Agent of Influence: A Thriller (24 page)

The veiled threat caught her off guard. She
was normally not talked to in this manner. For the first time in years Sarah Steele felt flustered and a little intimidated as she gathered up her jacket and purse.

“Fine, but you’re
buying dinner. If this is wrong though, you’re going to give me names or I’ll blame the whole thing on you,” she said. With that, the thirty-eight-year-old reporter dashed out of the restaurant. The cold night air jolted her senses, and she quickly slung her coat on for warmth before reaching into her purse in search of her cell phone. How reporters got by before cell phones she could not fathom. She punched the speed dial for her editor and got no answer. He was probably out running. He was an exercise freak. She left a message that she was on the way to his townhouse. She waved her arm, looking for one of the ever-present taxis that roamed the city.  Her composure returned as the taxi pulled up to the curb. The threat from Yohan certainly caught her by surprise, but now she realized that his threat was a good sign. If his source was willing to make such a volatile accusation then it must be true. There was too much downside for them to take the risk considering that the election was over, and President Gray would be forced out within a few weeks anyway. It made no sense to want this information out in the open unless it was the truth. She barked the address to the Eastern European cab driver and settled into the back seat, snuggling up against the door in a wasted attempt to remain warm. The thought of a Pulitzer crept into her mind as the taxi circled around 15
th
Street and drove away into the chilly night.

Chapter 28

Alex Bryce stood on the deck and stared down out at the river rushing by one hundred feet below him. The cabin they were staying in sat on a precipice overlooking an unknown river. The sheer rock wall below the cabin provided a natural defensive barrier against any attackers. He did not know where they were. No one had volunteered that information as of yet, but they were definitely no longer in Lake Tahoe. The lack of snow was the first sign and the density of the air told his lungs he was no longer at the six thousand foot altitude of Lake Tahoe. When they boarded the CIA’s plane he was still in a state of shock from the pistol whipping he received. However, seeing the Director of the CIA at the Reno airport did erase any doubts he had regarding the seriousness of the situation they currently faced.

A crisp morning breeze ruffled the flannel pajamas provided to him by his host. He knew he would only be able to tolerate the frigid air a few more minutes before he would have to step inside the cozy confines of the cabin. Their hideout was obscured by a thick forest of trees that kept it hidden from
view.  He had no idea how long he had slept, and there was nothing in the cabin to provide any information as to what day it was. His only notion of time came from a clock on the wall telling him it was morning. Marilyn must be asleep in another room, he thought. She left a note beside his bed instructing him to make himself at home when he woke up. The note was signed “Anna,” which Alex guessed must be her real name.

He gripped the railing of the deck and peered downward
a final time, soaking in the scenery of the rushing river.  He was anxious for her to wake up and fill him in on what this was all about. He was annoyed that they lied to him, and then gave him some sort of sedative on the plane, but he realized they probably did not have any other choice.  His mind turned once again to his murdered friends and how their families would react once they received the news.
What if they think I killed them?
For the first time he realized he may be a fugitive from the law. His best friend murdered, and another dead body in his own hotel room in Las Vegas. It did not look good from an outsider’s point of view. He made a mental note to ask Anna when she woke up. The cold air was now doing more harm than good, and he stepped in through the sliding glass doors, anxious to pour a cup of coffee from the machine that had just stopped percolating. He would have preferred something else to drink, but it was all he could find.

             
“Pour me a cup if you don’t mind,” Anna said as she appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. 

Alex looked up front the kitchen table
, caught off guard by her voice. “Sure. Sorry didn’t hear you there,” he stammered. “You always move around that quietly?”

“Helps keep me alive. Pour me a cup.
Black. I’ll be back in a sec.” A few minutes later she reappeared and sat across from him at the table. The rusty metal table looked like it belonged in a kitchen from the 1950s, and it rattled as they both tried to get comfortable.  Alex kept his head down while he sipped the steaming brew, letting the heat of the liquid envelope his face.

“How do you feel?” she asked. Her eyes bore into him, looking for any signs of frustration. She saw none.

              “Okay. A little groggy, I guess. How long have I been out?”             

              “Just a day. It’s Tuesday morning.” She gestured to the clock perched atop the wood paneled wall of the kitchen, indicating it was almost nine a.m.

“Where are we? If you don’t mind my asking.” Alex sat up and looked straight at her. Her jet-black hair was disheveled, but h
er face looked just as good as before. He thought make up would be a detriment to her looks.  It would only serve to hide her natural beauty.

             
“Somewhere in Virginia. I’ve been told that’s all I can say right now.” She looked at him, waiting for the response.

“Close to D.C.?” He continued prying for information.

              “A few hours away. I apologize for sneaking that pill into your drink, but I figured you wouldn’t voluntarily take it. We also needed some time to decide what to do with you. You were pretty high strung when we got on the plane, and people that aren’t used to killing normally don’t react too well when they first do the deed.” She gripped her unruly hair and put it into a ponytail so it would be out of the way.

The vision of the man coming through the window forced its way back into Alex’s mind. He remembered firing off several shots, and not being sure if any of them had even hit the mark. Now he knew. “Well, I’m still here so I’ll take that as a good sign.”

              “It is. But you and I are going to have to lay low for a few weeks. Besides, you can actually be of some use to me now. We have a lot of research to do to see if my escapades in Nevada were actually worth it. Malcolm is back in D.C. He couldn’t afford to be gone any longer than a day. If he doesn’t show up at certain functions people will start asking questions, and right now he needs to keep a low profile.” Anna stood up and looked out the bulletproof glass doors that provided the spectacular view of the river.

