Agent of Influence: A Thriller Page 2

  “Anything else, sir?” Her lips were right up against his ear, but she had to yell to be heard over the music.

  “Yes, another vodka, please. By the way, what’s her name? I didn’t catch the introduction,” he asked as he pointed at the dancer.

  “Her stage name is Marilyn, sir. She just started a few weeks ago. I don’t know her real name yet, but I can find out if you like,” the waitress replied.

  “Not necessary, just get me my drink,” he said as he smacked her gently on her rump and sent her on her way. Marilyn. What a stage name, he laughed to himself. He found the irony of the situation almost too perfect. Whoever she was, she was truly audacious, and he assumed she would be an incredible lay.

  One of his bodyguards pointed to his Rolex watch and Zachariah acknowledged the gesture. It was later than he realized. The Secret Service may be his bodyguards but they were ruining all his fun tonight. He would only have time to talk with the new girl tonight. President-Elect Zachariah Hardin waited for the dancer to finish before getting up from the table. He would at least get her phone number tonight, he thought. Zachariah already had a meeting planned with his mentor to discuss the upcoming inauguration. It would be one of a truly historic nature if things went according to plan.

  Chapter 2

  December 31, 2004, 11:03 P.M.

  Allan Gray did not feel like the most powerful man in the world as he sat slouched behind his desk in the Oval Office. He stared at his telephone, waiting for it to ring. “I hope this will be some good news,” he muttered as he sipped a glass of water.

  The New Year’s Eve party was muted, thanks to his defeat at the ballot box. This would be his last New Year’s Eve in the White House, so he finally acquiesced to his nagging wife and allowed a full-blown party to be thrown. He was no longer one for the late night celebrations. His time as governor of California had forced him to attend more late night parties than he cared to remember.

  Allan felt like he was at a wake more than a party, and in a sense it was true, except in this case he was being forced to attend his own funeral. Most of the guests were old friends or the few Washington politicians who remained loyal to him as his political fortunes changed for the worse. One of the men had even been up for re-election, and instead of turning his back on the President had continued in his unwavering support. His loyalty to President Gray ended up costing him his senate re-election bid. Allan made a mental note to make sure the Senator from Florida obtained an easy consulting job somewhere that paid him entirely too much. Loyalty in this town was a rare commodity and it had to be rewarded.

  Allan now had one more problem he was working on though; one that only a few others in his government were aware of, and this one had the potential to be a true political firestorm. He had agreed to the operation only because if it were true, it had the potential to rock the very foundation the Executive Branch was built upon. He expressed his misgivings to CIA Director Malcolm Ray, but the Director had been very persuasive. In the end, Allan agreed to the operation. Besides, his own political career was already dead, and he could not be killed twice.

  A few minutes earlier his Secret Service agent had pulled him away from a few people at the party seeking last minute pardons for friends. The agent whispered in Allan’s ear that he would be receiving a call from the CIA Director shortly. Allan politely excused himself from the party, apologizing for the interruption, and promised to return after tying up a few loose ends.

  The quiet vibration of the phone interrupted his random musings. He grabbed it before the first ring could even be completed.

  “She has disappeared. We can’t find her. It appears she may be dead,” the baritone voice of CIA Director Malcolm Ray could not hide its dejection. “I’ll contact you again later.”

  The line went dead before President Gray could issue a demand or ask a question. He hung up the phone, and stared at it for a few seconds before standing up, and grabbing his dinner jacket. “Maybe I’ll have a drink,” he contemplated briefly. It all appeared to be over now anyway. He strode out of the room, a look of dejection permeating throughout his normal jovial persona. He patted his Secret Service agent on the shoulder, and gave him a nod of appreciation. “That was it Jamal. Let’s get back to the party. I think I’ll have a drink,” President Gray said with an even tone.

  “Yes sir,” Jamal Mahmoud, the head of his Secret Service detail said with authority. He held the door open for his Commander in Chief.

