Aman assumed the gold was part of a horde that Aziz had come across during World War II, but his friend always refused to divulge the information. He heard rumors that Aziz smuggled some of his gold into Macao and sold it to the mysterious Dr. PJ Lobo, a wealthy recluse who made millions of dollars smuggling commodities between Hong Kong and Communist China. The Chinese price for gold was over fifty dollars an ounce, and Aziz could make millions with almost no risk. All Aman knew was that he was given a portion of the gold to do as he pleased, and that was all he wanted to know.
The gold would be melted down and used as additional financing for their ultimate goal. The revenue the casino generated would be more than enough for a normal gangster, but not for Aman. He had a lot of pockets to line, or wetting beaks, as some of the Italians around Las Vegas liked to put it. Bringing in the money was turning out to be the easy part however; Aziz’s job in Cairo was proving to be more of a challenge. He had not had a chance to speak to Aziz one-on-one yet, and Aman prayed that he would soon be told a more concrete plan of how they were going to attack America and its minions.
The last few years had been hard on all of them. Aman hated America, but he resigned himself to the fact that he would probably be here for the rest of his life. Their friend and mentor Sayyid Qutb was rotting in prison. The socialist dictator Nasser was just waiting for the chance to execute him without causing a riot in the slums of Cairo. The thought of the leader of Egypt infuriated Aman. Nasser had risen to power after angry mobs rampaged through the city of Cairo ten years earlier. Nasser was assisted by many friends of Aman, and he had promised an Islamist government. Instead, he turned to the godless communists for assistance. Now all Aman could do was watch from an ocean away, and hope Nasser would be assassinated.
Aman watched the men close up the trailer and slam the bulky padlock down to seal it. The normal openings around the top where one would ordinarily see horses had been boarded up to prevent any nosy civilians from trying to peak in. He scanned the area around the trailer. Where was Aziz? He had not seen him yet. The idiot was supposed to be supervising the loading. A bony hand touched him daintily on the shoulder. Aman swung around. A large smile appeared under Aziz’s thick glasses.
“Sorry about horse. He not handle the ocean trip. I afraid of that. Come. We talk,” Aziz demanded.
Aman followed his superior out of the crowded grandstand, and they walked over to the stables for some privacy. Aziz sat on one of the bales of hay in the empty stall, his legs weary from a day of running about the track, supervising their smuggling operation and trying to get the horse ready. The horse’s preparation suffered greatly due to his dual tasks, but it had to be done. As much as they both wanted to be successful, winning horse races paled in comparison to their ultimate goal. Aziz took a long drag from his cigarette and deposited the ashes carefully on the floor, crushing them with his foot. He immediately lit another one.
“How are things in Cairo? Are they as bad as what I’m hearing?” Aman asked as he lit his own cigarette.
“Yes, almost all brothers dead. Sayyid, as you know, is in jail. He will be killed soon. Nasser hate him, and our brethren in Muslim Brotherhood grow more impatient every day. They only help wretches of society. We should have killed leaders of Brotherhood. Their answer to everything is violence without thought to consequences. Even if they succeed, their own regime will not last. They do not see real enemy. Fighting each other get us nowhere good.”
Aman fingered the buttons of his sport coat, shook it off, and hung it on a hook in the barn. His muscular physique was beginning to show its first signs of turning pudgy. The hours he spent in his offices in Las Vegas were catching up with him. “I understand their frustrations. You know I have struggled with our chosen path as well, Aziz. It is difficult even for me to come to grips with it sometimes.”
Aziz switched to Arabic so there would be no misunderstanding as to their ultimate goal. “That is the price we have to pay. Our path is correct Aman. It is the most difficult, but it is correct. We both know it. The problem is that it provides no instant gratification for the hoodlums Sayyid counted on to terrorize those government officials. I was always concerned that his fiery rhetoric would bring us to this point. Yes, they certainly helped swell the ranks of our recruits, but most of those recruits chose the easy path offered by the Muslim Brotherhood. Even Sayyid seems to be siding with them from his prison cell. Aman, I am paying our few remaining members more and more money every day. I know money is not what drives them, but they can use it to keep their families content and happy. As long as their families are happy, they can do as they please. Our ranks may be small, but they have never been more dedicated.”
