Agent of Influence: A Thriller

by Russell Hamilton

  Malcolm smiled to himself. Politicians liked to press the flesh in more ways than one, and their inflated opinions of themselves often convinced them that they could avoid any problem with some smooth talking. They felt they were invulnerable, and there were plenty of women at the fundraisers or campaign stops willing to jump into bed with the power brokers of the country. While most of the women were party loyalists to whomever they were sleeping with, there were always a few who were simply looking for cash or fifteen minutes of fame.

  Malcolm studied the notes he had jotted down during his conversation with Bret. Vince was convinced the woman was a stripper. She ran out of the party later that night in a fit of rage. Vince did not want the President-Elect to start off his term defending himself from rape accusations. He relayed his concerns to his boss in D.C., who in turn called Bret to apprise him of Vince’s concerns. Since the FBI handled federal kidnapping and extortion cases, they wanted Bret to know the basics in case the woman suddenly appeared in the press a few weeks later claiming she was raped or even pregnant.

  Malcolm could only guess how the Secret Service would react if they knew the stripper was actually a CIA agent. It would not be pretty. She was good at her job though. Her performance was so convincing that she had Zach’s security detail concerned about what she may do. It was the statement about her being from Reno that brought a smile to his face. He knew how she operated in the field. Every piece of information she offered to the adversary meant something. This little nugget matched with the special sign she had planted for him at the Las Vegas airport. He grabbed the phone and dialed the number from memory.

  “Lance here, what can I do for you, sir?” His personal pilot’s southern accent always gave Malcolm the impression that he was in a jovial mood.

  “Have the plane ready to go in one hour. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  “Okay. The destination, sir?” The ex-Navy pilot asked.

  “Reno, Nevada. Don’t call ahead though. We can alert air traffic control once we are approaching. I need to keep this quiet. I don’t want anyone in Reno to know I’m coming in,” Malcolm told him.

  “Yes, sir. I just want to warn you they will be pissed. A night landing with no forewarning tends to make people nervous,” his personal pilot replied. Intrigued by the sudden request, Lance tried to guess what the problem could be. His years in the Navy taught him to not ask questions on certain matters. Ignorance was normally bliss when it came to requests from his boss.

  “It can’t be helped. I’ll deal with them myself. You just get the plane ready to go. I want a skeleton crew, Lance. No one on the flight unless they are absolutely necessary to our safety. Understood?”

  “Loud and clear, sir.” The line clicked off, Lance had a lot to arrange in a short amount of time.

  Malcolm grabbed his cell phone and sport coat and strode out of his office in a controlled rush. The bodyguards standing in the waiting room just outside his office scurried to catch up with their boss.

  Chapter 24

  Lake Tahoe, Nevada

  Gregor made a left hand turn off of Highway 50 and onto the dead-end street. He immediately doused the lights of his BMW X-5. The two-lane stretch of road sloped downward for approximately a half-mile before ending in a thicket of trees, with the edges of Lake Tahoe just beyond. The small strip of road was lined on both sides with cheap motels that catered to the skier or snowboarder on a budget. They were a few blocks away from the casino hotels including Harvey’s, Caesars, and Harrah’s which dominated Highway 50 on the lakeside. The mountainside of the road consisted of a long strip mall constructed entirely out of cedar wood.

  Gregor eased off the brake, and let the vehicle’s momentum carry him down the small incline. The private investigator who tracked the two people here told Gregor they were staying at the Blue Lake Resort, which should be two more blocks up and on the right side of the street. The night was unusually bright due to the large snowfall that continued unabated. It would soon be unsafe to drive unless one had 4-wheel drive or chains on one’s tires. A few seconds later the mammoth sign for the Blue Lake Resort came into view. A giant St. Bernard with a barrel around its neck announced that there were vacancies.