  The President stepped across the threshold of the Oval Office and headed back to his party. The only consolation he took out of all this was that if the press discovered their investigation, at least there would not be enough time for them to impeach him. He knew his days were numbered when barely avoiding impeachment seemed like a victory.

  Chapter 3

  Thursday, 10:43 P.M., Pacific Time, January 2, 2005

  From a distance Alex thought it looked like an oasis of sin, glowing in the desert night. Southwest flight 3112 descended through the thin layer of clouds without a shudder of turbulence, and approached the glimmering lights of Las Vegas. The pilot gave out his cursory final instructions to the crew and passengers to prepare for landing. The four-hour journey was coming to an end, soon to be replaced with a few days of drinking, gambling, and every other vice imaginable.

  Alex Bryce’s anticipation rose higher as the plane slowly lowered, and he reached his arm across the aisle to nudge his drowsy friend awake. He gleefully pointing out the green glow of the MGM Grand Casino & Hotel like a child pointing at Mickey Mouse after entering Disney World for the first time. He still vividly remembered his first trip to Las Vegas seven years before. It had been during spring break in college that he first found the combination of gambling and late night carousing to be the perfect stress reliever from the toil of college and his pursuit of a double major in history and economics.

  “Michael! Wake up. We’re coming in,” Alex said as he rubbed the palms of his hands together like he was trying to keep them warm. He knew this would be the last time he could act like an adolescent for a long time and he intended to soak in as much fun as possible over the long weekend.

  “Yeah. Great, Alex. I’ve seen it plenty of times before,” Michael said with one eye cocked open before laying his head back onto his girlfriend’s shoulder.

  “It even looks gaudy from up here. You promise this will be fun?” Michael’s girlfriend asked. Michael and Cindy flew all the way from New York, and Alex boarded the plane at a layover in Indianapolis, where he had been working until recently. He had spent the last several hours of the flight getting acquainted with Michael’s girlfriend, and so far he was impressed.

  “I guarantee it. This isn’t just a man’s playground you know. Plenty of shopping for the ladies,” Alex replied, trying his best to sound enthusiastic. Cindy seemed like a nice girl, but he was not sure how much fun they could have in Las Vegas with a girl tagging along.

  “I promise I’ll do my best to keep up with you boys. I know you’re looking to let loose a little. When do you have to report for duty?” Cindy was having her own doubts about whether she should have come on this trip, but she was determined to be positive. Michael had insisted that she accompany him after all.

  “A week from today, I report for training. I was told the training takes at least six months,” Alex said, the intrusion of his new job and its inherent dangers casting a momentary shadow over his excitement.

  The pilot’s voice crackled as it spoke over the intercom, interrupting their conversation. The attendants began preparing for landing. The thought of his new job brought Alex out of his playful manner as he thought about the drastic change his life was about to take. A few years ago he was a happily married attorney living a normal life. Now he was divorced, and about to go to work for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  “Do you know where you head to after that?” Cindy continued probing for information.

  “No idea. They won’t let me know until they decide what they think
I’m best suited for,” Alex replied.

  The attendant strolled down the aisle, and Alex turned his head to peer out the pressurized window at the barren landscape below. A night landing in Las Vegas always gave him the sense that he was landing on the surface of the moon, and Las Vegas was the only settlement on the planet.

  Alex guessed his new job would soon give him the same alien feeling. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he questioned whether or not it was the right decision. When he told his wife he wanted to apply to the CIA, she had been less than supportive. When he actually was offered the job, she lost it. It would mean a smaller paycheck, and it had the potential to be very dangerous, depending on his assignment. He knew he had to do it though.

  The attacks of 10/01/00 were his first eye opener. When an Al-Qaeda sleeper cell was dismantled in Indianapolis, the federal prosecutor in the area used Alex’s firm to help on the investigative side of the case. Alex was assigned to research background information on the three defendants, and assist with the local aspects of the case. The research opened his eyes to a danger he never knew existed. When the defendants were allowed to walk on a technicality before the case even got to trial, he knew he was in the wrong line of work, and applied to the CIA the next day. The new career choice destroyed his marriage. He was just thankful they had no kids to fight over.

