"But David..."

"Let's leave it at that," Palmer said, wrapping his wife in his arms.

"All right," Sherry purred. "I know better than to push you for answers you're not willing to give."

"You smell nice," Palmer observed.

"It's the shampoo. I had my hair done for the banquet tonight. Or hadn't you noticed?"

"I noticed," he lied.

Sherry gave him a doubtful look. "You'd better get dressed yourself - after you take a shower. You smell like you just played the second half all by yourself."

David chuckled. "Maybe you'll be more receptive to my advances after I've cleaned up my act?"

Sherry slapped his b.u.t.t. "Get in that shower right now. If we're late, Larry Bell will only use the time to upstage you again."

"I'm going," David replied, heading for the bathroom. A moment later, Sherry heard the water running. When she was sure her husband was in the shower, she lifted the phone and dialed Jong Lee's room. He answered on the first ring.

"This is Lee," he said.

"Mr. Lee, I have rather bad news for you. Whatever it was your company was working on, I'm afraid the project is about to be cancelled."

There was a pause. "You're sure, Mrs. Palmer?"

"Absolutely certain, Mr. Lee. I guess you won't have to retool your factories after all."

"Yes, that is true." Another pause. "Mrs. Palmer... Do you know if the demonstration was a success?"

Sherry frowned. "I believe it was, Mr. Lee. But the project is cancelled nevertheless."

"Good to know," Lee replied, hardly able to contain his glee.

"And that other matter we discussed?"

"Of course, Mrs. Palmer. Send Mr. Cohen to my suite in two hours to collect the funds. I shall have the package ready for him."

"Thank you, Mr. Lee. My husband's campaign appreciates your support."

Sherry hung up before the man could reply. Shaking with excitement, she went to the bar and poured herself a scotch. She swallowed it in a single gulp. She had to be careful tonight, hide her emotions. It was difficult, however. The thought of all that money in a secret fund made Sherry Palmer feel giddy. With five million dollars at her disposal, she could buy a lot of favors, and destroy a host of political rivals, too.

7:46:35 p.m. PDT Bix Automotive Center Browne End Road, Las Vegas Men scattered as the cherry-red BMW swung into the lot. The automatic garage door had barely opened enough to admit the vehicle when it roared right through. Skidding on the greasy concrete, Stella Hawk braked inches from the line of white Dodge Sprinter trucks.

She popped the pa.s.senger side door and kicked the groaning man with her Roger Vivier heels. "Get out before you ruin my G.o.dd.a.m.n upholstery," she screamed. Standing near the trucks, Pizarro Rojas watched her performance with interest. His brother Balboa, who had been examining Hugo Bix's silver Jaguar, frowned at the woman's vulgar display.

Curtis Manning tumbled out of the front seat, into a puddle of grease. Hugo Bix stepped forward, looming over the semi-conscious man.

"h.e.l.l," he said with a crooked grin. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Lilly was not amused. She climbed out of the car, slammed the door. "You dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.ds almost lost him," she cried, eyes flashing. "Jesus Christ! Don't you know that if Curtis got away, he'd have warned Jaycee something was going on over here."

"We had it under control, honey," Bix replied in a reasonable tone.

A sneering Stella scanned the faces around her, then glared a challenge at Carlos and Roland. "Next time, don't send a bunch of taco benders and tamale stuffers to do your job, Hugo."

Roland turned his back on the woman, walked back to the Jaguar parked in the corner to speak with Balboa and Pizarro Rojas. Together, the three men moved to the line of panel trucks, opened the door to one of them and climbed inside.

Carlos set Curtis Manning's PDA and cell phone on the hood of Stella's car, under Hugo's nose.

"This man who was spying on you is not a gangster," the Cuban announced. "I can't crack the codes, but this device..." he touched the PDA. "This belongs to a federal agent. FBI, perhaps DEA. I was lucky to be able to hone in on the tracking beam."

Hugo snorted, then threw back his head and laughed. "That dumb som' b.i.t.c.h of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d Jager has a snake on his own d.a.m.n team. This guy here's probably working to bust his whole crew."

Fat Frankie Toomes' expression soured. "Too bad we stopped him."

Bix peered at the man on the ground. Curtis hadn't stirred. He looked to be dying, or dead already. "Yeah, maybe..." Bix grunted, glancing in Roman Vine's direction.

