But whatever the case, it seemed, driving down the strip, that Vegas as a whole was oblivious to any goings-on at the Bellagio. The lights of the casinos were blaring, and punters paraded the streets in droves.
And though the state of the Bellagio was a little harder to ascertain as we drove by, since it was set back 500 feet from the main road behind an eight-acre body of water, it, too, appeared at first glance like it always did. In fact, the only thing we saw that indicated there’d been an evacuation were the two press vans on the sidewalk.
We needed to park ourselves, and get closer on foot to see the lay of the land.
Ten minutes later, Vann found a spot in an indoor car-park. Then, once we’d each concealed a Walther on our person, we headed back to the Bellagio. Before long, we were on the busy sidewalk, looking at the pseudo-neoclassical thirty-six-story hotel on the other side of the artificial lake. The lake whose waterworks were, for the millionth time, just kicking into gear.
The unseasonable heat, and the neon in the twilight, gave a sudden sense of unreality to proceedings – like this was all just some mad nightmare.
I turned to Vann and Ellen.
‘Right, I’m gonna head over to the front entrance, and see if I can find someone in the know. Then, before I do anything else, I’ll come fill you in.’
Vann looked me over. ‘You look like hell.’
I looked down at myself. Although the pain in my chest had been a constant since leaving the quarry, I’d forgotten I also looked the part of a guy who’d been roughed up. But given the situation, I didn’t think it’d be a problem.
‘May work to my advantage. Neither a terrorist nor someone in the press will look as down-and-out. If anything, it might make folk more likely to confide. Besides, I hardly stick out in Vegas.’
Vann nodded. ‘Okay, go.’
Barely had he said this when I set off along Bellagio Drive: the meandering 300 yard walkway towards the main entrance. As I walked the last fifty yards, the entrance came into view. There were a couple of hundred people milling outside – mainly families and elderly folk; folk actually staying at the hotel, who hadn’t simply gone elsewhere – and though staff and a few police officers were coordinating a re-entry, the atmosphere was relaxed.
I arrived at the edge of the mass, lit a cigarette and casually scanned the crowd.
A minute later, I spotted someone promising: a large, bear-shaped Middle Eastern-looking man, also standing alone, also engrossed in a cigarette. He wore a smart brown suit, but had an air of shabbiness that made the suit look shabby, too. He wore two things round his neck. A metallic dog tag, and a badge identifying him as the hotel’s house detective.
There was thoughtfulness about him. He looked like someone who knew the deal.
I stamped out my smoke. Then I produced another, and approached.
‘Got a light?’
He looked at me, but his eyes remained unfocused, tired. A half-second later, he produced a lighter from a pocket. I lit up.
‘Thanks, buddy. So what’s the story here? I mean, besides what’s on the news.’
He looked me over detachedly. ‘You with the press or something?’ An Egyptian twang to his voice.
I chuckled affably. ‘Do I look like a newshound? Nah, just a guy down on his luck, nosing about.’
A tired nod.
‘And I figured, since you were the house detective and all’ – I pointed to his underwhelming laminated badge – ‘you might have some insight. I was once a house detective, too. At The Woodward, Midtown Manhattan. You heard of it?’
At that, the guy perked up. Smiled and said. ‘Can’t say I have. Any good?’
I shrugged. ‘Good enough. Many years ago, but it was home for a while.’ I paused. ‘Though it always ground my gears that whenever there was some real action, the fuzz would turn up and take the reins.’
The guy chuckled. ‘I prefer it that way. Didn’t get into this line of work to tangle with the heavy stuff.’ He drew on his cigarette, then extended a hand. ‘Abderahman.’
‘Marshall.’
‘But mind you,’ he continued. ‘There wasn’t much action here, anyhow.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Load of hot air. The LVMPD got a call naming one of our rooms, so obviously we went through the motions, and cleared out. But all we found was petty vandalism: someone had stuffed a razor blade in the copper wiring to the security camera outside the elevators on the thirty-second floor – where the room in question was located – which turned the feed to static; and of course this went unnoticed in the main CCTV room, since the thousands of cameras in the casino get all the attention. And the room in question – which nobody was booked into – had clearly been entered by someone, since the mechanism stopping the window opening more than an inch had been broken. But that’s about it.
‘So of course, the boys in blue are upstairs gathering forensics. But what are they gonna nail the perp for – breaking a window?’
I nodded. So something had gone on here. Yet it sounded like the police hadn’t found much to write home about…
‘I reckon someone just got dealt a bad hand in the casino,’ I said, ‘so had a friend call in the tip.’
Abderahman chuckled. ‘I’ve heard stranger things.’ He paused. ‘I’m surprised it was us that had trouble this afternoon, actually. My money would’ve been on Caesar’s Palace next door.’
I cocked my head. ‘That so?’
He nodded. ‘The security over there was already tight for the conference they’re hosting today. The Transhumanist Conference.’
‘Transhumanist?’
He smiled. ‘Yeah. It’s a movement that believes we can use technology to defeat the limitations imposed on us by our bodies; a movement actively attempting to use technology to radically increase our life spans. The conference’s about 1,000 people strong.’