  Alex scratched his closely cropped chestnut hair, and stretched his muscular six-foot frame as far as he could as he listened to the loud clanging of the wheels slamming into position. Three minutes later, the wheels skidded onto the concrete expanse of the darkened runway. Like most of the passengers, Alex began to prematurely unfasten his seatbelt.

  “Everyone please keep your seatbelt fastened until the plane has stopped,” the stern voice from the cockpit sounded unusually harsh. Alex and Michael looked at each other and laughed simultaneously.

  “You ever hear a pilot sound like that?” Michael asked

  “Nope. Must be an ex-military guy. I kind of like it though,” Alex responded. As he looked around the cabin of the aircraft he could see a collective grumbling from the faces around him, but they all obeyed the orders.

  The plane finally came to a stop, and after the customary welcoming by the pilots and warnings of shifting baggage, they made their way off the plane. “You better enjoy this weekend buddy. It could be your last fun for a while,” Michael said as he slapped his buddy on the back.

  “I plan to.” Michael’s comment reminded him of his final discussion with the woman who was going to be his trainer at “The Farm,” the CIA’s training facility in Virginia. She called him just a few days ago and warned him to be on the lookout in Vegas. She was running some “pre-training exercises” as she called them, to see how her new recruits handled adversity, and Alex was one of the lucky ones who had been chosen to possibly be put through the gauntlet.

  Alex, Michael, and Cindy stepped into the terminal and were immediately greeted by the familiar “ching, ching, ching” in rapid succession as thousands of slot machines tempted the arriving and departing tourists. As they headed to collect their baggage, Alex soaked in the surroundings. Even the airport had an exciting feel to it. The familiar sights and sounds brought back memories of his last trip to Vegas. Alex, Michael, and a few other buddies had come out for Alex’s bachelor party. Did that make this a divorce party?

  Chapter 4

  Friday, January 3, 2005, 1:57 A.M. E.T.

  “Any news?” Six-foot five-inch Sean Hill said apprehensively as he stampeded through the open doorway. The sound of his voice announced his presence just before his massive figure appeared.

  FBI Director Bret McMichael stubbed out another cigarette in his ashtray, pinched his beady eyes together as if he had a headache, and put his spectacles back on before motioning to his underling to take a seat. A spectacular view of the Washington D.C. skyline was visible through the massive window of his penthouse office. Sean flippantly tossed the director’s perfectly tailored suit coat onto the floor and took the offered chair.

  “She’s vanished, Sean. Malcolm called me an hour ago. Marilyn missed her scheduled eight a.m. check-in. Our people in Vegas searched her place and the safe house. Both are empty, and appear not to have been visited by anyone.” He was regretting this little CIA-FBI joint task force he secretly agreed to. It was blowing up in his face, just as he feared.

  “Shit. You want me to send in the cavalry?” Sean asked a little too eagerly.

  “For what? We have no proof. I’m afraid if we push this thing any further it will get leaked, and then this whole town will squash us.” Bret had been in Washington D.C. for over thirty years and he had mastered the art of covering his backside.

  “I will continue to have the men stake out her place and the safe house. It’s been a full day and no dead bodies have turned up so she could be on the run and just unable to contact us,” Sean said hopefully. He recommended Marilyn to Bret for this mission, and it took some arm bending before Bret agreed to the op. Now everything seemed to be falling apart.

  “Damn it, Sean. We’re all going to hang for this. Why I let you and Malcolm talk me into this crazy scheme, I’ll never know,” Bret spoke as much for the hidden recorders in the room as he did for Sean. He was beginning to think it might be time to completely abandon the ship and go into full cover- his-ass mode.

  “We all understood the unique risks, Bret. We both agreed she would be perfect for this. Besides, there are not too many women available to us with the necessary physical and mental attributes to pull this off. The senator is a pervert, and this was the only way to get to him. We both know that.”

