Prologue
Cairo, 1967
Streaks of white flames flashed across the
night sky, followed immediately by thunderclaps of explosions that rattled the
building every few minutes. A few of the windows were shattered due to the
violent explosion of a missile that landed only a few blocks away.
Ayman al-Zawahiri stood at the threshold
of one of the jagged holes where a window used to be and looked down at the
dusty street below. The roads and alleyways were deserted except for the
occasional military vehicle that tore down the street with a load of soldiers
being rushed to the front. Anyone with common sense was huddled in their home,
trying to hide from the ring of fire the Israeli Air Force was raining on the
city.
The
Jews have proven to be an effective and dangerous enemy, Ayman grudgingly
admitted to himself as he stroked his black beard in a thoughtful manner. He
gazed out over the ancient city, and pondered once again what the tiny man
waiting patiently behind him had said. It was an audacious plan, that he fully
admitted, but could it actually work? Ayman’s brothers within his organization
already told him to refuse the man. Apparently he was developing quite a
reputation as a troublesome and annoying interloper.
“My
friends believe you to be crazy,” Ayman said as he adjusted his white robes.
“They say if Sayyid lost faith in you, why should we be put our trust in you?”
“Sayyid
spent many years in jail being tortured by Nasser’s
animals before he was hanged. It was only a matter of time before he turned on
us. A man can only sustain himself for so long. And what about you, Ayman? If
my idea is so crazy then why do you meet with me?” Aziz said softly as he
walked up and stood beside Ayman at the open window. “You know my idea has
merit, Ayman. You are a smart man. You have risen to your position because you
are an intellectual, and can see through the obvious.”
The
smell of cordite wafted into the window as they both stood with their hands
clasped behind their backs. They watched the city several stories below them
slowly begin to come back to life. The last bomb exploded a few minutes
earlier, and it appeared the bombing raids were ceasing for the moment.
“Your
plan is intriguing. I admit that. You have already gotten further than I
thought possible. But you are years away from your plan bearing fruit. Possibly
even decades,” Ayman retorted. “My brothers feel they cannot waste that amount
of time when there are so many pressing problems here to deal with. Killing the
apostate Nasser being the most prominent.”
“If
you kill him he will simply be replaced by another; and the other may be worse.
My friends in the government have told me some of the people under him would
come down on you even harder. They believe he has been too soft.”
“We
welcome the fight,” Ayman said tersely.
“For
to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill.
To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill,” Aziz quietly
recited from memory.
“Sun
Tzu, the ancient Chinese warrior. I was warned you would eventually quote him,”
Ayman said with resignation. He wanted to help Aziz, but knew it was not
possible. “I am sorry, my friend. The council’s decision is final.”
“So
be it,” Aziz said with seething anger. “You choose to follow the path of fools.
I cannot help you; but I no longer consider you a friend. When my plan comes to
fruition you will bow before me with humility, and regret the decision you make
today.” Aziz turned away from the window and quickly made his exit just as more
explosions rocked the city. He had preparations to make.
Louisville, KY
May 5, 1973
Eddie
Lauren’s body revolted, refusing to accept the 3:15 a.m. time that was being
thrust upon it. With a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand, his
ever-present note pad in his left, and a pencil behind his ear he made his way
down the long line of stables along the backside of Churchill Downs. Fresh out
of college, Eddie was working his first Derby
for the local paper.A local kid, he
grew up sneaking into the track to catch glimpses of the three-year-old
thoroughbreds that made the one-and-a-quarter mile Kentucky Derby their
launching pad to stardom. The owners, trainers, and stable hands would not be
up and about for another forty-five minutes and he wanted to be the first one
on the scene. He had a story to tell, one he was convinced would put him on the
map. It was a story he thought was being lost in the shuffle as the discussion
of whether Secretariat could live up to the hype continued to be the only thing
the experts wanted to discuss. Earlier in the year, thirty-two investors had
forked over a whopping $6,080,000 to syndicate Secretariat. Two weeks ago his
amazing string of ten consecutive wins had come to an end in the Wood Memorial.
There were now a lot of nervous men in town for the race wondering if their
sure fire investment of $190,000 was about to become worthless overnight.
While
he found the story intriguing, Eddie was onto something that he thought could
have a tremendous impact on horse racing over the next twenty years. The entry of Desert Sheik, owned by Aman
Kazim, a Middle-Eastern playboy who owned several casinos in Las
Vegas, appeared to be the first Arab trained horse that posed a
threat to win the Derby.