I raised a brow. ‘So, seekers of immortality?’
He made a so-so gesture with his hand. ‘Sort of,’ he said earnestly. ‘The consensus in the community is that the main objective is to upload the human mind to a computer. That way, human consciousness can be maintained for hundreds of years, without the worry that a rickety body will crap out on it. But even the most optimistic estimates say we’re at least thirty-five years off that technology; so, in the meantime, many busy themselves with bio-hacking.’
I gave a quizzical look.
‘Implanting technology in the human body,’ he explained. ‘We’re talking computers built into your forearm, and as permanent as tattoos.’
‘You seem to know a lot about Transhumanists.’
He grinned. ‘Because I am one.’ He pointed to his dog-tag, inviting me to take a closer look. It was inscribed with instructions: inject with heparin; do not conduct autopsy.
‘What to do with me if I suddenly croak. I pay a company in Arizona $30 a month for the guarantee they’ll freeze my body. Small price to pay for a shot at an extra few hundred years.’ He smiled. ‘If I didn’t have to work, I’d be next-door.’
I smiled. My gut had been on the money: this guy was thoughtful alright. A Transhumanist hotel detective – only in America.
‘But hold on,’ I said, taking back control of the conversation. ‘Why tighter security?’
His face went solemn.
‘Well, quite a few Transhumanists are also high-profile for another reason, human rights activism, and that can make you a target. Big overlap between the two communities. Unsurprising really, given that both are concerned with preserving human life.’
My heart beat faster.
‘So there are people next door who actually have reason to fear for their safety?’
He nodded. ‘Sadly so. There’s one who had to flee Turkey after speaking out against the regime. Then there’s those three hackers – they did a talk just this morning – who’ve made enemies all over the shop: upset North Korea last year by launching a denial of service attack against their network; and recently angered China, too, when the
y went to Dharamsala and cleaned the Dalai Lama’s computers, which were riddled with Chinese viruses.’
‘Interesting. Those hackers – would the guy off the street recognize their names?’
‘Maybe, but I can only remember one right this second.’ He chuckled his hearty chuckle. ‘Tanner Shakir. The other two – they’ve slipped my mind. Now that wouldn’t happen if my mind was uploaded to a computer, eh?’
I nodded. This was a big revelation – the mother-load. I needed to get moving.
I took a final drag, and crushed the filer-tip underfoot.
‘Right, that’s enough rubbernecking for one day. Glad to’ve met you.’
He nodded; then he reached into a pocket, produced a small roll of cash, and unpeeled a ten. ‘You sleeping rough? With heat like this, only a matter of time before it shits potatoes – forty-eight hours tops before a storm. Find yourself some shelter.’
I took the cash and smiled. Then I turned and powered back along Bellagio Drive.
* * *
The moment I rejoined Ellen and Vann, I relayed what Abderahman had told me: about the damaged security camera and window; the conference nextdoor; the three hackers. And when I relayed the one name he gave me, Ellen cut in:
‘Tanner Shakir, Daniel Farquhar, James Yohendran. The guys who, in 2008, flew out to Dharamsala, and cleaned the computers whose microphones and webcams had been hacked by the Chinese to spy on the Dalai Lama.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘So clearly room 819 at the Bellagio wasn’t where they were planning to put the victims: it was where they were planning to put the sniper rifle. Their plan was to place the victims in a room in Caesar’s Palace opposite this room in the Bellagio. And surely these hackers are the target.’
‘Their plan’s to shoot these three guys from a hotel room over the road?’ said Vann.
‘I think so.’
‘Is that possible?’ said Ellen.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Although the hotels are separated by a six-lane road – Flamingo Road – the distance between them is still only about 140 yards. No problem for a VSS.’
‘So either the hackers are already dead,’ said Vann. ‘Or our tip forced the nationalists to abandon their efforts halfway, and the hackers are alive, and very possibly being held captive in the room they were due to be killed in.’
I nodded. ‘Meaning that we need to head over there now. But first, we need to get to Flamingo Road, and see if we can approximate which room at Caesar’s we need to head for.’
We peeled along the sidewalk. 300 yards later, we reached the corner of Flamingo and Las Vegas Boulevard, and turned left. On our left, the side of the Bellagio. Our right, the Augustus Tower of Caesar’s Palace.
I craned my head up at the Bellagio. Though the sun was setting, there was enough light to make out the building’s upper-reaches.
‘The guy said the thirty-second floor.’
We then all turned our attention to the Augustus Tower. There seemed to be maybe twenty-five rooms on each story facing Flamingo Road, and we all looked at around the level of the thirty-second floor…
Then I spotted it: a window, seven in from the left-hand side, which – unlike all the other windows in the building – was wide open.
‘That’s the one,’ said Vann, discreetly pointing a finger.‘Thirty-two stories up.’
‘And seven in from the left,’ I added. ‘Look, there’s a side entrance. I say we get up to the thirty-second floor, figure out the room, and bust in all guns blazing.’
‘Is that possible? To just bust in?’ said Ellen.
‘Door-frames in hotels are feeble,’ I said. ‘No problem at all.’