  “Well, let’s hope we see her again with her head still attached to her body, and preferably with some useful information,” Bret said just before involuntarily yawning. He cursed his age. Twenty years ago he would never have felt this tired, regardless of the time. He was sixty-four years old, and there were rumblings that the incoming President wanted a fresh face for the FBI. He was many things, but fresh no longer fit his description.

  “Are you going to brief the President?” Sean asked.

  “Not yet. He gave us the “okay” for this operation, but neither Malcolm nor I ever gave any exact dates. I’m going to wait a few more days and see if anything new develops. Besides, I have no desire to tell him the real reason for tracking a U.S. senator until it becomes absolutely necessary.”

  “Makes sense to me.” Sean nodded his approval.

  “I’m glad you agree. Now go home and get some sleep. I will stay here in case something comes up. If I hear something, I’ll call you.”

  “Sir?” Sean waited for permission to speak. As a former military man he was used to following orders. “Sir, maybe I should go out there and lead the search myself?” The idea had been on his mind all evening, and he finally blurted it out.

  “Hell no, Sean! You stay here. Aman seems to know something is going on. We may have a leak somewhere. I’ll be damned if I know where it could be, but I don’t need you getting us in deeper just because you feel bad about sending her into the fray.” Sean was one of his best operations men, but he could also be an oversized mother hen when it came to protecting his assets. The fact that this one was a woman made it twice as hard for him. Bret could see the worry in his eyes.

  “Sean, go home. That’s an order.” Bret swiveled his chair back to face the Washington skyline. After he heard the footsteps of special agent Sean Hill recede into the distance, he returned his mind to the problem he faced. Was there more to the relationship between President-Elect Hardin and Aman Kazim other than son and adoptive father? He was beginning to think the consequences of finding out were not worth it. They could have their peace deal with the Israelis and Palestinians, just so long as I keep my job,” he mumbled to himself before reaching into his desk drawer for a fresh pack of cigarettes.

  Chapter 5

  Thursday 11:20 P.M. PT, January 2, 2005

  Alex, Michael, and Cindy made their way towards the baggage claim
area, completely oblivious to the woman keeping pace with them. She was stalking them from the other side of the rows of slot machines that bisected the airport terminal. She watched Alex closely. He was definitely the same man. She kept her bronzed face obscured with a baseball cap pulled down to her eyes. A ponytail of charcoal black hair stuck out the back. The baggy sweat pants hid her slender five foot seven figure, and the over-sized Las Vegas t-shirt she wore looked every bit as tacky as what most of the tourists were wearing. The slot machines in the middle of the terminal kept her out of their sight. She picked up her pace, getting ten rows of machines in front of the three musketeers as she designated them in her mind, and then stole a quick look behind her. It appeared she succeeded in eluding her unwanted company for the moment.

  Now in front of the trio, she began cutting across the middle of the terminal. The slot machines hid her perpendicular course towards them. She gradually slowed her pace, stopping for a moment to gather her wits. For the benefit of the people around her, she loitered in front of one of the machines while she waited for the three of them to catch up. She glanced behind her one more time. The cops still had her pursuers pulled aside for questioning. “Come on,” she muttered impatiently to herself.

  Alex and his friends were now only one row away. She made her move, darting into the open space of the terminal. With her eyes staring at the ground, she briskly walked out of the jungle of slot machines. The timing was perfect. She ran straight into Alex, interrupting a conversation in mid-stream.

  The collision caught him completely off guard, and he fell backwards as the weight of her body knocked him off balance. Her training kept her in complete control as she allowed Alex’s body to keep her from falling all the way to the floor. She extended her arm around his back, and expertly slipped a small cell phone into his pocket while holding him upright. “Alex, hold onto this. I’ll contact you later. Don’t tell your friends,” she whispered in his ear as she disentangled herself from the collision. She issued a loud and curt apology before taking off down the terminal, giving none of them a chance to respond.