman. You are a smart man. You have risen to your position because you are an intellectual, and can see through the obvious.”

  The smell of cordite wafted into the window as they both stood with their hands clasped behind their backs. They watched the city several stories below them slowly begin to come back to life. The last bomb exploded a few minutes earlier, and it appeared the bombing raids were ceasing for the moment.

  “Your plan is intriguing. I admit that. You have already gotten further than I thought possible. But you are years away from your plan bearing fruit. Possibly even decades,” Ayman retorted. “My brothers feel they cannot waste that amount of time when there are so many pressing problems here to deal with. Killing the apostate Nasser being the most prominent.”

  “If you kill him he will simply be replaced by another; and the other may be worse. My friends in the government have told me some of the people under him would come down on you even harder. They believe he has been too soft.”

  “We welcome the fight,” Ayman said tersely.

  “For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill,” Aziz quietly recited from memory.

  “Sun Tzu, the ancient Chinese warrior. I was warned you would eventually quote him,” Ayman said with resignation. He wanted to help Aziz, but knew it was not possible. “I am sorry, my friend. The council’s decision is final.”

  “So be it,” Aziz said with seething anger. “You choose to follow the path of fools. I can’t help you; but I no longer consider you a friend. When my plan comes to fruition you will bow before me with humility, and regret the decision you make today.” Aziz turned away from the window and quickly made his exit just as more explosions rocked the city. He had preparations to make.

  Louisville, KY

  May 5, 1973

  Eddie Lauren’s body revolted, refusing to accept the 3:15 a.m. time that was being thrust upon it. With a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand, his ever-present note pad in his left, and a pencil behind his ear he made his way down the long line of stables along the backside of Churchill Downs. Fresh out of college, Eddie was working his first Derby for the local paper. A local kid, he grew up sneaking into the track to catch glimpses of the three-year-old thoroughbreds that made the one-and-a-quarter mile Kentucky Derby their launching pad to stardom. The owners, trainers, and stable hands would not be up and about for another forty-five minutes and he wanted to be the first one on the scene. He had a story to tell, one he was convinced would put him on the map. It was a story he thought was being lost in the shuffle as the discussion of whether Secretariat could live up to the hype continued to be the only thing the experts wanted to discuss. Earlier in the year, thirty-two investors had forked over a whopping $6,080,000 to syndicate Secretariat. Two weeks ago his amazing string of ten consecutive wins came to an end in the Wood Memorial. There were now a lot of nervous men in town for the race wondering if their sure fire investment of $190,000 was about to become worthless overnight.

  While he found the story intriguing, Eddie was onto something that he thought could
have a tremendous impact on horse racing over the next twenty years. The entry of Desert Sheik, owned by Aman Kazim, a Middle-Eastern playboy who owned several casinos in Las Vegas, appeared to be the first Arab trained horse that posed a threat to win the Derby. Once the horse was entered in the Derby, Eddie began investigating the horse’s pedigree and how it competed in Europe. It was impressive, and he felt certain the media was ignoring the horse because it was not coming to the Derby through the usual channels. The local paper would be hitting the city’s front porches in a few hours, and Eddie had picked the horse to win the Derby in an upset. He talked to Aman yesterday during a small media event at the stables and told him of his impending prediction. He also requested a one-on-one interview and a chance to see the horse put through its morning routine. Eddie was convinced it would make for a great story if the horse pulled the upset.

  “Yes, yes I would be honored, Mr. Lauren.” Eddie replayed the eager man’s response in his mind. Aman had jumped at the proposal. He had been desperately trying for the last ten years to make it big in thoroughbred racing in the States, and while he had won some smaller races, this was his first chance at winning a major race. Aman had agreed to meet him at the stable at 3:30 a.m. to give Eddie the one-on-one interview. Eddie sipped his coffee, continuing to try to adjust to the abnormal hour as he strode by the locked stables. Even the horses were not awake yet. His feet shuffled along, stepping on scattered pieces of hay, as he made his way to the barn at the end of the row. Desert Sheik’s stable was separated from the others by another one hundred feet. This provided the extra privacy its owner preferred. Eddie squinted his eyes as he looked up, noticing a small glow coming from the stable. Aman must be an early riser.

  “Damn it,” he muttered to himself. His drowsy mind suddenly remembered some additional questions to ask, and he furiously scribbled some last-second notes onto his legal pad. His adrenaline began to overcome the chilly morning air as he realized this could be the beginning of big things if his upset pick could somehow pull it off. As he approached the stable, a groan in an unknown language emanated from the open stall. Eddie froze, surprised by the noise. It sounded like a grunt of frustration. He crept forward, using the barn to shield his approach. The cold, hard ground crunched under his feet, and he stopped fifteen feet away from the half-open stable door.

  He continued his cautious approach until he stood face-to-face with the swinging barn door. The grunts were accompanied by a punching sound that he could not decipher. The noise reminded him of the sound a seasoned boxer makes as he pounds his gloved fists into a training bag. Brushing back his shaggy brown hair, he cautiously brought his head to the edge of the barn door and peered into the open stall. The horrific carnage jolted his system, and he heaved involuntarily.

  Eddie stared, fixated on the unimaginable scene before him. He closed his eyes, hoping the early morning hour had thrown off his senses, but he reopened them to the same gruesome sight. A horse, which he could no longer recognize but assumed to be Desert Sheik, was lying on a small pile of hay. There were hundreds of cuts slashed haphazardly over its body, and the horse’s blood enveloped the floor of the stable in a sea of crimson. The blank slates of the horse’s eyes registered no feeling or movement, leaving no doubt that it was already dead. The killer had a vice grip on his machete, and he quickly jolted his head around at the sound of Eddie’s vomiting. Eddie froze in fear as he eyed the perpetrator; the killer’s coal black eyes registered no feeling of remorse. Eddie instantly recognized him as one of the young stable hands that Aman employed to watch over his prized possession. He thought the kid could not have been older than seventeen. What could possibly make him do this? His mind raced as he tried to shake loose of his fears and decide what to do.