Once the horse was entered in the Derby, Eddie
began investigating the horse’s pedigree and how it competed in
>Europe. It was impressive, and he felt certain the media
was ignoring the horse because it was not coming to the
>Derby through the usual channels. The local
paper would be hitting the city’s front porches in a few hours, and Eddie had
picked the horse to win the Derby
in an upset.He talked to Aman yesterday
during a small media event at the stables and told him of his impending
prediction. He also requested a one-on-one interview and a chance to see the
horse put through its morning routine. Eddie was convinced it would make for a
great story if the horse pulled the upset.
“Yes,
yes I would be honored, Mr. Lauren.” Eddie replayed the eager man’s response in
his mind. Aman had jumped at the proposal. He had been desperately trying for
the last ten years to make it big in thoroughbred racing in the States, and
while he had won some smaller races, this was his first chance at winning a
major race. Aman had agreed to meet him at the stable at 3:30 a.m. to give
Eddie the one-on-one interview.Eddie
sipped his coffee, continuing to try to adjust to the abnormal hour as he
strode by the locked stables. Even the horses were not awake yet. His feet
shuffled along, stepping on scattered pieces of hay, as he made his way to the
barn at the end of the row. Desert Sheik’s stable was separated from the others
by another one hundred feet. This provided the extra privacy its owner
preferred.Eddie squinted his eyes as he
looked up, noticing a small glow coming from the stable. Aman must be an early
riser, he thought.
“Damn
it,” he muttered to himself. His drowsy mind suddenly remembered some
additional questions to ask, and he furiously scribbled some last-second notes
onto his legal pad. His adrenaline
began to overcome the chilly morning air as he realized this could be the
beginning of big things if his upset pick could somehow pull it off. As he
approached the stable, a groan in an unknown language emanated from the open
stall. Eddie froze, surprised by the noise.
It sounded like a grunt of frustration. He crept forward, using the barn
to shield his approach. The
cold, hard ground crunched under his feet, and he stopped fifteen feet away
from the half-open stable door.
He
continued his cautious approach until he stood face-to-face with the swinging
barn door. The grunts were accompanied by a punching sound that he could not
decipher. The noise reminded him of the sound a seasoned boxer makes as he
pounds his gloved fists into a training bag. Brushing back his shaggy brown
hair, he cautiously brought his head to the edge of the barn door and peered
into the open stall. The horrific carnage jolted his system, and he heaved
involuntarily.
Eddie stared, fixated on the unimaginable scene before
him. He closed his eyes, hoping the early morning hour had thrown off his
senses, but he reopened them to the same gruesome sight. A horse, which he
could no longer recognize but assumed to be Desert Sheik, was lying on a small
pile of hay.. There were hundreds of cuts slashed haphazardly over its body,
and the horse’s blood enveloped the floor of the stable in a sea of crimson.
The blank slates of the horse’s eyes registered no feeling or movement, leaving
no doubt that it was already dead.The
killer had a vice grip on his machete, and he quickly jolted his head around at
the sound of Eddie’s vomiting.Eddie
froze in fear as he eyed the perpetrator; the killer’s coal black eyes
registered no feeling of remorse. Eddie instantly recognized him as one of the
young stable hands that Aman employed to watch over his prized possession. He thought the kid could not have been older
than seventeen. What could possibly make him do this Eddie wondered. His mind
raced as he tried to shake loose of his fears and decide what to do.
“What is going on here?” Eddie asked meekly. The stable
hand began marching menacingly toward him, and Eddie backpedaled quickly. He
did not see or hear the short, stocky figure approaching from behind. The powerful
hand gripped his shoulder, causing him to shudder. He dropped his legal pad in
panic, but before he could let out a cry for help, a familiar voice whispered
in his ear.
“Eddie,
my friend, be quiet,” Aman’s voice was firm, yet soothing. They both turned
their attention back to the boy, whose wild rage instantly melted into abject
fear as Aman shot him a piercing stare. Aman let loose with a torrent of words
in Arabic. The tone of the boy’s response was clearly sarcastic, but he dropped
the machete without any prodding and walked out the back entrance of the barn.
His sagging shoulders registered defeat. Eddie stared at Aman, not sure what to
say, he stated the obvious, “Christ, you scared the hell out of me!” It was not
an attempt at a joke.
