"Patch Curtis through to this phone as soon as he calls in," Bauer commanded.

Jack ended the call, tucked the cell into the pocket of his leather jacket. Stretching his legs, Jack glanced again at his watch. He still had a turncoat at his casino. Someone had murdered the Midnight Cowboy Max Farrow, the guy with the Area 51 technology. And that same someone likely murdered the Cha-Cha Lounge's security guard Ray Perry too.

Though he knew it was best to wait until Bix made the first move before he took action against the traitor in his midst, Jack also realized there were several precautions he could take. He didn't want to be surprised by a premature move on the turncoat's part.

One of those precautions involved returning to the sub bas.e.m.e.nt storeroom where Morris had found Ray Perry's corpse. For a long time Jack wondered why the killer had stashed the body there. Jack believed he'd finally solved that riddle. If he was right, then it was time to set a little b.o.o.by trap, a simple snare that would help Jack unmask the traitor before more damage was done ...

8:21:06 p.m. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas Jong Lee had observed the execution, and the joy Yizi took from the act, with impa.s.sive detachment. Legs crossed, chin resting on his hand, he a.s.sessed the woman's performance while he waited for her to finish the task of moving Lev Cohen's corpse.

When Yizi appeared behind the man, the sharp sai in her hands, the demure servant who bowed obsequiously at every man, who subserviently antic.i.p.ated every wish, was gone, the true Yizi revealed.

Small and lean, with her raven-black tresses pulled back into a bun. Her white skin contrasted with the form-fitting black jumpsuit that hugged her lithe body from neck to toe. Made from a super-elastic microfiber, the suit was snug enough to reveal the woman's hip bones under her taut flesh. Indeed, Jong Lee could count the woman's ribs. Her pale flesh and skeletal appearance, coupled with the way she clutched her sai - a weapon that resembled the pitchfork so common in colorful depictions of the Western devil - were the reasons Jong Lee had a.s.signed her with the code name "Reaper."

Yizi was one of the unintended consequences of the People's Republic of China's misguided effort to control its burgeoning population. Another, far more dire consequence, was the wholesale abortion of generations of female babies. Now, over two decades after the failed policies were initiated, China was paying the price - a large majority of the nation's male population would never have a Chinese wife because of the gender imbalance.

But not all of the female babies proved useless. In time the State established a secret bureau inside the PLA. This unit was charged with the recruitment and training of young girls from a very early age. Those females who exhibited promise were selected for "special combat reeducation," a lifetime of training which included combat tactics, espionage tradecraft, techniques of terrorism, and modes of a.s.sa.s.sination. Only girls who pa.s.sed dozens of rigorous intelligence and physical screening were accepted, and they could be dropped from the program at any time. Rejection meant instant execution, for the females were considered expendable. During their indoctrination and training, every aspect of these women's lives was regulated, their bodies and minds completely controlled.

Yizi had begun her training at the age of six. Now she was twenty-two, a woman, though Jong Lee knew that in almost no sense of the word was Yizi a true woman. Like her sisters in the "special program," Yizi's menstrual cycle had been curtailed - a consequence of the rigorous training, as well as the hormones and steroids she'd been injected with.

It did not matter in the end. Yizi possessed all the charms of a woman, and could use them to seduce and corrupt a man if so ordered. Though Yizi was a skilled espionage agent, Jong learned she was a superb a.s.sa.s.sin - efficient, cool under pressure, and pathologically addicted to her vocation.

Yizi appeared at his side. "It is done." It was true, Where Lev Cohen died, there was only blood.

Jong Lee nodded, then spoke. "You know the plan. Go back to the dry cleaners. Captain Hsu is awaiting your instructions. Use the phrase you have memorized. I will meet you at the airport at the appointed time..."

Jong watched as Yizi slipped a raincoat over her ebony jumpsuit, draped the purse over her shoulder and left the suite without a backward glance.

With a contented sigh, Jong Lee settled deeper into his chair and pondered the possibilities of success or failure in the next phase of his operation. Jong knew he was in control of Yizi and of his commandos. They would behave within the bounds of their training and his expectations. What Lee could not control were the Rojas brothers.

