24 Declassified: Vanishing Point

1. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 P.M. AND 1 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

The holding room was located three levels below the gaming floor, in the casino’s deepest subbasement. Yet even here the clatter of coin and the jangle of five hundred clicking, ringing slot machines penetrated the insulated brick walls and seeped through the cheap soundproof ceiling panels — an incessant carnival buzz that rose and fell like a demented organ grinder’s squeeze box.

Jack Bauer closed his ears to the noise and barely registered his dismal surroundings; gray, unpainted walls, avocado-green phone without a press pad or dial, a steel fire gate that led to a concrete corridor, and a windowless steel door that led to the tiny holding cell behind the one-way mirror.

Jack approached the glass. He studied the man on the other side, absorbing every detail of the stranger’s clothing, physical characteristics, and mannerisms.

Though the man wore a bland, relaxed expression, he’d been alone in that locked room for fifteen minutes and he was still perched on the edge of a Cha-Cha Lounge-orange fiberglass chair, as if he were going to bolt the moment the door opened. Occasionally he’d gingerly touch his face, and Jack noticed a fresh bruise under his left eye.

Jack pegged the man’s age as well into his fourth decade, though he tried to appear younger. His sandy brown hair — disheveled from the rough treatment he’d received at the hands of “casino security”—was white-gray under a clumsy dye job. His addict-thin body was clad head-to-toe in denim, the faded blue jacket torn at the sleeve, buttons missing from his shirt. A crumpled cowboy hat lay on the concrete floor next to the man’s scuffed leather boots.

“What’s his name, Driscoll?” Jack asked the casino’s pit boss. “Where’d he come from?”

Don Driscoll had the strength of a bull and the face of a bull dog, but the manner of a fastidious cat. With meaty hands, he adjusted the lapels of his bright orange sports jacket.

“Midnight Cowboy calls himself Chester Thompkins. Says he’s a truck driver. He’s got a North Carolina commercial license to prove it. Of course, that don’t mean squat—’specially not with that South Jersey lilt tucked in the back of his throat.”

Driscoll was born and raised in Atlantic City, so he would know.

“Did he have anything else on him?” Jack asked. “Drugs? A weapon?”

Driscoll shook his dark head, his perfectly pomaded hair didn’t move. “Just the gimmick, Jaycee.”

The pit boss used Jack’s alias because that was the only name he knew. Driscoll also believed J. C. “Jaycee” Jager was using this low-rent, off-the-beaten track casino as a front to launder mob money and pull a little loan sharking scam on the side.

“Where’s the device?” Jack asked.

“Morris is examining it now.”

“What about his wallet?”

“Curtis took it. He’s running a make on the guy.” Driscoll chuckled. “My bet, it’ll come back light, if you know what I mean. The Lone Ranger had over forty Gs in his wallet. Ill-gotten gains, says me.”

“Who spotted the scam?”

“Chick Hoffman, the croupier at table five.” Driscoll displayed pride. “The roulette table was reset yesterday and the balance was good. Then along comes Jon Voight here, who’s betting careful and winning big. Been here since nine-thirty in the AM. Hoffman got suspicious — naturally, ’cause I trained Chick myself.”

“Did Hoffman find the device?”

Driscoll frowned. “Nah. It was Morris, up in the catwalk. Chick couldn’t scope the scam, but he tripped the silent alarm anyway. O’Brian used X-rays or heat vision or some magic crap to sniff it out. The gizmo was in the guy’s jacket. There were wires in his sleeve, a laser lens hidden behind the cuff button.”

Driscoll rubbed his clean shaven jaw. “When we established for certain that he was cheating, I had security snatch him up and bring him down here. I saved him for you.”

Jack dragged his eyes away from the man behind the mirror, faced Driscoll. “Tell Hoffman there’ll be an extra grand in his envelope at the end of the day. There’ll be a couple of Gs in your envelope, too.” Bauer forced a half-smile. “Good work, Driscoll.”

The pit boss brightened considerably. “Thanks Jaycee.”

“Do you want me to stick around and help break this bunco rat?”

Jack shook his head. “I’m going to handle it myself. Do me a favor and find Curtis. I need to know what he dug up on this guy.”

“Sure thing, boss. Right away.”

Driscoll paused when he reached the fire door, one hand poised on the push bar, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “It’s good what you’re doing, Jaycee. It’s the right thing.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack’s tone was prickly.

