Buster Malloy cursed the traffic. It was backed up as far as he could see. He hadn’t moved more than half a mile in the past ten minutes.
As he topped a rise on U.S. 93, he saw red and blue flashers in the distance, blocking the snail parade of taillights. It was single-lane traffic; there was nothing he could do but stop and go with the rest of the trapped motorists.
Finally, at the state trooper’s signal, he pulled the big vehicle to the left and around the scene of the accident. From his raised driving position, Malloy enjoyed a bird’s-eye view of the carnage. He observed one bloodcovered motorist, obviously dead, trapped inside a crushed subcompact. Another victim was being loaded into the back of an ambulance.
“Stupid arseholes,” Malloy snarled venomously as he pressed down angrily on the accelerator pedal. “Your lousy drivin’ cost me a whole fuckin’ half hour. Dyin’s too good for you.”
Although the $50 million had been paid to Thanatos, Lieutenant Frank Marshall and the LVMPD were taking no chances. Las Vegas was an armed camp. Inside and out, downtown and Strip hotels were awash with policemen, some in uniform, some in plainclothes. Orders from Marshall had been specific: until further notice, no trucks were to be allowed anywhere near the Strip or downtown casino core without proof of a scheduled delivery or pickup. No trucks would be permitted to stop, except for traffic lights, within a block of any hotel. Every truck or van entering the grounds of a hotel, even with proper documentation, was to be thoroughly searched.
Marshall was determined to maintain the precautions at least until Buster Malloy was captured—or killed.
One of the uniformed LVMPD police officers posted at the Riviera’s receiving gates looked at his watch while his partner stifled a yawn. Behind them a flotilla of large trucks, mostly semitrailers, was backed up to loading bays, disgorging cargoes in a never-ending race to stay ahead of the huge hotel’s insatiable appetite for everything from toilet paper to frozen shrimp.
Both cops were intimately familiar with the contents of every vehicle, having personally scoured each of them from bumper to bumper. They had searched inside and underneath the cargo compartments, they had examined the cabs, they had even tossed the sleeping quarters of the big interstate rigs.
“I thought all this freakin’ overtime would stop once they caught that perp with the computers,” one of the metro cops complained. “Especially after the stupid hump offed himself.”
“I also heard the hotels paid the ransom.”
“Guess they ain’t takin’ chances,” replied his partner with a shrug. “Anyways, only two more hours of this crap and we’re outta here.”
The first cop peered casually down Paradise Road and his face fell. “Oh shit,” he groaned.
“What is it?”
“Hold your nose, man. It’s another load of fish.”
“I’m exhausted, clean, and smitten by the love bug,” Steve Forrester reported languidly from the couch. “Not necessarily in that order.”
Lucy Baker radiated an inner glow as she bustled around the compact kitchenette. She felt warm and safe with this man; she knew her instincts had been right. “Coffee?” she asked.
“Sure. Mind if I smoke?”
Lucy wrinkled her nose prettily. “Do you have to? Now that the extortion is over, can’t you go back to quitting—like before?”
“Just one, I promise. For old time’s sake. Then I really will quit.”
She arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “So kill yourself—see if I care.”
Forrester stretched and lifted himself off the couch. He walked over to where his jacket was hanging in the vestibule, stopping en route to plant a kiss on Lucy’s still-damp hair. Just as he reached into the side pocket for his pack of Vantage 100s, a soft ringing from the inside pocket startled him.
“Is that your cell phone?” Lucy asked.
“Sure sounds like it.”
“Well, at least their timing is a little more convenient this time.” She laughed, remembering their previous interrupted tryst in the apartment.
He flipped the phone open. “Steve Forrester.”
An unfamiliar voice said, “This is Thanatos.”
With less than five minutes to go before final boarding of his Alitalia flight to Rome, Dan Shiller paced back and forth in front of the bank of pay phones at LAX’s Gate 23.
So far, it had all worked out perfectly. He had used his two accomplices for as long as necessary, and now he was rid of them. He had everything he needed to start a new life—a confirmed seat to Rome, then a ticket to the Tunisian island of Jerba. Because of the United Nations air embargo against Libya, that was the closest he could get to Tripoli. The 250-mile drive to the Libyan capital was inconvenient, but after that he was home free. All the money—minus the exorbitant banking fees those Panamanian crooks had charged him—would be waiting for him in the Libyan Arab Foreign Bank.
He could have had it sent to the Cayman Islands or Switzerland or any other Western tax haven, but Shiller was a cautious man. He knew that U.S. law enforcement had a long arm, with agents throughout the free world—agents, Dan supposed, who would not be above bending international law to seize his money and put him behind bars. Or worse.
