Agent of Influence: A Thriller (34 page)

             
“Here, of course. Well, I went to States a few times to help him pick out American bred horses for breeding, but I lose interest. The best horses always come from here.” His scrawny chest puffed up in pride.

Colin and Sean exchanged surprised glances. In his years of dealing with Aziz
, Colin had never heard him mention visiting the United States.  He was either misspeaking, confused, or accidentally saying something he had never admitted to previously.

Coli
n pressed the matter. “I didn’t know you visited my country, Aziz. You should have said something earlier. When did you visit?” Colin returned to a friendly and harmless tone.

“Only once
, and it was years earlier. I hardly remember it now.”

***

Aziz waived his hand in a dismissive fashion. The feigned attempt at aloofness failed miserably, and he knew it.  He looked at the two Americans standing in front of him and summoned all his strength to remain calm. He was too old to be playing these head games with them, he told himself. He knew he had already spoken too much. His attempt at lecturing them had been out of a great need to be heard. After years of hiding and suppressing his true mission, he had faltered ever so slightly and let his emotions have a voice. He chided himself for his impulsive outburst. It was the one time when he needed to be strongest, and he was failing. He now realized what he needed to do next. 

Aziz
resigned himself to his fate. He was so close to witnessing it; the beginning of a new period, but he would not see it after all. Trying to stay alive for a few more days would be childish, selfish, and may give them the opportunity to pry further. The fools did not have enough information to stop Aman’s plan, and Aziz knew if he were dead the trail would go cold. His wrinkled face softened its hardened edges for his final acting job. He would have to watch from the heavens as history unfolded.

             
“Forgive me, Colin, but I am old and tired. Do you mind if I pour myself a cup of tea? My body is aching from its morning duty to Allah.” Aziz’s body creaked as he stood up, and he motioned towards the corner of the room where a small, portable stove was set up on the only patch of tile in the vast room. A pot rested on top, simmering quietly and releasing its heat into a vent in the ceiling. Sean immediately made his way over to the corner first. A quick search found nothing of any danger.

“Would you like me to pour you some?” Sean asked, matching the suddenly subdued tone of the old man. The stove was giving off an intense heat. The old man must like his tea scalding hot, Sean thought.

Aziz shuffled over to the corner, motioning for Sean to step back, “No, my boy. There are some things I still do for myself. Not many, but this one of them.” He waited for Sean to step back a few more feet to make sure he would have enough time to do the deed.

“Allah akbar.” (God is great.) Aziz grabbed the kettle of scalding hot water, raised his head to the ceiling, and poured the entire pot of liquid fire down his throat and over his face. His eyes were aflame in agony, and the burning substance stifled his yell as it ravaged his vocal cords and singed his skin.

Even if his decrepit body could have survived the raw pain that was being inflicted on it
, he would have been unable to ever speak again. It was a moot point as the searing liquid jolted his system, causing his weak heart to instantly go into cardiac arrest, as he knew it would.  The blistering pain ravaged his body as the exploding of his chest overwhelmed the searing heat on his face.

The two Americans lunged for him in a panic, and began
a wasted attempt at reviving him.  The brief moment of excruciating pain was worth it to Aziz as he looked into his enemy’s eyes and saw their looks of frustration through his scorched pupils. This was his final vision. His eyes closed, and his body succumbed to the self-inflicted wounds within seconds. His last thoughts were of how far they had advanced from their humble beginnings when they first began their visits to America. He prayed that Aman and Zachariah had the fortitude to finish the job.

Sean drop
ped the body in disgust and pushed it away from him as if it carried the plague. He now realized something that should have previously caught his attention. There were no glasses or mugs.

Chapter 37

May 1963

Flying dirt obscured the view through
the binoculars for a brief second. Aman adjusted the focus as the seven horses burst out of the gate in a simultaneous flurry of hooves. His hands unconsciously shook from the blast of nature’s fury, even though he was in his owners’ box in the grandstands and unable to feel the horses’ power.  He waved off the waiter in the white coat with his right hand. No matter how many times he refused a mint julep, they continually badgered him on their next go around. Over indulgence in alcohol was just one of the many troubles this country had, he thought. He had no intention of joining the ranks of all these idiots.

A woman in the box beside him brushed up against his arm, knocking his binoculars askew for a few se
conds. She profusely apologized as the whiskey in her hand splashed a few drops onto the wooden floor. Aman stared at her, and said nothing, but his icy glare left little doubt as to his thoughts. He adjusted his body so he would not come in contact with her again, and turned his attention back to the race. The horses were romping their way down the long backside of the track, and the massive crowd stood simultaneously to cheer on their chosen horse. Aman followed suit, bringing his binoculars back to bear on the track.

             
He silently cursed to himself. His horse was last and already losing ground with each stride. It was a six-furlong race, not even a full lap around the track, and was not a race meant to be won by being patient and trying to come from the back of the pack. The horses rounded first turn in pairs. The first two leaders were followed a few strides behind by the next two horses, and then the final pairing. Aman’s horse was now four lengths behind the last pair, and his lone straggler was struggling mightily to keep up.  They made their way around the final turn and headed towards the finish line. Aman sat his binoculars on his chair as they approached his seating area.

One of the horses in the final pairing sudden
ly exploded forward. His hind legs tore forward in a burst of energy that ignited the crowd to a pitched frenzy. It quickly zipped by the second pairing, and set its sights on the first pair. Could it catch up to them before the finish line?  The chestnut stallion kicked into an even higher gear for the final sprint, peeling off the distance in incredible time. It tore between the two final horses, and broke the finish line a split second before them. Aman was impressed. He reached into his program to find out who owned the horse. His own stallion crossed the finish line last.  When Aziz returned he would have to have a word with him. The race was secondary to their main objective, but he did not appreciate being completely embarrassed. It was unacceptable.

The crowd sat back down
, so Aman took the opportunity to stand. He peered through his binoculars at the stables on the backside of the track. His left hand casually patted his slim green tie back into its rightful place. The breeze that tunneled through the covered grandstand eliminated any semblance of heat. 

He focused his binoculars on the large pickup truck with the words “Sheik Stables” blazoned in gold across the side. Attac
hed to the truck was a horse trailer with some special modifications. He watched the men moving around it, guarding it carefully. The trailer was designed by one of his mob connections in Las Vegas who did not ask questions. It was needed to haul cargo that was abnormally heavy, and the wheels were specially designed to support the additional bulk being loaded onto it. The men were finishing up their job from the previous evening. The trailer carried the gold that Aziz brought over from Cairo.

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 fo
r 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 th
eir 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.