He had watched Michael, Busch, and the two Asians disappear through the service door and emerge thirty minutes later. He watched as they boarded the elevator to the private rooms, and as the chip cart behind them was held up for a moment by the man with the bag on his shoulder.
He knew full well what was going on, and followed the man with the bag through the Golden Fish casino.
As the tall man walked by the ornate trash receptacle by the elevators, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of paper, and tossed it in.
He watched as the man ahead of him pulled out his phone and dialed, falling into a conversation as he headed for the exit.
Again the tall man reached into his pocket. Drawing out another wad of paper, he feigned wiping his nose and tossed the paper into the next receptacle.
Emerging into the front drive, he watched as the man with the bag on his shoulder entered the Range Rover. The tall man’s phone vibrated; a message came through on his phone. He pulled it out, glanced at it, and quickly tucked it back in his pocket.
He waited five minutes, his eyes never leaving the vehicle. He had no need to fetch his car. There would be no chase, and he had no fear of the Range Rover’s driving away.
He walked up to the vehicle and tapped on the rear window. The window slowly came down, revealing the two men.
“Good evening, Colonel,” the tall man said in a subtle Italian accent.
“Who are you?”
“I understand your box is empty,” the tall man said.
The colonel glared at him.
“May I join you?”
Without waiting for an answer, the man walked around the front of the Range Rover and got in the passenger side next to Lian.
“Since you know who I am,” the colonel said, “who are you?”
“My name is Simon,” the man said. “I’m Michael’s priest. We both know that the book you seek wasn’t in that case.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have what was in that case, all three pages, telling me exactly where Zheng He’s diary is.”
Lian drew his pistol and pressed it to Simon’s head.
“To begin with, I have no fear of death.” Simon smiled as he looked at Lian. “But more important, kill me and the location of the book is lost forever.”
“I just want my money,” Lian said. “And it appears you’re standing in the way of that.”
“How did you get it?” Lucas asked as he reached over and pushed Lian’s gun away from Simon.
“Michael gave it to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And you won’t. Now, as you have no doubt arranged, Michael and Paul have been taken into custody. I saw the security detail go upstairs for them and Michael sent me a message.” Simon held up his phone. On the screen was a text message with a single word: COMPROMISED. Simon paused a moment, staring at the colonel, without a hint of fear in his face. “Now, I’m going to get them out of there and you’re going to help me.”
“Not a chance,” Lucas said.
“Oh, there is every chance. You see, Colonel, if the Chinese find out the U.S. military was coordinating this robbery, you’re going to have an international nightmare on your hands. At best, you’ll end up rotting in some Chinese prison… Or maybe they’ll just execute you, sweep it under the rug, and take the book and everything that goes with it for themselves.”
Simon pulled out a small black box, a screen in the center with several colored buttons along the side, and noted the red blinking number 1 on the right of the screen pinpointing Michael’s location.
“They’re still upstairs, and the Venetian’s security believes everything is under control. But in five minutes,” Simon said to Lucas as he pointed to the main entrance of the casino, “people will be pouring out of those doors, fearing for their lives. I want this car door open and ready so your driver can whisk us all out of here. Understood?”
Lucas remained silent.
“And if you even think of harming Michael or KC, not only can you forget about ever getting your book, but dealing with the Chinese government will be the least of your problems.”
CHAPTER 46
Simon stood in the central lobby by the Golden Fish casino, his eyes fixed on the private bank of elevators one hundred feet away, where three large security guards stood in wait.
As the elevator door opened, Simon watched Michael, Busch, and Jon step from the cab; four guards exited behind them carrying their bags. They were not restrained or handcuffed, but the three other guards waiting for them left them no chance of escape.
If they made it to the service area, down into the lower level, Simon knew they would probably never be seen again.
Simon reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the small black box. Michael had left it for him along with a few other trinkets in his hotel room; his friend’s creative expertise never ceased to amaze him.
Simon had arrived by private jet twelve hours earlier. He followed Michael’s email instructions exactly, remaining inconspicuous as he memorized the plan and then walked through it three times over. He knew what he was about to unleash, but felt no remorse; he would do anything to save his friend. So Simon ran his thumb over the box and pushed the blue button. There was no explosion, no sudden bang or event, but Simon knew that wasn’t the case down below. In the bowels of the Venetian, all hell was breaking lose.
RENE CLAUGE, THE head of chip security, sat back in his chair, staring at the three monitors. The first reflected the 131 million in chips in circulation upstairs: 9.5 million within the three thousand machines, 103 million at the tables, 11 million at the windows, and the balance in people’s pockets. The second monitor reflected a new gambling program he was working on, and the third displayed the movie Casablanca.
In Rene’s eyes, no one was smarter than himself; no one had delivered more to casino management than he had. And over the last month he had concluded that he deserved more for sitting eighty feet below ground at three in the morning staring at a computer monitor. He had graduated top of his class at MIT, both undergrad and grad. His contract was all well and good, but he knew now he was worth far more. Come Monday, he’d renegotiate his contract with the Venetian or split and take his new RFID ideas with him.