So he had ruled out Europe and the Western Hemisphere, which left what—Asia? Africa? Well, why not? thought Dan. If he could find a country that was unfriendly to America, that could use a few bucks, that wouldn’t run brown-nosing to the U.S. embassy the minute they found out who he was … if he could find a country like that—say, in Africa—he’d feel a hell of a lot more secure. Once the money was safely there, he could relax a little and figure out where to send it. Maybe he could split it up between three or four of these anti-American countries. That might be safer.
For the money.
And for him.
A totally amoral man, both by tradition and by choice, Shiller had long ago taught himself to care only for numero uno. Don’t pity your victims, he
had learned. Never worry about the consequences of your actions. He could easily shrug off the deaths of six innocent people and attribute them to the luck of the draw. He had gambled and won; they had lost. The world was full of losers; what did it matter how they died?
Yet for some reason, the idea of another Oklahoma City—type catastrophe bothered him. He could handle the snuffing of a mere half a dozen strangers, but gradually the monstrous concept of destroying thousands of lives had aroused some long-forgotten shred of decency, sounded some deeply buried chord in the grifter’s vestigial conscience.
He really should do something. After all, it would cost him nothing. He had their money; once he’d left the country, they wouldn’t be able to touch him.
Dan unfolded a scrap of paper with a phone number scrawled across it—a number Jurgen Voss had tracked down, a number that Shiller had used only once before and had never intended to use again. He dialed it and deposited the amount of change that the pay phone’s readout demanded. Maybe there’d be no answer; maybe the line would be busy. In which case he could always tell himself that at least he’d tried.
One ring. Two rings. Then, “Steve Forrester.”
“This is Thanatos,” Shiller said, not bothering to disguise his voice.
There was a palpable intake of breath at the other end of the line. Finally Forrester responded, “Did you … receive the money?”
“Yes. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then why?”
“To warn you. Buster Malloy is on his way to blast one of your hotels. He’s driving a twelve-thousand-pound bomb into town right now.”
“Why, for Chrissake? You say you got the money.”
“Malloy doesn’t know that.”
Steve thought for a moment. “You screwed him out of his share, right?”
“Maybe. Look, I’ve gotta go.”
“Who are you?”
“Never mind that.”
“Which hotel is Malloy going to bomb?”
“I don’t know. That’s up to him. My guess, one of the majors on the Strip.”
The operator’s voice interrupted. “Please deposit two dollars for another three minutes.”
“I don’t have any more ch—”
“Quick,” Forrester cut in, “what kind of truck is he driving?”
“Truck?” Shiller laughed. “He’s not—”
“Sorry, sir. Time’s up.”
Click. Silence.
His conscience relieved, Dan Shiller ran to the gate and just made his flight to Rome.
To save time, Buster Malloy decided to take the long way around.
He would stay with 93 until it intersected with I-15, then swing onto 15 South and exit at Flamingo Road. That way, he’d avoid crosstown traffic and wind up less than two blocks from his target.
Friday-night traffic on the Strip was bound to be snarled, and Malloy was running out of patience.
Steve Forrester flipped the now-silent phone closed.
“That was them, wasn’t it?” said Lucy Baker. “They’re going to bomb a hotel, aren’t they? Oh God, Steve, which one?”
“They didn’t tell me. Look, Lucy, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. I’m coming with you.”
“No—”
“Don’t argue. You’re not doing this alone. Besides, you may need help.”
He sighed. “All right. You can phone the cops while I drive. But hurry.”
“Give me thirty seconds.”
For over three decades the undisputed title of classiest joint on the Strip had belonged to a pseudo-Roman pile of marble and brass, set discreetly back from the Strip behind acres of manicured lawns and topiary gardens. Pedestrian visitors were swept to its magnificent cantilevered porte-cochère on an elevated, covered people mover, while those arriving by car drove in along a gated, cypress-lined avenue, past forty-foot fountains and oversize statuary.
Inside, the splendor continued unabated. Acres of lush broadloom cushioned visitors’ feet, while ornate chandeliers and gleaming brass appointments dazzled their eyes.
No expense was spared, no detail overlooked, to maintain an image of immaculately tended luxury. Ashtrays in public areas were always clean, the casino’s logo carefully impressed into the white sand that filled them. An army of cleaners picked up trash almost before it touched the floor. Fingerprints on brass and glass were quickly polished away. In the finest tradition of the Roman baths, the restrooms sparkled.
For sheer opulence, none of the upstart megaresorts along the Strip could come close to matching the giant hotel-casino’s aura of impeccable grand luxe. The biggest stars played there, the biggest gamblers stayed there.
