Journey: A Novel

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Teha Productions, Inc.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

iUniverse, Inc.

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ISBN: 978-1-4697-3674-7 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

PROLOGUE

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

PROLOGUE

Valley of the Kings, Luxor, Egypt. November 4, 1922.

When archeologists Lord Carnarvon and Howard Carter pulled away the last heavy slab of limestone blocking the entrance to an ancient tomb the duo were convinced belonged to Eygpt’s famous boy-king Tutankhamen, they were almost delirious with glee. The effort to find the tomb had begun eight years ago. Now, finally, after an excruciating, often discouraging struggle, it appeared the only thing separating the two men from possibly untold treasure and enduring fame was a stone door located at the bottom of a long flight of stairs.

When they reached the door, they shone their torches on the seal of King Tut stamped on the door’s surface. It took their breath away. Now they knew for certain. They’d done it! Found King Tut’s tomb!

Carter pushed open the door with surprisingly little effort and stepped inside. Carnarvon followed. Before them, gleaming in the reflected light of the torches held by the two men, undisturbed for over 3,000 years, lay treasure of unimaginable description; golden icons and statues encrusted with precious stones, gilt-edged utensils, the young king’s throne, four gold-plated chariots, and, of course, the incredible sarcophagus itself. It was a stunning find, considered the most important archeological discovery in 100 years.

As the two men wandered through the many rooms, making a hurried and excited mental inventory, Carter noticed a small rectangular plate about the size and shape of an ordinary playing card sitting by itself atop one of scores of boxes filled with treasure. He picked up the plate, noticed its silver color and the embossed hieroglyphics. Immediately, he knew something was wrong.

Carter showed the small plate to his partner. Both men examined it carefully.

Put it in your pocket, Carter said softly. Show it to no one.

Lord Carnarvon did just that.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

The two men opened the tomb for all to see on February 17, 1923, an event that captured the world’s attention. The only thing missing from the magnificent display was the small plate Carter had found and for good reason. Carter, not mentioning the plate’s origins, shipped it secretly to a trusted friend in London, accompanied by a message asking his friend to have the plate analyzed.

The analysis confirmed what Carter suspected the moment he’d laid eyes on the thing. The plate was constructed of titanium alloy, a material undiscovered until the 18th century. As well, the embossing appeared to have been done using a steel press, a machine created during the industrial revolution. Obviously, the plate was not part of the treasure; equally obvious was the fact that the plate had had to have been placed in the tomb within the past 50 or 100 years. Which meant party or parties unknown, not Carter and Carnarvon, had discovered the tomb, said nothing, then let it lay fallow until the two archeologists found it again.

The questions spinning around in the two men’s minds were unsettling to say the least. The most important question was: what purpose would be served by bringing the existence of the plate to the attention of the Egyptian authorities? The confusion raised could scuttle future expeditions.

Carter and Carnarvon continued to keep their secret, all the while worrying that someone with knowledge of the plate would come forward.

A few weeks after the historic opening of King Tut’s tomb to the public, Lord Carnarvon was bitten by an insect while working in the tomb. He died of blood poisoning resulting from that bite a scant three weeks later.

Carter helped bury his long-time associate. And when Lord Carnarvon’s body was lowered into its final resting place, the mysterious titanium plate went with him. Howard Carter secreted the plate in his associate’s casket and never mentioned its existence to a living soul again.

What Carter didn’t know couldn’t know was that he was quite wrong. The titanium plate had been placed in the tomb by the very people who attended to the proper burial of King Tutankhamen over 3,000 years ago.

PART I

JACK THE REBEL

CHAPTER 1

This year. Las Vegas. November 10, 06:00 PST

Even at this ungodly hour, the glittering casinos held the devoted gamblers and the chronic insomniacs in their thrall. Inside, the slot machines sparkled and hummed, the dice bounced off banks of rubber then came to rest revealing numbers that were either good or bad, depending on the bet. The blackjack tables beckoned the small-time bettors who’d waited all this time to find a seat at a table where the minimum bet was two dollars. Trying to find one at midnight was an exercise in futility.

