Solomon’s luck had finally changed for the better an hour earlier when Shakir had a stroke of luck, and reacquired the threesome he had lost as they were leaving the MGM. Solomon still was milling around the area at the time so he took it upon himself to assist. They followed the trio back to the Imperial Palace. Solomon instructed Shakir to deal with the single male, and Solomon would take the more complicated job of dealing with two targets.
His ten-minute search of the room turned up nothing of interest, and he quickly accepted the fact that he probably just killed two completely innocent people. His phone vibrated. Shakir had instructions to text him to inform Solomon of which floor he was on. The fat Arab was two floors below. Solomon dashed out of the room, shutting the door behind him. The stairs would be quicker than the elevator. He sprinted down the hallway, hoping the boss’s minion did not screw things up before he could get there.
***
Alex opened the door of his room, and smiled as he saw that the maids had already cleaned up his mess from the previous evening. He made a mental note to leave a nice tip for them since he was sure the bathroom had not been fun to clean. He dropped his wallet on the table, and headed straight to the toilet to relieve himself. The weekend was certainly off to an exciting start. Two people falling off a roller coaster and plunging to their deaths did not relax the tension he was already feeling thanks to his mysterious encounter the previous evening.
He glanced at his ever-expanding wallet again as he washed his hands. His string of good fortune had continued unabated at the Luxor. He was beginning to feel invincible every time he sat down to gamble. He immediately scolded himself for the thought. The moment one starts to think one cannot lose was normally when lady luck yanked their chair out from under them and beat them over the head with it. A quick nap was in order right now though to re-energize for the evening. He started to crawl into bed when he realized that he did not close the entry door to the room all the way. He slid off the bed to take care of it.
Alex placed the palm of his hand against the door and started to give it a shove. As he did so, he felt a slight pressure pushing back. The door would not budge, as if someone was trying to open it from the other end. He peered around the crack in the door and caught a glimpse of a large man in dress slacks and an open collared shirt leaning against the door. It was the same man he had seen several times in the casino.
The man hesitated, surprised at being caught in the act. “Uh, hotel security, sir.” The voice did not convey authority. He sounded unsure, as though he were trying to remember a script he had been rehearsing. The thought of the cell phone and the strange woman flashed across Alex’s mind. Was this part of the test that he had been nervously waiting for?
“Is there a problem?” Alex asked. The man’s only response was to take a step back, and then crash his portly body against the door with all the force he could muster. The impact sent Alex flying back into the room, his body sprawled across the floor at the foot of the queen size bed. His mind raced, trying to come up with a plan of action. Was he supposed to fight back? His shoulder throbbed from the blow, but nothing appeared to be broken. He tried desperately to regain his normal breathing pattern as the man stepped inside the room, using his meaty paw to slam the door.
“Am I supposed to fight back, buddy? You have to tell me what the plan is.” The man answered by reaching into his sport coat and pulling out a gun. Alex lunged for the dresser to the left of him, reaching for a bottle of cologne to toss at the man. He hurled it at his attacker, but the man’s gun already was poised for the kill, its single black eye looking at him with no emotion. Suddenly, there was a loud explosion as a gun went off, the noise echoing in the hallway. Alex stared dumbfounded as the intruder stopped in his tracks and looked down at his chest, which now had a black stain in the middle of his white shirt. The shot did not come from the fat man’s weapon. Another shot erupted and the man’s knees buckled, his pistol falling harmlessly on the carpet and landing just a few feet from Alex. The bulky carcass of the man crashed to the floor. Instinct told him to grab the dead man’s gun. His confusion now turned to fear. The man was certainly dead. Two rapidly increasing dark spots enveloped the large man’s back as his twitching body lay face down on the hotel floor. Standing in the threshold of the open doorway, already holstering her weapon was the beautiful woman from the airport.
“Alex, grab your wallet and the cell phone I gave you. We’re leaving right now,” she demanded in a tone that was very calm considering the situation.