“Eddie, my dear friend you
must speak of this to no one. It would ruin me,” he said. Aman’s commanding
voice clearly would not take no for an answer.
PART
1 – THE BAIT
Chapter 1
Early December, 2004
Forty-two
year-old Zachariah Hardin locked onto the silhouetted figure striding across
the raised platform.The strobe lights
intersecting the darkness only served to enhance her statuesque figure. Even
his bodyguards struggled to focus on their job instead of the magnificent
dark-haired beauty standing before them in high heels and a nurse’s outfit that
could only be appropriate in the gentleman’s clubs of
>Las Vegas. It was Friday night and the main
room was crammed with ogling men of every age and background, each one drinking
six-dollar beers without a second thought. Zachariah could be mistaken for the
average businessman who just left work to meet some friends and have some fun.
He was dressed in a dark blue Brooks Brothers double-breasted suit with light
pin stripes that, in this particular setting, glowed in the dark. He would have
looked slightly ridiculous were it not for the cold stare on his olive-colored
face.
His
mentor had told him not to frequent this club anymore, but he simply did not
care. It would not be long before their roles would be reserved. He knew his
mentor was nothing without him. Besides,
Zach was on the far side of the stage, surrounded by ten bodyguards that formed
a “U” shape around him. He was perfectly safe. The only gap in their human wall
allowed him to view the stage unimpeded. No one could get near him. The rest of
the patrons could only guess at which rich man had a quarter of the room to
himself; forcing the rest of them to sit closer together than they would
prefer.
Zachariah downed the last of his vodka tonic, and
motioned to the waitress standing just outside his phalanx of guards to bring
him another. His coal black eyes watched intently as the lights of the stage
dimmed and the first deep chords of a rap song blared out of hidden speakers.
He had no use for rap music; it was just another wasteful indulgence created by
the American public. The music reminded him of his deceased wife. She had
despised it, and he remembered how she donated large sums of her inheritance to
organizations dedicated to doing things like putting warning labels on music.
Zachariah thought it was a monumental waste of time.
She
was working with one of those organizations when the doctors first found the
cancer in her brain last year. It had already metastasized into an advanced
stage. Zachariah could not believe his luck. His mentor had been formulating a
way to eliminate her when divine intervention took care of the problem for
them. Zachariah was convinced it was a sign that their mission was blessed.
Folding
his arms across his chest, he tossed his memories into the shadows and returned
his focus to the stage. He stared,
mesmerized as the stripper began slowly moving with the rhythm. He had never
seen this girl in the club before. He watched intently, barely noticing his
bodyguard sit his third vodka tonic down on the tiny table. Zachariah
unconsciously brushed his hands across his slicked back hair, making sure it
was in its proper place. There was just a hint of gray around the edges that he
would have preferred to dye but his handlers refused to let him. They told him
it helped him appear scholarly and thoughtful to the public.
He refocused as the woman yanked an unseen bobby pin,
sending a glimmering cascade of raven black hair down past her shoulders. She
stepped confidently along the edge of the stage, enticing the hushed crowd
closer with a smile that every man pretended was for him alone. She slowly
worked the crowd, smiling seductively while the closest patrons to her all
reached robotically for their wallets in hopes of attracting her undivided
attention for a few short seconds. She purposely stepped onto a vent situated
at the front of the stage floor. A fan inside the vent sent a burst of air
upwards, pushing up her ivory skirt for a few seconds and teasing the crowd
with a glimmer of black lingerie gripping her tanned thighs. She finally made her way to his side of the
stage and stopped, her hands moving down her legs, caressing them.
Zachariah
casually sipped his drink; a cocky smile expanding over the top of his glass.
The nightclub had some new flesh for him. He was glad. He was getting tired of
the regulars. He found their efforts lacking to say the least. The bronzed beauty on stage gave him a once
over, appearing to size him up, and then proceeded back to the middle of the
stage without so much as a smirk for him.
“Excellent.
A feisty one at last,” he chuckled silently to himself. Normally the dancers
came right up to him and ignored the rest of the patrons. She was challenging
him, and making him work for his reward this time. He watched her intently, her
perfectly formed backside now staring at him as she continued to match the
intensity of the music with more glimpses of flesh. For the second time in a
few minutes, Zachariah motioned for his personal waitress to come over. He eyed
his bodyguards, motioning for them to let her through. She leaned over to take
his order, and he spoke into her ear, “Send the girl on stage over to see me
when she is done,” he commanded.