Roland Arrias returned to speak with his partner Carlos. Pizarro and Balboa remained with the trucks. The brothers seemed reluctant to get involved with Bix's business.

"The charges are set. A very professional job," Roland reported. "There is more 4 than we asked for. More than enough to do the job. The Rojas boys are quite happy with the arrangement, despite the presence of this pig..." He spit on Curtis.

Bix smirked. Carlos faced the American. "You have fulfilled your part of the bargain."

A Cuban stepped forward, opened a leather attache case. It was stuffed with cash. Stella's eyes narrowed when she saw the money. She licked her lips.

"Five million dollars," Carlos said. "You've already received the shipment of cocaine. Count the cash if you wish."

Bix grinned. "I trust you, amigo." He reached out, closed the case himself. Roman Vine took it from the Cuban.

"What do you want me to do with this here federate federate?" Bix asked, his booted foot prodding Curtis's kidney.

"Throw him in one of the trucks. He killed two of my men, he can die with the others in the first blast."

While a pair of Cubans grabbed Curtis under the arms and dragged him to one of the trucks, Carlos faced Bix.

"We have only one problem now," he said. "One of the men this American agent killed was the brother of a waiter at the Babylon. He was to take his brother's place this night, in order to plant the final bomb in the banquet hall."

Bix frowned. "Spot of bad luck there, eh, amigo?" He rubbed his chin. "Look, I can provide you with a driver or two - for a price. But I can't get you close to the VIPs, not without advance planning. I reckon n.o.body can. Not now..."

"I can."

Carlos and Roland turned to face Stella Hawk. Head c.o.c.ked, hands on her hips, she nodded. "Yeah, you heard right. I can get one or two of you in, anyway. I'm a performer at Risque, Risque, which is inside the Babylon, and my roommate is a waitress at tonight's shindig. I'll get you past security, or around it." which is inside the Babylon, and my roommate is a waitress at tonight's shindig. I'll get you past security, or around it."

Pizarro Rojas, who'd only been listening up to now, stepped forward. "How much is the services of this... this puta descarada puta descarada going to cost?" going to cost?"

The insult rolled off her back. "Five hundred thousand dollars," Stella replied, extending her hand, palm up. "Payable right now."

Pizarro glanced at his brother. "Pay her."

Bix studied the man. For a guy who'd been forced to cough up an extra half million dollars, Pizarro Rojas seemed pretty calm. His brother Balboa didn't look nearly so happy. Sour faced, he rummaged through the scuffed and dirty canvas bag that he'd carried across the border, came up with a stack of thousand-dollar bills.

"You better deliver what we've paid for, or you will not leave the hotel alive," he grunted as he handed her the money.

Stella flashed him a smile. "Don't worry, Pedro. Satisfaction's guaranteed." She climbed into her car, stashed the money in a secret compartment behind the dash.

Finally, Pizarro Rojas moved toward Hugo Bix, until the two men stood toe to toe. Rojas, a head shorter than the American, looked up to meet his eye.

"In a few minutes we will drive away from here in these trucks," Rojas said. "But I will always remember the service you and your men provided for me, for my family. In times of trouble, when the other gangs turned on us, you remained loyal." Pizarro touched his head. "A Rojas never forgets his friends, as you shall soon discover."

Turning his back on Bix, he headed back to the trucks. On the way, he took Stella's arm, pushed her toward the first vehicle. Despite the rough handling, Stella smirked. Heels clicking, she obediently followed her new, high-paying boss.

"Adios, amigo," Bix called as he walked to his office. "And good luck..." Bix called as he walked to his office. "And good luck..."

By the time Bix reached his cluttered desk upstairs, the trucks were rolling out of the garage. Carlos Boca stood at the door, directing the deployment. He s.p.a.ced each departure a few minutes apart - a wise move, Bix realized. It would look odd if six identical Sunflower Gardens Florist trucks rolled out of a garage nowhere near the location of the real shop on the other side of town.

Watching the last of the trucks roll on to their target, Bix lifted his phone, pressed a b.u.t.ton.

Downstairs, Roman Vine answered the phone on the wall. "Yeah, boss."

"Time to call the Wildman. Tell them it's a go."

Bix slumped down in the battered office chair and propped his feet on the desk. While the Rojas boys were having their fun, Hugo Bix had been planning a private party of his own. He'd just pa.s.sed the order along to the out-of-towner gunmen Roman Vine hired from the El Paso mob. While the authorities' attention was diverted to the big blowout at the Babylon, Bix was going to light his own kind of fire at the Cha-Cha Lounge, and Jaycee Jager and his crew were going to burn.

