“Nope. But it did look real,” Bianca agreed as, looking ahead, she watched the parade of people pushing through the revolving doors into the Wynn’s lobby. Out of necessity—if he should spot Mason she didn’t want him to be surprised into making some kind of outcry—she’d told Doc who she was meeting tonight. His reaction had been a rapid succession of surprise, disbelief, anger. Acceptance was the goal. Several hours later, he was obviously still processing and not quite there.
“Kinda harsh, abandoning his own daughter in Bahrain like that,” Doc said as they crossed the street.
“He knows I can take care of myself.” They dodged traffic and then pushed through the crowd gathered to watch the water show, which started up with a fanfare of music and an upward explosion of dozens of separate, brightly colored gushers a moment after they passed.
“Yeah, well, what about me?”
“I’m sure he trusted me to take care of you.” Truth was, Mason probably hadn’t spared a thought for Doc. He would have seen him as a hired hand, easily replaced, expendable, on his own when the job went south.
“I guess.” His tone was neutral, which wasn’t like Doc. Bianca shot a glance at him, but the darkness coupled with the kaleidoscope of colors from the water show that played over them made his face impossible to read.
He’d either get to the acceptance phase, or he wouldn’t, she decided. Right now, her focus had to be on what lay before them.
Two red-coated doormen stood on either side of the large expanse of glass that included the brass-framed revolving door that she meant to enter through. Two more assisted new arrivals from their cars. She ignored them in favor of checking the shadows around the entrance for possible surveillance. The sheer number of people milling around made it impossible to be sure, but if anyone was watching she wasn’t picking up on it.
“I’ll meet you by the lion in the lobby,” Bianca said, nodding at Doc to go in first. If there was a problem, she didn’t want him with her, and inside the building was the safest place for him to be.
“Lion?” Doc gave her a doubtful look.
“It’s a statue,” she told him, and gave him a little push. “Big. Gold. You can’t miss it.”
He obediently headed across the cobbled drive toward the door. As he went, he squared his shoulders and got his fledgling macho on. He wore a black suit, custom-made over the course of three hours earlier in the day by the workers at Jin-the-Tailor because the gear he’d packed in his duffel didn’t include anything suitable for the Wynn’s casino, with a snappy black fedora pulled low. Watching him step up onto the walkway outside the Wynn’s door, Bianca had to smile: Kung Fu Panda tries to go street.
It would have worked better without the oversize man-purse that he wore cross-body, but Doc insisted on keeping his laptop close.
She would have taken him to her own preferred Macau-based custom clothier, SiuSiu Tseng, for the suit, because SiuSiu was an old friend, a long-time collaborator and was holding an order for her that needed to be picked up besides, but a prime tenet of successfully avoiding being dead was, when you’re the object of an international manhunt, never revisit any place you’ve been before. It’s too easy for someone to discover your history and stake such places out.
SiuSiu was with her in spirit, however. SiuSiu had made the elegant smoke gray evening gown she wore. It was long-sleeved, high-necked, figure-hugging, reversible. Without actually being sheer, it gave the illusion of it—a filmy, sequined column that was slit to the thigh on the right side. For ease of movement, of course. Also, ease of access to her garter belt with its handy-dandy switchblade. Its pièce de résistance, and the reason she was wearing it tonight, was that, from just below her neck to the top of the slit on her thigh, it was lined with a slip made from a military-grade material that was bulletproof.
Because going to a meeting—a fixed point at a fixed time where even one other person knew she was going to be—was dangerous. It was the perfect recipe for an ambush. Just in case someone besides Doc had managed to break her and Mason’s code, or she’d been followed, or Mason had been followed, or any one of a thousand things that could go wrong actually did go wrong, she was covering her bases. Along with her assets.
As a final touch, because wearing gloves in the casino might attract too much attention and she clearly wasn’t going to be able to wipe down everything she touched, she’d painted a thin, almost invisible layer of superglue over her fingertips to avoid leaving prints, and done the same for Doc.
Be prepared: those Girl Scouts were the bomb.
To complement her gown, she was wearing spike-heeled (literally) pumps. Her earrings were long, dangly crystal dazzlers with a central element that was actually bo-shuriken, or needle-like throwing darts. They were made, like the tools in her garter belt, of steel-strong plastic polymers that wouldn’t trip a metal detector. Lethal if wielded by a skilled user, which she was. A bejeweled, reflective bindi between her eyebrows masked that nodal point. Draped loosely around her head, a sheer, sequined scarf could serve as a weapon as well as provide protection from cameras. Add in her sleek black Cleopatra-ish wig and she resembled an Indian maharani.
Which, under the circumstances, was way better than looking like Bianca St. Ives.
She’d left her hotel room as Ann, done a quick change in one of Jin-the-tailor’s busy fitting rooms while Doc was picking up and changing into his suit, and voilà, she was now Kangana Bhatt. What was left of Ann was rolled up in a plastic shopping bag from Dress Shop, a boutique in Senado Square, and tucked inside her tote-size, fringed and spangled shoulder bag.