Sensing his annoyance, Driscoll talked faster. “It’s good to finally make an example, Jaycee. That’s all I meant. Things were getting sloppy around here, across the board. The croupiers, the dealers, the Eyes in the Sky, even the goddamn cocktail waitresses. And the word’s out, you know? Sorry, but for nearly three months now, ever since you came on board, this casino’s been drawing grifters like a cesspit draws flies.”

Driscoll’s watery gray eyes drifted to the man behind the mirror. “Nailing that bastard, dealing with him without the law… It’ll send the right message to the right people. After this, nobody’s gonna think Jaycee Jager is an easy mark. Nobody.”

Jack fixed a cold stare on Don Driscoll. “I came here from Kansas City to make my mark. And that includes making this dive profitable. That’s what I’m going to do, no matter what it takes, no matter who I have to take down in the process.” Jack shifted his gaze back to their cheater. “Now go find Curtis and send him down here. I’m going to need some muscle to take care of this son of a bitch.”

The pit boss practically stood at attention. “Right, Jaycee. I gotta get back to the floor anyway.”

The steel door clanged behind the pit boss and Jack was alone. Staring at the man behind the glass, he steeled himself for what might happen next, what he might be compelled to do.

The phone rang. Jack snatched the receiver off its cradle.

“Jager,” he answered, pronouncing the name Yah-ger.

“It’s Morris, Jack,” the man said, but O’Brian’s Cockney accent would have been recognizable without the I.D. “I’ve had a look-see at that little gizmo your drugstore cowboy had in his tuck. It’s the real deal. Just what we were lookin’ for. That guy in the cell’s our first lead…”

Jack’s focus suddenly sharpened. The investigation into technology leaks at Groom Lake had been stalled for weeks, despite the resources expended — not to mention the difficulty of placing an inside man at the base without the United States Air Force knowing about him.

“What does he have, Morris?”

“A little black box, with a predictive roulette computer inside.”

Jack frowned. “That’s no big deal. They’ve been around since the early 1980s. Computers have been used to rip off casinos from the Riviera to Atlantic City.”

“Ah, but this particular beast is smarter than the average bear. It’s the Einstein of predictive computers.”

Jack could envision the smug grin on Morris O’Brian’s face.

“Get to the point, Morris.”

“As you know, predictive computers use lasers to scan where the ball is in relation to the wheel, and then asks the computer to predict the section of the wheel where the ball will most likely land. Most predictive computers increase the probability of winning to say… one in three, or thirty-three percent. Good but not great. You can still lose your shirt with those odds. But the little bugger I’m holding in my hand is much better than that. Maybe as good as ninety percent, or better.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I watched the security tapes, Jack, and I’ve tested it myself,” Morris replied. “It’s that good. And that’s not all. The software… it’s cribbed from the new, improved Patriot Missile system.”

“How did that help him cheat?”

“The point of the Patriot system is to hit an incoming missile with a missile you fired. That’s like hitting a flying bullet with another flying bullet. Measuring the speed of a steel ball on a roulette table is child’s play to this software.”

Jack stared at the man inside the cell. “Do you think this guy built it?”

Morris chuckled. “Our boy Thompkins? Hardly.

Frankly, I’m surprised he learned how to use it.”

“So where did he get it?”

“Actually, predictive computers are readily avail

able from certain unscrupulous types, for a rather punishing outlay — say fifty or sixty grand. I haven’t seen one this good, however, so I’d bet it’s worth a couple of hundred thousand on the open market. When I’m through testing it, I’m going to take it apart and we’ll know more.”

“Do it quick,” demanded Jack.

“Yes, yes, but it’s a shame though.” Suddenly Morris’ tone brightened. “The good news is that once I dissect this, I can reverse engineer it. Build us both a pair and we could clean up, make us a fortune.”

“I don’t gamble.”

Morris chuckled again. “Au contraire, Jack. You gamble every minute of the day.”

Jack ignored O’Brian’s talk show psychology. “Right now, as a matter of national security, we need to know where Thompkins bought this device and who made it.”

“That’s the long and short of it. I leave that job to you, my friend…”

Jack hung up just as the fire door opened. Curtis Manning entered, drew a sheaf of papers from the pocket of his bright orange Cha-Cha Lounge sports jacket.

“I gave him a drink of water, took the fingerprints off the plastic glass and sent it back to CTU,” Curtis said, handing Jack the top page. “He’s not who he says he is.”

