Black Scorpion (17 page)

Michael reclined in a chair hoping he might be able to steal some sleep. But the day's events—first the hearing before the Gaming Control Board, then the inexplicable blackout, and finally the guest's death—all continued to gnaw at him and conspired to keep Michael from holding his eyes closed for more than a moment.

Dawn wasn't that far off when he heard Naomi in the midst of a phone conversation in an adjoining room, her Samsung Galaxy still clutched in hand when she returned to the great room.

“That was the FBI,” she told him. “Our old friend Del Slocumb wants to have a chat with you tomorrow.”

“You mean today,” Michael said, climbing back to his feet.

“I think he'd prefer now.”

“Of course. He's been after me for years. You think sharks are the only things that can smell blood in the water?”

 

THIRTY-NINE

B
UNĂ
Z
IUA,
R
OMANIA

A bar, Scarlett figured, was the place most likely to have a pay phone and the place where her presence would draw the least attention. Entering also reminded her how thirsty she was, and she dragged herself across the plank floor beneath the spill of lights from ancient iron fixtures suspended from the ceiling. Her swollen feet throbbed inside work boots she'd been afraid to remove for fear she'd be unable to squeeze them back on.

The bar served soda and Scarlett had guzzled three down before she checked her pockets to find just enough cash with which to pay. The bartender was a tall man with leathery skin that looked stitched to his face, except for a jagged pale patch where part of his upper lip looked to have been torn off and then sewn back on with a knitting needle. His hands were callused, his hair an unwashed oily mesh of curls and tangles everywhere but an unlikely bald crown.

“Thank you,” Scarlett managed, after he poured her a fresh glass, gulping the soda down before the foamy head had settled all the way.

“Is s
h
omething wrong?” The bartender's mangled upper lip left him with a peculiar lisp that accounted for his mispronunciation. She realized when he tried for a smile, it didn't move at all. “You s
h
eem ups
h
et.”

“No, I'm fine.”

The man regarded Scarlett's torn, soiled clothes and shrugged. “Are you s
h
ure?” he asked, his dull gray eyes looking as if the color, and the life, had been bleached out of them.

Scarlett heard the door open and watched a pair of dark-suited men enter. She looked up and followed their slow scrutiny of the bar in the mirror glass directly before her. They were the only ones so dressed and she could see their eyes scanning about casually, as if pretending not to be searching for someone. A man in a police uniform followed them inside, but Scarlett couldn't tell if he was with the men in suits or not.

“Do you have a pay phone?” she asked the bartender.

“Over there,” he said, pointing to an alcove opposite the bar's single rest room.

She made her way toward the alcove and risked a glance back to see if the dark-suited men or the man in the police uniform had followed her. So far, nothing. They were nowhere in sight from this angle and she had the alcove all to herself. For now.

Scarlett reached for the phone in a trembling hand and pressed out the long series of numbers to place a collect call. She fought to still her finger, thoughts of what the man in the black veil intended to do with the young women and children of Vadja cascading through her mind, when the phone was answered.

“International operator.”

“Yes,” Scarlett said. “Collect from Scarlett Swan.… Scar-lett Swan,” she added slower.

She heard ringing again, the tone different. She pressed the pay phone's receiver tight against her ear.

Answer, answer!
she willed, squeezing the receiver tighter,
please answer!

The phone, though, continued to ring. Scarlett gave up counting how many times, when suddenly a click sounded. And then she heard the familiar voice, the most welcome sound she could ever remember.

“Yes,” said Michael Tiranno, “I'll accept the charges.”

 

FORTY

B
UN
Ă
Z
IUA,
R
OMANIA

“Michael, thank God!” Scarlett managed.

“Hey, baby,” Michael said, “do you miss me?”

“Please, you need to listen. I don't know how much time I've got,” she said, thinking of the men in suits and the police officer.

“What's wrong?” Michael followed, his tone changing instantly.

“Something terrible has happened. My team, they're all—”

Before Scarlett could continue, she felt a grasp like iron fasten on her shoulder, easing her around.

“Are you s
h
ure you're okay?” the bartender asked her, his gray eyes seeming almost translucent.

She wanted to pull away, but his grasp was too strong. “Scarlett, who else is there?” she heard Michael ask. “I heard another voice.”

“Would you like me to get you s
h
ome help?” the man was saying. “S
h
ome medical attention perhaps
h
.”

“No. I told you I'm fine. Please,” Scarlett said, cursing herself for letting the man sneak up on her this way.

“Scarlett, whose voice is that? Where are you?” Michael's voice was louder now, more assertive. “Are you still in Romania? Tell me exactly.”

“Yes, the village of Bun
ă
Ziua. That's where I'm calling from. I found
something
, Michael, something incredible. I think it's what we've been looking for. I can't believe it myself. If I'm right—”

“You mus
h
t let me help you,” the bartender interrupted.

“Please, not now.”

“It would be my pleas
h
ure,” he continued.

Scarlett felt his grasp tighten, saw something change in his eyes.

“Michael,” she managed.

 

FORTY-ONE

L
AKE
L
AS
V
EGAS,
N
EVADA

Michael felt himself stiffen, the hairs prickling the back of his neck. “What's happening, Scarlett? Tell me exactly where you are.”

“
It would be my pleas
h
ure
,”
Michael heard the other voice say faintly.

“Scarlett, who's with you? Who is that man?”

“Michael—”

A thump sounded, silencing her words.

“Scarlett, what's happening? Talk to me!”

A thud, followed by more silence.

“Scarlett?”

And Michael heard the distinctive click of the phone being hung up an instant before the dial tone returned.

