“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 provide 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 find 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 has 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 C
IA 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.
The driver suddenly pounded on the wheel in frustration, and Sean turned his attention back to the poor excuse for a road. There was another accident blocking the road in front of them. The vehicle in the lead turned left onto Al-Muiz Lidin Allah Street, heading towards the castle-like structure at which Sean was just staring. The driver of the lead vehicle made a mistake, and Sean instantly recognized the error. The dusty road was used more as a thoroughfare for market goers than as a street for cars. A hodgepodge of handcarts and donkeys blocked their path. The lead driver laid on his horn to try to scatter the crowd. It only served to anger them and make them more obstinate. The narrow road ran right through the massive gate of the castle, opening up on the other side. The construction reminded Sean of a tunnel built into a mountain.
Sean’s driver braked to avoid getting too close to the lead security car as it did its best to part the sea of traffic. Suddenly, from somewhere inside the massive stone structure, Sean thought he heard what sounded like a revving motorcycle engine. The lead SUV finally scattered the crowd and entered the tunnel that ran through the middle of the medieval castle, heading in the direction of the revving noise. Dust flew up as tires from the three vehicles grinded into the dirt, obscuring the view. Sean thought the revving noise was growing louder. He peered into the darkness of the tunnel trying to locate the source of the noise.
Finally, he spotted it. A single light in the darkness bolted towards the lead car. Before he could finish his thought a massive explosion jolted his body. The Ford Explorer directly in front of him was a smoldering flame of twisted wreckage. The handlebars of a motorcycle were jammed into the shattered windshield. The limousine driver froze, staring at the entrance of the tunnel, unsure of his next step. Sean quickly turned around, and saw another motorcycle racing towards his vehicle. His driver hit the gas and roared into the tunnel in an attempt to escape. The hasty decision had them trapped inside with the wreckage of the lead vehicle partially blocking the exit. Sean thought there was just enough space between the wreckage and the wall of the tunnel to squeeze by.
“Floor it!” Sean yelled. They would need some momentum if they were going to blast past the flaming hulk. As the limousine shot forward it clipped the side of the burning wreckage, causing the smell of burning gas and charred flesh to engulf the interior of the vehicle. Sean gagged as he tried to yell at his driver. The limousine moved slightly, but not enough for them to fit through the narrow opening between the wreckage and the wall. The driver’s side of the vehicle scraped against the wreckage, while the passenger side screeched as it rubbed against the side of the castle, shearing off metal like it was the dead skin of a snake. The sound of metal on metal was like fingers down a chalkboard.
“That was a bad idea,” Sean said to himself. He knew they must free themselves quickly to avoid becoming an easy target. Sean turned his head around in time to see the second motorcycle approaching dangerously close to the rear security vehicle.
> The timing of the attacks was slightly off, and the driver of the rear vehicle was given a few precious seconds to prepare. He swung the SUV into reverse, causing the motorcycle to clip the corner of the rear bumper instead of ramming directly into him. The corner of the vehicle erupted in flames, but it was not as spectacular as the first attack thanks to the driver’s quick thinking. Sean watched as both the driver and passenger flung their doors open, rolling out in controlled spins before coming to a stop in an upright position. They were both on one knee and had their weapons drawn. There were four loud “pops” as one of the men fired into the burning figure that still clung to the motorcycle.
The suicide bomber’s hands had been tied to the handlebars to prevent him from falling off his guided missile. If the dead suicide bomber had anymore explosives strapped to his chest he would not be able to set them off without the assistance of a beating heart. The two guards immediately began circling the area with their weapons, searching for another target. They stealthily walked forward with their backs to the entrance of the tunnel, using it like a third defender.
The screeching of metal continued as Sean’s driver revved the engine, trying to escape the trap. Another motorcycle engine could be heard roaring from somewhere. “How many of these assholes are there?” Sean yelled as he popped the sunroof of the limousine open, and stood up so that his large torso was now outside of the vehicle. The motorcycle came into view amidst the wisps of the smoke from the wrecked vehicle. It was approximately fifty yards in front of him.
He steadied his Model 22 Glock pistol and fired off a .40 caliber round at the oncoming figure. The figure was hidden by a hood and hunched over the handlebars, trying to minimize the target area at which Sean could shoot at. Just as Sean pulled the trigger the limo jerked forward, the driver still trying desperately to free the vehicle. The shot went wide and the empty shell from the fired round clattered across the roof of the vehicle before vanishing over the side.
Agent of Influence: A Thriller Page 12
