Agent of Influence: A Thriller (2 page)

He continued his cautious approach until he stood face-to-face with the swinging barn door. The grunts were accompanied by a punching sound that he could not decipher. The noise reminded him of the sound a seasoned boxer makes as he pounds his gloved fists into a training bag. Brushing back his shaggy brown hair, he cautiously brought his head to the edge of the barn door and peered into the open stall. The horrific carnage jolted his system, and he heaved involuntarily.

              Eddie stared, fixated on the unimaginable scene before him. He closed his eyes, hoping the early morning hour had thrown off his senses, but he reopened them to the same gruesome sight. A horse, which he could no longer recognize but assumed to be Desert Sheik, was lying on a small pile of hay. There were hundreds of cuts slashed haphazardly over its body, and the horse’s blood enveloped the floor of the stable in a sea of crimson. The blank slates of the horse’s eyes registered no feeling or movement, leaving no doubt that it was already dead.  The killer had a vice grip on his machete, and he quickly jolted his head around at the sound of Eddie’s vomiting.  Eddie froze in fear as he eyed the perpetrator; the killer’s coal black eyes registered no feeling of remorse. Eddie instantly recognized him as one of the young stable hands that Aman employed to watch over his prized possession.  He thought the kid could not have been older than seventeen.
What could possibly make him do this?
His mind raced as he tried to shake loose of his fears and decide what to do.

             
“What’s going on here?” Eddie asked meekly. The stable hand began marching menacingly toward him, and Eddie backpedaled quickly. He did not see or hear the short, stocky figure approaching from behind. The powerful hand gripped his shoulder, causing him to shudder. He dropped his legal pad in panic, but before he could let out a cry for help a familiar voice whispered in his ear.

“Eddie, my friend, be quiet,” Aman’s voice was firm, yet soothing. They both turned their attention back to the boy, whose wild rage instantly melted into abject fear as Aman shot him a piercing stare. Aman let loose with a torrent of words in Arabic. The tone of the boy’s response was clearly sarcastic, but he dropped the machete without any prodding and walked out the back entrance of the barn. His sagging shoulders registered defeat. Eddie stared at Aman, not sure what to say, he stated the obvious, “Christ, you scared the hell out of me!” It was not an attempt at a joke.

             
“
Eddie, my dear friend you must speak of this to no one. It would ruin me,” he said. Aman’s commanding voice clearly would not take no for an answer.

PART I

THE BAIT

Chapter 1

Early December, 2004

Forty-two year-old Zachariah Hardin locked onto the silhouetted figure striding across the raised platform.  The strobe lights intersecting the darkness only served to enhance her statuesque figure. Even his bodyguards struggled to focus on their job instead of the magnificent dark-haired beauty standing before them in high heels and a nurse’s outfit that could only be appropriate in the gentleman’s clubs of
Las Vegas. It was Friday night and the main room was crammed with ogling men of every age and background, each one drinking six-dollar beers without a second thought. Zachariah could be mistaken for the average businessman who just left work to meet some friends and have some fun. He was dressed in a dark blue Brooks Brothers double-breasted suit with light pin stripes that, in this particular setting, glowed in the dark. He would have looked slightly ridiculous were it not for the cold stare on his olive-colored face.

His mentor had told him not to frequent this club anymore, but he simply did not care. It would not be long before their roles would be reserved. He knew his mentor was nothing without him.  Besides, Zach was on the far side of the stage, surrounded by ten bodyguards that formed a “U” shape around him. He was perfectly safe. The only gap in their human wall allowed him to view the stage unimpeded. No one could get near him. The rest of the patrons could only guess at which rich man had a quarter of the room to himself; forcing the rest of them to sit closer together than they would prefer.

              Zachariah downed the last of his vodka tonic, and motioned to the waitress standing just outside his phalanx of guards to bring him another. He squinted as the lights of the stage dimmed and the first deep chords of a rap song blared out of hidden speakers. He had no use for rap music; it was just another wasteful indulgence created by the American public. The music reminded him of his deceased wife. She had despised it, and he remembered how she donated large sums of her inheritance to organizations dedicated to doing things like putting warning labels on music. Zachariah thought it was a monumental waste of time.

She was working with one of those organizations when the doctors first found the cancer in her brain last year. It had already metastasized into an advanced stage. Zachariah could not believe his luck. His mentor had been formulating a way to eliminate her when divine intervention took care of the problem for them. Zachariah was convinced it was a sign that their mission was blessed.

Folding his arms across his chest, he tossed his memories into the shadows and returned his focus to the stage.  He stared, mesmerized as the stripper began slowly moving with the rhythm. He had never seen this girl in the club before. He watched intently, barely noticing his bodyguard sit his third vodka tonic down on the tiny table. Zachariah unconsciously brushed his hands across his slicked back hair, making sure it was in its proper place. There was just a hint of gray around the edges that he would have preferred to dye but his handlers refused to let him. They told him it helped him appear scholarly and thoughtful to the public.

             
He refocused as the woman yanked an unseen bobby pin, sending a glimmering cascade of raven black hair down past her shoulders. She stepped confidently along the edge of the stage, enticing the hushed crowd closer with a smile that every man pretended was for him alone. She slowly worked the crowd, smiling seductively while the closest patrons to her all reached robotically for their wallets in hopes of attracting her undivided attention for a few short seconds. She purposely stepped onto a vent situated at the front of the stage floor. A fan inside the vent sent a burst of air upwards, pushing up her ivory skirt for a few seconds and teasing the crowd with a glimmer of black lingerie gripping tanned thighs.  She finally made her way to his side of the stage and stopped, her hands moving down her legs, caressing them. 

