Agent of Influence: A Thriller

by Russell Hamilton

  Aziz finally appeared in the owner’s box at the same time Aman’s mistress returned. Aman shooed her away, not caring whom she went to see as long as she stayed away for a while. Aziz frowned with annoyance at the site of the alcohol.

  “I know I told you enjoy yourself, but do not do near me,” Aziz commanded.

  “This was your idea if my memory serves me correctly. These are my first ones of the day so relax. You haven’t had to spend the majority of your life in this country.” Aman was having as close to a middle age crisis as he would allow himself.

  “Yes, yes. Do not think that I not understand the sacrifices you make for us, Aman. One question remain. Are you still prepared for this? This is most important phase now that boys finally make it here,” Aziz said as he sat next to Aman on the metal folding chair that Aman’s mistress previously occupied.

  They were the only two people sitting. The rest of the massive crowd under the covered grandstand were all standing in their boxes, peering down, and waiting for the horses to saunter out from under the tunnel and onto the track.

  “Of course I’m up for it,” Aman replied in a hurt tone. He quickly moved on to the topic at hand. “And how is my new charge?”

  “Sleeping. Finally. The doctor think Zachariah fine. He just need to blow off aggression. Unfortunately it was our horse. Better horse than person.” Aziz ignored the whistles and hollering around him that preceded the call to the post. The horses appeared on the track, and the crowd’s emotional level headed towards its pinnacle.

  “Good to hear. The past twenty years have certainly been frustrating, but I feel reinvigorated now that I finally can at least see the beginnings of our journey,” Aman said with true relief in his voice.

  “Good. I know these years have been harder on you. Stuck here. In hiding. Practicing the thankless art of taquiyya. While we are across ocean fighting for Islam. I know you feel helpless, not being with your brothers. Now, I know you have Zachariah’s schooling here all set up, but what about young Jamal? You have not told me a plan for him.” Aziz was clearly more concerned about Jamal. He was a physical whirlwind of a teenager, already strong enough to kill most men. He needed discipline and an outlet for his rage. Aziz was extremely nervous about the plans for him. They would need to be ideally suited to his personality.

  Aman waited a few seconds, a wry smile forming on his lips while he sipped his mint julep. His free hand smoothed the wide brown tie over his ever-expanding belly. For the hundredth time he silently made an empty promise that he would begin an exercise regime when he returned to Las Vegas. He quickly drowned out the hollow resolution with a final gulp, polishing off the last of his drink. The smell of mint lingered on his breath.

  Aman’s voice dropped to a whisper to match the low hissing of the crowd around them that was now gently singing “My Old Kentucky Home.” The horses slowly meandered across the dirt floor of the track. The jockeys carefully scanned every buckle, strap, and harness one extra time, even though they knew everything was as it should be. Aman and Aziz now stood in unison with the crowd, Aman whispering conspiratorially in the shorter man’s ear.

  “He will be staying in New York City…with a Jew.” Aman waited for the reaction.

  Aziz’s eyebrows arched slightly. The wheels of his mind clearly turning as he looked skyward and contemplated the choice. He was sure Aman was waiting for him to become angry. “That is curious. Either you have done most brilliant move possible or your time here makes you weak and traitor. Who is this Jew?”

  “A friend of a friend in Las Vegas. The Jew is a friend of La Cosa Nostra in New York.”

  La Cosa Nostra, Aziz knew, was a popular name for the mob. “Go on,” Aziz said. His eyes focused on the horses as they approached the starting gate, waiting for their turn to step inside the metal contraption that would hurl them into the race.

  Aman continued, “His name is Yohan Rosenbaum. He owns a chain of dry cleaning stores throughout New York City that have been utilized by La Cosa Nostra for several years to move money around. He is soon to be rewarded with a seat in the U.S. senate. They have it bought and paid for. He has been out to Vegas several times to meet with some of his friends. He sought me out at a party once and expressed remorse and guilt with what Israel was doing to our brothers. He feels like they should have never settled in Palestine, and that they used the sympathy the world felt for them after WWII to establish a state that should have been formed in Europe.”

  “Do you think he could be feeding you line? He could be spy for Mossad.” Aziz chuckled at the irony of a dry cleaning business being used to launder money.

  “I did some checking up on him through my sources and everything appears to be clean. I talked to him a few months ago and mentioned to him that I knew someone who was bringing some orphans to the United States and was looking to place them with families. He jumped at the opportunity. Apparently he and his wife are unable to have children of their own.”

  “So Jamal will join into Mafia? I do not like idea. I thought we agree they have legitimate careers? That is not the way to reach high level of American society,” Aziz said in a tone that was not to be argued with.

  The crowd now erupted in a roar as the metal gates released the horses onto the track. Aman leaned over the short man, and spoke into his ear. “No, definitely not. He will live with the Jew in Washington. I told you. He is already a congressman, and within two years will be a senator. He is going to sell his dry cleaning stores to his friends to manage for him. Our boy will live with him in Washington D.C. In a few years Jamal can enlist in the Army.”