Waitresses in scanty costumes hovered near those hardy souls still trying to find a way to make their dreams come true. Care for a drink, sir? Even at six in the morning.

The painted table tennis balls inside the Keno machine bounced around like huge agitated electrons, while sullen-looking bettors marked their betting sheets with a grease pencil. And outside the oxygen-enhanced casinos, as the sun signaled its intent to begin another arc across the sky, garish neon signs fractured the semi-darkness, their syncopated animation catching the eye of tired truck drivers on the interstate paralleling the strip beginning another lonely day behind the wheel, knowing that if they stopped the same thing would happen as happened last time.

Most couldn’t get past this place fast enough.

This was Las Vegas, the number one retirement spot in all the country, one of the top vacation destinations as well, where everything and anything was available 24 hours a day, where people sold their wedding rings for another crack at a soulless machine, where more people married than anywhere else, and where some out-of-control gamblers initiated the first cracks in long-term marriages, soon to become giant schisms, like cleaves in the earth’s surface found in the wake of a monster earthquake.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

Jack Kalman not in Las Vegas to have fun, but at the moment, fun was front and center in his unconscious mind. He was relaxing in a very large hot tub in one of Caesar’s Palace’s sumptuous luxury suites, a glass of champagne in one hand and Ursula’s glorious left breast in the other. He was aware his mind was befuddled, perhaps from the champagne, though he doubted it was the wine. Champagne rarely had that effect on him. He couldn’t recall how he managed to be here with Ursula; the last thing he remembered was being in the fifth floor room he shared with George, talking about frustration something else they shared. This befuddlement perplexed Jack, for he had an excellent mind and an outstanding memory.

The oddest thing was that he didn’t really care.

We should get out of this thing, Ursula said, pushing against him, nibbling on his ear with perfect white teeth, her voice thick with Swedish accent, her plump, succulent, red lips gently brushing his skin. The heat will sap your strength. I want you strong, Jack.

He was strong, all right. He giggled, quit worrying about his memory lapse, sipped more champagne, and let the troubling questions slip away unresolved. He concentrated his attention on this delicious moment, one of very few in his experience. The hell with it. He was now Jack, the bon vivant.

Urlula was, in a word, incredible. He’d been thinking about her ever since the first moment he’d laid eyes on this statuesque creature positioned in the middle of a magnificent chorus line, the tallest showgirl in all of Las Vegas, gliding across the stage like mercury, her magnificent, gravity-defying real breasts jiggling and rolling, her perspiration-covered alabaster skin glowing like neon in the bright showroom lights.

He fell madly in lust with her in a heartbeat.

And now he was with her, here in this sumptuous suite. Not just with her, but with her. Jesus! He wasn’t about to complain. The hell with it.

And she was right. It was time to get out of this tub, time to slip between the purple satin sheets, to slip and slide and moan and groan with Ursula, one of God’s gifts to the battered male psyche.

He stood up, the water dripping off his scarred and battered 52-year-old body, noted the approving smile on Ursula’s lips as she appraised his respectable erection, then reached for a towel.

The phone rang. The hell with it. This wasn’t his room. No need to answer the phone. Ursula was ready. He was ready. He continued to dry himself as he followed her to the huge circular bed, watching her taut buttocks ripple provocatively, two soft mounds perched atop magnificent legs that gleamed like pink marble. He felt totally uninhibited, as free as a bird, something else new to him.

Ursula arranged herself on the satin sheets as if preparing for a photo shoot for Playboy; on her back, her long hair splayed over thick fluffy pillows, her body shimmering in the reflected glow of a dozen redolent candles, her legs slightly apart, just enough to expose her carefully trimmed charms, teasing him, her long lashes at smoldering half mast. God, she was something! She crooked her index finger, beckoning Jack to join her. Now!

The phone kept ringing. Jack ignored it. He slipped into her silken, loving arms, buried his head between her milk-white breasts, finding the smell of her more intoxicating than the champagne. He could feel her nails digging into his shoulders, sense the urgency in her breath, feel her hot hands closing on his.

