Agent of Influence: A Thriller (14 page)

Their meeting scheduled for earlier in the day had been cancelled, and he received a cryptic call an hour ago to meet here for a discussion. He presumed Malcolm preferred meeting near his alma mater, which was not far away, but he was distressed that he had never heard of this place before. He thought he knew the locations of all Malcolm’s safe houses. He made a mental note to castigate the people who were supposed to keep track of these places for him. Malcolm was crafty. Bret had to give him credit for that. The man had not been in the field for more than ten years, yet he still was operationally sound.

He just hoped Malcolm would have some new information that would make his decision a little easier. They were in uncharted territory, jointly investigating the President-Elect of the United States, and they were swapping field agents in the same manner George Steinbrenner swapped free agents for Bret’s beloved Yankees. The number of laws they bent, or outright broke, was staggering, and he was desperately searching for a way out of his predicament. He fidgeted in his chair, sipped his water, and glanced around the room nervously. Where was that son of a bitch? He glanced at his watch. Malcolm loved to make you wait.

             
The two black Chevrolet Suburbans appeared from a side street just as Bret turned off his cell phone. They pulled up to the front of the café and three bodyguards jumped out of the first car, the CIA Director squeezed in the middle of them like a Hollywood star trying to avoid being photographed by the paparazzi. Two of the three remained at the outside entrance while the last one escorted Malcolm Ray into the café. One of the vehicles disappeared. Bret watched with amusement. He knew it would be heading around to the back entrance to make sure no trouble originated there. The CIA Director sat down and waved his guard away, indicating for him to go chat with Bret’s men on the other end of the eatery.

“I’ve
never been to this place before,” Bret said in greeting. He did not try to hide his annoyance with Malcolm’s tardiness.

“It’s an old college hang out of mine. The owner and I go way back,” Malcolm Ray responded. Bret smirked at the comment, assuming this meant Malcolm owned the place.

“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.

F
irst 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 gu
n 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.