Shadow Command

“You know what I love the most about these places, darlin’—you can be completely anonymous so easily, even dressed like this,” Barbeau said to her assistant Colleen Morna as they strode from the hotel elevators through the wide, sweeping hallway and across the rich red carpeting of a very large Italian-themed casino on the Strip in Las Vegas. She was wearing a silvery cocktail dress, diamond earrings and necklace, and carrying a mink stole, but except for the frequent and appreciative glances, she felt as if she was just another part of the scenery. “So where is ‘Playgirl’?”

“Private poker room in the back,” Morna said. She produced what appeared to be a thick ruby-encrusted brooch and pinned it to Barbeau’s dress. “This is all you need to get in.”

“It’s ugly. Do I have to wear it?”

“Yes. It’s an identification and tracking transponder — an RFID, or radio-frequency identification tag,” Morna said. “They’ve been tracking us ever since I picked it up a half hour ago while you were getting dressed. They track all your movements; it sends information to all the cashiers, croupiers, maitre d’s, security, hotel staff, and even to the slot machines about who you are, what you play or do, and — more importantly to them, I’m sure — how much is left in your account. The security staff watches you with their cameras and automatically compares your description to their database to keep an eye on you while you’re on the property. I think if you took more than one or two wrong turns anywhere around this place, they’d send a couple hospitality guys after you to steer you in the right direction.”

“I like the sound of that—‘hospitality guys,’” Barbeau cooed. “I don’t much like the idea of being tagged like a brown bear in the woods, though.”

“Well, keep it with you, because it’s your room key, access to your line of credit, your charge card, and your admission pass to all the shows and VIP rooms — again, you don’t need to know a thing because these guys will escort you everywhere you want to go. Anywhere.”

“But they don’t know who I am, do they?”

“I would assume they know exactly who you are, Senator,” Morna said, “but this is Vegas — here, you are whoever you want to be. Tonight you’re Robin Gilliam from Montgomery, telecommunications and oil money, married but here alone.”

“Oh, do I have to be from Alabama?” she deadpanned. Morna rolled her eyes. “Never mind. So how did I get into this private poker room if I’m not who I say I am?”

“A fifty thousand dollar line of credit is the best way to start,” Morna said.

“You used the billing codes from the White House for this trip for a line of credit in the casino? Smart girl.”

“It’s just to get us in the door, Senator — don’t actually use any of it, or the sergeant at arms will crucify you,” Morna said.

“Oh, pish on him — he’s an old fuddy-duddy,” Barbeau said.

Morna rolled her eyes, silently hoping she was kidding. Washington careers were ended by a lot less. “Everything is all set. The management is as attentive as they are discreet. They’ll take good care of you. I’ll be in the room next door to yours if you need me, and I’ve got a casino employee bought and paid for that will tell me exactly where you are at all times.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need a wingman tonight, darlin’,” Barbeau said in her best man-slaying voice. “Captain Hunter ‘Boomer’ Noble will go down as easy as catching catfish in a barrel.”

“What do you plan to do, Senator?”

“I plan to show Captain Noble the best way to get ahead in the United States Air Force, which is very simple: Don’t cross a United States senator,” she said confidently. She stuck out her chest and moved the mink aside. “I’ll show him a couple advantages of pleasing me instead of opposing me. You’re sure he’s here?”

“He checked in last night and has been playing poker all day long,” Morna said. “He’s doing pretty well too — he’s up a little.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure he’s up, all right,” Barbeau said. “Trust me.”

“I know where his suite is — it’s right down the hall from ours — and if he takes you there my guy will tell me,” Morna went on.

“Any other ladies with him?”

“Just a few that have stopped by briefly at the table — he hasn’t invited any of them to his room.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Barbeau said. “Don’t wait up, sugar.”

Exactly as Colleen said, the casino staff knew she was coming without a word being spoken. As Barbeau left the main casino floor and began walking toward the ornate gold entryway of the private poker room, a man in a tuxedo with a communications earpiece in one ear smiled, nodded, and said, “Welcome, Miss Gilliam,” as she passed by.

As she approached the doors she was met by a tall, good-looking man in a tuxedo and a woman in a tuxedo suit and skirt, carrying a beverage tray. “Welcome, Miss Gilliam,” the man said. “My name is Martin, and this is Jesse, who will be your attendant for the rest of the evening.”

“Why thank you, Martin,” Barbeau said in her best Southern accent. “I’m quite taken by this extraordinary level of attention.”

“Our goal is to assist you in any way possible to have the best evening while a guest at the hotel,” Martin said. “Our motto is ‘Anything at All,’ and I will be here to be sure all your desires are met tonight.” The waitress handed her the glass. “Southern Comfort and lime, I believe?”

“Exactly right, Martin. Thank you, Jesse.”

“My job is to make you comfortable, get any dinner or show reservations you may like, get you a seat at any gaming table you’d prefer, and make any introductions while you’re in the private hall. If there’s anything at all you’d like—anything at all — please do not hesitate to tell Jesse or myself.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Barbeau said, “but I think I’d like to just…you know, prowl around a little bit to get comfortable. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Of course. Whenever you need anything, just motion to us. You don’t have to look for us — we’ll be looking out for you.”

It was a very secure feeling, Barbeau thought, to know that she was being watched every second. She took her drink and began to stroll around the room. It was plush and ornate without being too ostentatious; there was just a hint of cigar smoke, not too bad, almost pleasant and reassuring. A room in the back had several sports games on huge wide-screen flat-panel monitors, with women who definitely didn’t look like spouses hanging onto the shoulders of the spectators — male and female alike.

What happens in this place, Stacy thought as she took a sip of her drink, definitely stays in this place.

After a short hunt she finally found him, at a card table in the back: Hunter Noble, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with a single thick-link gold chain around his neck, an old-style metal POW bracelet on one wrist, and a black nylon Velcro watchband on the other wrist with its protective watch flap closed. He had an impressive stack of chips in front of him, and only two players and the dealer at the table with him — and the other players definitely looked perturbed, their chip stacks much lower than his, as if they were frustrated at being beat by this young punk. One of the other players had a cigarette in an ashtray beside him; Noble had an ashtray beside him too, but it was clean and empty.

Now that she saw him in his “native habitat,” she liked what she saw. He was the perfect cross between lean and muscular — a naturally toned body without having to do a lot of weight lifting, not like McLanahan’s chunky muscularity. His hair was short and naturally teased, without having to mousse it, which had to be the most unmanly thing Stacy had ever seen in her life. His movements were slow and easy, although she noticed his quick eyes when cards and chips started flying across the table in front of him. He certainly didn’t miss much…

…and at that moment his eyes rested on her…and he didn’t miss anything there, either. He smiled that mischievous naughty-boy smile, and his quick eyes danced, and she instantly felt herself being visually undressed once more — then, just as quickly, his attention was back to his game.

It was not too long afterward that Barbeau saw Martin supervising the dealer counting up Noble’s winnings. He saw him ask Martin a question, the host responded, and soon he sauntered over to her table with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. “Pardon me, Miss Gilliam,” he said, speaking very formally but with that same mischievous smile, “but I took the liberty of asking Martin who you were, and I thought I’d introduce myself. My name is Hunter Noble. I hope I’m not intruding.”