The phone stopped ringing. Thank God. But when Jack lifted his head and looked at Ursula he was shocked by her sudden mood change. Her eyes seemed harsh. She was no longer in a loving mood. She was no longer caressing him. Instead, she started shaking him. Hard.

Wake up, she said.

Wake up?

Jesus. Her voice sounded just like George’s.

Come on, Jack. Wake up!

Jack opened his eyes. He was lying on his back. Ursula, just an apparition, was quickly fading. Jack looked up at a big black man standing beside the bed, holding a telephone receiver in one giant hand. The man wore a suit and tie and looked impatient.

For a minute there, I thought you were dead, George Parker said. You awake now?

Jack shook his head. The last wispy vestiges of unattainable Ursula shattered into nothingness. A dream, Jack groaned, burying his head in his hands. Jesus! It was nothing but a dream!

George gave him a look. You don’t normally have dreams?

Of course I have dreams. But this…this was a…it was so clear! I really thought…what time is it?

Six-oh-two.

Six-oh-two? Jack glared at George. Do you have a death wish or something? Where my gun? I’m gonna blow you away, George. You’re a cruel, heartless bastard.

You’re the one with the death wish, George said, laughing, his hand still cupped over the telephone. He looked at Jack’s midsection beneath the sheets. Must have been a real dandy dream. Anyone I know?

Ursula.

Oh, my. Then I am sorry. Pretty good effort for an old fart like you.

Jack looked down at his rapidly vanishing erection and groaned. Your timing stinks. Another five minutes…

George held out the phone with both hands. Looks more like five seconds. And don’t blame me. Blame Braddock. I’d let you sleep, but the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. They must have told him downstairs you were in your room. You better talk to him, lover boy.

What the hell does he want?

What do you think?

Jack reluctantly took the phone. Kalman.

Well, well, a curt, sarcastic voice said. It’s six in the morning and you’re still sleeping like a baby. You’re in Las Vegas to work, not play.

I was working! All damn night. I didn’t get to bed until four.

I’m sure.

I was working, dammit.

Sure you were. You may think you’re hot stuff, Kalman, but I know better. You’ve been very, very lucky, that’s all. One of these days your luck will run out, and everyone will know you’re nothing but a fake. If it wasn’t for the support you get from this office, you’d be down in the goddam file room pushing paper, not out in the field running the task force. Spare me the bullshit. I have an update for you.

Braddock always had updates. Updates were his life. The only thing he never updated was his I.Q. That kept descending into the depths.

Go ahead, Jack said, picking up pencil and paper.

I’ve filled Mr. Parker in, so I won’t waste time repeating myself. Bottom line is that we’ve picked up some intelligence. Ahmed has been sick with the flu. That’s why he’s late. The word now is he’ll arrive in Las Vegas within hours. You still have the airport staked out?

Yes.

Good. I want him, Kalman. Keep the locals the hell out of it, and make sure you have Ahmed on our plane and on his way back here before anyone’s the wiser.

Jack ran a hand over his thinning hair. Braddock was the last thing he needed first thing in the morning. The man was one of the last of the old breed, those carried over from Hoover’s day. Braddock never stuck his neck out, played politics with the best of them, kissed the right asses, and was as stupid as a stone. He played right into the hands of those to whom the FBI was just another bureaucracy, not a law enforcement agency trying to function in the white heat pressure brought by revisionists bent on destroying what little reputation the bureau had left.

Terrorists, both foreign and domestic, religious fanatics and the simply crazy, had ripped asunder America’s cocky attitude that the country was somehow outside the reach of terrorists. After the World Trade Center explosion, some of the cockiness disappeared, but it wasn’t long before that disaster was all but forgotten. And then there was Oklahoma City. The revisionists had already convinced most of America that the government set fire to that ramshackle complex in Waco. Now, they were hard at work convincing Americans that the FBI had blown up the Federal Building in Oklahoma to scare the shit out of everyone and get a bigger budget for the unified counter-terrorist unit. Screw the evidence. The feds were the real enemy. Now the World Trade Center gone.