  “Are you sure Jew will agree to send his foster child into army?” The thundering hooves reverberated throughout the metal grandstands as the traffic jam of horses shot by them in a blur. They looked up to see the horses fly by, while Aziz contemplated Aman’s plan. It was crazy enough to be brilliant. They would launch their human missile right into the heart of power. He could release all his anger in the vicious training provided by the military. It would actually be a safe way to hide him until the appropriate time. The Americans were gun shy due to the slow bleeding they were experiencing with the Vietnam War. The protests that decimated support for the war were still echoing throughout the country. Aziz guessed that no future president would send soldiers into actual battle anytime soon.

  “Yes, I lied to the Jew. Told him that the boy’s father had been an Egyptian military officer. The father was killed running a secret operation. The Jew loved it. He agreed it would be a fitting tribute to the father, and of course Jamal will push for it. If the Jew changes his mind Jamal must be ordered to enlist anyway,” Aman said with a confident tone.

  “Good. I approve. It definitely not what I expected, which means our enemies will not suspect either. I have demand though.”

  They both fell silent as the horses completed their circuit around the track, and prepared for their stretch run. As Aman suspected, there was one horse quickly pulling away from the rest of the pack. The red-coated Secretariat came hurtling down the backstretch, kicking up dirt at an electrifying pace.

  “Yes, Aziz?”

  “I want you make sure he join the Marines. I have study American military. Marines rise the farthest after military service done. Plus, training regime should keep him calm for few years.”

  Secretariat passed their spot in a blur and zipped over the finish line. The crowd erupted as the time flashed on the board. The super horse eclipsed the two-minute mark, shattering the record for the fastest time in the race’s history.

  “I don’t think that should be a problem. Come on, let’s go. We have work to do back at the stables. Also, the Jew is here today. I got him tickets, and made some donations to his political campaigns. It will be your job to deliver Jamal to him and his wife in New York City in six months. I can’t do it. I’m not supposed to know the boy. I cannot be seen with him,” Aman said.

  “You are full of secrets today my friend. Fine. I will. I guess it smart for me to make sure pe
rson we are entrusting our soldier to is capable man,” Aziz replied. They scurried out of the box together, fighting their way through the hordes of people now milling about. They had their own Jewish Trojan Horse, Aziz realized. It only seemed fitting that they should use their enemy to get to their archenemy.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Aziz mumbled to himself. He would never understand the personality types like Yohan. They reminded him of an antelope in the jungle, purposely showing itself to the lion trying to stalk it. He could at least respect the fighters among the Jews. There were plenty of them. He almost admired men like the ones in the Israeli army, who during the Six-Day War proved a brutal adversary. The compassionate and guilt ridden, which is what this Yohan sounded like, would be their doom. If the fool was going to offer his services, Aziz would gladly take him up on the offer. He only hoped that someday, if their boy did accomplish his goal, the Jew would still be alive so Jamal could turn on him and kill him too.

  Part III

  THE KILL

  Chapter 38

  Present Day

  Aman’s pudgy hands simultaneously hung up the phone and picked up a drink in one fluid motion. The Blair House may have been the home of the second most important man in Washington, but it possessed a first rate liquor selection to tap into. He dropped his large posterior into the luxurious leather chair, and tossed back another swig of top shelf gin. The mahogany paneled room was full of antiques, old books, and a few pictures of some of the better-known vice presidents. The room felt old to Aman, as if it belonged in another time period. The Americans were always trying to live off what they perceived to be their past accomplishments, and this room was a tribute to those misguided beliefs.

  Until a few minutes earlier he felt like the fox guarding the proverbial hen house. Now he just hoped the farmer was not coming to get him with a shotgun after discovering the mistake. The young boy who called his cell phone was skittish and a mental wreck. He had broken every rule that Aziz had trained him to obey, but after the sixty-second conversation in their special code Aman could not blame him.

  The old man was dead. It seemed impossible. Aziz had been frail and weak for years, but he also thrived off of that adversity, growing stronger from it instead of withering away. His young messenger, who was his only constant companion for the last several years, discovered Aziz’s body on the second floor of the private area he kept for prayers.

  The old man apparently took his own life by pouring boiling water all over himself. Aman shuddered at the incredible amount of pain it must have induced before he died. Aziz had always been the warrior. The boy apparently arrived at the building only to be caught and tied up by two strangers. He knew they were foreigners, which meant they were in all likelihood Americans. Aman rubbed his temple with his free hand, trying to massage away the headache that was rapidly engulfing his head. He dropped the drink on the table. It was doing more harm than good.

  Looking around the room, he could not help but feel like a prisoner. Would they be coming to get him soon? Impossible. Aziz would never talk, and they purposefully kept the operation compartmentalized so no one would ever know the full logistics. Aziz did not even know what Zachariah was going to do with his new power once he took the oath of office. Was it possible we left some part of the trail uncovered? If so, could the Americans have extracted that information from Aziz to help them pick up the trail?

