"I don't know, Jaycee. I have my daughter here."

"Here?" Jack said, genuinely surprised.

A girl Jack guessed was about ten years old stepped around an idle bank of slots. She met his gaze, regarding Jaycee Jager with a mixture of wariness and unconcealed interest.

"This is Pamela," Lilly said, pulling the child close.

Jack blinked. Though Pamela Sheridan was a few years younger than his own daughter, he was suddenly reminded of Kim. Jack wondered what she was doing right now. Was Kim in school, or in rehearsal for the cla.s.s play - she'd won a prized role, he remembered. With a jolt he also recalled that Kim's show was staged last week, and he'd missed her performance. The realization was so hurtful that Jack immediately pushed it aside. With an effort, he smiled down at the girl, shook her tiny hand. "h.e.l.lo, Pamela," he said.

Jack's flaring emotions reined, his professional instincts rea.s.serted themselves. He noted that the resemblance between mother and daughter was obvious. Both had wide, expressive blue eyes and high cheekbones. Lilly's blond hair was a shade darker than her daughter's and cut so short it curled around her ears. While Lilly was tall and willowy, her child was skinny, all arms and legs and a neck like a gazelle's.

"Let's go to the Tiki," Jack coaxed. "The joint's deserted this time of day. We'll sit in the back and Pamela can have a ginger ale or something."

Lilly hesitated, then nodded. Jack, mindful of their seedy surroundings, took them straight to a remote booth near an oasis of fake palm trees and a flock of plastic pink flamingoes. The waitress appeared at Jack's shoulder. She wore a bikini top, gra.s.s skirt, and sneakers.

"Nancy, the young ladies will have ginger ales... Make it three."

The drinks appeared in under a minute.

"How are things at the Babylon?" Jack asked.

Lilly curled her nose. "Big political event tonight. I'm doing double duty, hostess and server. It's a nice gig with extra money attached." While she spoke, Lilly fished in her tiny purse until she found her cell phone. Still talking, she checked her messages. "Sorry, Jaycee. I'm waiting to hear from my babysitter."

She slipped the cell back into her purse.

Pamela seemed intrigued by the fake flamingoes, left the booth to get a better look. Jack leaned closer to Lilly.

"So," he said softly. "You think it's wise for Stella to go over to Hugo's garage, after she dumped him for me?"

Lilly adjusted her pink blouse. "Stella and Hugo, they're friendly. I mean, I don't know what goes on between you and Hugo, but Bix seems civilized. And Stella steers business his way..."

She suddenly covered her mouth. "Oh, c.r.a.p! Maybe I wasn't supposed to say anything about that."

Jack rea.s.sured her immediately. "Our relationship is personal, not business," he said. "It's just that Hugo's been messing with me. I don't want him messing with Stella."

Lilly looked away, sipped her drink.

Jack reached into his pocket. "Here, Lilly, I want you to take this," he said, displaying one of Jager's business cards. He turned it over. On the back was another number, written in his own handwriting.

"That's my personal cell phone number," he explained. "If I don't pick up, a guy named Morris...o...b..ian will. If Stella gets into a jam, or if you ever get into trouble, give me a call."

Lilly accepted Jaycee's card, but her expression said it all - the last thing she felt she needed was another sympathy play from a lowlife gangster who was banging her roommate.

"There you are."

Jack and Lilly looked up. Stella had arrived. She was as put together as she'd been when she arrived. Dress in place, makeup perfect.

"Ready to go, Lil?"

"Sure," Lilly said, jumping up. "I'll just fetch Pamela."

Stella Hawk watched her roommate chase after her daughter. "She dotes on that brat," Stella said with a sigh.

"Will I see you later?" Jacked asked, wrapping his arm around Stella's waist.

"Depends," Stella replied, peeling his hand away.

Lilly appeared with Pamela in tow. "Say goodbye to Mr. Jager," Lilly prompted.

"Nice to meet you, Pamela," said Jack.

"Bye, Mr. Jager. Thank you for the soda," Pamela replied.

"Later, lover," Stella said, blowing Jack a kiss.

3:28:58 p.m. PDT Bix Automotive Center Browne End Road, Las Vegas An industrial area spa.r.s.ely populated by air conditioning contractors and electrical engineering services, Bix Automotive Center dominated this remote and sandy stretch of Browne End Road. The garage itself was the largest building on the block, and two adjacent lots on either side were ringed with twelve foot chain link fence that protected a decade's worth of auto shop debris - stripped down car frames, engine blocks, broken axles, rusty radiators, mismatched hubcaps, and old tires stacked like poker chips.