Braddock, as stupid a man as ever lived, fed those evil fires every time he opened his mouth. And he was Jack’s boss.

We’re on it, Jack said. He placed the receiver back in its cradle.

George pulled the lid from a Styrofoam coffee cup and handed Jack the cup, shaking his head and making a clucking sound with his tongue. Have some coffee. You’ll feel better.

George, being black, was one of the younger ones. It almost took a Supreme Court order to allow blacks into the FBI. And for the first few years, they were treated like dog shit. Some still were, just like most of the women. George never let the antagonism bother him, or if he did, he never let it show. He was focused from the day he hit Quantico. They tried every which way to break him, but failed.

Now, he was one of Jack’s brightest and best, and the only man Jack could be himself with. They’d been partners and friends for seven years, knew each other’s secrets, and kept their mouths shut about them.

As second in command of the unified counter-terrorism task force, Jack Kalman was in charge of over 300 dedicated men and women drawn from almost all of the federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies. The new reality required a rare commingling of talents, drawing strength from the FBI, the CIA, the DEA, the intelligence agencies of the Army and Navy, even the department of Immigration and Naturalization. FBI Deputy Assistant Director William Braddock headed the unit, the man who held the press conferences, who made all the speeches, who took all the credit and none of the blame. But he flew a desk. Jack was the man the team looked to for leadership.

By rights, Jack should have been flying a desk at this point in his career, but he hated being cooped up. Lawyering had cured him of the desire to inhabit an office. And he knew that leaving the field would have a deleterious influence on the task force. Without Jack’s running interference between the team and Brad-dock, morale would sink like a turd in a punchbowl.

Jack drank more coffee, then shuffled off to the shower stall. As he continued to awaken, George brought him up to date. Relaying notes he’d taken while Jack was dreaming of Ursula, he said, Braddock says the plane will be coming in from Mexico City. Ahmed has a phony diplomatic passport that gets him through Customs and Immigration.

Do they know what name he’s using? Jack yelled through the curtain.

No.

Wonderful. Then how do they know he has papers?

Braddock didn’t say.

Is Customs and Immigration on alert this time?

No. Braddock is still afraid someone will grab the wrong guy and cause an international incident. He’s leaving it up to us.

Jack pulled the shower curtain back and stuck out his head. You’re kidding.

I wish I was.

Do they have the plane’s ID?

Yes. It’s a Lear. Left Mexico City thirty minutes ago. Filed a flight plan direct to Vegas.

Are they sure Ahmed’s on it?

No.

Probably a decoy, Jack said. The man is not that stupid. He’s an asshole, but not stupid.

That was no lie. Abdal Rashid Ahmed was the part-time leader of a group of wild-eyed PLO outcasts, a man sworn to avenge the so-called betrayal of his people by the handsome and debonair Yassir Arafat. At the moment, the U.S. Government didn’t want anything bad to happen to Mr. Arafat, since the prospects for peace in the Middle East were becoming more tenuous with every passing day.

The rumors that Ahmed was coming to America caused a great swelling of breasts in certain Washington intelligence circles. It was a rare no-lose situation, a chance to impress everyone on both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian accord with how much the U.S. loved them. The powers that be decided that Ahmed would be picked up for questioning regarding his part in a terrorist bombing of an Israeli tourist bus a year ago. The evidence was shaky, but the FBI’s actions would show Mr. Arafat that the U.S. was indeed looking out for his ass. There was also a rumor that Ahmed was bringing some C4 into the country, the explosives to be used by some other splinter groups eager to attack Israeli consulates scattered about the country.

They could kill two birds with one stone, to use a cliche.

Ahmed was a walking talking cliche, the spoiled-rotten son of an Iranian businessman who managed to prosper in Iran’s religiously regimented society. The father was an arms dealer, and a good one. He cut through sanctions, blockades, and whatever else they put in front of him. He delivered the goods. The CIA was sure he was about to deliver the Big One soon, a nuclear device purchased from Russia. A flurry of summit meetings had failed to get Russia’s guarantee that the deal would never go down.