*   *   *

“The archaeologist's call was indeed placed from a bar in the Romanian town of Bun
ă
Ziua, population twelve thousand,” Alexander told Michael an hour later, as he jogged one of the wall-mounted fifty-inch monitors to a map of Romania, then narrowed in on a mountainous corner of Transylvania.

“That's close to the location of Scarlett's dig.” Michael had found the number for the bar from which she'd called and dialed it a dozen times, but the phone rang unanswered on each occasion. “I can tell from the mountains,” he added, ready to try dialing again.

Alexander clicked on the Image icon and Google Maps brought up a shot of the actual establishment and the town square around it. “But the local authorities found no trace of her there and insist there are no witnesses willing to say she was ever on the premises.”

Something terrible's happened.…

Michael's next call was to Romania's Ministry of Culture, the government entity that had signed off on the permits for the dig in Transylvania and arranged for the necessary variances, and facilitated the site logistics—all in return for a sizable cash stipend. Initially, Michael failed to get anyone on the phone, finally managing to reach an underling who professed to have no knowledge of any tragedy befalling Scarlett's team in the field. Nonetheless, the man promised to contact the proper authorities to investigate further and get back to him once he heard something.

Michael wasn't holding his breath in that regard. He knew corruption in the Romanian government ran rampant and, if some terrible tragedy had indeed befallen the archaeological team under his sponsorship, it stood to reason that at least some elements of the government were involved. Perhaps the stipend his company paid hadn't been large enough. Perhaps this was a not so gentle exercise in extortion to get more money out of him.

But Michael doubted that. Gravely.

“Something terrible has happened. My team, they're all…”

They were all
what
? The dig was at this site in Romania thanks to his financial support, Scarlett continuing the quest on which he had set her. He had to find her, had to save her. Fast. She was, she was …

Images flooded his mind of the times they'd shared, interludes in cities like London and Florence and a few times at dig sites themselves where she endeavored to teach him things in which he pretended to be interested. Smiling was easy when picturing spending the night with her in a tent or a primitive lodge room. She was so different than all the other women he'd been with, often so enamored with themselves as to not fully appreciate the world around them. Scarlett was different; the world was
everything
to her, its intellectual origins explaining the very existence of civilization. Questions Michael found himself pondering so often now validated and enhanced by this woman who never stopped looking for the answers.

“I can't believe it myself. If I'm right…”

Scarlett Swan's final words to him about whatever it was she'd uncovered, cut off in midstream.

“I have to find her,” Michael heard himself saying, watching Alexander's expression tighten. “What is it, Alexander?”

“The dig's location.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing,” he said, his eyes no longer meeting Michael's.

Michael moved back to the glass wall overlooking the rear of his property, Naomi and Alexander following his reflection in the glass, as Nero uttered a low, guttural growl, sensing something awry. Finally he turned slowly, looking toward Alexander.

“Good. Then call McCarran Airport. Tell them to have the Boeing fueled and ready.”

Naomi came toward him before Alexander could respond, shaking her head. “We're in the midst of a crisis here, Michael. A public relations nightmare that will have the sharks who walk on land snapping at our asses. There's blood in the water and we're looking at a feeding frenzy if we don't get a handle on all this fast.”

“And you can handle things just fine on your own.”

“Handle things? Listen to yourself, Michael. You're not thinking straight.”

“Yes, Naomi, I am.”

“By later today, the authorities will be lined up ten deep to talk to you. That's not something I can just
handle
. The Daring Sea suites are going to be closed for God knows how long, and we're trying to find lodging for all the high-roller guests evicted from their rooms who haven't fled Vegas already. What happened is all over the news, nationally, and our reservation operators can't keep up with all the cancellations—at last check, wait times on the phone are stretching to nearly an hour. We're sixty percent empty, which means we're going to be hemorrhaging three million dollars a day. And beyond that we've got a guest who wasn't who he claimed to be being lifted in pieces from the water.”

“And I thought we had
real
problems,” Michael said, trying for a wry smile he failed to muster.

Naomi ignored his attempt at humor. “You mean, like the fact that our bonds are likely to trade further down when the markets open, by ten percent at the very least? Aldridge Sterling makes Max Price look like a schoolboy, Michael. And if he really is involved and keeps pressing, we're looking at a massive short sale that could substantially dilute Tyrant Global's value and our ability to borrow.”

“There are very few people in the world I trust with my life. Two of them are standing with me in this room right now. Scarlett Swan is another, for different reasons entirely.” Michael stopped without elaborating further. “I have a phone, Naomi. I can deal with all this from where Alexander and I are headed.”

“And where's that?”

Michael looked toward Alexander. “Transylvania.”

 

FORTY-TWO

L
AS
V
EGAS,
N
EVADA

Naomi Burns was hardly surprised when FBI agent Del Slocumb showed up right on time at the Seven Sins's first-floor corporate offices later that morning. She was waiting for an update from Michael and Alexander when informed he was in the reception area. Naomi briefly flirted with the idea of making this man, who'd turned his various pursuits of Michael Tiranno into an Ahab-like quest, wait for a time, but then thought better of it.

“Ms. Burns,” he greeted, rising stiffly from his chair, wincing from knee pain in what she had learned stemmed from an old football injury. “I told your boss to expect me this morning, but I understand he's not available.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“Well, according to officials at McCarran, he left last night on Tyrant Global's seven-thirty-seven. Not like Mr. Tiranno to run from a crisis, is it?”

“I wasn't aware even federal agents were able to obtain such information without cause.”

“National security was the cause.”

“And how does that concern Mr. Tiranno?”

“Many view him as a threat.”