“What’s the proof?”
Morris chuckled. “Tony picked his pocket, stole the man’s cell phone and downloaded its contents. What a bunch of secret agents we are. Pickpockets, gambling cheats, loan sharks, torturers—“
“Enough editorializing, Morris. I need real information.” Jack’s tone was icy.
“Jamey traced the stored phone numbers,” a contrite Morris replied. “Turns out that in the past six months, our distinguished researcher made seventy-three calls to one Hugo Bix. The last call Dr. Sable made today, just before Tony grabbed his phone, was traced to a number at Bix Automotive.”
“Have you alerted Tony?”
“We sent him the message. Don’t know if he’s retrieved it yet. His movements are carefully monitored at Groom Lake, so he isn’t always available to us…”
Jack checked his wristwatch. “What about Curtis?”
“Curtis hasn’t reported in yet. He’s ordered radio silence so I’m not supposed to contact him.” Morris paused. “Can’t say I’m worried yet, but I will be if I don’t here from Mr. Manning soon.”
“Patch Curtis through to this phone as soon as he calls in,” Bauer commanded.
Jack ended the call, tucked the cell into the pocket of his leather jacket. Stretching his legs, Jack glanced again at his watch. He still had a turncoat at his casino. Someone had murdered the Midnight Cowboy Max Farrow, the guy with the Area 51 technology. And that same someone likely murdered the Cha-Cha Lounge’s security guard Ray Perry too.
Though he knew it was best to wait until Bix made the first move before he took action against the traitor in his midst, Jack also realized there were several precautions he could take. He didn’t want to be surprised by a premature move on the turncoat’s part.
One of those precautions involved returning to the subbasement storeroom where Morris had found Ray Perry’s corpse. For a long time Jack wondered why the killer had stashed the body there. Jack believed he’d finally solved that riddle. If he was right, then it was time to set a little booby trap, a simple snare that would help Jack unmask the traitor before more damage was done…
Jong Lee had observed the execution, and the joy Yizi took from the act, with impassive detachment. Legs crossed, chin resting on his hand, he assessed the woman’s performance while he waited for her to finish the task of moving Lev Cohen’s corpse.
When Yizi appeared behind the man, the sharp sai in her hands, the demure servant who bowed obsequiously at every man, who subserviently anticipated every wish, was gone, the true Yizi revealed.
Small and lean, with her raven-black tresses pulled back into a bun. Her white skin contrasted with the form- fitting black jumpsuit that hugged her lithe body from neck to toe. Made from a super-elastic microfiber, the suit was snug enough to reveal the woman’s hip bones under her taut flesh. Indeed, Jong Lee could count the woman’s ribs. Her pale flesh and skeletal appearance, coupled with the way she clutched her sai — a weapon that resembled the pitchfork so common in colorful depictions of the Western devil — were the reasons Jong Lee had assigned her with the code name “Reaper.”
Yizi was one of the unintended consequences of the People’s Republic of China’s misguided effort to control its burgeoning population. Another, far more dire consequence, was the wholesale abortion of generations of female babies. Now, over two decades after the failed policies were initiated, China was paying the price — a large majority of the nation’s male population would never have a Chinese wife because of the gender imbalance.
But not all of the female babies proved useless. In time the State established a secret bureau inside the PLA. This unit was charged with the recruitment and training of young girls from a very early age. Those females who exhibited promise were selected for “special combat reeducation,” a lifetime of training which included combat tactics, espionage tradecraft, techniques of terrorism, and modes of assassination. Only girls who passed dozens of rigorous intelligence and physical screening were accepted, and they could be dropped from the program at any time. Rejection meant instant execution, for the females were considered expendable. During their indoctrination and training, every aspect of these women’s lives was regulated, their bodies and minds completely controlled.