‘But we need to get the right room first time round, otherwise we may lose the element of surprise,’ noted Vann.
I grunted. ‘Or we narrow it to two, and bust both simultaneously. Let’s roll.’
I led the way to the unmanned entrance, beneath an excessively flashy portico, and we found ourselves – since it wasn’t a main entrance – in an out-of-the-way hallway. Then, because Vann and Ellen were looking less conspicuous, I let them lead the march to the elevator bank.
There was a young couple waiting. We hung back, let them take the next available elevator, and got in one of our own. Then we were going up.
The sudden motion caused my stomach to flip. My fingers were tingling with that flight-or-fight reflex embedded deep in the DNA.
‘So we’re going in and attempting head-shots?’ asked Vann quietly.
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘There’s no doubt they want to off these targets. But they want to kill them their way, so they’ll hesitate before turning their guns on them. Those moments of hesitation will hopefully make all the difference.’
The elevator shuddered to a halt. We stepped into an empty hallway. And before doing anything else, I approached the security camera, and looked behind it.
A razor-blade through the wiring.
‘This is definitely the right floor,’ I announced quietly.
I reached into my pocket, wrapped my hand round the Walther, and the other two did the same. Then we headed quietly down the hallway, turned a corner, and stopped. The empty hallway ahead, we knew, contained the room we were after on the left-hand side.
‘Twelve rooms on either side,’ I said quietly. ‘So stands to reason that it’s either the fifth or fourth room from where we’re standing.’
Both nodded.
‘I’ll head to the fifth. Vann, you head to the fourth. Then, on the count of three, we—’
I was interrupted by the door three down on the right abruptly opening. My heart skipped a beat, but the next instant, it was clear there was no threat: it was a bloated, meaty-faced guy, wearing a loose fitting shirt and low-brow sneer.
The three of us instinctively began walking the hallway, as though heading for a room further along. The guy eyed us as he passed – lingering a long moment on me – then, as we drew level with the sixth room down, he rounded the corner.
We stopped in our tracks, and Vann paced back, and poked his head round the corner. A tense thirty seconds later, he indicated that the guy was out of sight.
I moved back up to the fifth door, and Vann went to the fourth door – while Ellen took up the position at the kink in the hallway to keep watch.
I extracted my Walther, made eye-contact with Vann, and mouthed a countdown.
Three… Two… One.
I turned to the door, and slammed my foot into the wood next to the handle, and there was a synchronized crash that told me Vann’s door had surrendered too.
Without hesitation, I stepped forward.
There was a small lavish corridor, with a bathroom to the immediate left, and while there was undoubtedly a bedroom dead ahead, it was just out of sight round the corner.
I took a fraction of a second’s glance inside the bathroom – empty – then powered round the corner, Walther at the ready…
The next moment, my heart sank, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
It was the worst case scenario. Three chairs, all facing the open window, positioned one behind the next. In each was a man with a gaping, messy exit wound to the back of his head – and on the wall next to me, and carpet by my feet, a generous smattering of blood.
The arms of the man at the back of this perverse conga line were bent at ungodly angles, as if they’d been broken in a number of places.
And the guy in the middle – he was only a kid. No older than twenty-four.
All at once, I became aware of Vann standing at my shoulder. A moment later, Ellen was there, too.
‘Saul, let’s go,’ said Vann urgently. ‘Nothing we can do.’
‘Is that them?’ I said simply to Ellen.
‘Yes.’
‘Saul, let’s go.’
I stood planted to the spot. I didn’t know these people – but somehow I felt a duty to repay this inglorious death in the midst of this vulgar faux-grandeur.
I looked again at the brains and bo
ne, and thought back to Abderahman. Here were three brains that were never gonna have their chance to be uploaded to a computer server…
‘Saul!’ This time, Vann grabbed me forcefully by the arm. I snapped out of my stupor, put away the gun, and followed him into the hallway.
At the end of the hallway, three women – two youngish, and clearly together, and one a bit older – had filed out of their rooms, and were looking over at us concernedly.
‘House detectives – just investigating a complaint,’ Vann said authoritatively. ‘Have a good evening, ladies.’
The women looked back at us incredulously, but we didn’t wait around: we turned and walked quickly back round the corner – back towards the elevator bank, which was, miraculously, empty.
Two minutes later, we were back on the streets, and storming towards the car-park. And the lights of the city were a blur.
There were tears in my eyes. The boy in the middle – he’d looked just like my son.
Chapter 19
Sunday, December 13, 02:05 a.m. – Cook’s Meadow, Yosemite.
Yuelin leaned against the Crown Vic, and idly gazed around, picturing the trees that she knew surrounded her, but couldn’t see because of the dark.
He was five minutes late, but Yuelin didn’t mind. She was enjoying the solitude.
She sighed, drank in a deep breath, then checked her watch; then, when she looked up, she had company: a pair of headlights piercing the darkness. The lights got steadily brighter, harshly exposing the hidden trees, and, sixty seconds later, the black SUV pulled in behind the Vic. The engine and headlights went off, and she was in darkness again.
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