While Jack scanned the pages, Curtis spoke. “His real name’s Max Farrow. Currently he’s wanted for the assault of his ex-wife and his stepdaughter in New Jersey, where he’s a convicted rapist. He also has one felony and a variety of misdemeanor convictions that are gambling-related. Got himself banned from the Atlantic City casinos for passing bad dice, counting cards, fishing in the dealer box — you name it.”

“And the rape conviction?”

“Sentenced to five years, paroled in two,” Curtis said. “Farrow bailed out of a halfway house in Passaic last year, probably to avoid that state’s sex offender registry, which is public record. At least one member of the victim’s family has vowed revenge…”

Jack stuffed the rap sheet into his black leather jacket. “Unlock the holding cell and wait here.”

The man didn’t look up when Jack Bauer entered.

Instead he shifted in his seat and appraised the newcomer with a sidelong glance. As Jack circled the chair, Farrow thrust out his long legs to block his path. Bauer’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Instead he stepped around the man, turning his back on his prisoner for just a moment.

Max Farrow leaped out of the chair and lunged at Jack, hands outstretched and reaching for Bauer’s throat.

Jack was ready. He effortlessly sidestepped the clumsy charge, then grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand. He stepped around Farrow, twisting the man’s arm behind him. Farrow was thin, but he was sinewy, and his resistance was substantial. Using leverage, Jack applied even more pressure, until the pain was enough to drop Farrow to one knee.

Bauer attempted to rattle the man further by raising his voice. “You want to hurt me?” he shouted. “Is that what you want? You want to hurt me?”

With his right hand, Jack reached into his leather jacket. When it came out again, the hand was circled by a carbon steel knuckle duster. With soft rubber surfaces to grip the hand and protect the wearer, the high-tech version of the old brass knuckles hugged Bauer’s right fist like a glove.

Farrow saw metal and his eyes went wide. “What are you gonna do to me? I have rights! You can’t hold me prisoner! You have to turn me over to the cops, you bastard!”

He’d made demands, but Farrow’s panicked voice was anything but commanding.

“You’re going to tell me a story, Max.” Jack voice was a hoarse whisper. “You’re going to tell me where you got that computer in your pocket.”

“No way, asshole. I’m not a rat—”

Jack brought his brass fist down on the man’s chin, cutting the sentence short.

“You’re going to tell me where you got that computer, Farrow. Do you hear me?”

Farrow spit blood and stared at the floor. Jack yanked the man to his feet, and shoved him into the chair so hard the cheap orange fiberglass cracked.

Grunting, Farrow kicked out. His boot heel barely missed Bauer’s knee.

“Where did you get it?” Jack demanded again.

Farrow tried to rise. Jack backhanded him, then shoved his own boot into the other’s chest. With a sharp snap, the chair broke in half, spilling Max Farrow along with dozens of fiberglass shards onto the concrete floor. Jack avoided another kick, hauled the man to his feet again and shook him by his lapels.

“The computer, Farrow…”

“Go to hell.”

The mast had been constructed overnight, a fifty-foot steel skeleton rising from the middle of a concrete square exactly five hundred feet away from the hangar itself. The tower’s spidery struts were painted in a dun and rust-colored pattern, which blended perfectly with the desert terrain. This was part of strategy to render it nearly invisible to satellite surveillance, even in the brilliant glare of the scorching afternoon sun.

The massive microwave emission array that would soon be mounted atop that tower was impossible to camouflage, however. Roughly the size and shape of Subzero refrigerator, with what appeared to be a thousand little radar dishes mounted on a side panel, the system weighed over a ton. It had to be towed to the site by tractor and lifted into place with a crane. The device’s visibility had forced the two hour delay in its final placement — a wait that infuriated the Team Leader of the Malignant Wave project.

Regal in high heels and pearls, a spotless white lab coat draped on her ballerina physique, Dr. Megan Reed pushed a cascade of strawberry blond hair away from her freckled face. Frowning, she whirled to confront a young Air Force corporal from the Satellite Surveillance Unit at Groom Lake.

“How much longer before it’s clear and we can proceed, Corporal Stratowski?” she barked in a voice that belied her feminine appearance. In fact, a few airmen remarked in private that her harsh, demanding tone sounded more like a drill sergeant’s.

“Three minutes, sixteen seconds, Ma’am,” the corporal replied. “I’m tracking the satellite now. It’s nearly out of range.”