  Pain gripped his entire chest and he grabbed for the bottle of ibuprofen next to him. He assumed the pain was caused by the excruciating tension he was under. They were only weeks away from accomplishing a goal that had taken years to materialize, and which he had come close to giving up on during numerous different occasions. Now that it was so close, every minute of his life seemed precariously too long, as if time was slowing down to snatch his ultimate goal from him right when it was within his grasp. He picked up the phone to place another call. Next to the phone was a handwritten list of several favors being requested by Zach’s vice-president-elect, who was currently back in New York City tying up some loose ends before he assumed his primarily ceremonial office. As the mayor of New York he had been chosen for two reasons, to shore up the fringes of the party, and appease the East Coast establishment. This, combined with Zach’s status as a senator from a west coast state, allowed their political dream team to pick off just enough purple states to seal the election. In addition to these assets the mayor of New York was also a spineless man with no true core values other than power, making him easy to manipulate.

  Aman crumpled up the list of favors and threw it towards the nearest trashcan without a second thought. He punched in the phone number he knew by heart and called the one person who could find out who had been in Cairo trying to pull information from Aziz. The gravely voice on the other end was not happy with the request. He protested that he had already done enough for Aman over the years, and that he could get in trouble for asking the wrong questions. He told Aman he would not be much use to him if he got kicked off the Senate Intelligence Panel. A few minutes of arm-bending and some additional promises of assistance for his region finally persuaded the Jewish senator to agree to find out what he could. Aman hung up the telephone immediately and called Zach.

  “Zach, we need to talk right away. I have some bad news. I’m coming over to see you right now, so stay put,” he ordered.

  “What is it? What has happened?” Zach asked hurriedly. He did not like surprises.

  Aman shook his head in an exasperated fashion. The man had not changed in some facets. He could not just take a command lying down. He always was questioning orders.

  “Just stay at the hotel. I’ll be there as soon as possible.” He punched the end button on his cell phone without waiting for a response. The sense of urgency propelled him out of the chair and towards the limousine idling outside in the circular driveway.

  If there was one part of Aman’s body that had not deteriorated over the years it was his eyes. They were as strong and penetrating as the day Zach first entered the United States that glorious May morning. Aman’s stare was one of the few things Zach still feared. The piercing glare of Aman’s two black bullets were currently focused on the bleach blonde hooker scurrying about the hotel suite, picking up random articles of clothing that were scattered throughout. Every few seconds their line of fire darted back to Zach, who was standing in the doorway of the bedroom with nothing on but an ivory silk robe with the hotel’s initials on the left chest area. Zach kept his hands sheepishly tucked inside the front pockets, waiting for the situation to improve. The woman grabbed her large satchel and a fistful of money that had been strewn about the leather couch. Zach cringed as Aman furiously slammed the door behind her, just barely missing her posterior. The Secret Service would sneak her out the basement of the hotel.

  Katie was a favorite of many of the congressmen and senators. Her only devotion was to money, which made her easy to control. She had no interest in publicity. If she did, she could have ratted out any of the hundreds of politicians with whom she did business. Yohan, who had partaken of her services until just a few years earlier when he attempted to be faithful to his wife, had suggested her to Aman. At least that was the excuse Yohan had told Aman. Zach guessed that he probably was slowly losing his manhood and did not want to admit it.

  “Don’t worry. She keeps her mouth shut. At least outside the bedroom,” Zach said with a smirk. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the narcotic, letting the smoke coat his lungs. A cigarette was still the perfect ending to an evening of fornication. The politically correct crowd continued to try to eradicate smoking from every possible venue. The American populace could focus on the most insignificant problems sometimes, Zach thought as he flicked the first ash into an ashtray on a table. It was this short attention span that was so useful in the campaigns he ran over the years.

  Now all that frivolous politicking was finally paying off. He was at a point he never thought he would actually reach. He could still vividly recall his arrival
in the United States, hidden in plain sight as a stable hand for Aziz and his horse. The old man had been like a father to him while in Cairo, rescuing him when he was at his darkest point and showing him a way out of the black hole.

  The streets of Cairo were a confusing place in the 1960s. The population was torn between Nasser’s pseudo-socialistic regime, and the rising influence of the revolutionaries calling for a return to a pure Islamist state. There were thousands of children born after WWII who were forced to make a choice between these two extremes. Murders were commonplace throughout the city as Nasser used a brutal secret police to quell any descent. This only strengthened the resolve of the revolutionaries. It was a battle for the soul of Egypt, and the battle was still raging.

  The battle for supremacy in the Muslim world went exactly as Aziz predicted. Both sides waged a guerilla war, however, the only true victor was the West. Aziz was a genius, a thinker way ahead of his time, as all the great ones were, Zach realized. Now he was about to fulfill Aziz’s dream. With one stroke he would wipe the slate clean. He prayed every day that Aziz would live long enough to see the finale. The man saved him from ruin after the death of his parents. He tutored him on the hidden ways of the world and introduced him to the Brotherhood of the Caliphate, the secretive organization with a single- minded purpose to return Islam to its rightful place at the forefront of the world.