  “Get your gear ready. This is the place.” Gregor issued the instructions as he whipped the vehicle over to the side of the road. The plan was for his two men to enter from the front, and Gregor would approach from the backside. The motel sat perpendicular to the road, and from their parking spot he could see all the way down the backside of the cheap resort. Each room on the first floor had its own small deck on the back, providing the perfect entry point for him. He counted the sliding glass doors on the back of the building. According to the private investigator, hers should be the seventh one down the row. He yanked the black ski mask over his head, tucked the gun into his waistband, and casually stepped out onto the dark street.

  “Everything looks as advertised, boys. Head around front. Set your watches and begin exactly when we discussed. Then let’s get this offending lady and get out of here,”Gregor said. They nodded affirmatives, got out of the car, and made their way to the parking lot at the front of the motel. They were dressed in flannel shirts and jeans. The un-tucked shirts hid the Heckler & Koch 23 pistols. The safeties on the weapons were turned off. The mission was officially hot.

  ***

  William Gardner Johnson IV was intoxicated. He did not realize it until he tried to stand up for the first time since they started playing their drinking games forty-five minutes earlier. He nearly fell flat on his face before making it to the bathroom to take a leak. I am going to have to stop if I plan on getting up at eight to hit the slopes, he realized as his glazed eyes stared at the bathroom mirror. He felt like he was going to throw up. The half-liter of Gray Goose vodka he opened an hour earlier was already empty. One of his buddies had suggested a bonehead drinking game where they roll the dice and then drink the difference in shots. The game obviously did not last long. The sweat forming on his temple told him he was losing the struggle.

  “Hey, Prince William! You okay in there?” Jeff yelled out his nickname because he knew it would aggravate his friend. The question was more an attempt to have fun at his expense as opposed to being concerned for his welfare.

  “Fuck you, Jeff. I’ll be out in a second,” he yelled back. The taunting helped strengthen his resolve.

  “Good. You still need to go next door and put the moves on our hot neighbor like you said you were going to,” Jeff continued the ribbing of his college roommate, enjoying every second of it. A few hours earlier a woman they all agreed was incredibly hot, even if she was about thirty years old, had come out of the room next door to ask questions about the local ski resort. William had been the lucky recipient of the question and answer session. He may have been the lightweight of the group when it came to drinking, but all his friends were envious of his numerous successes with the ladies. This case seemed to be no different, and they were all convinced that the dark-haired woman had been flirting with him. Now, after an hour of drinking to heighten everyone’s arrogance they all were able to convince William that she was willing and ready for him, and all he needed to do was to go next door and make a move on her.

  He would show them he was still the ladies’ magnet of their group. Spraying a few ounces of his favorite cologne over carefully chosen parts of his physique, he stepped out of the bathroom feeling much better. His friends let out a collective yell of encouragement; pounding their drinks on the coffee table they had moved to the middle of the room.

  “Alright, fellas. It’s time to show you what a real man is made of. Watch me work my magic.” William possessed the typical cockiness of a twenty-one-year-old from a wealthy upbringing in Northern California. As he tried to sidestep around the coffee table his foot caught the leg of the bed, sending him crashing to the floor. His friends broke out in laughter as he dusted himself off and flipped them the bird. He sheepishly made his way out the door into the crisp night air, and
turned to his friends one last time.

  “Don’t worry, boys. I’ll still be ready to go tomorrow. I’ll make sure she does all the heavy lifting.” With a wink he slammed the door and left his friends to debate whether or not he would succeed.

  William gripped the handrails and cautiously walked down the short flight of stairs. The thin layer of snow made them extremely slick, and even in his drunken haze he knew he could easily break his leg if he was not careful. His inebriated mind began fighting off the alcohol, trying to come up with something witty to say. After a couple of seconds he came up with an idea. He stood there shaking, unsure if it was the cold weather or nerves. He crossed the short distance over the parking lot and began climbing the stairs that led to the woman’s door. There was a man in blue jeans and a flannel shirt standing in the small hallway. Was he beaten to the punch? He breathed a sigh of relief when the stranger reached into his pocket and began fiddling with the door opposite the woman’s. William climbed the short flight of steps.

