brighter outlook than when an orange jumpsuit had been his sole choice of attire.
Following a quick clearance through airport customs and a short drive to the north end of the strip, Wolff entered the massive, ornate lobby of the Conquistador casino, the newest addition to the opulence which made Las Vegas the most popular tourist and convention center in the world. He stood just inside the lobby for a moment, admiring the one-half scale model of El Castro, the Mayan temple at Chichen Itza, rising just over fifty feet tall-five stories-the visual focal point from all points in the casino. The temple name instantly reminded him of an as-yet unfinished task: Carlos Castro. Wolff’s lawyer had discovered the name of the person who had captured him, and his current assignment. But there would be time for Castro later, and his message tomorrow would make that clear.
Wolff turned and approached the VIP desk, where he used his Auclair ID and credit card and signed his registration form.
“What time is your last FedEx pickup?” Wolff asked the registration clerk.
The young man glanced at the clock behind the counter. “In about forty-five minutes, sir. May I be of assistance?”
Wolff reached into his briefcase and retrieved a slim FedEx prepaid overnight packet and handed it to the clerk. “Please see that this is made available for the courier.”
“Certainly, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you.” Wolff turned back toward the casino and headed across the room, pausing again short of the bank of elevators to read the electronic display case which announced the conventions and gatherings for the week. He was not surprised to see a photograph of John Harford, Chief Executive of Strategic Initiatives, who was billed as the keynote speaker for the opening session of the International Association of Professional Security Consultant’s annual conference. He allowed a small smile to cross his lips, then proceeded to the elevator, pressing the button for the thirty-second level.
After a shower, a change of clothes, and ten minutes of watching the news highlights, Wolff returned to the lobby and found a secluded corner table in the Yucatan Lounge. He ordered a drink and watched as the throngs of people made their way through the crowded casino. Over the next two hours, he watched an NFL football game on the large screen, ate a plate of boiled shrimp, and had a couple more drinks. At eleven P.M., a heavily bearded man in Dockers and a long-sleeved plaid shirt approached his table, making eye contact and then taking a seat opposite Wolff.
“I’m Thor Campbell,” the man said. “We spoke on the phone last month.”
Wolff just nodded, noticing that two other men in casual, but rural, attire took seats at another table across the lounge.
Wolff slid an envelope across the table. “Those are your instructions for tomorrow,” he said. “Be in the parking lot before 9:00 A.M., but not earlier than 8:30. Don’t arouse any suspicion by arriving too early. Just leave the vehicle and then station yourself at least five hundred yards away. You’ll be safe at that distance. I’ll handle the rest.”
Campbell nodded. “Will you be there?”
“No need for you to know where I’ll be, but I’ll handle the rest. Just be sure to separate yourself from the vehicle. Where’s the package now?”
“Right where you said it should be. In a garage in North Las Vegas with your French buddy. It’s been there for five days. Me and my boys have been keeping an eye on it.”
Wolff rose and handed Campbell another slip. “Your money has been deposited in this bank account, waiting for your instructions to transfer it after the event. This should fund your mountain boys for some time to come.”
“And you?” Campbell asked again.
“Istifll be in touch again in several weeks. There’s more where that came from,” he said, nodding toward the deposit slip.
Hernando Cortez Conference Center
Conquistador Resort amp; Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada
August
At 8:45 A.M., Jean Wolff took a seat in the back of the assembly hall of the Hernando Cortez Conference Center, Room Three. There were about two hundred others present, mostly men, and about 250 seats in the auditorium. Attendees continued to drift in as Wolff sat quietly in his place. At 8:52, several people took their seats on the main dais, among them John Harford. Wolff took his cell phone from his pocket, keyed a short text message, and hit send. He watched as Harford took his seat, and then reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his iPod, glancing down to briefly read the message. Wolff glanced again at his original text:
Bright horizon is closer and sooner than you might imagine
Instantly, Harford was on his feet, whispered something to the man seated next to him, and departed the stage. Wolff also stood and exited the auditorium through the side door, careful to avoid contact with Harford. Wolff quickly strode to the main entrance to the casino and entered the back seat of a waiting limousine.
“Just wait,” he told the driver.
Within three minutes, John Harford exited the hotel, his anxiety visible in his body language. He spoke to the concierge, who motioned for a taxi to pull forward. Harford entered the vehicle, which immediately departed.
“Henderson Executive Airport,” Wolff told his driver.
Hoover Dam
Arizona/Nevada border
August
Thor Campbell, commander of the Blackfoot Brigade, sat in the right front passenger seat of a dark blue Ford Explorer with one of his associates in the driver’s seat and another in the rear. Campbell had parked a white Chevy Suburban in the visitor parking area on the Nevada side at 8:48, left the keys in the ignition as directed, and then joined his associates for the short trip across the dam and up the hill on the Arizona side to the main parking area. Traffic on Highway 93 across the new Hoover Dam bypass, a quarter mile south of the face of the dam and high above the canyon, continued unimpeded.
Campbell waited for the expected explosion that would demolish the parking lot and the visitors center on the Nevada side. From his location, he would have an excellent view without danger of being injured by debris.
Eisenhower Executive Office Building
Office of Information amp; Public Relations
Department of Homeland Security
Washington, D.C.
August
At 12:05, EST, three hours ahead of Las Vegas, Carlos Castro strode briskly down the hall toward the office of General Pug Connor, ignoring the general’s secretary and entering Connor’s office without knocking. Connor glanced up, a surprised look on his face.
“General, I’ve just received a FedEx package you need to see.”
“From who?”
“No name, General, and probably a false address. But as sure as I’m standing here, it came from Wolff.”
Connor reached for the folder Carlos placed on his desk. “Summarize,” he said.
“He’s given us everything we need on Harford-dates, places, the Kansas City and San Antonio terrorist events, even the Internet contact methods with the roving shooters. Nothing admissible in court, but he’s given Harford to us on a silver platter. He even names the Secretary of Defense, Acting Secretary of Homeland Security, and several Army generals who were part of the conspiracy to pass the Domestic Tranquility Act and select SI as the contractor. He doesn’t say they all knew about the shooters, or SI’s involvement, but they were paid under the table to support SI and passage of the bill. A dozen or more congressmen, also.”
Connor stood and stepped around his desk, taking a seat in front and motioning for Carlos to be seated. “Not legally enforceable, you say?”
“No, sir. DOJ couldn’t take this to court, and given the political involvement, I don’t think the president would want to. But from an intelligence perspective, everything fits.” He paused for a moment. “I’m afraid that’s not all, General. He’s indicated there will be another event today in…” Carlos glanced at his watch, “… twenty-four