Clad in crisp blue overalls, Corporal Stratowski hunkered down in front of an open laptop, eyes locked on the animated display. The computer rested on a stack of packing crates, on its screen a red blip marked the space vehicle’s path and trajectory on a digital grid map.

With an impatient glare, the woman turned away from the corporal and strode to the hangar door. With each step, her cornflower blue summer skirt billowed around her long legs. At six-foot-one, Megan Reed was taller than almost everyone else on the Malignant Wave team. But she didn’t need her Amazonian presence to intimidate others. Her harsh managerial style, acerbic personality and drive for perfection in herself and others had been quite enough to alienate her from most of her staff.

Ignoring the thick framed glasses now tucked in her pocket, the team leader stooped low, to squint through a small porthole set in the wall-sized hangar door. Outside the sky was blue and cloudless. Beyond the boundaries of the Air Force facility, the desert horizon was a series of stacked layers of browns, mauves and rust reds fading into the firmament. The wind kicked up, and the camouflaged tower was momentarily obscured by a tornado of swirling sand.

I can’t see the damn thing with my naked eyes from five hundred feet away! How can any satellite — even the most advanced — spot it from Earth’s orbit? Dr. Reed mused, convinced this was another futile exercise. Another way for Air Force Security personnel to justify their pointless existence!

With an impatient gesture she turned her back on the desert, scanned the interior of Hangar Six. Her team of technicians, researchers, and support personnel — numbering seventeen in all — lolled casually on packing crates or in folding chairs. The air conditioning inside the hangar was inadequate and many had succumbed to the sleepy warmth.

For an instant, Dr. Reed locked eyes with Beverly Chang, who was fully alert and fidgeting with a plastic cup of tea. The thirty-something cyber specialist appeared as tense and nervous as Megan Reed felt.

At least one other person is taking this demonstration seriously.

“Ninety seconds and we’re in the clear. The satellite will be out of range,” the corporal announced — a statement that elicited a groan from Dr. Reed.

“Why did this have to happen today, of all days. Just hours before a critical test in front of a VIP from the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee?” she complained.

“Actually, you should be flattered, Dr. Reed. You got their attention,” Stratowski replied.

“Who? The Chinese? Are you telling me they’re interested in my demonstration? How do they even know about it? This project is top secret. Or did you security boys drop the ball again?”

Scratching his nose, Corporal Stratowski peered at the tracking screen. The young man’s pale pink complexion had been cooked lobster red in places by the desert sun. His hair had been cropped so short it was hard to tell whether the color was blond or brown.

“This is no coincidence, Ma’am,” the Corporal explained patiently. “Something piqued their interest.

The Chicoms went to a lot of trouble to stage this fly over. They have a whole bunch of photo reconnaissance satellites that pass over this facility on regularly scheduled visits. We know their trajectory and adjust our schedules accordingly.”

“Yeah,” said Dr. Phillip Bascomb. “But those are old fashioned film-return satellites using technology that’s twenty years out of date. By the time the payload is dropped back to earth, the film recovered by the Communist Chinese military and evaluated by their intelligence ser vice, the information is twelve hours old and likely obsolete.”

A microwave specialist and a critical member of Dr. Reed’s team, Bascomb often displayed a wide range of knowledge that reached beyond his academic field of study. Under his lab coat, he was a stylish dresser, but his affection for the latest designer casual was belied by his refusal to part with a ponytail and walrus moustache — both streaked with gray, both holdovers from his late ’60s Berkeley days.

“If these satellites are so outmoded, then why all the paranoia?” Dr. Reed demanded.

“Ask Big Brother,” Dr. Bascomb quipped, jerking his head in the Corporal’s direction.

“This fly over was unscheduled, Dr. Reed,” the man explained. “US Space Command only warned us it was being repositioned two hours ago. And this satellite is a Jian Bing ZY–5, the Chicoms’ most advanced space based photo reconnaissance vehicle launched to date.”

Stratowski tapped the blip on his screen with his finger. “The ZY–5 has real time capabilities. That means some technician at the Taiyuan Satellite Launch Center in Shanxi Province is watching this hangar right now.”

“Smile. You’re on Candid Camera!” Dr. Alvin Toth grinned. A retired physician and pathologist, the sixty-four year old was the oldest member of Dr. Reed’s team. Portly and bald with bushy eyebrows that matched his worn lab smock, Toth leaned against the tow tractor, arms folded across his paunchy torso.