  “Whaz up?” William’s words were slurred as they spilled out of his mouth. The man ignored him. For a brief second he considered heading back to his room, but the thought of his friends harassing his manhood forced him to take the plunge. He rapped on the door several times, the cheap hinges moving more than they should have. Glancing into the parking lot, William noticed another man standing at the bottom of the stairs. He did not recall seeing him there before. He never got the opportunity to try out his improvised play for the lady.

  ***

  The banging of the door shook Alex out of his relaxed state. He sat up straight in his chair. His right hand immediately grasped for the Smith & Wesson 3913 he had been practicing with for the last few hours. His arms trembling, he raised the gun and aimed it at the door.

  “We have company,” he blurted out, not sure what else to say.

  “Hello? I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong room,” William replied from the other side of the door. The man’s voice inside the room confirmed he would be going home empty-handed. He started to turn around when a muscular arm wrapped around his neck, and what felt like a metal rod was jammed into his back. He started to speak, but his body convulsed in agony as a bullet ripped through his back and into his lungs from point blank rage. He went from agonizing pain to the numbness of death within a split second. Gregor’s man held onto the limp body to use as a shield and gave the door a resounding kick, his black belt skills barely being tested by the poorly maintained door.

  Marilyn was sleeping lightly in her hiding place inside the over-sized closet when the sliding glass door crashed to the floor in a thousand tiny shards. She immediately stood on one knee with her pistol ready. A silhouette of a man appeared, and she watched through the crack in the closet doors as gloved hands repeatedly pulled the trigger of a silenced pistol, unloading a hale of bullets into the group of pillows she had carefully placed underneath the sheets to resemble a human. It was an old, but effective trick. The would-be killer hesitated for a moment, and then stepped into the room. Marilyn sprung her trap. She focused her silenced Sig Sauer P229 and pressed the trigger, unleashing two bullets into the man’s chest.

  “Ahhh!” She recognized the voice of Gregor, one of Aman’s security detail, as he yelped in pain.

  His cry of pain told her he was not wearing body armor so she fired five more shots at the easier target of his chest. He crashed to the floor, landing on the shattered remains of the glass door he had just demolished. She walked quickly out of the closet and over to his writhing body. The silenced barrel of the weapon found his head, and she squeezed the trigger one more time, ending the German’s already faltering life. The empty shell casing from her gun fell onto the dead man’s body before rolling onto the floor. Her gun was unmarked and could never be traced so she left all her shell casings where they were.

  In the living room area Alex fell to one knee and positioned himself behind the frayed chair, providing as small as target as possible. The large man stepped through the threshold, using the dead body of William Johnson IV to shield most of his muscular frame. The massive picture window to Alex’s right shattered simultaneously. A man in a ski mask appeared in the open space with his gun raised.

  Alex wasted no time. The man in the window was only ten feet away and had to be dealt with first. Alex pulled the trigger as hard as he could. The weapon fired, and the loud explosion reverberated in the small room, shocking his eardrums. The discharge of the pistol was surprisingly strong, and he was disorientated from the noise. Alex panicked, his hands weaving back and forth from the force of the bullets exploding out of the barrel. The intruder rushed at him in a flurry of motion. Alex fired off the rest of the bullets in the chamber, finally catching the intruder in the chest with a lucky shot right before his gun began clicking harmlessly. The intruder lay motionless on the ground in front of him.

  The man in the door way rushed forward, seizing the opportunity. He had strict orders to try to keep this one alive. The intruder dropped his human shield to the ground, and lunged towards him. Alex desperately flung the weapon towards his attacker, who batted it harmlessly to the floor. Alex then reached for the 1970s era table lamp and stood straight up, preparing to swing it like a baseball bat. Exposing himself was an error as the attacker caught the lamp with his left hand, and pistol-whipped Alex with his weapon, sending him sprawling to the floor, just barely conscious.