“Anything else, sir?” Her lips were right up against his
ear, but she had to yell to be heard over the music.
“Yes, another vodka, please. By the way, what is her
name? I did not catch the introduction,” he asked as he pointed at the dancer.
“Her
stage name is Marilyn, sir. She just started a few weeks ago. I don’t know her
real name yet, but I can find out if you would like,” the waitress replied.
“Not
necessary, just get me my drink,” he said as he smacked her gently on her rump
and sent her on her way. Marilyn. What a stage name, he laughed to himself. He
found the irony of the situation almost too perfect. Whoever she was, she was truly audacious, and
he thought she would be an incredible lay.
One
of his bodyguards pointed to his Rolex watch and Zachariah acknowledged the
gesture. It was later than he realized. The Secret Service may be his
bodyguards but they were ruining all his fun tonight. He only had time to talk
with the new girl tonight. President-Elect Zachariah Hardin waited for the
dancer to finish before getting up from the table. He would at least get her
phone number tonight, he thought. Zachariah already had a meeting planned with
his mentor to discuss the upcoming inauguration. It would be one of a truly
historic nature if things went according to plan.
Chapter 2
December 31, 2004, 11:03 P.M.
Allan
Gray did not feel like the most powerful man in the world as he sat slouched
behind his desk in the Oval Office. He stared at his telephone, waiting for it
to ring.“I hope this will be some good
news,” he said to himself as he sipped a glass of water.
The
New Year’s Eve party was muted, thanks to his defeat at the ballot box. This
would be his last New Year’s Eve in the White House, so he finally acquiesced
to his nagging wife and allowed a full-blown party to be thrown. He was no
longer one for the late night celebrations. His time as Governor of California
had forced him to attend more late night parties than he cared to
remember.
Allan
felt like he was at a wake more than a party, and in a sense it was true,
except in this case he was being forced to attend his own funeral. Most of the guests were old friends or the
few Washington
politicians who remained loyal to him as his political fortunes changed for the
worse.One of the men had even been up
for re-election, and instead of turning his back on the President had continued
in his unwavering support. His loyalty to President Gray ended up costing him
his senate re-election bid. Allan made a mental note to make sure the Senator
from Florida obtained an easy consulting job somewhere that paid him entirely
too much. Loyalty in this town was a rare commodity and it had to be
rewarded.
Allan
now had one more problem he was working on though; one that only a few others
in his government were aware of, and this one had the potential to be a true
political firestorm. He had agreed to
the operation only because if it were true, it had the potential to rock the
very foundation the Executive Branch was built upon. He expressed his
misgivings to CIA Director Malcolm Ray, but the Director had been very persuasive.
In the end, Allan agreed to the operation. Besides, his own political career
was already dead, and he could not be killed twice.
A
few minutes earlier his Secret Service agent had pulled him away from a few
people at the party seeking last minute pardons for friends. The agent
whispered in Allan’s ear that he would be receiving a call from the CIA
Director shortly. Allan politely excused himself from the party, apologizing
for the interruption, and promised to return after tying up a few loose ends.
The
quiet vibration of the phone interrupted his random musings. He grabbed it
before the first ring could even be completed.
“She has disappeared. We can’t find her. It appears
she may be dead,” the baritone voice of CIA Director Malcolm Ray could not hide
its dejection. “I will contact you again later.”
The
line went dead before President Gray could issue a demand or ask a question. He
hung up the phone, and stared at it for a few seconds before standing up, and
grabbing his dinner jacket. “Maybe I will have a drink,” he contemplated
briefly. It all appeared to be over now anyway. He strode out of the room, a
look of dejection permeating throughout his normal jovial persona. He patted
his Secret Service agent on the shoulder, and gave him a nod of appreciation.
“That was it Jamal. Let’s get back to the party. I think I will have a drink,”
President Gray said with an even tone.
“Yes
sir,” Jamal Mahmoud, the head of his Secret Service detail said with
authority. He held the door open for his
Commander in Chief.
The
President stepped across the threshold of the Oval Office and headed back to
his party. The only consolation he took out of all this was that if the press
discovered their investigation, at least there would not be enough time for
them to impeach him. He knew his days were numbered when barely avoiding
impeachment seemed like a victory.
