“Are you telling me this is not a training exercise?” Alex was now desperate for a concrete answer.
“It’s not a training exercise. You were my secret safety valve. Your trip out here coincided perfectly with a secret op I’m running.”
Alex sucked in air. His thoughts turned back to his two friends. “If this is real then they probably saw me with my friends.” He stared out the window at the shadow of the desert, too afraid to admit the obvious.
“They are surely dead. I’m sorry. I know this sounds cold, but you’re going to have to try to forget about them for the moment. There will be time for grieving later, assuming you live.” She was quiet for a few seconds before continuing. “I know all about your background, Alex. The case you worked on in Indianapolis could be helpful in your new job. That is assuming we get out of this alive,” she said with a resolute tone.
“Okay,” he whispered meekly, accepting his fate. He was numb from the realization of his friends’ probable murder. “Aren’t you going to tell me what is so important about that phone?” He gestured towards the pocket he saw her put it in.
“Not now. When you need to know something, I’ll tell you. For now, let’s just say that what is in this cell phone could cause our President-Elect a lot of bad publicity. It could end his term before it has even begun, if it’s what I think it is.”
“That doesn’t exactly give me a whole lot to go by. For all I know, you could be lying and be some sort of rogue agent,” Alex replied. He was beginning to wonder if he should try to escape now. But what could he do? He glanced at the pistol he dropped on the floor.
“If I thought you believed that, you’d already be dead. If something happens to me and you somehow survive just try and reach Sean Hill at the FBI. Tell him you are reporting in for Marilyn, and I guarantee he will take your call, no questions asked.” She stole a glance at him to see if he was taking her seriously. “Also, don’t even think about trying to grab the gun and get away either.” She waved a disapproving finger in his direction, and he cringed at her ability to read him so easily.
“Why can’t we just stop off at the nearest pay phone and call this friend of yours. This whole thing seems like a lot of unnecessary work to me. Driving all over Nevada. Why can’t they just swoop in and get us?” It seemed simple as far as Alex was concerned.
She gripped the steering wheel with annoyance. “My investigation involves Zachariah Hardin. The President-Elect or someone close to him may have an informant somewhere in the U.S. government. I’ve been digging into Mr. Hardin’s past, and someone does not seem to like it. Trying to call in will probably get us killed. I tried to email the picture using the phone, but the piece of shit isn’t working. It’s probably safest for me to deliver it by hand. Besides the picture is just one piece of the puzzle. I need some additional information before we take it to the next level.”
Alex suddenly thought of something. “I thought you said you worked for the CIA? But this Sean Hill works for the FBI? Since when do you run joint operations? I know you’re both very protective of your respective turfs and I know that by law, the CIA is not supposed to run operations on American soil,” he continued to think out loud.
She nodded her approval, and a smile of satisfaction spread across her face, softening her jaw line for a brief moment. “Good to see you are paying close attention. This was a one of a kind operation. Special permission was granted. I’ll tell you a few basics about the operation because I need you to trust me,” she said cautiously. Alex’s behavior was one other unknown now added to the mix, and she knew his attitude could be the difference between survival and death. “I can fully understand why you might think it would be safer for you to abandon me, considering you have already seen me kill someone. But you won’t last long without me. What do you think? Can I count on you to behave?”
Alex bit his nails and looked down at the floor of the vehicle. “I don’t think I have any other option at the moment. It appears you saved my life though,” he replied hesitantly.
“Not a ringing endorsement, but I’ll take it.” She decided to try and encourage her new partner by getting him thinking. “Now, tell me what you know about Zachariah Hardin. Every detail you can recall from his life story that you’ve heard.”
Feeling like a college student being called out in front of the class, Alex began reciting everything he could remember about Zachariah Hardin. “Let’s see. He’s forty-four, Senator from Nevada. He’s the first naturalized citizen to be elected president. His wife died about a year ago from cancer. I think this was either his third or fourth term as senator. Is that the kind of info you had in mind?
“That’s fine, but tell me about his childhood. Do you remember anything about it?” She continued prodding him.
“Sure. I must have heard it a hundred times. The press loves to talk about it. He was orphaned in Cairo before being adopted by Aman when he was a teenager, and brought to the U.S. He was raised in Vegas.”
“What about his real parents?” She interrupted him again.
“His father was Egyptian. Mother was European. Was she from Spain?”
“She was French. How did his real parents die?”
Alex hesitated for a moment. He read it somewhere but could not pull the information out of the recesses of his mind. “They died early I think. I know he says he barely remembers them.
“They supposedly died during the Six-Day War of 1967,” she answered for him.
“You don’t believe it?” Alex could not hide his surprise.
“I’m skeptical, by nature. Just leave it at that. Continue please. He was brought back to Las Vegas. What happened from there?”
“Everyone knows that. He does great in high school. Earns a scholarship to Yale. Becomes class president. Undergrad was in political science. Then he gets a master’s in international relations and heads back to Nevada and becomes a congressman, then senator, and now the ultimate prize. Is that it?”
