“Mind if I smoke?” Bret asked. “It’s been a long day.”
“Be my guest.” Normally Malcolm would not allow it here, but he wanted Bret to be as relaxed as possible. He preferred his friends and his adversaries, of whom Bret could often be both, to be cooperative, and the best way to achieve that was to allow the man his vice. Malcolm detested cigarettes, he tried them along with alcohol in college, and had sworn off both ever since. Washington D.C. was a weak city, and by allowing his opponents to indulge their bad habits he discovered they would normally make some small mistake, and provide him with a piece of information they should not have let slip. Malcolm eased his five foot ten frame into the chair directly across from the FBI Director. Malcolm’s only addiction was the hour-long workout sessions he put his body through every day at his personal gym at CIA headquarters. It was another habit he formed in college. He found his mind worked best when his body was operating at peak capacity. Everyone else in Washington seemed to think their top form included two double shots of bourbon, and a couple of smokes. He would never allow them to think otherwise.
Bret studied Malcolm’s face to try and gauge his mood, but found the normal blank slate. They were complete opposites; Bret came from a blue-collar family in New York, while Malcolm grew up in the gangland areas of Los Angeles. “Sean got in touch with me earlier today. He’s currently en route to Cairo. I understand your man finally came through for us.” Bret attempted to needle the CIA Director. Malcolm ignored the comment, his cool demeanor always present.
“Colin is about as good as they come. That is why he’s stationed in Cairo. I would say a twenty-hour turnaround is pretty good for government work. The only thing this city can get done in that time is order up a prostitute.” Malcolm used to respect Bret’s bulldog attitude. It was a throwback to the original G-man era of the FBI, and it was the reason he thought he could get Bret to go along with their operation.
It appeared that Bret’s years in the Washington bureaucracy had taken their toll though, and he was having deep regrets about involving the FBI director. The current situation was a land mine waiting to blow up in their faces. Right now he was not sure what would be worse, their little investigation being discovered by the press, or their fears actually turning out to be true. Each option had a set of problems about which Malcolm was deeply concerned.
“Yes, I know. I appreciate the assistance.” Bret did not like owing Malcolm Ray any favors, but the CIA’s man in Cairo possessed a lot of helpful contacts.
“Any more news on my lady?” Malcolm asked, referring to Marilyn. He had not been given any information regarding her time in Vegas since Bret called him to inform him that she vanished. He was tired of being the last person to know, but it had been the only way to convince the FBI Director to agree to the operation.
“No. I’m beginning to fear the worst. No body has turned up yet though. I guess you can call that good news.”
Malcolm nodded in silence. The comment was not worthy of a response. The flippant answer told him that Bret did not take the operation seriously. Malcolm began to wonder if Bret might be looking for a way out. A way out in Washington normally entailed using someone else’s political carcass to shield you as you vanished from the room.
“If Mr. Hill picks up any useful information in Cairo I will need to know immediately. Understood?” Malcolm said with a slightly menacing tone.
“Of course. We’re in this together, Malcolm.”
“I just want to make sure you’re not getting cold feet, Bret. I had a senator asking me some uncomfortable questions a few days ago. It made me think that perhaps someone was leaking information. I don’t want this investigation blowing up in our collective faces,” Malcolm said with disdain. He made sure his glare left no doubt that he was losing faith in Bret. “Those pricks in Congress are constantly looking for ways to curtail my supposed power.” Malcolm’s honeymoon with Congress after 10/1/00 only lasted a year before they were at his throat again. It had been just three years since the attacks, and the Beltway was already focusing more on his supposed abuses of power instead of the crazed terrorists who were still running free. Malcolm found it laughable that the CIA was so despised by much of Congress. At least they hated him until something terrible happened, and then the very same people would criticize him for not having the wherewithal to stop the attack.
One thing he learned quickly about Congress is that they always try to make what should be a simple problem as confusing as possible. Their latest issue with Malcolm and the Agency was the harsh interrogations he was utilizing. Congress spent two months after the attacks in New York lambasting him for not being tough enough. Now he was being told terrorist fanatics that broke every rule the civilized world ever made should be tried in open court like they were car thieves.
The Al-Qaeda types were either going to slit your throat, or die trying, there was no middle ground to stand on. He still remembered when he lost his first man in Afghanistan during the war against the Taliban. His man was killed during a prison uprising. A group of Al-Qaeda and Taliban prisoners had started a riot, and then tried to escape. They eventually became trapped in a basement with a stash of weapons, refusing to surrender.
The Afghan commander in the area sent in a humanitarian group to try to coerce them to surrender. The group was fired upon. Then they sent in the local mullahs to try to talk sense in to them. Once again failure. Then the Afghan commander got pissed off and he poured gasoline into the basement, setting it on fire, and burning some of them alive. The holdouts still refused to surrender. Only after a full day of pumping freezing water into the basement did they finally capitulate. How was he going to get this type of person to start talking without roughing him up a little? Malcolm knew the answer, and he would continue to enjoy breaking every foolish rule Congress tried to impose on him.
