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.”
12:56:47 P.M. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas
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…”
2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
1:00:57 P.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
“Lev,” Senator David Palmer whispered through gritted teeth, “what is all this?”
The hotel lobby was crowded with reporters, all of whom obviously had anticipated the senator’s arrival. But David Palmer had been given no notice of this instant public appearance. He was tired, his throat was parched, and the long flight West had left him unkempt and irritable. To top it off, the limo’s air conditioner had been on the fritz, so there were perspiration stains under the arms of his wrinkled white button-down.
Still, Palmer knew the power of the photo op; and, inside of fifteen seconds, his initial expression of surprise, then extreme annoyance, vanished. In its place came the well-rehearsed campaign smile. His grin was so firmly set that his lips barely moved when he quietly asked his chief of staff what the hell was going on.
Lev Cohen’s fleshy face flushed under his red beard.
“Sorry, David. I didn’t know about any event,” he replied. “It must be something Congressman Bell’s people set up—”
“You should have known about it.” Senator Palmer’s voice was an irritated rumble.
Sherry Palmer suddenly appeared at her husband’s side, tucked her hand under his arm. “You’ve made this trip to raise your national profile before our run for the Presidency, David,” she reminded him softly.
Palmer arched an eyebrow. “Our run?”
Sherry didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, David,” she purred, her eyes scanning the crowd for familiar media faces. “And I’ll be right there beside you the whole way.”
The crowd had assembled inside the immense sandstone and glass atrium of the ultra-modern Babylon Hotel and Casino, an architectural showplace that was the latest addition to the Las Vegas skyline. A huge banner hung from a balcony, proc
laiming this hotel as the venue for the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference. Flags of a dozen North, Central and South American nations dangled from the high ceiling.
David Palmer hardly noticed the décor. The brace of reporters was what concerned him, along with the cheering group of spectators, who’d suddenly recognized their choice for the next presidential election.
Palmer studied the throng uncertainly. His race for the U.S. Senate had involved local Maryland press, of course, but the glare of national media interest, now that he was about to announce his presidential run, was nothing like he’d ever before experienced.
Sherry touched his arm. “Wave, David,” she urged through a tight smile.
Palmer waved.
“Now slip on your jacket,” she whispered. “It’ll cover those nasty sweat-stains.” Sherry released the grip on her husband long enough for him to cover his wrinkled dress shirt with the blue suit coat draped over his arm.
“Look,” she continued quietly, “I know you don’t like to talk off the cuff, but it’s time you practiced. Just say a few words. Keep things light and cheerful and don’t let the press steer the conversation.”
“They’re the ones who ask the questions.”
“Politics 101, David. Do I have to remind you? They ask. That doesn’t mean you have to answer,” Sherry Palmer said through a stiff smile.
The Senator glanced down at his wife and his grin became more genuine. “What would I do without you?”
“I shudder to think,” Sherry shot back. Then she gestured with her expressive brown eyes. “Look, there’s Larry. Go greet your old teammate and make nice with the people who came out to see you.”
Palmer looked up, saw Larry Bell approaching. He moved forward to greet him. Photographers flashed and spectators applauded as the famous Congressman and even more famous Senator clasped hands.
Both ex-basketball players were taller than everyone around them. But Larry Bell was lanky with gangly arms and legs. Broad-shouldered Palmer was built more like a linebacker than the former Big East Conference Defensive Player of the Year and NCAA All-American; and though both men had a full head of hair, Bell’s closely trimmed Afro was peppered with gray.
Almost at once, the pair was surrounded by cameras and proffered microphones.
“Really great to see you, David.” Bell’s smile was warm, but his eyes remained fixed on the press.
“An impressive welcome, Larry,” Palmer replied without a hint of rancor.
Bell faced his colleague eye to eye. “Nothing but the best for the guy who consistently passed me the ball in the greatest game of my career.” Bell slapped Palmer’s arm. “Even when he didn’t have to.“
Palmer shook his head. “I wasn’t there to make you look good, Larry. I was there to win — and since you scored every time you got near the basket, I just thought I’d hand the ball off to you.”
“We made a great team—” Congressman Bell faced the cameras, his voice rising. “And we’ll make a great team again. Only this time we’ll be doing more than winning the NCAA championship.”
There was a smattering of applause, then a Washington Post reporter fired the opening salvo. “My question is for Senator Palmer. What brings you to Las Vegas, sir?”
David Palmer grinned. “Well, as Larry said, this time it’s not the NCAA championship. In fact—”
“How about the presidency?” a woman from the Los Angeles Times shouted. “Are you here to raise your national profile, Senator Palmer? Is it true that you’re planning a run for the White House next November?”
Palmer waited patiently for the battery of questions to end. “I’m in Nevada for only one reason,” he told them. “I’m here to participate in a vital and important program that may someday end the scourge of illegal narcotics, not just in the United States, but throughout all of North, Central and South America…” Palmer paused, gestured to his colleague.