The son, dedicated mostly to shooting off his mouth and having a good time, was trying to spend his father’s money as fast as the old man could make it. At the same time, he was throwing some money at people who liked to blow up things as a way of appeasing his father. The CIA knew the little bastard was up to his ears in any number of things.

A tip had him coming to Las Vegas. Unlike most dedicated terrorists, Ahmed bore a hatred for the West that was rooted in something other than religion. He’d been to Las Vegas many times, always slipping away before anyone knew about it. This time was supposed to be different.

Jack stepped out of the shower. I don’t think he’ll come that way at all, he said, pulling a thick towel from the rack.

George shook his head and smiled.

What’s so funny? Jack asked.

You. Every time I see that hair of yours, it cracks me up. You are the hairiest man I’ve ever seen. And they call us gorillas. Jesus!

Turns the women on, Jack said. Appeals to their base instincts.

Which base? Third base? The KKK should get a look at you.

They’d just say I had black blood in me.

Jack toweled off quickly and stood in front of the sink, stirring a cup of shaving cream with a wet brush, then lathering his face. The thick dark hair that covered all of him except for his face, feet, calves and palms was unusual. When he was a teenager, it had really bothered him, so much so that he took to shaving in strange places. That quickly became a chore. At the same time, his appreciation for what females endured increased tenfold. Now, he simply didn’t give a shit. About females, yes. His body hair, no. There were too many other things to worry about.

He was in excellent shape for a man of 52, despite the scars; six feet of muscle and bone, thanks to his thrice-weekly exercise regimen. With his dark eyes and chiseled features, he was still attractive in an offbeat way. He was still intense, still iconoclastic or as iconoclastic as an FBI agent can be and remain employed and still one of the top counter-terrorists in the country. It was his skill as a terrorist stopper that kept Braddock from firing him. Jack made Braddock look good, and they both knew it.

Since George and Jack started working together, they’d handled 80-some very serious threats, and about 500 less scary hazards, almost all of them brought to a successful conclusion thanks mainly to hard work, experience, and good instincts. George thought Jack was the best who’d ever lived.

Naturally, Jack agreed.

Their little corner of the FBI universe didn’t receive much public attention, and for good reason. In an average year, the U.S. was the target for over 300 terrorist attacks. It was the task force’s responsibility to stop them. Most times, the task force succeeded, a record that was kept carefully under wraps, for it wouldn’t do to let the public know that the bombing of New York’s World Trade Center was just one of those attempts one that succeeded. Or that there’d been two other planned attacks on federal buildings, very similar to the Oklahoma City attack, that had been stopped before they could occur. Keeping the details from the media was unconstitutional, but so what? Extraordinary times required extraordinary measures. The country had to keep functioning. Panic would screw everything.

There was another attempted attack that, had it succeeded, would have really done the trick. Someone had placed magnetic mines below the water line on a supersized LPG tanker in Boston Harbor six months ago. The mines were discovered accidentally by Navy frogmen during a training exercise. They were defused eight minutesd before an explosion as strong as Hiroshima would have leveled half of Boston.

That one was pure luck.

The terrorists who planned that attack were never caught. And still the tankers come. Their hulls were now inspected by FBI frogmen as soon as the tankers entered U.S. waters, but there were no inspections of the ships’ interiors. The reasons were purely political.

Politics. It was the task force’s worst enemy, be it from inside or outside the Bureau.

Aside from Braddock, Jack was truly happy in his work. He’d joined the FBI when J. Edgar Hoover was still wandering around his darkened digs wearing ladies’ underwear. Being an FBI agent was something Jack had always wanted.

The only son of alcoholic parents, Jack had lived with caring aunts and uncles most of his life. By some miracle, he’d managed to get through high school with high marks, and earned a scholarship to the University of Michigan. Going off the Ann Arbor at the age of eighteen was the first time he’d been more than twenty miles from Fergus Falls, Minnesota.