In every respect, the Roman Palladium magnificently re-created the grandeur of that august bygone era.
Buster Malloy, however, was patently unimpressed as he waited for the green arrow that would permit him to turn left and proceed through the gates leading up to the Palladium’s main entrance.
“Hello, Lieutenant Marshall? This is Lucy Baker. Steve Forrester’s friend. Yes … that’s right. Listen, I’m in the car with Steve right now. He just got a call from one of those extortionists … . No, we don’t know his name. Apparently, this Buster Malloy is going to bomb a casino tonight … . What? Yes, I know the money was paid, but Malloy doesn’t. Steve thinks the guy who called us ripped Malloy off … . No, he didn’t know which casino. Probably a big one on the Strip, he thought. He said something about a twelve-thousand-pound bomb. Steve asked the man what kind of truck we should look for, and he laughed, kind of like it wasn’t a truck. Then we got cut off … .”
Forrester pushed the big Mercedes-Benz SL 500 convertible hard left around a corner, squealing the tires and forcing Lucy to clutch the dashboard. Now heading north on Las Vegas Boulevard, he accelerated hard, unleashing the full power of the mighty 302-horsepower V-8.
In the open convertible, Lucy gave up trying to hold her hair in place. She listened for a moment and then spoke again into the cell phone. “I guess we’re about five minutes away from the south end of the Strip … . What’s that? … Okay, Lieutenant, I’ll tell him. Good-bye.”
Lucy folded up the phone. “He says he’ll alert everybody. And he said for you to slow down.”
Steve grinned. “I’ll slow down when they catch Malloy, and not before.
In the meantime, anybody who doesn’t like my driving is cordially invited to step out at the next traffic light.”
She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. “Never mind. I’m staying to help you catch this guy. After that, we’ll talk about your driving—and certain other habits I’ve noticed.”
“What the hell have I gotten myself into with this woman?” he asked the wind rhetorically.
“You haven’t even scratched the surface yet, mister.” She leaned over and nibbled his earlobe. “I can be very tough.”
“I believe you. Could I get a little tongue with that?”
“Keep your mind on your driving.”
Forrester nudged the powerful car up to seventy, then eighty miles an hour. The throaty roar of the engine and the rushing wind precluded easy conversation. Ahead, glowing neon and flaring taillights told them they were almost upon the Strip. Thickening traffic forced them to slow as the monstrous bulk of the Luxor pyramid loomed up on their left.
“Okay, Richard Petty,” said Lucy, brushing the dark hair from her eyes. “We’re here. Now what? What are we supposed to look for?”
Steve relaxed in the leather bucket seat, allowing his wrist to rest loosely on the steering wheel. “I think I know. Look, the caller said Malloy was quote, driving a twelve-thousand-pound bomb, unquote, right?”
“Right.”
“And he also implied that Malloy was not driving a truck.”
“Right.”
“Well, if Malloy is not driving a truck, what other vehicle would be capable of hauling a load that size?”
“I don’t know. A Winnebago? Some kind of RV?”
“Possible. But unlikely. If this bomb is made up of plastic drums like the one in Oklahoma City, and if each drum holds, say, two hundred pounds, we’re talking sixty drums. There wouldn’t be enough room for them in any RV I’ve ever seen. And their suspensions wouldn’t take the weight.”
“What about a van?”
“Same problem: not enough room. Besides, the cops are checking every size of truck from vans to semis. No, it has to be something else. Something big enough to carry all those drums, but ordinary enough not to attract suspicion. Something that would look perfectly natural parked in front of a hotel. And for my money, that can mean only one kind of vehicle.”
“What’s that?”
“A bus! A big one. You know—one of those intercity buses, a Greyhound. It’s so obvious, I’m annoyed I didn’t think of it before. If they packed the passenger compartment and the underneath luggage area with drums, there’d be more than enough room.”
“God, Steve, I think you’re right. So, we look for a bus?”
“Yep. And we call Frank Marshall.”
She picked up the phone and shook her head. “Sorry, Chief, no can do.”
“Huh?”
“Battery’s dead.”
“Damn.”
“So, Man of Steel, I guess it’s up to us to save mankind.” Lucy unfastened her seat belt. “Wow, I’ve always wanted to say that.” She stood upright in the convertible, holding on to the windshield frame for support. The extra height allowed her to look over the tops of other cars and into the courtyards of the big hotel-casinos.
“No buses anywhere that I can see,” she reported after a few moments.
By the time they reached the palmy Moorish portico of the Aladdin, they were barely crawling. In front of Bally’s chameleon candy-cane columns, they ground to a full stop, a hundred yards of three-lane traffic between them and what had to be the world’s slowest traffic light at Flamingo Road.