“What kind of research can we do in this place?” Alex motioned towards the rustic confines that appeared to surround them.
The kitchen floor was sub-flooring with no vinyl or tile, and the carpet in his bedroom and the hallway was as old as the cabin.

             
“Don’t worry about that. This house belongs to the Agency, and we’ve plenty of computers here to access any information we need. We can even tap into Desist if necessary,” Anna said, referring to the counterterrorist computer system the CIA shared with the FBI and a host of other government agencies. “Everything is hidden behind all the locked doors you probably tried to open while I was asleep. This is not just some hideaway for fugitives.”

“What about your prize you brought back from Vegas? Do I finally get to find out what the hell it is?” Alex asked.

She nodded in the affirmative. “Later. Let me take a shower, and then we’ll head upstairs.  I scanned it into the computer. It’s possible you may actually be of some assistance. The trial of the terrorist cell in Indianapolis you worked on certainly was a good background for you. That was why you were hired in the first place.” She turned around to face him. “Anyway, give me an hour to refresh myself, and then we’ll get to work.” Anna sat her empty mug down and walked down the short hallway, not waiting for a reply.

Alex heard the bathroom door shut, and he stared blankly into the front sitting room of the cabin. He was not sure if he should be relieved that he was finally going to get some real answers or petrified that he was about to be brought into something that seemed to be growing more dangerous by the second.

Chapter 29

Washington D.C., White House

Allan Gray slammed the newspaper against his desk, and punched the code for his secretary for the third time in thirty minutes. “Is Bret here yet?” His anger and frustration boiled to the surface. His always-cheerful secretary repeated her negative reply, and he disconnected the line before she could say anything else.  His eyes scanned the article again. He could no longer bring himself to touch the paper. It was radioactive waste as far as he was concerned. The headline was his worst nightmare come true.

Gray illegally investigates President-Elect Hardin
;
the headline blared to the world. The article was short and to the point, accusing him of continuing to delve into the background of Mr. Hardin after the FBI had already given him a clean bill of political health.  The article stated that President Gray was on a political witch-hunt, and out to weaken the new administration before it even had a chance to hit the ground running.  When he awoke this morning the Post was the last paper he skimmed through. None of the others mentioned anything about it, so it was obvious that Ms. Steele had landed herself a nice little scoop. President Gray stole another look at his watch. Bret was late for their daily meeting.  The FBI Director had called him to let him know that he saw the article, and wanted to do some digging before coming in.

He was a full two hours late now. President Gray stared at the bottom drawer of his desk, and considered turning his morning coffee into an Irish drink.  His common sense overcame the temptation. It would only prove all his enemies right, he told himself. He picked up a transcript of a speech he was scheduled to give later that day, and tried to make some minor adjustments, but his mind continued to stray back to the article. Had he been betrayed? Was either Bret or Malcolm after his political hide for some reason he did not know? Their investigation was known by such a short list of people he could not imagine any other way this could have leaked out into the open. Should he even meet with the FBI Director? 

Allan felt like he was assisting in the digging of his own political grave at the current moment. In a wild flash of paranoia he imagined Bret showing up with a group of G-men to charge him with some federal crime. God knows, he probably had committed quite a few over the last several months, all at the behest of the FBI Director, of course.  The beep of his intercom interrupted his frustrated thought process. It was his secretary. Bret McMichael was in the sitting area waiting for permission to come in.

             
“Sorry, Mr. President,” Bret said as he barged into the room.

H
e looked as haggard and out of sync as himself which made the President feel slightly better. Bret took a seat on the small sofa without asking permission.

“Coffee?” Alan queried.

“Thank you, sir.” Bret looked up sheepishly as he realized the President meant for him to get it himself. He walked over to the small table, and poured some into the Presidential china. Bret’s calloused hands held the steaming brew gingerly. The time had arrived for him to formally distance himself from this mess.

After taking a few sips Bret continued. “There was very little real information in that article, sir. I warned you it would be difficult to keep this thing quiet. I think if you give this a few days it may go away. With nothing to corroborate her story she could be in a world of trouble.”
At least until I pass on something to her
.
The article helped Bret because it gave him the excuse he needed to try to shut the operation down. The problem was that first impressions were difficult to erase from the public’s mind, and even worse; the article mentioned the FBI. He would have to find a way to let Ms. Steele know that it was a CIA agent investigating Mr. Hardin.

             
“The only problem here is that it’s true! The fact that she went ahead and published it only means her source must be really high up.” Allan Gray’s eyes bore into “his” FBI Director, making the accusation without actually saying anything. There were only a select few who could have leaked the information, and Allan knew he was staring at one of them.

Bret squirmed in his chair, his hands fumbling with some papers sitting beside him. He knew this did not look good to the Presi
dent. “Sir, I can assure you we’re on the same side here. I’m certainly not her source,” Bret spoke up. His voice was defiant, but not pleading.

             
“Well, she is getting her info somewhere. Any ideas? This puts me up against a wall. We have been deluged with calls from the press, and you know how anal Randy can be.” Allan said, referring to his ultra-cautious press secretary who never answered a question with a straight answer.  “He’s going to want to be told what to say before going out there today. Otherwise he’ll get creamed.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think this is the time to worry about spin. I could care less if he gets torn to shreds out there. We have more important problems to deal with. You need to call off the do
gs. Tell Malcolm to stop. I’ll recall Sean from Cairo, and we can blame it on an overly zealous agent.” The irony that he was going into “spin” mode himself was lost on Bret.