A sudden alarm sounded on his computer. Rene stared at his monitor; he stared at the impossible. There was no question that less than a minute ago there had been 131 million in chips on the floor. But if what he saw now was true, then someone had not only cracked the algorithm on his chip but flooded the casino with counterfeits, an act that could cripple operations. For what he saw was the sudden circulation of more than $300 million in new chips.
And if that was the case, his plan to seeking new employment come Monday wouldn’t come to pass, not because his reputation would be in question but because he would be dead.
Without further hesitation, he hit the alarm.
FOR THE SECOND time that night, the lower level went into lockdown; elevators were recalled, fire stairs sealed. But this alert was much more urgent. The entire cadre of security personnel, 110 strong, flooded the casino floor. Three guards took up position at every exit, teams fanned out looking at the tables, listening for direction from central security on Sublevel Three.
And the drastic step of closing the exchange windows was taken. The staff assured guests that it would only be for a moment as a computer glitch was corrected. But a murmur had already begun among the guests and gamblers who held winnings. It was never the losers with empty pockets who went to the windows to cash out, only the winners, the ones on a high from beating the odds, from beating the house, that stood there all smiles with dollar signs in their eyes. And if their winnings were somehow negated…
SIMON WATCHED AS the cadre of guards exploded out of the service area across the floor. They fanned out to the tables, toward the doors, their eyes darting about, looking for suspicious people.
In his several hours of gambling, Simon had frequen
ted tables in each of the four casinos—blackjack, poker, fan-tan, sic bo, roulette—staying long enough to lose a few hundred dollars, to make conversation, to affix one of the small self-adhesive RFID chips beneath the table. Wafer-thin, smaller than a dime, they were out of sight and inactive until he activated them with the blue button on the small remote. But Simon didn’t just affix them to tables, he slipped them into pockets of unsuspecting gamblers as they spoke, as he bumped into them; he left a few in the bars and restaurants. He spread hundreds of the small electronic chips throughout the Venetian. Michael had made them, programmed in various large denominations, activated just moments ago, sending confusion to the monitoring world below. He couldn’t help smiling at the thought that the control of the casino, its heart of operation, came from below as opposed to above.
Simon could see the seven guards escorting Michael, Busch, and Jon reach for their earpieces, listening to instructions. And suddenly, Michael, Busch, and Jon were each grabbed by a guard and shoved double-time into the service area.
A large whoomph came from the fancy trash canister by the elevator. Smoke began to billow, growing thicker, denser, rising to the exquisite ceiling before curling back down. The volume of smoke was enormous, obscuring the immediate area.
It took only seconds for the crowds to see it, for the alarm to sound. All tables, all bets were frozen. Gamblers grew annoyed at the inconvenience, like children bellyaching at a school fire drill, until they caught sight of the smoke, until they began to cough and their eyes began to burn.
Panic began to take root in the Golden Fish Casino, quickly escalating. People scooped up their chips and made for the nearest exit. With alcohol dulling their senses, confusion filling the air, people charged the doors, turning toward any exit they could find.
As Michael, Busch, and Jon were rushed through the escaping crowd, they came within twenty feet of Simon, and as he saw their faces, he hit the red button on the box in his pocket again.
A second whoomph startled the already-terrified crowd, and equal amounts of smoke billowed forth from another trash receptacle, filling the air. The panic doubled, people coughing, rubbing their eyes, racing to find their way out.
In the resulting mayhem, Michael tore away from the guard holding his arm. Busch effortlessly spun out of his captor’s hold and drove his large fist into the man’s jaw. The two turned and ran into the chaos, instantly lost within the escaping crowds and smoke.
Within seconds, Jon dropped, spinning his right leg out, sweeping out the feet of his captor, racing in the direction of Michael and Busch.
Within the cloud of smoke, Michael stripped off his suit jacket, his tie and shirt, his head down, eyes squinting, running from the guards who were no doubt in pursuit, but as he could hardly see, he knew the same held true for them. And while the smoke obscured the sight of the panicked crowd, it also impeded the view of the security cameras. Though the crowd was in a panic, fearing for their lives, Michael knew there was no true danger. He had constructed the smoke bombs and left them for Simon; the chemical compound, made from sugar and a touch of crushed red pepper, was harmless. He’d wrapped the golf-ball-sized devices in tissue and left them along with the bag of tracking chips in a box in his hotel suite upstairs for Simon.
Michael was lost within the throng of panicked gamblers, moving with the masses, when someone snatched his arm, violently pulling him forward. Michael struggled to get away, but the grip was like a vise.
“Put this on,” Simon said, holding out a blue shirt.
Without a word, Michael grabbed the shirt, slipped it on, and buttoned it up.