“Who the hell are you, and what the …” Alex got cut off in mid-sentence.
“No time to talk. We need to get out of here or we’ll both be dead. More men are on the way. Grab the phone or I’ll shoot you as well.” The shocking comment and serious look on her face stunned him into motion, and he rushed for the bathroom sink to get it. She grabbed it from his hand and they raced down the hallway to the staircase.
“What about the elevator?” Alex blurted out as they ran.
“No way. This is faster. Besides he may have men controlling it. Not sure.”
The metal door leading to the stairwell closed behind them. Alex glanced back, peering through the small glass square at the top of it. A few people had poked their heads out of their rooms, trying to ascertain the source of the noise. Alex watched as another man exited the stairwell at the opposite end of the floor with his gun raised. The man purposefully made his way down the hallway as the curious hotel guests went into self-preservation mode and slammed their doors shut.
“What are you doing? Get down here now!” The woman demanded from the flight of stairs below him.
“Someone came out of the other stairwell. He has a gun.”
“No shit. I told you they were coming. The valet will not hold my car much longer. You have two seconds before I put a bullet in your head.” They dashed down the stairs without another word. Alex followed the woman like a dog being led around on a noose by its owner. There did not seem to be any other options. They raced through the casino, drawing annoying looks from gamblers, and loud reprimands from the pit bosses who barked at them to slow down. It was still quiet in the casino. The evening crowd was still a few hours from arriving.
As they approached the front entrance of the hotel he suddenly realized he may be an accomplice to murder. He could see a hotel employee holding open the door to an SUV. The young man was staring at them with a look of annoyance. Alex’s only hope was that this was part of the game. The woman pushed through the revolving door at a rapid pace, causing the doors to hit an elderly couple who were moving slowly on the other side of the circle. They toppled to the floor as Alex and the woman emerged from the interior of the casino out on to the front portico of the hotel.
She stuffed a wad of money into the valet’s hand and apologized for being late. With no one else to trust, he followed her lead as they climbed into a silver Toyota 4Runner that was idling at the front of the line of vehicles. She floored the gas, and the bulky vehicle shot out onto Las Vegas Boulevard, causing a limousine to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting them. Alex did not know where they were going and did not care. He just desperately wanted some answers.
“I need to know what’s going on here if I’m going to pass your test.” The woman shot him a look of fiery intensity with her eyes that told him to remain silent. Alex immediately thought of the dead man in the hotel room and shut his mouth.
Chapter 15
Aman stretched his portly figure across the massive purple couch, trying his best to make himself comfortable. The man just would not shut up. He held the phone away from his ear so he could clearly hear the sound of the East Coast accent, while not having to actually listen to the words. The man Zach chose to be his attorney general continued to read through a long list of things he wanted to do and people he wanted working for him. Attorney General designate Samuel Rodenbeck was a typical Northeastern personality who expected to get what he wanted as soon as it was asked for. He was currently rattling
off a string of abuses that the previous administration committed, and how he intended to rectify them.
A top graduate of an Ivy League law school, which one Aman had purposely forgotten, Samuel liked to claim he had spent his entire life fighting for the rights of the poor who had turned to crime because society rejected them. Now he was determined to reestablish the principles of the Warren Court of the 1950s and 1960s that had helped to bring fairness back to the judicial system. Those rights were slowly eroding over the last twenty years, but Samuel was sure he would be the one to put a stop to it. After five minutes of polite listening, Aman assured him that Zach was still in agreement with him, and Aman promised to talk with Zach regarding the additional appointments. Aman hung up the phone in disgust before the man could start in on another cause-célèbre.
After more than thirty years in the country he still did not understand the American thought process, especially among some of those in Zach’s own party. It seemed to Aman to border on suicide. They loved to play nice with the criminal element of their society, as if this would convince the criminal to change his ways. The freedom they claimed to love did nothing but provide a haven for every subversive and decadent behavior a person could dream of. He smiled, knowing that Zach would soon be in a position to create monumental change. It would be the type of change that would create enough devastation so the rest of the world would finally be forced to sit up and take notice.