Zach
ariah casually sipped his drink, and a cocky smile expanded over the top of his glass. The nightclub had some new flesh for him. He was glad. He was getting tired of the regulars. He found their efforts lacking to say the least.  The bronzed beauty on stage gave him a once over, appearing to size him up, and then proceeded back to the middle of the stage without so much as a smirk for him.

“Excellent. A feisty on
e at last,” he chuckled quietly to himself. Normally the dancers came right up to him and ignored the rest of the patrons. She was challenging him, and making him work for his reward. He watched her intently, her perfectly formed backside now staring at him as she continued to match the intensity of the music with more glimpses of flesh. For the second time in a few minutes, Zachariah motioned for his personal waitress to come over. He eyed his bodyguards, motioning for them to let her through. She leaned over to take his order, and he spoke into her ear, “Send the girl on stage over to see me when she’s done,” he commanded.

             
“Anything else, sir?” Her lips were right up against his ear, but she had to yell to be heard over the music.

             
“Yes, another vodka, please. By the way, what’s her name? I didn’t catch the introduction,” he asked as he pointed at the dancer.

“Her stage name is Marilyn, sir. She just started a few weeks ago. I don’t know her real name yet,
but I can find out if you like,” the waitress replied.

“Not necessary, just get me my drink,” he said as he smacked her gently on her rump and sent her on her way. Marilyn.
What a stage name
, he laughed to himself. He found the irony of the situation almost too perfect.  Whoever she was, she was truly audacious, and he assumed she would be an incredible lay.

One of his bodyguards pointed to his Rolex watch and Zachariah acknowledged the gesture. It was later than he realized. The Secret Service may be his bodyguards but they were ruining all his fun tonight. He
would only have time to talk with the new girl tonight. President-Elect Zachariah Hardin waited for the dancer to finish before getting up from the table. He would at least get her phone number tonight, he thought. Zachariah already had a meeting planned with his mentor to discuss the upcoming inauguration. It would be one of a truly historic nature if things went according to plan.

Chapter 2

December 31, 2004, 11:03 P.M.

Allan Gray did not feel like the most powerful man in the world as he sat slouched behind his desk in the Oval Office. He stared at his telephone, waiting for it to ring.  “I hope this will be som
e good news,” he muttered as he sipped a glass of water.

The New Year’s Eve party was muted, thanks to his defeat at the ballot box. This would be his last New Year’s Eve in the White House, so he finally acquiesced to his nagging wife and allowed a full-blown party to be thrown. He was no longer one for the late n
ight celebrations. His time as governor of California had forced him to attend more late night parties than he cared to remember. 

Allan felt like he was at a wake more than a party, and in a sense it was true, except in this case he was being forced to attend his own funeral.  Most of the guests were old friends or the few
Washington politicians who remained loyal to him as his political fortunes changed for the worse.  One of the men had even been up for re-election, and instead of turning his back on the President had continued in his unwavering support. His loyalty to President Gray ended up costing him his senate re-election bid. Allan made a mental note to make sure the Senator from Florida obtained an easy consulting job somewhere that paid him entirely too much. Loyalty in this town was a rare commodity and it had to be rewarded. 

Allan now had one more problem he was working on though; one that only a few others in his government were aware of, and this one had the potential to be a true political firestorm.  He had agreed to the operation only because if it were true, it had the potential to rock the very foundation the Executive Branch was built upon. He expressed his misgivings to CIA Director Malcolm Ray, but the Director had been very persuasive. In the end, Allan agreed to the operation. Besides, his own political career was already dead, and he could not be killed twice.

A few minutes earlier his Secret Service agent had pulled him away from a few people at the party seeking last minute pardons for friends. The agent whispered in Allan’s ear that he would be receiving a call from the CIA Director shortly. Allan politely excused himself from the party, apologizing for the interruption, and promised to return after tying up a few loose ends.

The quiet vibration of the phone interrupted his random musings. He grabbed it before the first ring could even be completed.

             
“She has disappeared. We can’t find her. It appears she may be dead,” the baritone voice of CIA Director Malcolm Ray could not hide its dejection. “I’ll contact you again later.”

The line went dead before President Gray could issue a demand or ask a question. He hung up the phone, and stared at it for a few seconds before standing up, and grabbing his dinner jacket. “Maybe I
’ll have a drink,” he contemplated briefly. It all appeared to be over now anyway. He strode out of the room, a look of dejection permeating throughout his normal jovial persona. He patted his Secret Service agent on the shoulder, and gave him a nod of appreciation. “That was it Jamal. Let’s get back to the party. I think I’ll have a drink,” President Gray said with an even tone.

“Yes sir,” Jamal Mahmoud, the head of his Secret Service detail said with authority.  He held the door open for his Commander in Chief.

The President stepped across the threshold of the Oval Office and headed back to his party. The only consolation he took out of all this was that if the press discovered their investigation, at least there would not be enough time for them to impeach him. He knew his days were numbered when barely avoiding impeachment seemed like a victory.

Chapter 3

Thursday, 10:43 P.M., Pacific Time, January 2, 2005

From a distance Alex thought it looked like an oasis of sin, glowing in the desert night. Southwest flight 3112 descended through the thin layer of clouds without a shudder of turbulence, and approached the glimmering lights of
Las Vegas. The pilot gave out his cursory final instructions to the crew and passengers to prepare for landing. The four-hour journey was coming to an end, soon to be replaced with a few days of drinking, gambling, and every other vice imaginable.