powder room, Lilly crouched low as if tying her shoe. She attempted to lift the pristine white tablecloth, but it was fastened to the cart. Lilly glanced in the direction of the kitchen, saw the man called Carlos gesturing her forward. She stood and wheeled the cart closer to the podium.
As she circled the main table, Lilly spied the man she and Pamela saw in the elevator earlier in the day. He was obviously a politician because he sat at the VIP table.
Circling the VIP table, Lilly approached a man standing near the row of flags, a headset in his ear. He was obviously a security man — a bodyguard, or maybe Secret Ser vice.
She’d almost reached the designated spot when the fire alarm went off, filling the room with noise. The house lights went up, blinding her for a moment. Guests rose, milled about as the alarm bell continued. Then Evelyn Ankers raced to the podium and stepped in front of the surprised speaker.
“Yes, that is the fire alarm, ladies and gentlemen. But don’t panic,” the woman shouted over the rising tide of hysterical voices. “This is probably a false alarm, or a smoke condition. I’m waiting for more information now…”
Lilly looked around, uncertain what to do next.
Finally she left the cart and hurried back to Carlos. She had obeyed the man’s command, now she wanted him to take her to Pamela.
But when Lilly reached the kitchen, the man with the flowers, the one person who could lead her to her daughter, was gone.
12. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 P.M. AND 12 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
Two big men hauled a battered Curtis into the Babylon’s security center, slammed him into a chair. Adjusting their ties, the men watched every move, waiting for another chance to manhandle the CTU agent.
Curtis took in his surroundings. The elaborate hotel security center was the equal of CTU’s war room, only much smaller. Men in suits were running around, or clustered in knots, their talk animated. Dozens of monitors that should have been displaying feed from security cameras were filled with hissing snow. Something was happening, and it wasn’t good. No wonder the security staff was so touchy.
“You have to listen to me,” Curtis said through bruised lips. “There are five truck bombs in the garage right now. They’re going to go off in a couple of minutes—”
“Shut up,” snarled one of the men looming over him. “We don’t have time to listen to your bull—”
“Just call the police. Call the bomb squad. If I’m lying they can arrest me.”
“You’re already busted, asshole,” said one of the uniformed guards.
“Listen. Lives are at stake. That’s why I set off the fire alarms. The fire department should respond, right? When they get here, let me talk to them—”
Another man approached them, tall and thin in a charcoal suit. He had receding gray hair on a high forehead, a small mouth and dead gray eyes.
“What has this man done?” the gray man asked.
“We found him in the garage. He was armed, setting the fire alarms off,” one of the suited men said deferentially.
The gray man nodded. “Then it wasn’t the system that triggered the alarms?”
“No, sir. Apparently not.”
“Listen,” Curtis said. “My name is Manning and I’m an agent for CTU. There are five truck bombs in your garage right now, set to go off. The truck I came in, it also has a bomb in it. I deactivated it, but you can check yourself.”
The gray man glanced at one of the guards. “He told us that story on the way up here,” the man said. “I sent a couple of guys to check it out.”
“Look, the fire department is on the way,” Curtis said. “Let me speak to the chief when he gets here.”
The gray man sighed heavily. “There will be no fire-men, Mr. Manning of CTU. You made a lot of noise, but that’s all. Some glitch has shut down our entire system. Phones. Intercoms. Cell phones. Radio and television signals. The computers that control most of the hotel’s functions are down, too. Needless to say, the fire alarm never made it to the station house.”
Curtis remembered how his cell phone had been jammed at the tool and die factory. What they used then could be bought at any high end electronics shop. This time, Curtis guessed they were using powerful microwave transmitter to jam everything within a mile’s radius. It was advanced technology, something Bix might have gotten from his connection at Area 51.
“That’s part of the plot,” Curtis explained. “The terrorists who did this have used jamming technology in the past. They want to isolate the hotel before they destroy it.”
Curtis could see the lingering doubt on the gray man’s face. “You have to believe me. Check the truck I drove here—”
Just then, a uniformed officer burst through the glass doors. “He wasn’t lying,” the man cried. “The truck he was driving was loaded with explosives. The detonation cords have been ripped out, so it’s not going off, but we found a truck just like it next to elevator shaft seven. The keys have been broken off inside the locks. We shined a light inside, saw the explosives—”
“That’s only
The gray man faced his security contingent. “Do what you can. Clear the casino, the restaurants, right away—”
“Sir, there’s a VIP event in the ballroom.”
The gray man’s hand fluttered. “Send a uniformed officer up to warn them. He’ll have to climb the stairs. In the meantime I want one of you to take the radio car, get out on the highway until you’re out of range of this, this jamming device. Then call for help.”
“You don’t have time,” Curtis warned. “You have to evacuate the tower.”
The gray man shook his head, sighed again. “That will be very difficult, Mr. Manning of CTU. Even if we get word to the people upstairs, the elevators are not working, and it would take an hour to get everyone out on the stairs…”
Bix looked up from the new issue of
Bix sat up. “What the hell has gotten into you, partner?”
“The cash the Colombians paid us — the five million dollars. Eli says it’s funny money. Counterfeit!”
“Son of a bitch,” Bix roared. “All of it?”
“Most of it is phony, Mr. Bix,” Blumenthal explained, sweat beading his lip. “The Colombians put real bills on top of each stack. You’ve got maybe a hundred grand, kosher. The rest is
Bix reached for the phone. “Amigo, huh? Loyal forever? That greasy south-of-the-border piece of shit. I’m gonna call that bastard Rojas right now—”
Down in the garage, the first of two bombs Balboa had planted detonated. This one was close to Hugo Bix’s Jaguar. When he was holed up in the garage before the attack, Balboa pretended to admire the vehicle while he placed the explosive charge — not a large one, just big enough to blow the pipe on the garage’s massive oil tank. Stored under pressure, the oil gushed into the garage in a black tide.