Jong Lee had helped facilitate the attack on the Pan Latin Anti-Drug Conference because it fit in with his own plans. The Rojas desired revenge against America, and against the law enforcement agencies that had targeted his family, interfered with their schemes and murdered Francesco Rojas, the youngest son in the family.

All Jong Lee wanted was a diversion - one so dramatic and violent that it would keep the American authorities too busy to figure out Lee's real goal, until it was too late to stop him.

In a few minutes, Jong Lee would leave this place, never to return. But before he fled the conflagration to come, he had to make one final phone call to set the last wheels of his elaborate plan in motion.

Glancing at his watch, Lee lifted the receiver and dialed the secret cell phone number of the traitor he controlled, a member of the research contingent inside of Groom Lake Air Force Base.

8:38:13 p.m. PDT Nebuchadnezzar Ballroom Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas Lhe ma.s.sive, three-story tiered ballroom was bathed in radiant light. The chamber's golden glow was rivaled only by the glittering array of guests, a mingling of international political figures, media barons, celebrities, literati, law enforcement officials, wealthy philanthropists and social activists.

The Babylon Hotel was built to resemble a Middle Eastern ziggurat - a circular tower ringed by a sloping ramp that descended from the rooftop ballroom all the way down to the atrium on the third floor. The ramp contained the hotel's famed hanging gardens - an amazing array of ecological-systems made up of thousands of trees, ferns, plants and flowers from all over the world. The gardens were separated by gla.s.s walls. Some of the gardens were open to the desert air. Others were enclosed in gla.s.s and climate-controlled.

The elegant decor in the ballroom repeated the ziggurat motif, with swirling ramps instead of staircases leading up to tiered dining areas and bars that overlooked the main ballroom far below. Crystal chandeliers in circular swirls dangled from a high roof that loomed a hundred feet over the revelers' heads. Most of the walls were made of gla.s.s - tall windows with striking views of the Las Vegas Strip.

Sherry Palmer watched her husband near one of those ma.s.sive windows. Looking distinguished in his evening clothes, the Senator from Maryland was huddled with the amba.s.sador from Nicaragua, and a military man from Peru, along with their jewel-bedecked wives. He must have been charming them, because the men were laughing, the woman gazing up at him with rapt attention.

She noted that her husband's mood had improved considerably, most likely because David was in his element now. As much as he hated impromptu speechmaking, David Palmer loved to be around people. He seemed to feed off their energy, and he took a genuine interest in those he met. David was able to instantly connect with someone on a person-to-person level. Even when he spoke to a crowd, many people who answered Lev's questions in focus groups conducted later all said the same thing - David Palmer seemed to be talking directly to them, that they felt the same connection with him as he felt for them.

Whether his was a skill learned early in life or a trait embedded in his DNA, Sherry didn't know. She only knew that David's affability was an invaluable campaign tool that, if harnessed properly, would carry him all the way to the Oval Office.

Sherry did not share her husband's considerable people skills. She was a good manager - cool under pressure, efficient, detail-oriented. She possessed plenty of business savvy and a political horse-sense, too. Sherry was adept at handling handling people, at manipulating them into giving her what she needed. But she could never win the loyalty, the respect, or the genuine love and friendship accorded her husband. David didn't manage people, he seduced them, and under the spell of his undeniable charisma, they willingly followed his lead. people, at manipulating them into giving her what she needed. But she could never win the loyalty, the respect, or the genuine love and friendship accorded her husband. David didn't manage people, he seduced them, and under the spell of his undeniable charisma, they willingly followed his lead.

Sherry glanced at the delicate, jeweled Rolex on her wrist. She should have heard from Lev by now.

How long can the meeting take? she wondered. she wondered.

Jong Lee was supposed to hand off the cash, and Lev was supposed to take it back to his suite, and call her immediately. Once again, Sherry squeezed her tiny handbag to make sure the cell phone was inside, that she hadn't misplaced it somewhere.