“Yeah, the classic rags to riches story. Do you remember who led the charge to amend the constitution in the mid-nineties?” She asked as her eyes continued to roam back and forth among the road ahead, her rear view mirror, and Alex.
“Mr. Hardin did,” Alex responded. He remembered the time period because he had just started law school and got married. The world seemed much safer to him then. The peace dividend of the 1990s brought along by the collapse of the Soviet Union lulled him into thinking the world was changed for the better. He thought about the arguments of the time when Zachariah Hardin first began extolling the virtues of amending the constitution. After all, were they not a country of immigrants? Was not everyone, or at least their ancestors from a different land? The time for change had come, and they needed to stop the lingering discrimination that prevented foreign-born citizens from becoming President. He had no problem with the argument, and still thought it made sense. He remembered those days as a rare time for the nation to come together. Both political parties believed they could benefit from the change, so it was pushed through the Congress. The citizens followed suit, and a rare amendment to the constitution was agreed upon in 1995, and quickly ratified by the states.
“You got it. He also made a vow to not run for President for at least twenty years in order to prove that he would not take advantage of the new law he helped to push through. Remember that?”
“Oh, yeah. He claimed he didn’t want to run this soon, but he was drafted by other members of his party who pushed him into it. He certainly has an ego, but there is nothing illegal about that. Where are you going with this?” Alex asked.
She hesitated before answering. “Okay, here’s the problem. It’s the FBI’s job to investigate everyone who runs for public office in Washington. I consider it to be one of their more important jobs. Most people who run for office in D.C. are after one thing, and that’s power. However, if they have too many skeletons in their closets, they are easily twisted and used by their enemies. For a congressman, that may not be a big deal.
They’re all corrupt anyway.” She left no room for debate on the subject. “So what if one of them gets some money added onto a bill that can be sent back to their hometown, and wasted on some bridge or historical monument. Right?”
She looked at Alex who nodded in agreement. Then she continued, “But what if it’s a congressman or senator sitting on a powerful committee like the Armed Forces or Intelligence Committee? Those individuals often have access to some of the same information the president has, and they normally have bigger mouths. Every senator, whether they admit it or not, wants to be president, and they all think they can do it better than whomever the current office holder is. So they show off their knowledge to someone they shouldn’t, and before you know it, someone overseas is dead because of their big mouth.”
“You don’t trust him to keep certain things private regarding CIA activities?” Alex asked.
“No, I don’t. But that’s only part of it. Let’s just say I am uneasy with the prospect of him becoming Commander in Chief.”
“Why?” he asked. She was still dancing around the question, and it was becoming tiresome.
“The problem with Mr. Hardin is that it has been nearly impossible to find out anything about his childhood in Egypt. When they pushed through the amendment, no one thought about how difficult it would be to do background checks on candidates like him. A lot of these countries have not kept very good records of deaths, births, and things of that nature. The FBI likes to employ a full cavity search when they look into the backgrounds of candidates. With Hardin, they were hitting a dead end. He was not brought to the States until he was a teenager. We know nothing about his parents or childhood in Cairo. That’s where I was brought into the picture due to my…” She tried to decide how to word her next statement. “Due to my previous experience with Cairo. With Mr. Hardin, it’s not what I know, but what I don’t know that scares me.”
Alex stared at the snow that was beginning to filter down from the mountains in the distance. The western scenery was beginning the rapid change that it was known for. He never realized the FBI did background checks, but it made sense. The question now was who was after her and now him? Whoever they were, they were willing to kill, and that meant they were in the big leagues. Staring out the window into the final moments of daylight, the silhouette of the mountain range was splashed with the rays of the setting sun, giving the final seconds of daylight a religious feeling. The glorious sight soon vanished, and his mind mirrored the blackness around him. His thoughts turned back to his friends. Could they possibly be alive? He knew it was next to impossible. He said a silent prayer for their souls before closing his eyes once more in a vain attempt at sleep.
Chapter 17
The two Secret Service agents standing guard motioned Aman through with only a cursory wave. He was the only person who could see the President-Elect without being meticulously searched. Aman gave them both a fake smile before slamming the door shut, leaving them to guard the entryway to the hotel suite. Aman knew they called him the Teflon Arab-Don, in honor of John Gotti, behind his back because he managed to avoid being arrested when Las Vegas was purged of the mob during the 1960s and 1970s. The FBI came up empty during its investigations of the only Arab casino owner. He used that fact on a regular basis whenever someone hinted that he might not be a legitimate businessman.
Aman found Zach sprawled out on a dark leather sofa, watching the news. Aman felt a twinge of jealously looking at his forty-two year old adoptive son, at the zenith of power, and about to accomplish all the goals his predecessors had set out so many years before. Zachariah was still wearing his golf outfit, and did not appear to have taken a shower. He immediately sat up as Aman came into the hotel suite.
“Any news, boss?” He had been Aman’s student and adoptive son for so long he still could not shake the tendency of speaking to Aman as a protégé, instead of as a man about to become the leader of the free world.
“Solomon found the woman, but she has escaped with an accomplice of some sort. The good news is no more killings. Solomon is trying to tie up the loose ends now. Let’s just leave it at that. Have you been going over your little speech you have to give tomorrow?”