9

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 P.M. AND 9 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

8:05:11 p.m. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas Jong Lee answered the door to his own suite. Lev Cohen blinked in surprise, expecting the woman Yizi to greet him. The Asian man was dressed casually and appeared relaxed, so Palmer's Chief of Staff recovered quickly. Lev greeted the man, but did not extend his hand. Nor did Jong Lee offer his.

Pale under his red-brown beard, Lev shifted uncomfortably. Adjusting, then re-adjusting his tie. He didn't like this part of the job, but he was well aware that this was was part of his job, the sordid under-the-table dealings that made the machine of politics run. part of his job, the sordid under-the-table dealings that made the machine of politics run.

At least, after years of struggling, he'd latched on to a star that was going to take him all the way to the top. He'd help David Palmer get elected President of the United States, then Lev Cohen would be a name. After a successful stint in the White House, he'd launch his own consulting firm, maybe do a little lobbying on the side, or even a job with big media.

Lev had made the decision long ago to play along, do what was necessary to succeed - even if it meant playing the bag man and handling dirty money. Best to just get it over with as quickly as possible. Unlike the previous chief of staff, Cohen had survived two campaigns with Senator Palmer not only because he was very good at his job, but also because he understood something his predecessor did not - it was Sherry Palmer who called the shots with David Palmer's political career, not the Senator.

Oh, sure, when Senator Palmer spoke, Lev nodded politely, always took the man's suggestions under serious consideration. But he always did what Sherry wanted, when she wanted it done. That's what made Lev a survivor.

"If you will please be seated, Mr. Cohen."

"I really don't have time..."

Jong Lee took his arm, guided Lev to the suite's living room. Though fresh desert air filled the suite, the curtains were drawn on the balcony. The s.p.a.cious room was lit by a single lamp. A leather case sat, lid open, in the middle of the gla.s.s coffee table. Its interior was filled with neat stacks of thousand dollar bills. Cohen slumped down in a straight backed chair. Behind him the curtains stirred with the breeze.

"It is all there, Mr. Cohen," Jong Lee said, sitting in an armchair on the opposite side of the coffee table. "I insist you count it."

"That's really not necessary, Mr. Lee..."

"Indulge me," Lee said, crossing his legs.

Lev shrugged. "All right, if you insist."

He reached for a stack of bills, but his hand never touched the paper. Instead, a sudden burst of wind tickled his neck - then his mind exploded with black jets of agony as sharp blades plunged into his throat. As a red haze clouded his vision, Lev tried to cry out but no sound could possibly emerge from the ravaged larynx. He tried to raise his hands to clutch at his neck, but the tendons in his shoulders had been pierced or severed, his arms paralyzed. Finally, he tried to stand, but his a.s.sa.s.sin pressed the three-p.r.o.nged blades farther downward, until they sunk deeper into his abdomen, to pierce arteries, sc.r.a.pe bones. Finally his lungs were punctured and collapsed like deflated balloons. Mouth open, eyes wide but unseeing, Lev Cohen's world ended.

When she was sure Palmer's man was dead, Yizi yanked the twin sai out of his shoulders, stared at the blood staining the long silver p.r.o.ngs. Standing behind the corpse, the woman's eyes narrowed and she trembled like a cold kitten.

Yizi blinked, snapping out of her short trance. Slowly she lifted her chin. She wiped the b.l.o.o.d.y sai on the dead man's clothing, slipped them into her belt. Unlike traditional sai, which are not sharpened, the p.r.o.ngs of uneven length, Yizi's weapons had three twelve-inch p.r.o.ngs, each as sharp and the point of a diamond.

"You are calm now?" he asked in Chinese, using the metaphor.

"Yes. Thank you for the opportunity to indulge myself."

Jong nodded once. "From now on you must kill with detached precision, quickly and without hesitation. Then move on to the next target. There will be nothing elegant about this operation. This is not wushu, it is slaughter."

"I understand."

8:17:48 p.m. PDT Tiki Room The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas Jack's phone buzzed. "Jaycee."

"It's Morris. Heard from our girl in Los Angeles, Little Jamey..."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"Our friend Tony, out at Area 51, he uncovered the traitor. A fellow named Dr. Steven Sable."

"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 wrist.w.a.tch. "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."