Becoming more concerned by the minute, she turned away from her husband, walked to a line of dining tables along the gla.s.s wall. She saw a seating card marked "Mr. Jong Lee," at a table designated for businessmen concerned with the detrimental effects of the drug epidemic. Though most of the seats were filled with stuffy men and their plump wives, Lee's chair remained vacant.

If Lev didn't call her in the next fifteen minutes, Sherry resolved to go searching for him. You can't trust anyone these days, You can't trust anyone these days, she mused bitterly. she mused bitterly. Not when it came to five million dollars... Not when it came to five million dollars...

8:57:56 p.m. PDT Las Vegas Boulevard Curtis awoke to the smell of flowers. Then he felt the floor b.u.mp under him. He tried to open his eyes, but only one eye actually opened. The left side of his face was swollen, the eye glued shut, His head throbbed. He tried to touch the wound and found his wrists were bound together with thin steel wires that bit into his flesh. He felt another b.u.mp and realized he was riding on the floor in back of a truck.

Finally Curtis remembered it all - the identical white trucks, the Cuban hit team, the presence of the feared Rojas brothers in Las Vegas, the plot to blow up the anti-drug conference and its VIP guests at the Babylon.

Curtis studied the ferns and flowering plants around him, sniffed again. Underneath the cloying scent of flowers was another ominous smell, one he was familiar with. Curtis was definitely detecting the distinctive lemon-citrus odor given off by the plastic explosive Composition 4. Eyes darting, Curtis' intense gaze moved beyond those plants, to rows of plastic garbage cans hidden behind them - each one filled with C4 explosives and rigged to a timer with bright blue detonation cords.

This truck had five others just like it. More than enough to bring down one of Las Vegas' most glittering casinos, and murder everyone inside.

When Stella Hawk shot him in the chest with the police special, the relatively small .38 caliber bullet hadn't penetrated the Kevlar vest Curtis wore under his jacket, but the impact stunned him, knocking him out cold for a few minutes. He finally came around when Stella kicked him out of her car, onto the floor of Bix's garage. Fortunately, the wound on his leg and the deep gash in his side caused by a shard of gla.s.s, provided enough blood to fool Stella, Hugo Bix, even the Cubans. No one took the trouble to examine him because they all believed he was dead or close to it.

While the conspirators talked over him, Curtis feigned unconsciousness. It hadn't been easy to remain motionless during repeated jabs from Bix's cowboy boot, or the rough treatment he'd received from the Cubans, who'd tossed him into the back of this truck and tied him up.

Resorting to a trick of his trade, Curtis had tensed his muscles while his wrists were tied. But he must have seemed too tense, because the hit man became suspicious and used the b.u.t.t of his Makarov PM to knock Curtis into unconsciousness.

Still disoriented, Curtis wondered how long he'd been out. This truck had not yet arrived at the Babylon, but what about the other five?

Curtis was trussed up and helpless, he'd been chased, dragged, beaten and shot, but he still had a job to do. If he didn't stop these terrorists, they would blow up a major American hotel and claim untold lives. He had to free himself, stop this truck, and warn the authorities before it was too late ...

10

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

9:06:19 p.m. PDT Montana Burger, Home of Real Montana Beef Tropicana Boulevard, Las Vegas "Catch!"

Metro Police Sergeant Philip Locklear tossed the colorful bag at his partner. "Scoot over, Dallas. You eat your Montana burgers. I'll drive."

The younger man stepped out from behind the steering wheel, circled the white Metro Police car. Climbing back inside, he opened the bag and rummaged through it.

"Hey, you didn't get anything for yourself."

The sergeant shook his head, threw his hat on the dashboard, and ran his k.n.o.bby fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

"I can't eat that fast food c.r.a.p. It bothers my stomach."

Sergeant Locklear was in his mid-forties, but looked ten years older. Skin like leather, his blue eyes were frozen in a perpetual squint from too many decades of exposure to the desert sun. Though he was never in danger of failing his annual department physical. Locklear had a rounded belly from too much beer and too much couch surfing.