“Yes, but Aman, can we keep the meet and greet to a minimum? I’m exhausted. Between the last few months of campaigning, putting together a transition team, and choosing members of the Cabinet, I am beat. I need some rest.”
“I know, but we have to keep the media honeymoon going as long as possible. The only way we do that is letting them have access to you. We can’t have them snooping around now that we are this close. Besides, in a few weeks it will all be over, and we won’t have to worry about what anyone thinks anymore.”
“Yes, but I’m tired of this charade. It has gone on for far too long, and we are so close.” Zach stood up. The exhausted figure that was lying on the couch just seconds earlier was now animated. “I’m ready to finally unleash our presence on the world. The name Bin Laden will be a mere footnote when I’m done,” he said as he pounded the coffee table to finalize his point.
“Keep your voice down you fool. What if you slip up when one of those agents is in the room? We both know damn well they despise us. I don’t trust them. I will feel much safer when we get back to Washington and you are protected by Jamal.”
Aman was testy and nervous, and the mention of Bin Laden caused a vein of tension to appear on his forehead. Bin Laden was a fool. He was charismatic, but like so many of his type he was too impatient, and eager to strike at the West anyway he could. The day of 10/1/00 was etched in Aman’s memory. Bin Laden’s little assault almost ruined their chances at reaching the point they were now at. Aman had been petrified that after the attacks someone would start investigating backgrounds, and lock up Arabs the way the Japanese were rounded up after Pearl Harbor.
He was grateful for the short attention span of the Americans. No one even called to interview him about the attack. During the early months after the attacks Zach played his part as senator perfectly. He supported the strike in Afghanistan that was launched by the outgoing president, but quickly denounced the invasion of Iraq ordered by President Gray a few years later. It was a bold move at the time because most of his own party voted in favor of the assault. Zachariah understood the hatred between the Sunnis and the Shias, and knew that a bloody war was a high probability. When the blood began to spill soon thereafter it helped to turn his political fortunes golden. Zach appeared tough when voting to eradicate the Taliban, and thoughtful as he denounced the Iraq War.
Zach chuckled, bringing Aman out of his reverie. “My own mentor, have you not learned to understand the American psyche after all these years? Yes, those men outside probably despise us, and they may not trust us, but their distrust for us is overtaken by their love for this wretched country. They revere the presidency even if they despise the office holder. I’ve beaten President Gray fair and square as they would say, and while they don’t like it, they would never screw with that system. Their love for their country overrides everything else.” He paused. “It will be their last mistake.”
Chapter 18
The tiny, family-owned restaurant in the swanky Washington D.C. neighborhood of Georgetown was empty except for FBI Director Bret McMichael. The restaurant was situated between Glover Park and Wisconsin Avenue, only a few blocks from the vice-president’s residence. It was tucked into a corner between two small one-way streets. The fact that he had never been here before told him how serious things were becoming. Bret’s two bodyguards occupied the only other available table. The rest of the tables had chairs flipped upside down, resting on top of them. The sign on the front door of the café read “closed for fumigation.” Bret thought the sign might hurt business, though he doubted the CIA Director was concerned about the profitability of his little safe house.
Their meeting scheduled for earlier in the day had been cancelled, and he received a cryptic call an hour ago to meet here for a discussion. He presumed Malcolm preferred meeting near
his alma mater, which was not far away, but he was distressed that he had never heard of this place before. He thought he knew the locations of all Malcolm’s safe houses. He made a mental note to castigate the people who were supposed to keep track of these places for him. Malcolm was crafty. Bret had to give him credit for that. The man had not been in the field for more than ten years, yet he still was operationally sound.
He just hoped Malcolm would have some new information that would make his decision a little easier. They were in uncharted territory, jointly investigating the President-Elect of the United States, and they were swapping field agents in the same manner George Steinbrenner swapped free agents for Bret’s beloved Yankees. The number of laws they bent, or outright broke, was staggering, and he was desperately searching for a way out of his predicament. He fidgeted in his chair, sipped his water, and glanced around the room nervously. Where was that son of a bitch? He glanced at his watch. Malcolm loved to make you wait.
The two black Chevrolet Suburbans appeared from a side street just as Bret turned off his cell phone. They pulled up to the front of the café and three bodyguards jumped out of the first car, the CIA Director squeezed in the middle of them like a Hollywood star trying to avoid being photographed by the paparazzi. Two of the three remained at the outside entrance while the last one escorted Malcolm Ray into the café. One of the vehicles disappeared. Bret watched with amusement. He knew it would be heading around to the back entrance to make sure no trouble originated there. The CIA Director sat down and waved his guard away, indicating for him to go chat with Bret’s men on the other end of the eatery.
“I’ve never been to this place before,” Bret said in greeting. He did not try to hide his annoyance with Malcolm’s tardiness.
“It’s an old college hang out of mine. The owner and I go way back,” Malcolm Ray responded. Bret smirked at the comment, assuming this meant Malcolm owned the place.
Agent of Influence: A Thriller Page 10