“I understand. Can I go now?” Bret asked. Malcolm motioned for him to leave, and a minute later he had the café to himself. He looked around at the politically themed decorations covering the walls. He hated to use this place for a meeting, but a substantive phone conversation with Bret was out of the question. He could not come back here for a long time. Espionage was a dangerous game, and the only way to win was to keep your choices, and the rules you played by, to a minimum. Events rarely played out as planned, but sometimes those surprises could become an advantage if you recognized your opportunity quickly. That time had come for Malcolm.
First he would retrieve the recordings from the previous evening. This particular café was one of the best ideas he ever had. It was right by Embassy Row, and there were all sorts of diplomats who stopped into the quiet little café for a “private meeting” that normally ended up on the desk of the CIA Director within a few days. It had been Malcolm’s own idea; an idea he stole from one of his contacts when he was working undercover in the heart of Africa.
Chapter 19
Alex’s eyes shot open. He took in his surroundings as his mind scrambled to remember the events of the past few hours. He surveyed the room; it had three wood paneled walls that gave it the feel of a rustic cabin. The strange woman who was responsible for his current predicament was seated next to the sliding glass door, overlooking a royal blue, tranquil Lake Tahoe and the snow capped mountains enclosing it on all sides. In another time he could see this being an enjoyable moment. Unfortunately, there was someone who wanted both of them dead creeping closer to them with each passing hour.
They drove through South Lake Tahoe and the Heavenly Village last night. The little town at the bottom of the mountain was like a village from Old Europe, only instead of serving the local townspeople, it catered to tourists. At this time of year those tourists consisted of thousands of skiers and snowboarders who crowded into the surrounding lodges and hotels to ski at the numerous resorts that straddled the California-Nevada border. Alex and his companion were now less than an hour from the Reno airport. Their journey across the western border of Nevada had transpired without a hitch until they
approached to within a few miles of South Lake Tahoe. It was there that the night turned bloody. They had stopped for gas in the early morning hours, and the woman spotted someone tailing them.
A lone man huddled in a sedan was watching the gas station from an empty motel parking lot across the street. The woman had been right. Alex remembered her warning him that there were probably vehicles camped out near gas stations all along their route, waiting for the inevitable fill of the gas tank. She then gave Alex a quick summary of her plan to try to fool them. Their pursuers would be expecting her to rush to Reno as quickly as possible, but she decided on a more risky course of action. She would take the initiative and become the aggressor.
“Alex, we’ve got our first problem so keep quiet and do nothing unless I tell you.” He remembered the stern voice giving him the orders. Pulling out onto the two-lane mountain road, she glanced in her mirror as the other vehicle’s lights came to life, and pulled out onto the road at a casual pace. She suddenly floored the gas, and after twenty minutes of dangerous driving on the dark mountain road she decided she had created enough distance between her car and the stalker’s vehicle. On the outskirts of the small town, she spotted a secluded lodge sitting along the lakefront. She wrenched the steering wheel to the left, pulling the bulky SUV into the lodge’s parking lot that was hidden from the street by massive pine trees that seemed to be the size of redwoods. She hurried inside, instructing Alex to remain in the vehicle.
It was easy to secure a room at the late hour. The New Year’s crowds had vacated the mountain a few days earlier. The building housed eight comfortable condos, of which only five were occupied. Marilyn explained to the manager that her new husband had come down with a virus, and they needed rest before they could drive the rest of the way to the Reno airport.
Alex remembered her yanking open the passenger door, pulling him out, and quietly instructing him to lean against her. She explained their cover story briefly as the manager’s figure appeared from the dimly lit front office. He motioned them to follow, and led them around the west side to the back of the lodge. He unlocked the sliding glass door and ushered them in. The old manager graciously made his exit, informing his guests that he would be going to bed. She immediately pulled the curtains, blocking the moonlight that was reflecting off the lake.
***
“Alex, sit in the corner there. Keep that gun out and ready. I’ll be back in a few seconds. I’ll knock four times, otherwise fire away and start screaming for the FBI if I die. I think I saw our friends’ lights coming down the road.” She disappeared out the glass door, her shadow heading the opposite direction from which they had made their way to the room.
Marilyn peeked around the corner of the building. The man had arrived. His car sat right behind hers, blocking her into the parking space. It was almost five a.m., and the first glimpse of the western day was beginning to creep out from the darkness, providing her with some additional sight. She silently cursed to herself. The man found them quicker than she expected. She hoped he would have spent more time checking the other lodges they passed. Her silenced pistol touched her leg, the weapon providing some comfort as the fingers of her right hand loosely held the gun, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
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 amateur. 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 don’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, signaling 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.” The 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 better. 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 me
t 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 of 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 know 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.
Agent of Influence: A Thriller Page 11
