24 Declassified: Vanishing Point

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

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 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 spacious room was lit by a single lamp. A leather case sat, lid open, in the middle of the glass 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 assassin pressed the three-pronged blades farther downward, until they sunk deeper into his abdomen, to pierce arteries, scrape 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 prongs. 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 bloody sai on the dead man’s clothing, slipped them into her belt. Unlike traditional sai, which are not sharpened, the prongs of uneven length, Yizi’s weapons had three twelve-inch prongs, 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.”

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 wristwatch. “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.”

“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 subbasement 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 booby trap, a simple snare that would help Jack unmask the traitor before more damage was done…

Jong Lee had observed the execution, and the joy Yizi took from the act, with impassive detachment. Legs crossed, chin resting on his hand, he assessed 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 anticipated 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 assigned 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 assassination. Only girls who passed 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 assassin — 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.

The massive, 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 glass walls. Some of the gardens were open to the desert air. Others were enclosed in glass and climate-controlled.

The elegant décor 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 glass — tall windows with striking views of the Las Vegas Strip.

Sherry Palmer watched her husband near one of those massive windows. Looking distinguished in his evening clothes, the Senator from Maryland was huddled with the ambassador 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 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.

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 glass 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, she mused bitterly. Not when it came to five million dollars.

Curtis awoke to the smell of flowers. Then he felt the floor bump 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 bump 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 glass, 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 butt 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…