A mammoth cinderblock rectangle constructed in the late 1950s, the windowless interior of the automotive center reeked of grease, worn rubber, waste oil and hot metal. It didn't help the unsavory atmosphere that the garage doors were closed and locked tight, or that the bustling interior was crowded with five large trucks - all of them late-model Dodge Sprinters - and a dozen mechanics working them over.

Hugo Bix presided over the chaos from his office on the mezzanine - really a ramshackle wooden shack on stilts, with a flight of metal stairs leading to the only door. For the rising Vegas crime lord, this was shaping up to be the most important day of his criminal life. But if Hugo Bix was tense, he did not show it.

Surrounded by stacks of yellowing racing forms and old license plates, a large Pennzoil sign and an array of p.o.r.nographic calendars highlighting s.e.x industry beauties from the past decade, Hugo Bix was slumped in a sagging office chair. He clutched the sports page in his large, callused hands, his scuffed, size-thirteen boots resting on a battered wooden desk.

At thirty-four, Bix's hard gray eyes and pockmarked features gave him the look of a man decades older. His skin browned by the sun, chin perpetually unshaven around a natty handlebar moustache, Bix resembled a cowpoke at a local rodeo more than Las Vegas' most powerful crime lord. Bix wore his working cla.s.s roots with pride. His arms were laced with prison tattoos and roped with muscle. His hair, bleached by the sun, was long and wavy.

A cell phone on the desk rang once. Bix put it to his ear but said nothing.

"It's Roman, boss. I'm at the front gate."

"Go on,"

"Big Ed's here. He said Toomes and Drew are right behind him. They got the goods."

A slight smile curled the corners of Bix's thin lips. "Any sign of our friends from down south?"

"Not yet."

"How about the Wildman and his boys?"

"They arrived last night. They're holed up at Baxter's Motel on the edge of town, and getting antsy."

Bix grinned. "They'll have plenty to do in a couple of hours. Wildman is my ace in the hole."

Bix closed the phone. He swung his big feet off the desk, rose to his full height. Swaggering like a movie cowboy, or like the outlaw biker he once was, Bix walked to the door.

"How's it going down there?" he called.

The lead mechanic looked up. "We're almost done here. The trucks we have are loaded and there's only a few stencils left to apply. We're waiting for the other trucks you promised us."

Bix nodded, turned his back on the workmen. "I reckon they'll be here any minute."

"Then what?" the mechanic called back.

"Then you'll do your jobs and stop asking questions," Bix replied before closing his door.

3:57:19 p.m. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas Jack waited in the Tiki Lounge, his mind still focused on Henderson's phone call.

"You wanted to see me, Jaycee?"

Jack nodded. "Sit down, Curtis. Any sign of Ray Perry?"

Curtis shook his head. "Driscoll put out some feelers. Found out Perry wasn't hiding out at Circus, Circus. Don talked to Perry's girlfriend and she hasn't seen him in two days."

Curtis leaned close. "Do you think it was really Perry who wasted Max Farrow?"

Jack smiled humorlessly. "That would be convenient, sure. Ray's gone so we don't have a spy among us. That's what someone wants us to think."

"Who do you think it is then, Jack?"

"It could be anyone. It could be Ray Perry. Or Don Driscoll. Or Chick Hoffman. h.e.l.l, it could even be Nancy over there." To Curtis Manning's surprise, Jack laughed once. "We'll know soon enough. I think Hugo's about to make his move."

"You think sending Max Farrow here was the beginning of something?"

"I think whatever Hugo's planning, it's already begun. That's why I want you to go over to Bix Automotive and keep an eye on the place."

Curtis nodded. "Can do, Jack. I've already established a reconnaissance position inside a vacant tool and die factory across the street."

"Go now. Call Morris with updates every hour. And be careful. This whole operation is already in jeopardy. One more strike and we're out."

5

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

4:00:01 p.m. PDT Groom Lake Secure Terminal McCarran Airport, Las Vegas After helping the Senator pa.s.s through the restricted terminal's extensive security protocols, which included X-ray scans, metal detectors, and a fingerprint check, Air Force Colonel Vincent DeBlasio handed David Palmer off to the scientist in charge of the Malignant Wave Project. Palmer, who understood the silent language of the military hierarchy, saw this as a sign that the Air Force was not comfortable with the direction the project had taken, and that the top bra.s.s who originally authorized the project were now maneuvering to distance themselves from the research they initially funded.

Dr. Megan Reed was unlike any research scientist Palmer had ever met. A tall, striking blond in pearls, a crisp business suit, and high heels, she boldly shook the Senator's hand when they were introduced. She immediately dismissed DeBlasio and took charge of her VIP guest. Since both of them knew it would be unwise and unlawful to discuss the Malignant Wave Program before they arrived at the secured top secret site, the Senator and the scientist talked about their destination instead. The woman proved to be an eager and determined tour guide.