The first year, he drank. The second year, he got serious about college. When he finally graduated summa cum laude with a degree in criminology, he moved on to law school. Always a shy kid, he was a zero with women. He was a virgin until his junior year at Michigan, when some sorority pledge seduced him as a rite of passage. She laughed when it was over. Jack cried.

And then he met Ann, who was as shy as he, an unattractive, insecure woman possessed of a terrible temper. For whatever reason, she invaded Jack like a virus, and the lonely man from Minnesota thought they were made for each other. He didn’t think enough of himself to consider raising his sights.He became a lawyer and hated it. The paperwork strangled him. So, after a horrific battle with Ann, he joined the FBI and went through the whole deal at Quantico.

When he graduated from the FBI Academy in 1970, the war in Vietnam was becoming a real millstone around Richard Nixon’s neck. Jack’s first few years as an agent were spent infiltrating student antiwar groups because he had a baby face. He hated that even more than being a lawyer. He felt dirty.

Then, along came Watergate, the end of the war, and the rising concerns over the never-ending problems in the Middle East. Jack was assigned to the newly-created unified counter-terrorist task force, a very small force at the time.

He’d finally found his niche.

It meant he was away from home for weeks at a time, and he loved that, too, until Ann started having children. Jack loved his kids almost more than his work. But…

Ann couldn’t stand his being away. She’d gotten married to have a man around the house, someone on whom she could vent her bottomless pit of anger. She gave Jack an ultimatum. Either get a job where he was home every evening, or get a divorce. Jack, no longer a kid, no longer unsure of what he wanted, said he was staying put. And if she divorced him, he¹d see the kids on a regular basis, no matter what a judge said.

She didn’t divorce him right then, but she might as well have. They continued to share the same house, but stopped living as man and wife.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

If Ahmed is really coming here at all, Jack said, "he’ll arrive by car, unobtrusively, going up the service elevator to one of the penthouses. One of his goons will have made all the arrangements ahead of time. That’s the way he’s always done it in the past. Ahmed will play his games for a day or two, depending on how he’s doing, screw a few hookers, then leave town the same way he arrived.

The plane is probably landing in San Diego, or Orange, or Van Nuys. Not coming directly here at all. Without cooperation, we’re screwed. We can’t cover every hotel in Vegas. This policy of total secrecy is stupid.

George nodded. I agree with you, Jack. You know that. But you keep twisting Braddock’s tail, and we’re both gonna suffer.

Not if we nail Anmed,¹ Jack told him. The bottom line is what counts. And I’ve been thinking about that.

And?

I don’t think Ahmed is going to stay in this hotel.

He’s always preferred Caesar’s in the past, George said. Why would he change now?

Because he might know we’re looking for him. He still wants to play, but he’s not about to make it easy for us. He gets his high by making fools of us. He’s done it before. Come to think of it, I wouldn¹t be surprised if he’s already been here and gone.

George threw his hands in the air. Where do we start looking?

Jack finished brushing his teeth before answering. ‘¹We need help. Screw the secrecy. We’ll leave the airport covered to keep Braddock happy, but we’ve got to pop the lid on this. Contact the heads of security at the top 15 hotels. Tell them about Ahmed. Tell them the guy has slipped a cog and may blow up their hotel if he loses enough money. That should get their attention."

George’s eyebrows headed skyward. Are you serious?

Damn right. We’ll stay here and cover this place.

Jack, if you do that, you’re disobeying direct orders. Braddock will have your ass for sure.

I can’t help that, Jack said. Grabbing Ahmed is more important. The arrogant bastard thinks he can come here with impunity? Bullshit! He laughs at us. He makes speeches all over the world and spits in our eye. We have to take him down, George.

George sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone book, and started making the calls while Jack got dressed.

CHAPTER 2

Agent Kalman?

Speaking.

This is Dan Sandervol over at the Crown. I understand you’re looking for a Middle-Eastern gentleman.

Jack smiled at George. It had taken less than half an hour to make a hit. Correct, Jack said into the telephone.