  “What’s going on here?” Eddie asked meekly. The stable hand began marching menacingly toward him, and Eddie backpedaled quickly. He did not see or hear the short, stocky figure approaching from behind. The powerful hand gripped his shoulder, causing him to shudder. He dropped his legal pad in panic, but before he could let out a cry for help a familiar voice whispered in his ear.

  “Eddie, my friend, be quiet,” Aman’s voice was firm, yet soothing. They both turned their attention back to the boy, whose wild rage instantly melted into abject fear as Aman shot him a piercing stare. Aman let loose with a torrent of words in Arabic. The tone of the boy’s response was clearly sarcastic, but he dropped the machete without any prodding and walked out the back entrance of the barn. His sagging shoulders registered defeat. Eddie stared at Aman, not sure what to say, he stated the obvious, “Christ, you scared the hell out of me!” It was not an attempt at a joke.

  “Eddie, my dear friend you must speak of this to no one. It would ruin me,” he said. Aman’s commanding voice clearly would not take no for an answer.

  PART I

  THE BAIT

  Chapter 1

  Early December, 2004

  Forty-two year-old Zachariah Hardin locked onto the silhouetted figure striding across the raised platform. The strobe lights intersecting the darkness only served to enhance her statuesque figure. Even his bodyguards struggled to focus on their job instead of the magnificent dark-haired beauty standing before them in high heels and a nurse’s outfit that could only be appropriate in the gentleman’s clubs of Las Vegas. It was Friday night and the main room was crammed with ogling men of every age and background, each one drinking six-dollar beers without a second thought. Zachariah could be mistaken for the average businessman who just left work to meet some friends and have some fun. He was dressed in a dark blue Brooks Brothers double-breasted suit with light pin stripes that, in this particular setting, glowed in the dark. He would have looked slightly ridiculous were it not for the cold stare on his olive-colored face.

  His mentor had told him not to frequent this club anymore, but he simply did not care. It would not be long before their roles would be reserved. He knew his mentor was nothing without him. Besides, Zach was on the far side of the stage, surrounded by ten bodyguards that formed a “U” shape around him. He was perfectly safe. The only gap in their human wall allowed him to view the stage unimpeded. No one could get near him. The rest of the patrons could only guess at which rich man had a quarter of the room to himself; forcing the rest of them to sit closer together than they would prefer.

  Zachariah downed the last of his vodka tonic, and motioned to the waitress standing just outside his phalanx of guards to bring him another. He squinted as the lights of the stage dimmed and the first deep chords of a rap song blared out of hidden speakers. He had no use for rap music; it was just another wasteful indulgence created by the American public. The music reminded him of his deceased wife. She had despised it, and he remembered how she donated large sums of her inheritance to organizations dedicated to doing things like putting warning labels on music. Zachariah thought it was a monumental waste of time.

  She was working with one of those organizations when the doctors first found the cancer in her brain last year. It had already metastasized into an advanced stage. Zachariah could not believe his luck. His mentor had been formulating a way to eliminate her when divine intervention took care of the problem for them. Zachariah was convinced it was a sign that their mission was blessed.

  Folding his arms across his chest, he tossed his memories into the shadows and returned his focus to the stage. He stared, mesmerized as the stripper began slowly moving with the rhythm. He had never seen this girl in the club before. He watched intently, barely noticing his bodyguard sit his third vodka tonic down on the tiny table. Zachariah unconsciously brushed his hands across his slicked back hair, making sure it was in its proper place. There was just a hint of gray around the edges that he would have preferred to dye but his handlers refused to let him. They told him it helped him appear scholarly and thoughtful to the public.

  He refocused as the woman yanked an unseen bobby pin, sending a glimmering cascade of raven black hair down past her shoulders. She stepped confidently along the e
dge of the stage, enticing the hushed crowd closer with a smile that every man pretended was for him alone. She slowly worked the crowd, smiling seductively while the closest patrons to her all reached robotically for their wallets in hopes of attracting her undivided attention for a few short seconds. She purposely stepped onto a vent situated at the front of the stage floor. A fan inside the vent sent a burst of air upwards, pushing up her ivory skirt for a few seconds and teasing the crowd with a glimmer of black lingerie gripping tanned thighs. She finally made her way to his side of the stage and stopped, her hands moving down her legs, caressing them.

  Zachariah casually sipped his drink, and a cocky smile expanded over the top of his glass. The nightclub had some new flesh for him. He was glad. He was getting tired of the regulars. He found their efforts lacking to say the least. The bronzed beauty on stage gave him a once over, appearing to size him up, and then proceeded back to the middle of the stage without so much as a smirk for him.

  “Excellent. A feisty one at last,” he chuckled quietly to himself. Normally the dancers came right up to him and ignored the rest of the patrons. She was challenging him, and making him work for his reward. He watched her intently, her perfectly formed backside now staring at him as she continued to match the intensity of the music with more glimpses of flesh. For the second time in a few minutes, Zachariah motioned for his personal waitress to come over. He eyed his bodyguards, motioning for them to let her through. She leaned over to take his order, and he spoke into her ear, “Send the girl on stage over to see me when she’s done,” he commanded.