Aman dropped the list of candidates he had been reading through with Mr. Rodenback, and stared through the window at the sunset splashing shadows across the cityscape of Las Vegas. With the end so near, he found himself thinking back to the beginning of their hunt once again. They had come so far since then. When his handlers first told him about their idea, he had been distraught. Now, like all their other directives, it had proven to be inspired.
It was 1962, and Aman had been managing the casino for only a few years. The profits he was bringing in then were already huge, and he was eager to immediately begin wreaking havoc, either in America or the Middle East. He looked back at their patience with awe. His forbearers knew they would most likely not live to see their work come to fruition, but they persisted with their plan.
***
1962
Aman stood in his open-air owner’s box, gazing out over the most famous racetrack in the world. Churchill Downs in Louisville, Kentucky was filled with a sea of people, and he was soaking in the perfect spring day that the Derby was famous for. The thermostat read sixty-eight degrees, but the cool breeze blowing across the track brought a crisp chill to the first Saturday in May.
If my horse can perform in the scorching heat of Egypt, then he should fly around this track. Aman originally started his stables at the behest of his superiors just three years ago. He had no idea why they wanted him to do it, but he had learned to do as he was told, and his questions would eventually be answered. He now had a few race-worthy thoroughbreds, and this was his first visit to Churchill Downs. The first jewel of horse racing’s Triple Crown, and the premier horse race in the world was the Kentucky Derby, and he was under orders to attend. His stable of horses was based in Cairo, and one of his horses would be running in a smaller race that went off before the Derby. His handlers told him they would make contact with him at the appropriate time. His palms were sweaty with the anticipation of the meeting.
Horse racing, Aman later learned, provided the perfect cover for his partners in Egypt to enter the country with little or no supervision. They received only cursory glances from customs, and it was a simple matter for them to bring in the annual funds that Aman used to keep his organization in Las Vegas growing. Aman still remembered the excitement he felt that day as he waited for a member of the Brotherhood to meet him in his owners’ box.
Most of the other owners lingered around their stables in order to inspect their horses, but Aman was given strict orders to stay away from the stable. His superiors told him the trainer they used was a fanatic, and desperately wanted to win some races in the United States. The trainer needed space to work, and Aman was to provide him with it. He felt out of his element around the stables and paddock area anyway, so he was content to stay in his private box in the grandstands, watching the day unfold through his binoculars. He was studying the latest odds for the next race when a young man in dirty overalls appeared out of the double doors just below him. The man whispered furtively to the green-jacketed employee guarding the entrance and pointed in Aman’s general direction. The employee gave the young man permission to continue, and the boy bounded up the steps towards him. Aman noticed that the boy’s face was layered with a thin film of dirt.
“Aman, they need to see you in the stables,” the boy said through pants of exhaustion. Aman immediately stood up, eager to meet with one of his superiors for the first time in years.
“Tell him I’m on my way. Julie?” He turned to the leggy blonde showgirl who accompanied him on the trip from Las Vegas. She worked at the Flamingo Hotel, and was a gift from one of his mobster acquaintances. “Go bet the number six horse for me in the next race. Put one hundred to win. Take the rest and play with it as you please.” He peeled off three hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. She snatched up the small stack of money and quickly vanished. Aman handed the young man a small tip and told him he would be there shortly. He stood up, and brushed some stray peanut shells and food crumbs off his suit. He glanced down at his mid-section in disgust. His solid physique was showing the first sign of turning soft.
Twenty minutes later, he stepped out of the breezy spring day and into the tiny, dark stable the managers of the track had allotted him. The sinewy, gaunt figure of the trainer was tenderly brushing the stallion’s charcoal hair. The man ignored Aman. Several dirty young men hurried about the stall hanging saddles, feeding the horse, and tossing hay around the small space. The trainer stood at the eye of the storm, and did not seem to notice the flurry of activity going on around him. Taking a hint from the trainer, Aman stepped back into the sunshine to give everyone more room to move.