“Good. If I have any excess funds I will send some back to you as an added precaution. Now, how is your search going? That is our only hope if we’re going to succeed. Last time we spoke you told me we had some candidates. How are things progressing?” Aman asked nervously.
“Things are proving to be more difficult than I originally anticipated, but I believe they are our best hope.” Aziz stood up before continuing, “The boys are finally showing the promise I saw in them. They are both staying with the doctor, and being examined and tested. They have both excelled in their schooling, and after a year under my control they still possess a strong resolve.” Aziz’s normally whispered tone was buoyant as he delivered the news.
“How did they become orphans?” Aman asked.
“The younger one’s father was killed by the Israelis. At least this is what he claims. His mother had no money, no way to survive, and she turned to prostitution. She was knifed by her own pimp, and her son was kicked out of their apartment. Tossed into the streets. He hates everyone. He has a streak of volatility, but I have controlled him. He just needs to be pointed towards the target.”
“And the other one?”
“ He is even better. He is educated and is clearly of high intelligence. He is of mixed ancestry, which could be of great use to us if he makes it as far as we hope. His mother was European, French to be exact. She was killed during the brief scuffle for the Suez Canal. A bomb from an Israeli or American fighter jet went astray and destroyed their house when she was the only one home. His father is actually still alive, but he is a colonel in the Egyptian army. They were never married. The boy is a result of a one-night fling, and the woman hid the boy from the father. The man recently found out he has a son, and is trying desperately to get him back.
“I will not allow this to happen, of course. I’m already working on arrangements to have the father killed in the proper fashion. This will cement the son’s loyalty to our cause. We found him wandering the streets right after his mother was killed, muttering about revenge. He was formulating a suicidal plan on the American Embassy. The child has a temper, but he is smart.
“How will you deal with his father?” Aman asked.
“I have found out through our channels that his father has additional duties besides just being a colonel. That is merely a cover. He runs dangerous missions into Israel and some of the other surrounding states, meeting with men willing to sell out their governments for money. He is a collector of information. It will be easy to make him vanish, and even easier to show the son who is to blame. I am already working on the story to feed him. We should be able to refocus his anger over the span of a few years. I will let you know more details at the appropriate time. For now, the doctor will have the final say, and then I will begin more intensive training for them.” Aziz inhaled one final drag before dropping the butt of his second cigarette to the floor and smashing it out with his foot. “The American brands just do not compare to what I get at home.” He pointed at the crushed pile of tobacco.
Aman breathed deeply, and then flicked his own cigarette out the window onto the dirt path outside the stable. He was truly relieved to hear some good news from home, but he was exasperated with the reality of having to wait longer.
“You must continue to be vigilant for us, Aman. Your time will
come.” Aziz watched him carefully. Aman had been working undercover in the United States full time for over eight years now, and Aziz wondered if he was beginning to turn soft. It was always a danger. One could only hide among enemies for so long before unconsciously becoming like them. Aziz knew this from first hand experience. It almost happened to him during World War II. A double life was hard, but Aman was the only one of their group with experience living in America. He was their only hope of keeping a presence in the country.
Aman straightened up and addressed his superior in a respectful tone. “I know. I am preparing the way as you ordered. Still, I feel like I’m not doing my part. I need to do more for the cause.”
“Patience, patience, my friend.” Aziz walked over and patted his friend on the back. He switched back to English for the remainder of the conversation. “I have idea, Aman. It will be five years before I return. Until then, you need to have party.”
“Excuse me, sir. I do not know what you mean.”
“Have a little American fun. Forget about your duties as Muslim. Drink and party with your American friends. They will then like you more. Sleep with their whores. Have fun. But just be prepared for our next meeting. After that, your life will be one purpose.” Aziz stopped and then thought of one more thing. “I want you to be such degenerate American waste by time I come back, you will have to spend rest of your life praying to Allah for forgiveness.”