"Have you ever visited Groom Lake before, Senator?"

"I haven't," Palmer replied. "But I'm impressed by the high level of security at this terminal."

Dr. Reed nodded. "I'll pa.s.s on your compliment to Beverly Chang, or you can tell her yourself. Dr. Chang is one of the researchers in the Malignant Wave program. She was also in charge of inst.i.tuting the new security protocols."

Palmer looked around. The concrete interior of the restricted terminal on the northwestern edge of McCarran International Airport was unimpressive. He glanced back at the gla.s.s doors he'd pa.s.sed through earlier. The Tropicana and New York New York casinos were so close to the building they seemed to border the runway.

"I understood that Groom Lake is close to being deactivated. Was I misinformed?"

"Not at all, Senator," Megan Reed replied. "Activities on the base are winding down ahead of the scheduled deactivation. Staffing is down, but several top secret research programs still continue."

Dr. Reed did not mention the fact that those research projects were also close to deactivation - or rather, de-funding - or that Malignant Wave was at the top of the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee's endangered projects list. Palmer had come to Nevada this day to a.s.sess the program as part of his duties as chairman of the committee. He took a special interest in Malignant Wave because the weapon they were developing was supposedly based on nonlethal technology. Palmer was enthusiastic about any weapon system that had the potential to minimize casualties in times of war.

Dr. Reed took the lead. "If you'll follow me out to the airplane."

They pa.s.sed through another gla.s.s door. The afternoon was dazzling, the sky a clear, cloudless blue. The brightness of the day was intensified by the sun bouncing off the bleached concrete. The noise of jet engines was deafening, so conversation ceased until they crossed to the portable staircase that led into the belly of the unmarked Boeing 737-200 parked on the tarmac.

Here, the main terminal at McCarran Airport was clearly visible across a stretch of runway, and the illusion that the Las Vegas strip bordered the runway was intensified as well. The looming shadow of The MGM Grand's green "Emerald City" towers appeared to stretch across the perimeter of the landing field.

Dr. Reed led Palmer up the stairs and into the cabin. Inside the airliner, the buffeting noise of jet engines subsided, the only sound was the steady hum of the on-board climate control system. The pilot and an air steward, both in United States Air Force uniforms, greeted them inside the door.

"I'm Captain Brent, Senator Palmer. Welcome aboard Janet Three-two-three."

Palmer noted that Captain Brent was close to retirement age. He also noticed several campaign ribbons on the officer's dress uniform, including those for Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Respectfully, the Senator shook the combat veteran's hand.

Megan Reed then directed the Senator to seats at the front of the craft, close to the pilot's cabin. Behind them a scattering of civilian and military workers pretended not to stare at the high-profile politician in their midst.

"I see the Air Force is in charge of transport now," Palmer noted.

"That's correct," Dr. Reed replied, fastening her seat belt. "Formerly, the defense contractor Edgerton, Germeshausen and Grier, Inc. managed transport and security around Groom Lake. But since the deactivation was announced, their contract was voided and Air Force security took over daily operations."

Palmer lifted an eyebrow. "So EG&G is out?"

"They are. But their ongoing contracts with NASA, the Department of Energy, Defense, Treasury and Homeland Security guarantees EG&G will have plenty of work to do in the foreseeable future."

Palmer realized Megan Reed had missed the motive behind his question. The Senator didn't care that EG&G was out of a contract, only that Groom Lake's legendary security was at the same levels that existed before the transition. Rather than clarify his query, Palmer let the subject drop.

The steward brought them coffee. Within a few minutes the aircraft was taxiing down the runway.

"This aircraft is fairly empty," Palmer noted. "What kind of personnel levels are we talking about these days?"

Megan Reed's pug nose curled as she considered his question.

"Well, there are flights north every half hour," she explained. "But what we call rush hour occurs weekday mornings, when our fleet of jets carry close to five hundred military personnel, contractors and civilian workers to several top secret locations in the desert. Most of these workers depart at our first stop - the main runway at Groom Lake."

She leaned back in her seat, crossed her tanned and shapely legs. "Next year I suspect those personnel numbers will be significantly curtailed due to ongoing cuts."

They hardly seemed to have left the ground when Senator Palmer heard the airplane's wheels come down again. He peered through the window, saw three concrete runways stretching whitely across the scorched brown desert terrain.

"Right now we're over Emigrant Valley in Lincoln County, Nevada," Dr. Reed told him. "Area 51 is almost below us. The experimental base is a relatively small, sixty square mile area inside of a much larger base called..."