Callsign: King - Blackout

8

1925 UTC/Local

King took a deep breath as he stepped off the gangplank and onto the reception deck of the riverboat. The vessel was anchored in the Seine about four hundred yards southwest of Ile Saint-Louis. King could just make out the French Gothic silhouette of the Notre Dame Cathedral on the nearby Ile de la Cite, against the background of the dazzling electric Parisian skyline.

A score of men in formal attire milled about sipping cocktails and smoking cigars, and vying for the attention of a scattering of attractive women in expensive evening gowns. King guessed the latter group to be professional escorts; even without Aleman’s report on the guest list indicating that not a single woman had been invited to the FLES conference, King observed that they were too attractive, too confident in their sexuality and perhaps most tellingly, too young, to be anything else.

Although he had been wearing Bill Downey’s face for several hours now, there had been no opportunity to test its effectiveness in fooling people who actually knew the man. There was no way to know if Downey had befriended fellow conference attendees, or if those acquaintances would immediately notice the less obvious indicators-mannerisms, his walk, his sense of humor-that would give him away. He had already resolved to avoid contact with other guests as much as possible, but in the confines of the floating casino, that was easier said than done.

Pushing down his anxiety, he skirted the edges of the gathering. His route took him past the bar, where he reluctantly turned down the offer of a drink-a shot of Booker’s sounded pretty tempting-and bypassed a table loaded with a smattering of hors d’oeuvres. His stomach rumbled in protest as he glanced at the dishes of Beluga caviar, the plates of pate de foie gras and an assortment of breads and cheeses, and he decided that, once Brown was in the bag, so to speak, he’d have to take advantage of the spread. Closer to the door, King passed a table where a steward was dispensing cigars, and helped himself to a brace of Partagas, which he slipped into the pocket of his dinner jacket. Rook will like these, he thought, if…no, make that when, he turns up.

As he finished at the cigar table, King took a moment to study the crowd. Brown was not in evidence-no surprise there. He quickly identified several men who looked every bit as out of place as the women. A few were dispersed throughout the crowd, but most were hanging at the edges, avoiding conversation as their eyes roamed the assemblage. Their muscular physiques, which seemed to strain the cut of their dinner jackets, and rigid bearing marked them as military types, and King figured them for security personnel, probably from the ranks of Alpha Dog-the same mercenary outfit that Brainstorm had employed in Africa. King curtailed his own surveillance to avoid drawing the attention of the hired guns, and moved toward the double doors leading into the riverboat’s main saloon.

King paused at the entrance to survey the room. He vaguely noted the rich appointments-red velvet walls with oak wainscoting, crystal chandeliers and the gleam of brass wall sconces. It all starkly contrasted with the garishness of the electronic slot and video poker machines that lined the edges of the room. The machines seemed to be the primary focus of attention for partygoers, who were no doubt drawn in by the lights and sounds and their own familiarity with the devices. The rest of the space had been divided equally between different table games, predominantly those favored by American gamblers-blackjack, craps, roulette, and Texas Hold ‘em poker-with a half-dozen or so gamblers trying their luck at each. At the far end of the room, a musical ensemble played subdued jazz from a low dais. King’s quickly picked out the security men, but again there was no sign of Brown.

To kill time, he sidled over to the cashier and produced Downey’s Platinum AmEx. The attractive woman shook her head. “No need for that, sir. The house has extended a ten thousand dollar line of credit to all guests.”

“Ten thousand?” King replied, conversationally. “I wonder how long it will take me to lose that.”

She flashed a flirtatious smile, and then pushed a stack of rectangular chips across the green felt surface. “Maybe this will be your lucky night.”

King grinned back, feeling the rubbery make-up on his cheeks crinkling in protest. “You have no idea.”

Idly shuffling the stack of chips, he moved to the blackjack tables and took a seat. He wasn’t much of a gambler. He didn’t even buy lottery tickets. Although soldiering was, by its very nature, the ultimate gamble, he had survived in his chosen profession by minimizing risks. It was no coincidence that his elite squad had chosen “Chess Team” as an operational callsign. Chess was primarily a game of skill and attention to detail, not a test of random luck. And while military operations, like chess games, could not be won without taking some bold risks, a skillful strategist could accurately predict the outcomes and almost always choose the course of action that would win the day. In casino games, the only thing that was certain was that the odds were always stacked in favor of the house.

Still, it wasn’t like there was any risk here; win or lose, it wasn’t his money to begin with.

He played through several hands, betting conservatively and winning only occasionally. Anyone observing would have thought his slightly hunched posture to be indicative of an intense focus on the game, but in reality, he barely watched the progression of cards flashing across the table or noticed his dwindling stack of chips. His gaze flitted back and forth across the room, watching for Brown to make an appearance, and as the hour wore on, he began to wonder if the operation wouldn’t prove to be, in gambling terms, a bust.

Then, promptly at eight o’clock, the music ceased and a voice crackled from the public address system, directing everyone to gather in the casino. Immediately, people began streaming in from the deck, raising the ambient noise level in the room to a low tumult. King played out the hand in progress, standing on nineteen and winning, and then scooped up his chips and made his way through the milling herd to the stage where the musicians were putting away their instruments. A few moments later, the man himself-Graham Brown, aka: Brainstorm-ascended the dais with a wireless microphone in hand, and the room broke into spontaneous applause. King joined in, unenthusiastically patting his hands together as he studied the face of his nemesis.