Aman looked at him in a quizzical manner. “Aziz, I don’t know if this is the best.”
“Do it.” The silky voice reverted into the tone of a commander. “Just be ready when I call.” Aziz marched out of the stable to prepare for his journey home.
“As you wish,” Aman whispered softly as the stable door slammed shut.
***
May 5, 1973
Aman adjusted his seersucker suit for the sixth time as the security guards of Churchill Downs parted the crowds so he could squeeze through the “owners only” entrance. He casually flashed his badge to the guard standing watch at the front of the paddock area. The guard acknowledged him with a brief nod before motioning Aman to pass. His day had been awful so far. His prized horse sliced to pieces by that fool of a stable boy; the same boy he was now under orders to raise in the U.S. as his own son. The horse had been carefully packed up and locked away before any inquest could be made. He reported the horse dead from a bacterial infection.
A record crowd of 134,476 had packed themselves in to watch the great Secretariat run a race. They were in a frenzy now that the Derby was less than two hours away. Aman no longer cared. He just wanted to finish his job and get the hell out of here. The track manager had already expressed his great sorrow at Desert Sheik’s sudden death. He pleaded with Aman to stay, but said he understood if he wanted to leave.
Despite the cool day Aman was sweating profusely. His white shirt looked more like a towel as he gathered the last of his frayed nerves and walked around to the back of his stable where the truck with his horse’s carcass was idling quietly. The congressman from New York waited patiently, sucking away on a cigarette as Aman approached. They shook hands.
“Congressman Rosenbaum, thank you for coming here today. It saves me a lot of time. I’m a busy man, and traveling this far from Las Vegas is difficult for me,” Aman said. The congressman remained silent, and continued to nervously puff away.
“I trust you received my donation?” Aman asked.
Rosenbaum shook his head in the affirmative so Aman continued, “Oh, congratulations are also in order. I’ve heard you adopted a boy from Cairo,” Aman said casually. His secret hand in the arrangement was unknown to the congressman.
Rosenbaum finally opened his mouth for the first time. The pitch of his voice reminded Aman of a woman’s. “Yes, yes. Thank you for putting me in contact with that organization. My wife and I have been looking for a child to adopt. This is my way of giving back.”
“How old is he?” Aman asked.
“Sixteen. He’ll be arriving in the country next year with a small group of orphans. My wife will dote on him. As you know, we were never able to have children of our own. To be able to take a child off the streets of Cairo and give him hope is truly a blessing for us. Our government’s immigration rules are truly awful. I’ve complained many times that we are killing thousands of young Arabs by not accepting more refugees. And the ones who don’t die are taken by the extremists and twisted until they are handed a weapon and told to die for God. The organization that arranges these adoptions is truly doing God’s work by bringing these orphans over, Aman,” Rosenbaum replied as he glanced nervously at his watch. “I must get going though. My wife is waiting and she won’t be friendly if we miss the big race.” He dropped the cigarette and extended his hand in friendship.
Aman gripped it with fake enthusiasm. “Yes, I’ve heard good things about the man who brings in those young children. That is why I think I will adopt one sometime next year as well.”
“Good. If you ever need any assistance from a lowly congressman like me, please ring me up. I will be happy to help out,” Yohan said as he started to walk away.
“Thank you. I may do that,” Aman said as he carefully watched the Jew for any sign of duplicity. Politicians were not to be trusted, but this one appeared on the fast track to power so Aman was cultivating the relationship. He decided to plant one more seed. “I want you to know I have already made a donation to your senate campaign as well. The government needs more people like you, who understand our two people must come together if we are ever going to stop the killing.” Aman also hoped the man would be around long enough to be able to provide sensitive information when needed.
“Thank you. That is very generous of you. Now I must go. Thank you for the tickets. This place is truly beautiful.” He gestured towards the racetrack. “My wife loves horse racing.” Congressman Rosenbaum walked back towards the grandstand to watch the rest of the day’s racing activities.
