“Your point?”
“Later on, at the Conference, I can introduce you to one of the most influential members of the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee. Not only is he a powerful senator. There’s also a strong consensus in both parties that this man — my old friend — is going to be our next president.” Larry Bell paused. “Just imagine the kind of influence a generous donation to his primary campaign can buy.”
Jong Lee nodded. “This friend of yours. Do you believe he will be open to my offer?”
“He’s an ambitious man, Mr. Lee. He wants to be president, and that takes money.”
“And you, Congressman Bell? You do this out of your own generosity?”
Bell snorted. “As you yourself said. A smart man finds a way to make altruism profitable. My introduction will only cost you a million dollars…”
Jong Lee smiled and reached across the table. Once again his hand vanished when it was enfolded by the American’s massive fist.
Congressman Bell rose. “I think I’d better go. I have plenty of work to do before tonight’s dinner.
You have your invitation?”
“Indeed I do, Congressman.”
Bell stole a final glance at Yizi, who was re-arranging flowers in a vase. “You have fun… If you know what I mean.”
The woman saw Congressman Bell head for the door. She hurried to open it. As he passed she bowed politely.
“You’re a lucky man, Lee. A lucky man,” Bell said before the door closed behind him.
Yizi drifted back to the vase, continued her task.
“I hope that animal did not offend you with his words, Yizi,” Jong said.
“His words and opinions are of no consequence to me. All that matters is that Congressman Bell fulfills his part in the plan,” the woman replied in perfect, accent-less English.
Holding a slightly imperfect flower between her exquisitely manicured fingers, Yizi studied the blossom. Rejecting it, she snapped the stem in half and tossed the remains into the waste can.
“He is going to introduce you to Senator Palmer?” she asked.
Jong nodded. “Today. As planned — though I doubt the Congressman is aware of the
Flashing a tantalizing display of bronzed thigh, Stella Hawk stepped out of the cab. The doorman at the casino’s entrance was dazzled even before her luminous topaz eyes cast him a warm greeting.
Voluptuous yet lithe, with slender waist, full hips and eye-catching cleavage, amply displayed by the extreme v-neck of her filmy saffron sundress, Stella Hawk radiated a vitality as fierce and sultry as the desert winds. Her raven hair, streaked with russet highlights, fell in glossy waves down her supple, sculpted back; and, with each confident stride, a thin chain of tiny platinum bell charms tinkled faintly around her ankle.
Heads turned as the woman strutted through the betting floor — there were even a few whistles and cat calls. But if Stella noticed their stares or heard their cries, she paid no mind. A star performer in
After passing through the casino, Stella entered the Tiki Lounge, walking between two fifteen-foot wooden totems imported from some unnamed South Sea island back when Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack were a Vegas fixture. She sidled up to the pit boss, who was sipping a scotch at the end of the long, polished mahogany bar.
“Hey, doll,” he said with a wink. “Long time, no see. Where you been keeping yourself?” the pit boss asked.
Stella sat on a stool, crossed her shapely legs. “Oh,
you know. Here and there.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“It’s a little early, and I’m working tonight.” She
opened her leather handbag, pulled out a cell and checked the messages. Stella rolled her eyes in obvious annoyance when she found a voice message left by her roommate. Stella closed the phone without retrieving it.
The bartender placed a glass of iced water before Stella. She ignored it. “Where’s Jaycee?” she asked.
Driscoll stared down at the brown liquid in his shot glass. “He’s in the basement, working on a problem. He’s busy. Real busy. You want I should interrupt him?”
“Of course I want you to interrupt him, Don,” she said, her full lips curling into a lewd smile. “You tell Jaycee that his Stella’s back in town, and she needs some attention real bad…”
2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
“Lev,” Senator David Palmer whispered through gritted teeth, “what
The hotel lobby was crowded with reporters, all of whom obviously had anticipated the senator’s arrival. But David Palmer had been given no notice of this instant public appearance. He was tired, his throat was parched, and the long flight West had left him unkempt and irritable. To top it off, the limo’s air conditioner had been on the fritz, so there were perspiration stains under the arms of his wrinkled white button-down.
Still, Palmer knew the power of the photo op; and, inside of fifteen seconds, his initial expression of surprise, then extreme annoyance, vanished. In its place came the well-rehearsed campaign smile. His grin was so firmly set that his lips barely moved when he quietly asked his chief of staff what the hell was going on.
Lev Cohen’s fleshy face flushed under his red beard.
“Sorry, David. I didn’t know about any event,” he replied. “It must be something Congressman Bell’s people set up—”
“You
Sherry Palmer suddenly appeared at her husband’s side, tucked her hand under his arm. “You’ve made this trip to raise your national profile before our run for the Presidency, David,” she reminded him softly.
Palmer arched an eyebrow. “
Sherry didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, David,” she purred, her eyes scanning the crowd for familiar media faces. “And I’ll be right there beside you the whole way.”
The crowd had assembled inside the immense sandstone and glass atrium of the ultra-modern Babylon Hotel and Casino, an architectural showplace that was the latest addition to the Las Vegas skyline. A huge banner hung from a balcony, proclaiming this hotel as the venue for the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference. Flags of a dozen North, Central and South American nations dangled from the high ceiling.
David Palmer hardly noticed the decor. The brace of reporters was what concerned him, along with the cheering group of spectators, who’d suddenly recognized their choice for the next presidential election.
Palmer studied the throng uncertainly. His race for the U.S. Senate had involved local Maryland press, of course, but the glare of national media interest, now that he was about to announce his presidential run, was nothing like he’d ever before experienced.
Sherry touched his arm. “Wave, David,” she urged through a tight smile.
Palmer waved.
“Now slip on your jacket,” she whispered. “It’ll cover those