“Of course, Congressman Bell and I both know that solving this massive problem will require international cooperation — which is exactly what the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference exists to promote…”
Though shunted to the sidelines by her own staff and the press of reporters, Sherry Palmer’s gaze never left her husband — even when Lev Cohen touched her shoulder and spoke softly into her ear.
“I just spoke to Bell’s chief of staff, Doug Healy—”
“And?”
“Congressman Bell’s going to make the introduction himself. Later this afternoon. I have all the information…”
Sherry frowned. “Oh, you have all the information? Then you must know why we weren’t notified about this press conference in advance. This was no spontaneous event, Lev.”
Cohen bit his lower lip. “Healy claimed it was an oversight. Someone in his office didn’t make a call—”
Sherry cut him off. “That’s bull and we both know it. Larry Bell is jealous. Back in the day he thought he was a better basketball player than David, and now he thinks he’s a better politician, too.”
Sherry finally shifted her gaze away from her husband, to focus on his chief of staff. “Bell probably believes he should be running for president instead of David, too. But that will never happen because David has the one thing that Larry Bell will never have.”
Lev blinked. “Actually David has three things, or did you forget our campaign slogan? Competence, charisma, and experience…”
Sherry smirked. David Palmer possesses all those qualities, it’s true, she thought. But he’s only going to be President for one reason. Because he has me.
1:19:11 P.M. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base
CTU Agent Tony Almeida entered the hangar through a little used side door, pausing for a moment so his eyes could adjust to the building’s dim interior. Outside, in the desert’s afternoon glare, most members of Dr. Reed’s research team were running diagnostic tests on the massive sensor array. By now, the apparatus was sitting on top of the tower, and the huge crane that had hoisted it here had crawled back to its holding area on clanking steel tracks.
After Tony finished running his own diagnostics— on the shielded generator unit that would power the microwave emitting device — he noticed the entire team wasn’t present. Slipping away, he headed back to Hangar Six to track down the missing person.
Tony circled the building, moving off the pavement into the soft sand. With each step of his steel-toed work boot he kicked up red brown desert dust. No one had used this path for some time. Tony knew because some sign of foot tracks would have been visible, and there was nothing in the sand beyond the swirling tracks of a long-gone rattlesnake.
Near the rear of the structure, Tony climbed three steel steps that led to the side door. He knew the door was unlocked — Tony had made sure of that before the researcher team even rolled out of the hangar. Now he entered a darkened storage area just off the main floor of the hangar, well out of sight of anyone inside.
With the overhead lights powered down, what little illumination came through grimy windows set high in the walls. Most of the high-roofed interior was shrouded in shadows. When his eyes finally got used to the gloom, Tony cautiously stepped around a pile of empty wooden packing crates which formed a makeshift wall.
Suddenly he froze. A hushed voice was speaking in an urgent tone.
“I told you I can’t come now… The project is on a lock down, that’s why… That means nobody can leave, no matter what… I’m stuck here until the demonstration is over.”
Though the echoing interior of the hangar distorted some of the words, Tony recognized the speaker at once. He was the missing scientist, Dr. Steve Sable. Tony trailed the sound, moving quietly from one dark patch to another, carefully approaching the caller.
“Look, I’ll try to get there soon, but I can’t promise anything,” Sable said. “I—”
The man’s excuses were cut short by the person on the other end of the line. Sable tried to stammer a few words in his own defense, but they w
ere apparently ignored. Patiently following the sound, Tony finally located the cyber-engineer behind an idle tow tractor. Sable was there, leaning against a dented workbench covered with wires, chips and motherboards. His back to Tony, Sable was whispering into a slim silver cell phone.
The doctor had good reason to hide his activity in what he thought was a deserted hangar. Using a personal phone anywhere inside the confines of the Groom Lake Experimental facility was a flagrant violation of Air Force security protocols. At the very least, Sable could lose his clearance and face dismissal if he were caught in possession of a cell phone, even if he weren’t using it.
“Threats won’t help either of us,” Sable said with a hint of irritation. “I know how important this is.”
Tony couldn’t read the man’s expression because he faced Sable’s back. Risking discovery, Tony used the cover of packing crates and electronic gear to circle the man. All the while he strained to hear the voice on the other end of the line. Unfortunately, Tony was just too far away.
“Yeah, I know it’s a problem,” Sable said, his tone exasperated. “Money is always a problem, but the delay can’t be helped. I’m not dodging my responsibility. It’s just bad timing, that’s all.“
Suddenly another voice echoed inside the hangar. “Dr. Sable… Are you in here?”
Surprised by the call, Sable quickly slipped the phone into his lab coat and spun around — to come face-to-face with Tony.
“Jesus, Alvarez, you scared the hell out of me!” he cried.
Hearing their voices, the young airman standing near the hangar entrance called out again. Only then did Sable realize Tony’s wasn’t the voice he’d heard call out his name. A split second later it dawned on Sable that Tony had most likely seen the phone, and was maybe even eavesdropping on the conversation.
“Listen, Tony,” Sable said in a whispered hiss. “You won’t tell anybody about the cell, will you?”
Tony moved out of the shadows to face the man. Sable stepped closer, leaned into his ear.
24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5 Page 5