  “Gregor?” he called out cautiously. There was no sound coming from the bedroom.

  Marilyn, gripping her pistol in the classic two-handed fashion, appeared from the far corner of the room. The hooded intruder noticed her a split second too late. His weapon flashed upward, but she was already squeezing her trigger. Her first shot caught him in the stomach, and he doubled over as the searing pain enveloped him. His gun fell to the floor, and she hurried over to where he collapsed on the floor, firing off one more round, execution style, into his forehead. No witnesses, she thought to herself.

  Alex groaned in pain. She ran her hands over his body and found no bullet wounds. She helped him to his feet, and they stepped over the broken door lying on the floor and walked out into the snowstorm. They had to get out quickly before the police arrived. They stumbled across the parking lot. Alex was draped over her shoulder and moaning in agony. She unlocked the Range Rover, opened the back door, and maneuvered him into the back seat. He was just conscious enough to provide a miniscule amount of assistance.

  “Try to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in an hour.” Marilyn hopped in the front and gunned the engine, leaving the lights off until they were out onto Highway 50. She then flicked on the lights, and swung a sharp left onto the main road, passing the casinos on her way out. She threw on a baseball cap that was lying on the front seat. It helped to hide her profile, and provided additional warmth. The temperature was in the upper twenties and with the gas tank only half full, she refrained from turning on the heat in order to conserve fuel. She needed to be sure she would have enough for the forty-five minute trip to the Reno airport. She just hoped there would be someone there to pick them up. Otherwise, they would have to try and board a commercial flight, and considering the way they both looked, she knew that could raise all sorts of questions from the authorities.

  The tires of the Range Rover lost their grip on the mountain road for a second, bringing her out of her thoughts. She flicked on the 4-wheel drive and the tires reasserted themselves, biting through the snow to grip the road beneath. They were ascending a steep incline, and she cautiously moved the steering wheel, carefully maneuvering the bend in the road. To her left, the lake shimmered in the midnight sky. Up ahead she saw a two-lane tunnel dug into the side of the mountain. Enormous pine trees, buried twenty feet in the snow followed her on the right side of the road. The next twenty minutes of the drive would be the most dangerous. The steep mountain, dropping temperature, and continually falling snow would be very hazardous to navigate. One slip of the tires and they would be off the side of the mountain or plo
wing head first into a snowdrift or pine tree.

  Headlights appeared from the tunnel, and she could see another vehicle coming the opposite way down the road. The bright beams seemed to be staring right through her. The silhouetted vehicle accelerated out of the tunnel, traveling much too fast for the conditions. Marilyn tapped the brakes, and eased the Range Rover closer to the mountain. The last thing she needed was to be involved in a head-on collision with some idiot. The small truck passed her at fifty miles per hour, traveling downhill towards the ski town from which they had just come. The headlights of the Range Rover revealed the driver of the oncoming vehicle as it passed, and she gripped the steering wheel in a moment of fear. She only had a split second look, but she was sure it had been the agitated face of Solomon. As she approached the entrance to the tunnel she carefully watched her rearview mirror. Solomon was continuing on his opposite path. After five more minutes and no sign of headlights in her mirror, she relaxed again. Alex was already stirring in the backseat. He was tougher than she thought. She figured he would not move again until they arrived at the airport.

  ***

  Solomon knew there was trouble when he saw the flashing police lights as he turned onto the side street. He cursed Gregor. He told the idiot to wait for him so they could mount the operation, but the German’s desire to one-up Solomon must have overcome his common sense. He backed up the truck and parked on the street. He approached the parking lot of the cheap motel. A small crowd had already gathered outside, trying to see what all the fuss was about. Solomon meandered up to a group that was being told to back off by two agitated police officers. Solomon fabricated a story to a few people around him about how he heard some commotion from the casino a few blocks away.