She entered the lobby and passed through the security checkpoint without incident. Two unsmiling guards ran her purse, with its secret, X-ray proof compartment large enough to carry the passports, other IDs, credit cards, and various other identity-confirming components of the legends she had brought with her, through an airport-style X-ray machine. She kept those sensitive items on her person because leaving them in an empty hotel room in Macau was just stupid. Even if nobody who was looking for her found her, the hotel rooms were vulnerable to random thieves, curious hotel security guards, dishonest housekeeping staff and the like.
To be on the safe side, she also routinely wiped down her room to eliminate fingerprints before leaving it. She did the same for the outside of her suitcase, which she made sure was securely locked. If someone besides herself tried to unlock it, pick the lock or otherwise open it, she’d concocted a small explosive out of Magician’s Fire Paper, gunpowder from the ubiquitous fireworks and alcohol that would ignite instantly and burn in a quick, brilliant flash, reducing the suitcase and everything inside it to ash in minutes. As a fail-safe, in case she should be captured, she’d added a detonating device that set off the explosive if it wasn’t reprogrammed every twelve hours. She’d done the same for Doc’s room and his duffel bag. His various IDs were in custom-made pockets in his suit jacket. And, of course, his laptop was in his murse.
Her not-father had avoided being arrested or killed over years of being on the world’s Most Wanted lists, and making sure that nothing traceable was left behind in hotel rooms or other places he stayed was one of the reasons why.
It was a matter of tradecraft, and as ambivalent as she was feeling toward Mason Thayer right now, she had no doubt that she had learned from the best.
Looking uneasy, Doc stood by the lion statue in the lobby waiting for her, and she picked him up with a flick of her eyes as she walked past him.
Without speaking and with Doc trailing a couple of yards behind, they crossed the lavish red and gold lobby and headed for the casino. The thing about casinos was, they had surveillance everywhere. Cameras, two-way mirrors, security staff. Bianca had already gone over the plan with Doc: once they were inside, he was to go up to the open gallery above the main gaming floor and act as a lookout from there. An important job that had the secret, added advantage of keeping him out of the wa
y.
Bianca would meet with Mason alone.
She entered through what she recognized as an intentionally designed choke point—a hallway that served as a narrow funnel through which new arrivals were subjected to extra, covert scrutiny, with another metal detector at the end of it. As she passed on out onto the central gaming floor, she was met by a smiling woman in a scarlet cheongsam who offered her a glass of champagne and the greeting, “Have a glamorous night!”
Declining the drink with a smile—she never drank on a job, and keeping her hands free was important in case of attack—she stood for a moment, looking out over a palatial chamber that was almost as big as a football field, with hundreds of tables and thousands of patrons milling around inside.
It was abuzz with the electronic chirping of rows of slot machines, the rattle of roulette wheels, the slap and clink of cards and dice, and the drone of dealers calling out to patrons to place your bets. Laughter, chatter and the tinkle of ice in glasses rose and fell in waves. The baccarat tables and the blackjack tables operated in separate, roped-off areas. Knowing Mason as she did, Bianca headed for the blackjack tables. He liked playing blackjack at the Wynn because he liked to win, and the house edge was just 0.09 percent. The lighting was warm and intimate, emanating from wall sconces as well as massive chandeliers that reminded her of nothing so much as inverted blooming onions dripping gold and crystal beads from the high, curved ceiling. Enormous artworks adorned the walls. Gold statues in recessed niches and deep red carpeting added to the air of opulence.
Security was everywhere, discreet but, for someone who knew what to look for, unmistakable. To guard against theft, cheating, undesirable behavior, acts of vandalism or violence, or anything else that might go wrong when dealing with the kind of fluid population that passed through one of the world’s most profitable casinos, the Wynn employed a small army of trained security personnel.
Red velvet ropes on two sides partially cordoned off the high-end blackjack tables from the main floor. Bianca stepped inside them, waved away a waiter who offered her a choice from a tray full of drinks and scanned the area for Mason.
An electric tension hung in the air as scores of serious gamblers tried their luck. Various numbers of players were seated around a dealer at semicircular green-felt-covered tables that could accommodate eight. There were dozens of such tables. Only a few were empty. On the tables stacks of chips were positioned between the dealer and players, and swiftly moving cards were the focus of attention. Plush gold upholstered chairs were placed around the curved side of tables for the players. The dealers sat alone on the straight side. Male and female dealers alike wore tuxes, while players were mostly clad in cocktail or formal wear. Red-and-black-clad waiters and waitresses carried trays of complimentary drinks.
Doc had gone up the marble staircase to the right when he had emerged through the choke point behind her, and was now following her progress from the second-floor-level gallery that circled the room. One of many who had chosen to watch from that vantage point, he stood with both hands gripping the wrought-iron railing as he looked down at her.
Despite the distance between them, she could feel the weight of his gaze. Clearly he was determined not to miss a thing.
He was, Bianca thought, about as inconspicuous as the raven above Poe’s chamber door in the eponymous poem, but there was nothing she could do about that at this point. She did her best to ignore him.