“Careful, Alvin. You’re showing your age. Nobody under sixty ever heard of Candid Camera,” Phil Bas-comb called.

“I’m not showing my age,” Toth countered with a wink. “What I’m demonstrating is my vast range of knowledge, experience, and expertise.”

Dr. Dani Welles snorted. “Candid Camera was a TV show, not a breakthrough discovery in particle physics. But you know I love you, Doc!” She threw a dazzling smile at Toth. “’Cause, I think older men are hot.”

Not yet thirty, Welles was down-to-earth friendly. No one who met her ever guessed that the breezy young woman graduated with honors from MIT. In fact, most of her MySpace friends thought “Ms. Cocoa Quark” was just another girl from South Central.

Steve Sable laughed. “So that’s why you won’t go out with me? You’re waiting for me to get an AARP card?”

He’d been observing the conversation from a folding chair, munching a donut and sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. A cyber engineer and software designer, Dr. Sable was a relative newcomer to the project — only their newest technician, Antonio Alvarez, had less tenure since he’d joined them nearly three months earlier. But Sable had proven himself invaluable in the fourteen months since he joined them. Malignant Wave was Sable’s second project at Groom Lake. The previous program had been cancelled.

“I never went out with you because you never asked,” Dani replied with a sly smile.

The banter was interrupted when the airman’s laptop beeped three times in quick succession. Dr. Reed watched over the Corporal’s shoulder as the blip drifted off the grid map and vanished from the screen. A moment later Stratowski tapped a key and shut down the computer.

“All clear, Dr. Reed. Your team can proceed.”

Dr. Reed sighed. “Finally.”

Heels clicking on the concrete, she strutted across the hangar and punched a red button on the doorjamb. A warning siren wailed, reverberating deafeningly throughout the massive hangar — the signal that nap time was over. With a metallic clatter, the massive steel door began to rise, filling the dim interior of the hangar with bright sunlight and waves of oppressive heat.

After ten seconds, the warning siren went mute. Several young airmen, yawning and stretching, emerged from a tangle of packing crates. A young Hispanic woman in overalls climbed aboard the tow tractor, and the engine roared to life in a cloud of blue smoke. Rumbling, the tractor lurched forward, dragging an aluminum tow platform containing the microwave emissions array.

A split-second later, the tow tractor abruptly braked, tires squealing. Carried by momentum, the tow platform continued forward, colliding with the rear of the tow vehicle. The jolt rattled the sensitive microwave emitter strapped to the platform. Cries of alarm erupted from the research team and Dr. Bas-comb cursed. Sable threw his Styrofoam cup to the ground and Beverly Chang took a step backwards, blinking in surprise.

Dr. Megan Reed went ballistic.

“What the hell is that… that thing blocking the door?” she cried. Reed pointed to a ten foot steel pole set in a concrete filled tire. A volleyball dangled from a long rope hooked to the top.

“It’s a tetherball post,” Corporal Stratowski declared.

“I know what it is,” Dr. Reed said. “I want to know who owns it.”

“It belongs to Antonio — I mean, Dr. Alvarez.” Dani Welles regretted speaking before the words were out of her mouth.

“I should have known,” muttered Dr. Reed. She looked around for the guilty party, but saw no sign of the project’s energy system programmer. She shouted out in a voice that rivaled the decibel level of the warning siren.

“Alvarez, where the hell are you?”

“Yo!” came the call from the back of the hangar. Dr. Antonio Alvarez stuck his head out of the interior of a malfunctioning electrical generator.

“Front and center, now!” Dr. Reed commanded.

Alvarez hurried forward, a power coupler in one hand, the end of a long electrical cable in the other. The wire in his hand unwound until it reached its limit, nearly jerking him off his feet. With an embarrassed frown, Alvarez dropped the cable and tossed the power coupler onto a crate. Standing before Dr. Reed, he wiped his greasy hands on his white lab coat.

“You called?”

Dr. Reed stared at the newest member of her team. She’d known many “eccentric” scientists and researchers in her day, but few were as clueless as Dr. Alvarez. She studied the man, from the dark tangle of his unkempt hair; black, thick-framed glasses; and perpetual five o’clock stubble; all the way down to the baggy, oversized sweatpants.