Five minutes later the last boy left and the trainer ushered Aman back inside, closing the barn door behind him. Streams of sunlight shined through the tiny cracks of the wood structure, throwing rays of light across the horse, and the trainers face. The strong smell of manure permeated the small space, and the trainer cracked a window to help filter the air.
“How is our horse coming along?” Aman asked.
“Good. Praise Allah. He will win if he is not fatigued from the long journey. This is the first time he has traveled overseas for a race. We have more pressing issues to deal with though.” The trainer spoke in a voice that left no doubt that he was the superior, and Aman the lackey.
“Welcome to America. It’s always an honor to speak with a member of the Brotherhood. How are you, Aziz?” Aman took a cigar out of his sport coat, struck a match, lit the cigar, and exhaled the smoke with gusto. The strong scent of Cuban tobacco helped to neutralize the offending smells of the horse.
“I see you have a good memory. I am Aziz A’zami.” The trainer moved around his horse and embraced Aman with a strength that did not look possible from his small frame.
“What have you brought for me?” Aman learned from Hussan that it was best to always come straight to the point with the members of the Brotherhood. They possessed a single-minded focus that made them economical in their movements and conversations. They were true believers; each one of them using every second of their life in utter devotion to the cause. It was an insult to waste their time.
“Gold to help keep empire running. It came with horse. It is already loaded to train for trip to Las Vegas,” Aziz said in broken English. Aman knew he was still learning the language, and he appeared to be picking it up quickly.
“It is truly an honor to meet you, Aziz,” Aman said graciously. “Hussan was in awe of you. After he told me the story of your life, I dedicated myself to the cause and yourself.” Aman bowed reverently as he recalled the incredi
ble story of Aziz; a skinny, short, man of forty years who had already accomplished more for Islam than all the current leaders of the Middle East combined. He remembered Hussan’s dictations almost word for word. Aziz’s father had worked in the underground resistance in 1919. The movement had tried to return Egypt to self-rule after Great Britain and the West failed to live up to their promises after World War I and the peace treaty of Paris.
Aziz followed in his father’s footsteps, and by the 1930s he had developed two passions; horse racing and a free Egypt. He credited his love for horses to King Farouk of Egypt, who adored thoroughbreds and maintained a large stable on the outskirts of Cairo. Aziz’s father was one of the more senior diplomats, and he took his son to the stables often. In 1935 Aziz traveled with his father to England. They were part of a delegation fighting for Egyptian sovereignty. Aziz would relax by spending weekends at the track. Here he learned the intricacies and minute details of creating a champion steed, and the first seeds of his double life began to be planted.
In 1936 a peace treaty was finally agreed upon, and Egypt appeared to have finally achieved its long sought freedom. Aziz began to consider starting his own stable when they returned to Egypt. He had the knowledge and the connections to be incredibly successful. The dream of Egyptian autonomy did not last long though, and his life changed forever with the outbreak of World War II. The war effectively ended the treaty. Britain needed Egypt as a staging ground to turn back the Nazi tide led by Erwin Rommel that was sweeping across the North African desert.
The war taught Aziz, who was then in his mid-twenties, one very important lesson that his father and his compatriots never figured out during their years of negotiations with the British. The West would never give up its imperial lust until the proper amount of blood was spilled. A signed piece of paper was worthless, something that could be ignored. However, if enough of their sons returned home in wooden boxes, that could alter their plans. Aziz became a full-fledged Egyptian nationalist, determined to rid his country of Western influences for good. He used his father’s contacts in the government to put him in touch with a Nazi spy network in Cairo. He began actively working against the British war machine. Working for the Germans also meant he was assisting in the destruction of the Jews, so his employment would serve a dual purpose.
Agent of Influence: A Thriller Page 8