Yizi had begun her training at the age of six. Now she was twenty-two, a woman, though Jong Lee knew that in almost no sense of the word was Yizi a true woman. Like her sisters in the “special program,” Yizi’s menstrual cycle had been curtailed — a consequence of the rigorous training, as well as the hormones and steroids she’d been injected with.
It did not matter in the end. Yizi possessed all the charms of a woman, and could use them to seduce and corrupt a man if so ordered. Though Yizi was a skilled espionage agent, Jong learned she was a superb assassin — efficient, cool under pressure, and pathologically addicted to her vocation.
Yizi appeared at his side. “It is done.” It was true, Where Lev Cohen died, there was only blood.
Jong Lee nodded, then spoke. “You know the plan. Go back to the dry cleaners. Captain Hsu is awaiting your instructions. Use the phrase you have memorized. I will meet you at the airport at the appointed time…”
Jong watched as Yizi slipped a raincoat over her ebony jumpsuit, draped the purse over her shoulder and left the suite without a backward glance.
With a contented sigh, Jong Lee settled deeper into his chair and pondered the possibilities of success or failure in the next phase of his operation. Jong knew he was in control of Yizi and of his commandos. They would behave within the bounds of their training and his expectations. What Lee could not control were the Rojas brothers.
Jong Lee had helped facilitate the attack on the Pan Latin Anti-Drug Conference because it fit in with his own plans. The Rojas desired revenge against America, and against the law enforcement agencies that had targeted his family, interfered with their schemes and murdered Francesco Rojas, the youngest son in the family.
All Jong Lee wanted was a diversion — one so dramatic and violent that it would keep the American authorities too busy to figure out Lee’s real goal, until it was too late to stop him.
In a few minutes, Jong Lee would leave this place, never to return. But before he fled the conflagration to come, he had to make one final phone call to set the last wheels of his elaborate plan in motion.
Glancing at his watch, Lee lifted the receiver and dialed the secret cell phone number of the traitor he controlled, a member of the research contingent inside of Groom Lake Air Force Base.
The massive, three-story tiered ballroom was bathed in radiant light. The chamber’s golden glow was rivaled only by the glittering array of guests, a mingling of international political figures, media barons, celebrities, literati, law enforcement officials, wealthy philanthropists and social activists.
The Babylon Hotel was built to resemble a Middle Eastern ziggurat — a circular tower ringed by a sloping ramp that descended from the rooftop ballroom all the way down to the atrium on the third floor. The ramp contained the hotel’s famed hanging gardens— an amazing array of ecological-systems made up of thousands of trees, ferns, plants and flowers from all over the world. The gardens were separated by glass walls. Some of the gardens were open to the desert air. Others were enclosed in glass and climate-controlled.
The elegant decor in the ballroom repeated the ziggurat motif, with swirling ramps instead of staircases leading up to tiered dining areas and bars that overlooked the main ballroom far below. Crystal chandeliers in circular swirls dangled from a high roof that loomed a hundred feet over the revelers’ heads. Most of the walls were made of glass — tall windows with striking views of the Las Vegas Strip.
Sherry Palmer watched her husband near one of those massive windows. Looking distinguished in his evening clothes, the Senator from Maryland was huddled with the ambassador from Nicaragua, and a military man from Peru, along with their jewel-bedecked wives. He must have been charming them, because the men were laughing, the woman gazing up at him with rapt attention.
She noted that her husband’s mood had improved considerably, most likely because David was in his element now. As much as he hated impromptu speechmaking, David Palmer loved to be around people. He seemed to feed off their energy, and he took a genuine interest in those he met. David was able to instantly connect with someone on a person-to-person level. Even when he spoke to a crowd, many people who answered Lev’s questions in focus groups conducted later all said the same thing — David Palmer seemed to be talking directly to them, that they felt the same connection with him as he felt for them.
Whether his was a skill learned early in life or a trait embedded in his DNA, Sherry didn’t know. She only knew that David’s affability was an invaluable campaign tool that, if harnessed properly, would carry him all the way to the Oval Office.