If Dr. Reed applied some of the considerable powers of observation she used for her research, she might have noticed that Alvarez was as tall as she was — a fact disguised by his submissive demeanor and perpetually slumped shoulders. Also masked was the man’s muscular, former-Marine physique, his strong shoulders and arms strategically camouflaged by a lab coat two sizes too big.

“Does that… that pole belong to you?” Dr. Reed asked through gritted teeth.

Alvarez followed Reed’s gaze to the tetherball stand outside.

“Yes, Dr. Reed.”

“Could you move it.”

“Of course, sorry. I was trying to fix the backup

generator. It blew yesterday, when we tested the

coupler set up. I had to reconfigure a few of the—”

“Move the pole. NOW!”

Alvarez flushed red. Pushing up his thick glasses,

he tucked his head into his chest and ran to the tetherball pole. He yanked on the rope until the pole toppled. Corporal Stratowski joined him and together they used the concrete-filled tire to roll the post out of the way. A moment later the tractor rumbled through the door of Hangar Six.

“Got it, partner?” Stratowski asked.

“Sure, Corporal,” Alvarez replied. “Thanks for the help.”

A crane rolled out of another hangar and approached the steel tower. Stratowski joined the others, following the tow vehicle to the base of the structure. Dr. Reed and Dani Welles passed Alvarez on their way out. The Team Leader glanced at the nerdy technician, who was struggling to position the pole as close to the hanger wall as possible.

“A grown man and he still plays tetherball. Can you believe it?” Megan Reed said incredulously.

Dani shrugged. “He plays solo squash, too. Last week I saw him over at the dorms before sunup. I’m sure he didn’t know anyone was around. The dude’s hot. He was wearing nothing but shorts, and he whacked that ball like a pro. I was surprised to see how trim he is. Hides it under those ridiculous clothes.” Dani glanced over her shoulder at Alvarez. “A girl could do worse…”

Dr. Reed snorted. “Antonio? Please. It’s lonely out here in the desert, but not that lonely.”

When everyone was out of earshot, Dr. Alvarez reached around the pole, until his fingers located a small hole drilled into the metal. He probed inside, until he located two buttons hidden there. He tapped them in a precise sequence, heard a faint beep over the sound of the desert wind and rustling sand.

“Jamey, it’s Almeida. Can you hear me?”

The voice that answered was faint, broadcast from CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles, hundreds of miles away.

“I hear you loud and clear, Tony,” Jamey Farrell replied after a split-second lag.

“How’s the reception. Do you have a clear image?”

“Crystal clear. I don’t know how you placed the surveillance camera so close to a top secret test in a photo restricted area. You have to tell me how you did it when you get back.”

Tony smiled. “Let’s just say that sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”

“Okay, I’ve activated the digital recorder,” Jamey said. “You have unlimited memory available to you, so you should have a complete visual recording of the weapon’s set up, the test, and the equipment break down afterwards.”

“Excellent. If anyone approaches that array we’ll have a photographic record,” Tony replied, glancing over his shoulders. “I better join the others now… Over and out.”

Jack Bauer’s right arm felt like lead. It hung limply at his side. With his left hand he wiped a splash of blood off his cheek and stared down at the man slumped in the corner of the room, amid orange shards of the shattered fiberglass chair.

“Who sold you the device and when did you buy it?” Bauer asked in a soft voice.

Max Farrow winced at the sound. His chin was buried in his chest, rivulets of blood ran out of his nose. His left eye was swollen shut when he lifted his face to stare at Jack.

“It was Bix,” Farrow croaked. “Hugo Bix. I bought it down at his garage… Paid seventy grand for it…”

“When?”

“Two days ago… Tested it out at the Chuck Wagon Casino yesterday… Big win… Then Bix sent me here ’cause he said the Cha-Cha was an easy touch…”

Farrow’s voice caught in a muffled sob. “The son of a bitch lied, and now that bastard Bix is gonna kill me for what I’m telling you…”

Jack looked up, nodded to Curtis Manning on the other side of the one-way mirror. The door lock clicked a moment later, and Jack left the cell. Manning glanced at the man huddled on the floor, then closed and locked the door.

“You heard?” Jack asked, wrestling the knuckle duster off of his swollen right hand.

“I’m not surprised,” Manning replied. “Thanks to the DEA, we already have a direct link between the Bix gang and the Rojas Brothers. Now we’ve linked Bix to the technology thefts. I think Hugo Bix is our man, Jack. You were right to go up against him.”