We’ve got one matching your description. He checked in two days ago. He’s still here.

Jack felt the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Is he winning or losing?

Winning. Big. He’s into us for over a half-million at the moment.

Jack let out a sigh. What’s he calling himself?

He’s using the name Mohammed Al Gatar. But I’m not sure he’s the man you’re…

We’ll be right over, Jack said. Your office.

Now you just hold on a minute, Sandervol said. Before this gets out of hand, I want you to know that we’ll handle whatever it is needs handling. I don’t have to tell you about jurisdiction. If you have a warrant, we’ll serve it together. We don’t want our other guests disturbed. We don’t want—

I’m not going to argue with you on the telephone, Jack told him. I’ll meet you at your office in five minutes.

Jack slammed the receiver down angrily. But he was smiling. Showtime! he said to George. Contact the troops. I want the Crown surrounded. Pay special attention to the rear and side entrances, and don’t be obvious.

George pulled a small transceiver from his pocket.

I’ll take a cab over there, Jack added. You stay with the troops. Once I get Sandervol straight, I’ll call you in.

Got it.

Oh, and one other thing. The Crown has a rooftop helicopter pad. If there’s a chopper on it, have the chopper removed, and place ours in position. We’ll be making a very fast exit.

George nodded. I’ll do it.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

Dan Sandervol looked every inch a cop, with his Joe Friday haircut, stern expression, and no nonsense disposition.

I’ve never cared much for the FBI, he said by way of a greeting, the index finger of his right hand pointed like a gun at Jack’s chest. I watched you guys screw up for 20 years when I was a cop in Chicago. I have no intention of watching you blow my job here.

They were off to a great start. Jack threw him a smile and stuck out his hand anyway. It’s always great to meet a fan. Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Sandervol.

Sandervol scowled and ignored Jack’s hand. I mean it. My boss likes you people even less. If you want to roust one of our guests, it’ll have to be done our way. For starters, that means showing me your warrant.

Jack pulled the warrant from his jacket and threw it on Sandervol’s pristine desk. He followed that with a printed sheet featuring Ahmed’s smiling face. Is that the guy?

Sandervol nodded, some of his bravado gone. His beard is shorter, but that’s him.

As Sandervol read the warrant, Jack smiled at the phalanx of hard-eyed security men lining the wall of this unusually large office. Compared to Jack’s Washington office, this was an aircraft hanger. How’s it goin’ guys? Lots of action these days?

They ignored him. Cheerful lot.

In another room, visible though plate glass, a score of additional security people stared intently at television monitors, watching all the action on the casino floor via TV cameras stationed in the ceiling. In the old days, the watching was done through mirrored glass panels by people scrambling along low-hanging wooden catwalks, using binoculars to spot-check tables. Now, with modern electronics, the job was much more comfortable. With the touch of a button, a comfortably-seated operator could zoom in and read the dial of a watch worn by a player. Hand-held computers tracked bets and warned of betting patterns, card counters, and anything else that might shave the house’s odds. Those players found employing methods that consistently worked were escorted out of the casino and told not to come back. The idea that Las Vegas casino operators loved winners was a myth.

All right, Sandervol said. The warrant appears to be in order.

Well, that’s a first, Jack said.

But we’ll handle the actual arrest.

And how will you do that? Jack asked softly.

Sandervol sneered at him. It’s not as if we’re new at this, Mr. Kalman. We handle more tough situations in an average day than you’ll handle in a lifetime.

How many of those involve international terrorists?

Sandervol was undaunted. We’ll have our people go up there and talk to the man. There’ll be no confrontation. We’ll explain the problem and ask for his cooperation, and we’ll get it. We’ll escort him downstairs and turn him over to you at the rear entrance.

Just like that?

Just like that.

And then?

Sandervol shrugged. Then, he’s your problem.

Jack sighed. I don’t think you understand the situation. The man is not simply a wanted criminal. He’s also a little crazy. He’s not about to walk out of here quietly.

Sandervol shook his head. "Oh, yeah. That bomb crap. Look, we’ve been observing this guy ever