"What bothers your stomach are those ten cups of coffee you drink a shift. That stuff will kill you."

Officer Brad Dallas was the former second-string quarterback of the Las Vegas High School football team. Ex-military and still sporting the same haircut he had in boot camp, Dallas was too gung-ho for his own good - and his partner's. Still buff at twenty-nine, he was a health and fitness nut, except for the cholesterol-heavy Montana burgers he ate two at a time.

"What stuff will kill me?" Locklear asked, starting the engine.

"Caffeine, man. Coffee is the devil's brew."

The sergeant nodded. "Yeah. I heard that somewhere."

They rolled out of the Montana Burger parking lot a moment later, swung onto the road that took them to their patrol zone along the Strip.

"How about you take a gander at tonight's SVR. Shout out anything that catches your eye."

Chewing a mouthful of burger, Officer Dallas thumbed through the three page printout on blue paper. The Stolen Vehicle Report was information so new it hadn't reached the LVMP database yet. Such intelligence was the purview of the select few members of Metro's Repeat Auto Theft Squad, RATS for short. Las Vegas ranked third in total car thefts for the past five years running. The RATS patrol was formed to lower that statistic.

Because a minority of car thieves steal the majority of cars - usually to use the pilfered vehicle to commit yet another crime - the Metro Police RATS was formed to target those nefarious individuals. Of the twenty to thirty Metro Police cars prowling the Strip on a given night, one or two of them belonged to the RATS patrol, though no one but the officers in question were aware of that fact. RATS patrol cars were not specially marked, and the RATS members wore the same uniforms and performed the same duties as other patrolmen. But they were also specially trained to recognize and arrest repeat offending car thieves, and to spot the telltale signs of car-theft related activity.

When the pair began their shift, the big case was a car jacking in North Las Vegas so violent it landed the victim in the morgue. That suspect was captured by the Nevada Highway Patrol an hour ago - the news had just come across their radio when the all-points was called off.

Without a special target for tonight's patrol, Sergeant Locklear was fishing for an interesting angle.

"Not much here," Dallas noted. "There was an a.s.sault and truck jacking this morning, out at Mesa Canyon, corner of Smoke Ranch Road and North Buffalo. The truck was a late model Dodge Sprinter, white with commercial plates. It was a Fit-Chef delivery van."

The sergeant made a face. "My ex-wife ate that c.r.a.p all the time. s.h.i.t cost an arm and a leg, but she never lost an ounce from that fat a.s.s of hers."

Brad Dallas had met his partner's ex-wife. She was an attractive woman with nice legs and a biting sense of humor, and he didn't think she had a particularly fat a.s.s, either. Officer Dallas wasn't going to argue the point, however.

"Hey, this is weird," Dallas said a minute later. "Someone else jacked a Dodge Sprinter this morning. Over near Mulberry Mall. It was white, too... Same model year."

He flipped through the pages. "d.a.m.n. Here's another one. Nine AM, a uniform supply company van in front of a Dunkin' Donut."

"Okay, so you're thinking that somebody's planning a big heist using a trio of Dodge Sprinters? How likely is that?"

"I didn't say that," Dallas replied. "I was just saying I thought it was interesting, that's all. Anyway, if you're thinking about it, why stop with three?"

"Okay, partner. I'm hooked," Sergeant Locklear declared. "I think it's time you check the police data banks in Reno and see if they're losing Dodge Sprinters, too."

They turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Traffic was moving, but the streets were already packed with cars.

Washing down the last bite with a gulp of Diet c.o.ke, Dallas put his greasy burger wrapper on the seat and swung the dashboard computer so it faced him. The young policeman wiped his fingers with a napkin, then cracked his knuckles. The RATS patrol had special access to up-to-the-minute car theft data from all over the state, not just Vegas. In a moment, Brad Dallas was exploring the state's law enforcement database, city by city.

9:18:19 p.m. PDT Las Vegas Boulevard With each swerve and b.u.mp, Curtis managed to shift position, until he could observe the two men in the front seat. The driver was grizzled and well into middle-age, with sagging eyes and a blubbery neck. Curtis recognized that one - the fellow who beat him into unconsciousness and tied him up.