It took her two sweeps of the tables before, with a spark of surprise, she spotted her not-father. Mason’s disguise was even more thorough than hers. If she hadn’t known him well and been specifically looking for him, she never would have recognized him. The bespectacled, wrinkled, balding old codger in the motorized wheelchair that had been pulled up to one of the closed tables bore almost no resemblance to the man he was in real life. The ancient-looking gray suit jacket and limp white shirt he wore, the dark blanket tucked in around his legs—he might as well have been wearing an invisibility cloak for all the impression he made. And, normally, Mason Thayer made quite an impression. At sixty-four, he stood six foot one with a slim, elegant build. The term silver fox could have been coined with him in mind. He had thick hair that was, yes, silver, high cheekbones, a long, straight nose, well-cut lips and a square chin. The crow’s-feet and creases around his mouth merely served to add gravitas to his extraordinary good looks.
What caught her eye was the motion with which he flipped one of the thousand-dollar casino chips in the air and caught it. The movement was practiced, graceful—and familiar. She’d seen him do that with various small objects a million times over the years. She had to consciously keep her eyes from widening. He was at the last seat at the last table, facing the room with his back to the wall—yes, that was familiar, too—and he had a good-sized pile of chips in front of him, which he appeared to be sorting into random piles. He was alone at the table.
Her heart gave an unexpected little pump of joy. She felt an inner warmth, a burst of happiness, an instant sense of belonging, of being safe and secure in the presence of the one person who by the very nature of their father-daughter relationship loved and had always protected her.
Only he didn’t, and he hadn’t.
Cold reality did its best to douse her instinctive, conditioned reaction to this man whom she’d always thought was her parent. He was not, either biologically or in his mind and heart. He was the man who’d saved her life as a child and had raised her as his daughter, yes. But she strongly suspected now that he had done it for his own ends, because it suited him to have the kind of partner in crime that he and a bunch of mad scientists somewhere had made her.
She was as certain as it was possible to be that if she hadn’t found out the truth in that horrific encounter in Heiligenblut he never would have told her.
Instead, he would have kept on using her.
Her lips compressed.
What was it they said? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...
But for better or worse, right now, for her, he was looking like the only game in town.
She walked toward him.
He looked up. Through the spectacle lenses his eyes met hers. They were a bright denim blue.
She would know those eyes anywhere. Her own eye color was a little lighter, a little icier—more of a crystalline blue. Still, the shades were close enough so that she’d always thought that she’d inherited her eye color from him.
Mark that down as one more thing she’d spent her life being wrong about.
He knocked some casino chips to the floor as she drew near.
It was done on purpose, to provide her with an excuse to strike up a conversation with him in case anyone was watching.
“Oh, dear.” Affecting a plummy British accent, he looked down at the chips on the carpet, a poor, befuddled old man who couldn’t quite reach.
“I’ll get them,” she said, crouching to pick them up.
“That’s very kind.” When she placed them on the table in front of him he added, “Would you happen to know what one of these is worth?”
“One thousand dollars US.” Bianca pointed to the amount stamped in the middle of the chip. “See?”
“That’s the problem. I can’t.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Old age, you know. I can’t tell the colors apart, either.”
He was good, all right. It was the perfect opening. She pulled out a chair and sat down beside him.
“Let me help you sort them out,” she said.
16
“I’d appreciate that.” Mason smiled at her. Bianca didn’t smile back. Her emotions where he was concerned were too raw, too complicated. One thing she knew for sure was that there was no going back to what they had been.
So move on already.
A quick, comprehensive glance around told her that no one was paying any attention to them. In the next row over, another empty table filled up and
another dealer sat down and opened the bank. Dealers and players were focused on the action at their own tables. The steady hum of talk was punctuated by the dealers’ patter and the sounds of the game. Sinatra’s “The Lady Is a Tramp” played over the sound system. The noise level was such that it should preclude someone being able to overhear any individual conversations. A scan of the table and their immediate surroundings confirmed that, unless the area was bugged, which she was relatively certain it wasn’t, they could speak privately.
“A wheelchair?” Cocking a questioning eyebrow at him, she started sorting his pile of chips into denominations as she spoke.
“After our last adventure, I had to have surgery. Lost my spleen. Pin in my hip.” His voice was his own again, its volume lowered for her ears only.
“I’m surprised you’re up and around.”
“Duty calls.” He shrugged. “I won’t be going on any long walks for a while, but I can get up and move if I have to. Only thing I can’t do at all is stairs.”
A passing waiter paused to lower a champagne-flute-laden tray in their direction. “May I offer you a drink?” Mason waved him away.
“How are Marin and Margery?” Bianca asked when they were alone again. A small twinge of pain as she mentioned his seven-year-old daughter and his wife was all she allowed herself. For years she’d thought of them almost hungrily, imagining they were her family, indulging in secret fantasies that she didn’t even like to remember, centered on the hope that they would one day get to know each other, that maybe she and Marin, as half sisters, would grow close. All in ashes now, of course: they were no more kin to her than was the man sitting beside her.
Ah, well. Life sucks and then you try not to die.
“Alive. In hiding. I’m doing what I can to get them settled and keep them safe.”
The Moscow Deception--An International Spy Thriller Page 16