It was a tough admission for Curtis Manning. Initially he’d resisted the plan to begin undermining the most powerful gangster in Las Vegas. But Jack knew he wouldn’t get bites unless he started baiting. He hadn’t wanted to do it, either, but—

“We had no choice, Curtis,” Jack reminded him. “The local DA and the Nevada Prosecutor’s office have nothing on Bix, and when the FBI tried to trap him, their undercover agent ended up in a shallow grave in the desert.”

“You better proceed with caution. Bix has got a real hate on for you.”

To Manning’s surprise, Jack laughed, short and sharp.

“Good. That’s the way I want it,” Bauer said. “The more Jaycee Jager threatens Bix, the more desperate he becomes. We’ve been cutting into his drug trade and stealing away his customers for three months. By sending that cowboy to shake us down, Bix showed his hand. That was his first mistake.”

Jong Lee recognized his visitor the moment the man was ushered into the luxury suite. The face he had seen many times, on American television, and on the covers of American magazines and newspapers. Although Jong knew everything there was to know about this man — from his humble birth in the deep South to his impressive athletic and political careers — nothing could prepare him for Congressmen Larry Bell’s size and physical presence.

Hùnzhàng! Where does this brute purchase his clothing? Lee wondered.

Smiling affably, Jong Lee rose and moved to greet the newcomer. At nearly six feet, Jong was tall for a Chinese man. But the former pro basketball player towered over him. When they shook, Lee’s pale hand disappeared in the American’s ebony fist. Protocol demanded Jong bow, so he did. Not deeply, but enough to show respect. Tradition also dictated that Jong’s head should never be lower than his visitor’s — symbolic of his own dominant position in the coming negotiations. But in this case, he would have to forego tradition.

“Please sit down, Representative Bell,” Jong said. “I realize how busy you must be. You are quite generous to spare me even a moment of your time.”

“You’re the one who’s generous, Mr. Lee,” Representative Bell replied. “I know how busy you must be. Your firm operates five factories in Hong Kong alone…”

Jong crossed his legs. “I’m impressed, Congressman. You have done your homework.”

Silently, Jong Lee’s associate, a petite woman named Yizi, set a mahogany tray on the table between the two men. Aromatic steam rose from a porcelain tea pot. Gracefully she served. Her blue-black hair was swept to one side. Bell’s eyes followed the cascade along one delicate cheek, past her pale throat. The only sound in the room was the rustling of her black dress, the tap of her heels on the marble floor. Mesmerized, Bell continued to follow her movements. When the woman placed the warm cup before him, her alabaster hand briefly brushed his.

“You were saying, Congressman…”

The man blinked, faced the speaker. “I was saying that I’m delighted you made this trip, Mr. Lee. But I also admit I’m surprised.”

Jong Lee raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“What I mean to say is that you’re a chip manufacturer from China, and the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference chiefly involves business leaders and law enforcement officials from the major Latin American drug producing nations…”

“Ah, I see your point, Congressman,” Jong said with a wry laugh. “I suppose I could plead altruism, mumble a collection of familiar platitudes about how we’re all part of the global community, and in an ever-shrinking world no issue is truly local, but the truth is, my firm also operates a factory in Mexico, so I am no stranger to the drug epidemic in the West. My company also happens to manufacture an array of sensors and microchips that are quite useful in drug interdiction, so I also have a selfish motive.”

Congressman Bell held the porcelain cup between his thumb and forefinger, then swallowed the contents. He placed the cup on the table with a click, then slapped his knees.

“That’s a relief, Mr. Lee. As a United States Congressman from the great state of Louisiana, I get uncomfortable around too much altruism.”

Both men laughed. Yizi stood beside the Congressman to replenish his cup. She was so close her scent made him dizzy. Larry Bell found himself wondering if she was wearing anything under her form fitting dress. He doubted it.

“Altruism has its own rewards, Congressman. But a smart man will always find profit in charity.”

“Well said, Mr. Lee… I wonder if we might have some privacy?”

Congressman Bell glanced at the silhouette of Yizi as she peered through the picture window, at the Vegas Strip thirty stories below.

“Pay the woman no mind, Congressman. Yizi knows nothing of my business and she speaks no language but Mandarin. She is here for only one purpose — to serve my personal needs.”

Bell’s reply was a lecherous wink. “The benefits of the private sector, eh?” the Congressman said. “I haven’t had a piece that fine since my days with the pros. You are one lucky man, Lee.”