The man in the pa.s.senger seat was young, with dark, excited eyes under bushy eyebrows and close-cropped hair. His name was Hector and he seemed nervous and jumpy. While Curtis watched, the man swallowed an amphetamine without water. Both men wore nondescript navy blue uniform-type overalls that appeared black in the gloom of the truck's interior.

Right now Curtis was helpless to do more than watch. There was no way he could free himself from the wires binding his wrists. They were firmly embedded in his ravaged and swollen flesh. Fortunately, after the older guy had beaten him down, he did a sloppy job of wiring Curtis' legs. By twisting around for several minutes - and ignoring a considerable amount of pain - he'd managed to loosen the wires enough so that he could sit up, maybe get to his knees or even his feet, when the time came.

"You missed the turn, Salazar. The Babylon is on the other side of the boulevard," Hector cried.

The young man suddenly turned his head around, to peer over the back of his seat. Curtis froze, but the man's gaze pa.s.sed right over him, to the view out of the rear windows. After a glance, he turned around again. Curtis relaxed enough to breathe.

"You have to circle around now, old man. Try making a U-turn and be quick about it. Come on, come on, do it man. we're running behind schedule."

The younger man's voice was laced with adrenaline. He trembled with nervous impatience.

The older man frowned, rubbed his hairy neck. Then Salazar jerked the steering wheel into a sharp turn. Hector grunted in surprise, clutched the dashboard. Curtis, still on his back, used the vehicle's momentum to help him roll to his knees. Fighting to remain upright, the steel truck bed digging into his kneecaps, Curtis heard tires squeal and the angry blare of a horn.

"Watch out, estupido," estupido," Hector warned. "You're cutting across traffic, man! You want to get us killed?" Hector warned. "You're cutting across traffic, man! You want to get us killed?"

9:24:03 p.m. PDT Las Vegas Boulevard "Would you look at that," quipped Sergeant Locklear. Still behind the wheel, he stared down his nose at a white van swerving none too safely across two lanes of traffic.

"Dude. That's a white Dodge Sprinter!"

Still staring, Officer Dallas read the stenciled letters on the side of the panel truck. "Sunflower Gardens Florist."

"I know the joint," Locklear said. "It's over near the University. A little late to be delivering flowers, though."

Officer Dallas grinned in antic.i.p.ation. "What are you gonna do, Sarge?"

A thin smile crossed Locklear's worn face. He sped up, weaving through traffic to catch up with the white truck. They just made it through two traffic lights and ran a third, until the Metro squad car was finally tailing the rear b.u.mper of the truck. Locklear flipped on the bubble lights, blasted the siren.

To both officers' surprise, the vehicle slowed down immediately. But it still rolled for half a block, along a fairly deserted stretch of road bordering on the newly built Wynn Hotel. Finally the truck turned off Las Vegas Boulevard, onto a service road made of uneven concrete, that led to a fenced-in construction site. The truck halted at the locked gate, perhaps fifty yards away from the busy boulevard.

Locklear rolled to a halt b.u.mper to b.u.mper with the Sprinter so the truck could not flee the scene, threw the police car into neutral.

"Check the plates. I'm going to talk to this guy."

Before Dallas could reply, Sergeant Locklear was out of the car and approaching the truck, one hand on his bolstered gun. The younger man entered the plate numbers and waited for the computer to spit out a report.

"I told you not to pull over, man," Hector hissed, a drop of saliva flecking his sweating lip.

"What was I supposed to do, drive away, have him chase me? This truck is full of explosives." Salazar clutched at Hector's arm. "Calm down, hermano. hermano. I can talk us out of this..." He reached down to clutch the handle of his own weapon. "Or I can shoot if I have to." I can talk us out of this..." He reached down to clutch the handle of his own weapon. "Or I can shoot if I have to."

"Too late for talk." Quivering, Hector pulled the MP5K automatic from under the seat.