A herd mentality had taken hold, everyone following the pack, not knowing if they were heading over a cliff, into the fire, or to safety. But Simon knew exactly where they were going. He pulled Michael to the side of the crowd, Busch following right behind him, passing people and outrunning whoever was pursuing them.
And in all the craziness, they had not only lost their captors, they had lost Jon.
They burst out of a side door into the clear night air, a sea of people gathering, over a thousand strong and growing. Staying within the masses, they moved through the side parking lot to the north for one hundred yards until they arrived at a black Town Car. Simon clicked the key fob, they all jumped in, and Simon drove out of the lot past the stream of arriving fire trucks and ambulances.
“WHEN THE DUST settles, that is going to be one pissed-off casino,” Busch said.
“Yeah, along with your colonel friend,” Simon said. “When he finds out that he is sitting there waiting for no one, he’ll go through the roof.”
“You’re late. How long have you been here?” Busch asked.
“Long enough to save you from yourself,” Simon said as he drove over the bridge back to old Macau.
“You know,” Busch said, “you shouldn’t be joking around, this whole thing is your fault—”
“Thanks,” Michael said to Simon, interrupting Busch. “You got my emails, right?”
“Yeah.” Simon held up his PDA.
“What the hell did those pages say?” Busch asked.
“It was a codicil to Marconi’s will, about things he acquired recently that weren’t in his original will. He left everything to his wife and kid.”
Michael thought of the anguish on Marconi’s face and in his scream, as he recalled the headless bodies on the floor of the man’s castlelike estate.
“Xiao wasn’t buying the diary,” Simon continued. “He never had any intention of paying for it. He had always meant to kill Marconi and to just steal it.”
“And do those three pages say where the book is?”
“They outline a number of recent transactions: Who owes him money, gambling debtors, things that weren’t meant to be part of some public estate record. Along with the information about where the box that holds his most prized collection resides.”
“Where are we going?” Busch asked.
“How’s KC?” Simon asked Michael.
“I think she’s sick…”
Simon looked deep into Michael’s eyes. “Well, we’re going to find her, and if she’s sick, we’re going to make her better, do you understand?”
The car fell silent.
“And, Paul, in answer to your question—you’re not going to believe where we are going.”
“HOW?” LUCAS SCREAMED at Jon. Any restraint that the colonel possessed had vanished. “You had them under escort… and they slip away with the contents of the case? I can’t even begin to tell you what an unmitigated disaster this is.” Lucas paused. “How the hell did they get the book out of there without you seeing it?”
“They don’t have it.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the box we had was swapped out—”
“No shit,” Lucas said as he threw the empty box at Jon. Jon flinched, blocking the box from hitting his face. “We were the ones doing the swapping. How then did the box you stole from Sublevel Six become empty?”
Jon was fighting to keep his emotions from escalating to Lucas’s level.
“I got an empty box,” Lucas said. “What was in the box you saw, that was opened up in the private gaming area?”
Jon was silent, not wanting to describe what he had seen.
“Say it!” Lucas shouted. “Say it! What was in the box?”
“A head…”
“Whose head?”
Jon remained silent.
Lucas pulled out his pistol and jammed it in Jon’s face. “Whose head?”
“Pamela’s…”
And Lucas lowered his gun. He caught his breath, composed himself. The moment hung there as he let the news sink in.
“You will find them,” Lucas said. “You will find that book, or I will personally see to it that you are thrown in the deepest, darkest prison I can find, where you will die the slowest of deaths.”
CHAPTER 47
Cemitério São Miguel Arcanjo sat in the middle of the city, an oasis of grief on
a ten-acre parcel. Inside its walls sat the Chapel of St. Michael, built in 1875. It was surrounded by tens of thousands of graves, tombs, and family crypts.
Over the centuries, Macau had attracted a substantial Catholic population. When the Portuguese arrived in 1535, they brought with them their country’s religion, and though they weren’t seeking to convert the Chinese, the religion was embraced over the next four hundred years.
“I feel like a grave robber,” Busch said as they walked among the tombstones, the realm of the dead bathed in darkness except for the light wash of the city that surrounded it.
“Well, that’s good,” Michael said. “Because you are.”
They followed Simon, who walked at a fast clip, knowing exactly where he was going. In one hand he clutched a cemetery map, in the other his PDA, the three documents Michael had sent him on display.
They arrived at a small marble building, of Greek Revival design, with small white fluted columns supporting a marble overhang. Open-winged angels were carved into the eaves, while a crucifix with a lifelike image of Jesus was welded into the large patinated copper door.
“Why wouldn’t Xiao look here, if this is Marconi’s family crypt?”
“Because it’s not his family crypt, it belongs to the Denola family. Gento Denola did legal work for him, was on a silent cash retainer. No one beyond Marconi and Denola was aware of their relationship.”
Simon slipped the crowbar into the copper door and pried it open. The three entered, pulling the door closed behind them, sealing themselves in pure darkness and silence.
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