Jong brushed the lapel of his London tailored suit. “I believe we were about to talk business?”

Congressman Bell drained his second cup. “You’ve been very generous to my re-election campaign. Very generous. Now I think I can help you.”

“Please.”

“At the end of this year more than a billion dollars’ worth of manufacturing contracts will be handed out by the Pentagon. What your firm does is pretty standard, and you do it well. But those contracts can go anywhere.”

“Your point?”

“Later on, at the Conference, I can introduce you to one of the most influential members of the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee. Not only is he a powerful senator. There’s also a strong consensus in both parties that this man — my old friend — is going to be our next president.” Larry Bell paused. “Just imagine the kind of influence a generous donation to his primary campaign can buy.”

Jong Lee nodded. “This friend of yours. Do you believe he will be open to my offer?”

“He’s an ambitious man, Mr. Lee. He wants to be president, and that takes money.”

“And you, Congressman Bell? You do this out of your own generosity?”

Bell snorted. “As you yourself said. A smart man finds a way to make altruism profitable. My introduction will only cost you a million dollars…”

Jong Lee smiled and reached across the table. Once again his hand vanished when it was enfolded by the American’s massive fist.

Congressman Bell rose. “I think I’d better go. I have plenty of work to do before tonight’s dinner.

You have your invitation?”

“Indeed I do, Congressman.”

Bell stole a final glance at Yizi, who was re-arranging flowers in a vase. “You have fun… If you know what I mean.”

The woman saw Congressman Bell head for the door. She hurried to open it. As he passed she bowed politely.

“You’re a lucky man, Lee. A lucky man,” Bell said before the door closed behind him.

Yizi drifted back to the vase, continued her task.

“I hope that animal did not offend you with his words, Yizi,” Jong said.

“His words and opinions are of no consequence to me. All that matters is that Congressman Bell fulfills his part in the plan,” the woman replied in perfect, accent-less English.

Holding a slightly imperfect flower between her exquisitely manicured fingers, Yizi studied the blossom. Rejecting it, she snapped the stem in half and tossed the remains into the waste can.

“He is going to introduce you to Senator Palmer?” she asked.

Jong nodded. “Today. As planned — though I doubt the Congressman is aware of the true reason for Palmer’s visit. I’m sure Bell believes Palmer is here for his useless conference.”

Flashing a tantalizing display of bronzed thigh, Stella Hawk stepped out of the cab. The doorman at the casino’s entrance was dazzled even before her luminous topaz eyes cast him a warm greeting.

Voluptuous yet lithe, with slender waist, full hips and eye-catching cleavage, amply displayed by the extreme v-neck of her filmy saffron sundress, Stella Hawk radiated a vitality as fierce and sultry as the desert winds. Her raven hair, streaked with russet highlights, fell in glossy waves down her supple, sculpted back; and, with each confident stride, a thin chain of tiny platinum bell charms tinkled faintly around her ankle.

Heads turned as the woman strutted through the betting floor — there were even a few whistles and cat calls. But if Stella noticed their stares or heard their cries, she paid no mind. A star performer in Risqué, an erotic stage extravaganza performed nightly at the Babylon Hotel and Casino on the Vegas Strip, Stella wasn’t just accustomed to the adoration of the opposite sex. She reveled in the attention and expected nothing less.

After passing through the casino, Stella entered the Tiki Lounge, walking between two fifteen-foot wooden totems imported from some unnamed South Sea island back when Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack were a Vegas fixture. She sidled up to the pit boss, who was sipping a scotch at the end of the long, polished mahogany bar.

“Hey, doll,” he said with a wink. “Long time, no see. Where you been keeping yourself?” the pit boss asked.

Stella sat on a stool, crossed her shapely legs. “Oh,

you know. Here and there.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“It’s a little early, and I’m working tonight.” She

opened her leather handbag, pulled out a cell and checked the messages. Stella rolled her eyes in obvious annoyance when she found a voice message left by her roommate. Stella closed the phone without retrieving it.

The bartender placed a glass of iced water before Stella. She ignored it. “Where’s Jaycee?” she asked.

Driscoll stared down at the brown liquid in his shot glass. “He’s in the basement, working on a problem. He’s busy. Real busy. You want I should interrupt him?”

“Of course I want you to interrupt him, Don,” she said, her full lips curling into a lewd smile. “You tell Jaycee that his Stella’s back in town, and she needs some attention real bad…”