the table. Amad, who was due to die in a day, looked scared.
DEREK GOODLIN CLOSED the door behind Lababiti and his friend, then walked back to his office. He sat down and began counting a pile of bills while he sipped from a snifter of brandy. It had been a good night. The Arab and his silent friend had added five thousand pounds to the nightly take. That, along with a Japanese regular who had lost heavily at the roulette wheel, gave him a 30 percent increase over last night’s business.
He was wrapping a pile of pound notes with a rubber band to hide in the safe when there was a knock on his door. “Hold on,” he said as he placed the cash in the safe and then closed it and spun the dial.
“Okay,” he said once the safe was closed, “come in.”
“I’m here for my pay,” Sally Forth said, “my final pay.”
The socket around her left eye was purple and swollen.
“Lababiti?” Goodlin asked. “I thought you were supposed to be with the kid.”
“I was,” Sally said. “He got a little mean after…”
“After what?” Goodlin asked.
“After he couldn’t get it up,” Sally Forth answered.
Goodlin reached into his desk drawer for one of the envelopes he had prepared for the girls who had worked that night and handed it over. “Take a few days off,” he said, “and be back at work Wednesday.”
Nodding a weary nod, she left the office and walked down the hallway.
LABABITI WAS DRIVING the Jaguar west on Leadenhall Street. Amad was sitting in the passenger seat quietly.
“Did you have a good time?” Lababiti asked.
Amad grunted.
“Are you going to be ready tomorrow?”
“Allah is great,” Amad said quietly.
Lababiti turned and glanced over at the Yemeni, who was staring out the side window at the buildings they passed. He was beginning to have his doubts about Amad, but he kept them to himself. Tomorrow morning he’d give the Yemeni his last instructions.
Then he’d drive to the Chunnel and escape to France.
TRUITT WALKED DOWN the Strand to the side street where the records showed Lababiti rented an apartment. On the lower floor, a vacant shop abutted the lobby. The three floors above, where the apartments were located, were dark, the residents sleeping. Truitt jimmied the lock on the door to the lobby then walked over to examine the row of mailboxes. He was staring at the names when a Jaguar sedan pulled up in front of the building and two men climbed out. Truitt slid past the elevator to where a stairway led to the upper floors, then listened as the men entered the lobby and walked over to the elevator.
He waited while the elevator descended, opened and closed, and began to rise again, then walked out and stared up at the number on the panel above the doors. The elevator stopped on the third floor. Truitt returned to the stairs and climbed the three flights. Then, removing a small microphone from his pocket, he slid the earpiece into his ear and slowly walked down the hallway outside the apartments. At one apartment he heard the sound of a man snoring, at another a cat’s quiet meow. He was halfway down the hall before he heard voices.
“That folds out into a bed,” the voice said.
Truitt could not make out the reply. Noting the number, he visualized where the windows of the apartment would be from the street. Then he swept across the closed door with a small Geiger counter he had brought with him.
There was no sign of radiation.
He climbed quietly down the stairs, exited the lobby, then stared up at the window of Lababiti’s apartment. The shades were drawn. Truitt slipped under the rear of the Jaguar and attached a small magnetic disc to the fuel tank. Then he scanned the car with the Geiger counter and found it clean.
Noting the arrangements of the other buildings nearby, he walked back to the Strand.
The street was nearly deserted; only a few cabs passed and there was a single truck making a delivery to a McDonald’s restaurant that was open twenty-four hours. Truitt walked along the north side of the Strand, reading the playbills outside the theaters. He walked almost to Leicester Square before he turned around and crossed over to the south side.
There he passed a shop with classic British motorcycles for sale. He stopped and stared in the window at the bikes, lit by spotlights, on display. Ariels, BSAs, Triumphs, even a legendary Vincent. A candy store for the motorhead.
He walked back to the McDonald’s and ordered a Danish and coffee.
AT 5:30 A.M. LONDON time—9:30 in the evening in Las Vegas—Captain Jeff Porte of the Las Vegas Police Department was having a tough time convincing the head of security for Dreamworld to allow him to enter the penthouse.
“You’ll need a warrant,” the head of security said, “that’s the only way I can let you inside.”
Porte considered this. “We understand you’ve had a break-in,” he said, “so we’re investigating an active crime.”
“I still can’t let you in, Jeff,” the security chief said.
“Then I’m going to wake a judge and get a warrant,” Porte said, “and when I do, I’ll be back with television cameras. That should help your casino take—police and reporters throughout the lobby and common areas.”
The head of security considered this for a moment. “Let me make a phone call,” he said at last.
HICKMAN HAD ALMOST reached Maidenhead when his satellite telephone rang. After the head of security explained what was happening, Hickman spoke.
“Tell them they need a warrant,” he said, “and order our counsel to start working on quashing it now. Whatever you do, delay them going inside as long as possible.”
