The voice that answered was faint, broadcast from CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles, hundreds of miles away.
“I hear you loud and clear, Tony,” Jamey Farrell replied after a split-second lag.
“How’s the reception. Do you have a clear image?”
“Crystal clear. I don’t know how you placed the surveillance camera so close to a top secret test in a photo restricted area. You have to tell me how you did it when you get back.”
Tony smiled. “Let’s just say that sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”
“Okay, I’ve activated the digital recorder,” Jamey said. “You have unlimited memory available to you, so you should have a complete visual recording of the weapon’s set up, the test, and the equipment break down afterwards.”
“Excellent. If anyone approaches that array we’ll have a photographic record,” Tony replied, glancing over his shoulders. “I better join the others now… Over and out.”
Jack Bauer’s right arm felt like lead. It hung limply at his side. With his left hand he wiped a splash of blood off his cheek and stared down at the man slumped in the corner of the room, amid orange shards of the shattered fiberglass chair.
“Who sold you the device and when did you buy it?” Bauer asked in a soft voice.
Max Farrow winced at the sound. His chin was buried in his chest, rivulets of blood ran out of his nose. His left eye was swollen shut when he lifted his face to stare at Jack.
“It was Bix,” Farrow croaked. “Hugo Bix. I bought it down at his garage… Paid seventy grand for it…”
“When?”
“Two days ago… Tested it out at the Chuck Wagon Casino yesterday… Big win… Then Bix sent me here ’cause he said the Cha-Cha was an easy touch…”
Farrow’s voice caught in a muffled sob. “The son of a bitch lied, and now that bastard Bix is gonna kill me for what I’m telling you…”
Jack looked up, nodded to Curtis Manning on the other side of the one-way mirror. The door lock clicked a moment later, and Jack left the cell. Manning glanced at the man huddled on the floor, then closed and locked the door.
“You heard?” Jack asked, wrestling the knuckle duster off of his swollen right hand.
“I’m not surprised,” Manning replied. “Thanks to the DEA, we already have a direct link between the Bix gang and the Rojas Brothers. Now we’ve linked Bix to the technology thefts. I think Hugo Bix is our man, Jack. You were right to go up against him.”
It was a tough admission for Curtis Manning. Initially he’d resisted the plan to begin undermining the most powerful gangster in Las Vegas. But Jack knew he wouldn’t get bites unless he started baiting. He hadn’t wanted to do it, either, but—
“We had no choice, Curtis,” Jack reminded him. “The local DA and the Nevada Prosecutor’s office have nothing on Bix, and when the FBI tried to trap him, their undercover agent ended up in a shallow grave in the desert.”
“You better proceed with caution. Bix has got a real hate on for you.”
To Manning’s surprise, Jack laughed, short and sharp.
“Good. That’s the way I want it,” Bauer said. “The more Jaycee Jager threatens Bix, the more desperate he becomes. We’ve been cutting into his drug trade and stealing away his customers for three months. By sending that cowboy to shake us down, Bix showed his hand. That was his first mistake.”
Jong Lee recognized his visitor the moment the man was ushered into the luxury suite. The face he had seen many times, on American television, and on the covers of American magazines and newspapers. Although Jong knew everything there was to know about this man — from his humble birth in the deep South to his impressive athletic and political careers — nothing could prepare him for Congressmen Larry Bell’s size and physical presence.
Smiling affably, Jong Lee rose and moved to greet the newcomer. At nearly six feet, Jong was tall for a Chinese man. But the former pro basketball player towered over him. When they shook, Lee’s pale hand disappeared in the American’s ebony fist. Protocol demanded Jong bow, so he did. Not deeply, but enough to show respect. Tradition also dictated that Jong’s head should never be lower than his visitor’s — symbolic of his own dominant position in the coming negotiations. But in this case, he would have to forego tradition.
“Please sit down, Representative Bell,” Jong said. “I realize how busy you must be. You are quite generous to spare me even a moment of your time.”
“You’re the one who’s generous, Mr. Lee,” Representative Bell replied. “I know how busy you must be. Your firm operates five factories in Hong Kong alone…”
Jong crossed his legs. “I’m impressed, Congressman. You have done your homework.”
Silently, Jong Lee’s associate, a petite woman named Yizi, set a mahogany tray on the table between the two men. Aromatic steam rose from a porcelain tea pot. Gracefully she served. Her blue-black hair was swept to one side. Bell’s eyes followed the cascade along one delicate cheek, past her pale throat. The only sound in the room was the rustling of her black dress, the tap of her heels on the marble floor. Mesmerized, Bell continued to follow her movements. When the woman placed the warm cup before him, her alabaster hand briefly brushed his.
“You were saying, Congressman…”
The man blinked, faced the speaker. “I was saying that I’m delighted you made this trip, Mr. Lee. But I also admit I’m surprised.”
Jong Lee raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“What I mean to say is that you’re a chip manufacturer from China, and the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference chiefly involves business leaders and law enforcement officials from the major Latin American drug producing nations…”
“Ah, I see your point, Congressman,” Jong said with a wry laugh. “I suppose I could plead altruism, mumble a collection of familiar platitudes about how we’re all part of the global community, and in an ever-shrinking world no issue is truly local, but the truth is, my firm also operates a factory in Mexico, so I am no stranger to the drug epidemic in the West. My company also happens to manufacture an array of sensors and microchips that are quite useful in drug interdiction, so I also have a selfish motive.”
Congressman Bell held the porcelain cup between his thumb and forefinger, then swallowed the contents. He placed the cup on the table with a click, then slapped his knees.
“That’s a relief, Mr. Lee. As a United States Congressman from the great state of Louisiana, I get uncomfortable around too much altruism.”
Both men laughed. Yizi stood beside the Congressman to replenish his cup. She was so close her scent made him dizzy. Larry Bell found himself wondering if she was wearing anything under her form fitting dress. He doubted it.
“Altruism has its own rewards, Congressman. But a smart man will always find profit in charity.”
“Well said, Mr. Lee… I wonder if we might have some privacy?”
Congressman Bell glanced at the silhouette of Yizi as she peered through the picture window, at the Vegas Strip thirty stories below.
“Pay the woman no mind, Congressman. Yizi knows nothing of my business and she speaks no language but Mandarin. She is here for only one purpose — to serve my personal needs.”
Bell’s reply was a lecherous wink. “The benefits of the private sector, eh?” the Congressman said. “I haven’t had a piece that fine since my days with the pros. You are one lucky man, Lee.”
Jong brushed the lapel of his London tailored suit. “I believe we were about to talk business?”
Congressman Bell drained his second cup. “You’ve been very generous to my re-election campaign. Very generous. Now I think I can help you.”
“Please.”
“At the end of this year more than a billion dollars’ worth of manufacturing contracts will be handed out by the Pentagon. What your firm does is pretty standard, and you do it well. But those contracts can go anywhere.”