Aman glanced back at the stable boy shoveling hay and gave him a curt wave of acknowledgement. The boy was one of Aziz’s handpicked warriors of God. Aziz planned to travel with the boy in the U.S. for six months before taking him to New York City to meet his new father. He turned around and headed back to his stable where he found his nemesis for the day scrubbing the floor clean.
The teenager stopped when Aman appeared in the doorway. The look of submission from earlier that morning was replaced with a fierce stare. Aman was glad to see it. The boy had been rash and stupid, and deserved to be reprimanded. His spirit had clearly returned though, and he looked more determined than ever.
“Zachariah, are you ready to go and begin your new life?”
“Yes, sir.” He stopped mopping, and stood fully erect to face his new mentor.
“We leave in a few hours. Your training will begin on the ride back. Go gather your belongings.”
The boy hurried off. Aman made a mental note to have someone deliver the envelope of cash to Eddie Lauren. He would have to buy the reporter’s silence now that his superiors had nixed the idea of disposing of him in a more permanent fashion. He headed back to the grandstand to meet Aziz for the first time that day.
Aman’s look of disinterest stood in stark contrast to the massive crowd percolating with excitement around him. Secretariat, a horse thought by many to be on the verge of greatness, was less than an hour away from beginning his attempt at stardom. Aman gripped the wood railing in frustration, trying to control his craving for a cigarette and a mint julep. His years spent in the United States were like a cancer, slowly eating away at his core until there would one day be nothing left of his Muslim heritage. It was a race to save his own soul, he thought, and today would hopefully be the first notable step towards that redemption.
Aziz delivered on his promise. The two young boys he recruited so many years ago had now arrived in the U.S. with him as stable boys. They were teenagers though, after having spent the last eleven years under the tutelage of Aziz. Zachariah’s father in the Egyp
tian military turned up murdered during the Six-Day War with Israel in 1967. It proved to be the final straw that pushed the boy over the edge. After Aziz revealed to Zachariah that his father’s death was the result of a secret collaboration between American agents and higher ups in the Egyptian government, Zachariah finally committed himself to the task of revenge. Zach’s English was already flawless, and Aman was now ready to do his part. Zachariah was fifteen, and already a deep cover agent for them. The psychological toll had already begun to fray the teenagers mind, but the doctors assured them that he could be controlled.
The first week went smoothly. Aman thought that taking Zach back to Vegas and embedding him into American society would be simple. That was until a few hours earlier; when in a fit of pent up rage, Zachariah took a machete and butchered their horse into an unrecognizable bloody pulp. They had been more concerned that this type of behavior would manifest in Jamal, who had been a loose cannon in Cairo. By the time he was a young teenager Jamal had a blood lust that Aziz controlled by allowing him to butcher beggars who roamed the streets of Cairo at night. Now the boy was relaxed and staying out of trouble. Zachariah, however, was another issue.
Aziz spent the entire morning supervising the cleaning of Zach’s butchery and formulating a lie about what happened to their horse. No one saw the horse’s remains except the young reporter, and he would be paid off. Aman believed the reporter should have been killed, but Aziz overruled him.
The record crowd was the quietest it had been all day. The calm before the storm, Aman thought. For the first time he realized that raising Zachariah was going to be a challenge. All the theories he discussed with Aziz over the last several days about how to handle the transition, what type of schools to put Zach in, and what jobs would eventually allow Zach to wreck the most havoc were all shelved after this morning’s episode. Hopefully the slaughtering of the horse would prove an anomaly, and not a harbinger of future control issues. This final thought pushed him over the edge. Aman gestured to one of the vendors and ordered two mint juleps while simultaneously saying a silent prayer, asking Allah for forgiveness. The cold, bitter liquid calmed his nerves. He took a seat and tried to relax. He reached into his pocket, grabbed a wad of dollars, and handed the unknown amount of money to his mistress, informing her to wager it all on Secretariat. He knew with his own horse dead there was no other competition for the massive red beast.
Agent of Influence: A Thriller Page 27
