Hunt the Dragon (5 page)

Crocker was in the men's room, using the light from his phone to find the toilet, when Jeri called.

“Crocker, you there?”

“Yeah, Jeri. What's going on?”

“All the electrical power just went out throughout the city. My money says the guys upstairs will use this opportunity to bust out. Where are you?”

“Olives restaurant at the Bellagio, having dinner.”

“Oh…Hold on.” She came back thirty seconds later. “You think you can find your way back?”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Chop-chop. Meet me in the office.”

“See you in ten.”

N
an Dawkins
tossed and turned in the bedroom of their town house in Reston, Virginia, dreaming intermittently of riding in a car with James at the wheel. She had a vague sense that they were headed toward the beach, windows open, wind carrying the scent of orange blossoms swirling around their faces. She thought in that moment that they were as close as two people could possibly be. He turned to her with such openness and clarity that they seemed to be reading each other's thoughts. The intimacy frightened her, so she looked away.

The next moment she was awake, staring at the face of the clock and trying to comprehend what it meant. It read 5:32. The trees outside the window were still. The half-moon she had noticed earlier was no longer visible. A lone bird perched on a branch, asleep.

Seeing the empty place beside her on the king-sized bed, she remembered the situation, looked at the clock again, and reached for her cell phone. Still no message from James.

The feeling of dread she had experienced earlier that night returned, worming its way down her neck into her shoulders, arms, and chest, as though it had been waiting and gathering strength. She wanted to look in on their daughter, thinking the sight of her would be reassuring.

She turned on the light by her bed, pulled on the teal silk robe James had bought her for her birthday. Despite his awkwardness, he was always good at picking gifts.

She noticed her laptop recharging on the top of her dresser and stopped. Opening it, she logged in her password and waited for her e-mails to load. Among the various offers of discounts and services, she saw one from [email protected]—James's personal e-mail account. No subject.

Holding her breath, Nan opened it and read:

Her hands trembling, she read it again, and then a third time. The message struck her as oddly formal and didn't sound like James at all. For one thing, he almost never called her Nancy. It was always Nan, or in an intimate moment his pet name for her, Bird.

Second, there was no mention of Karen. Third, what did he mean by “when I'm finished”? Didn't that imply that he was working on something?

She read it again. There seemed to be a disconnect between the phrases “I need some time to myself” and “when I'm finished.” As a detail person, she noticed things like that. The sequence of logical thinking was important. Why would James need time to himself, when he always carved out plenty of that in his life and Nan was almost always willing to give it to him? She wasn't a nagging, needy wife.

The only possible explanation could be his job. He was a senior engineer at UTC Aerospace Systems, which worked almost exclusively on highly sensitive contracts for the U.S. government agency DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency), a branch of the Department of Defense.

That's the reason the two Homeland Security officers had visited her earlier. James rarely talked about his work, except in general terms. The idea that his research into guidance systems yielded products that were used to kill people sometimes kept him up at night. He had told her about nightmares he had centered on schools and children's hospitals hit by laser-guided missiles and bombs. Bleeding, screaming boys and girls being carried out, some missing limbs.

Thinking that maybe his sudden disappearance was somehow related to his job, Nan waited until after seven, again called James's best friend, Kevin, and invited him over for breakfast. A very eccentric and brilliant man, Kevin lived alone in a big house crammed with junk since his wife had left him five years ago. He and James shared the same adolescent sense of humor and obsession with mathematics and science.

To Nan's mind, Kevin was even more emotionally shut off and socially awkward than her husband. It's not that she didn't like him; he just didn't know how to behave like a normal human being. He seemed happy but dressed oddly, often ignored his personal hygiene, drove a disgusting '88 Mercedes, and almost always carried around a video camera, which he used to record people and conversations with no regard to how intrusive it was. Despite these things, Nan had learned to appreciate Kevin's sensitivity and intelligence, and his devotion to her husband.

So she showered, dressed, woke up Karen, took her to a neighbor's house, and returned home before nine, when Kevin arrived with a Sony MC Series Camcorder on his shoulder.

“Put it away, Kevin,” she said at the door as she shielded her face with her hand. “I don't want to be filmed.”

“Come on, Nan. You've got such a pretty smile.”

“If you don't put the camera down and turn it off, I'm going to ask you to leave.”

“Gee, Nan. Where's Jimmy?”

Kevin was the only one who called her husband that. Now he set the camcorder on the table with the red light still on and a mischievous look on his face.

“Turn it off!”

“Gosh, Nan,” Ryan said with a grin, “you know all my tricks. Where's Jimmy? Where's that rascal?”

She placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of him. Milk and sugar were already on the table. Turning back to the stove to pour the batter, she said over her shoulder, “James still hasn't returned from Switzerland. You know that already.”

“Yeah, but I thought…” His voice trailed off as pancakes sizzled.

“He's still not back. Nobody's seen him since the presentation Thursday night. This morning I received this e-mail.” She handed him a printout.

Kevin groaned and shook his head as he read. “Oh, no. No, that's not Jimmy. No…”

“I don't think so, either.”

When she slipped a plate of hot pancakes in front of him, Kevin stared at them without moving. He said, “I don't know what you want from me, Nan. Maybe I shouldn't be here if Jimmy isn't here,” and started to get to his feet.

“Don't be ridiculous! You're his best friend. I need your help. Sit down!”

Kevin sank back into his seat, deep in thought. “Yes, Nan, you're right.”

“Is there something going on at work that I should know about?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is that the real reason he went to Geneva? Work.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you people work on things you're not supposed to tell me about. I'm asking if maybe James is related to that.”

“No, Nan, I don't think so. Why do you ask?”

“Because two officers from Homeland Security came here last night and asked me some questions.”

“They did? Oh, no…” Looking agitated, Kevin stood and started to pace beside the table. “I'm starting to feel uncomfortable, Nan,” he said. “Very strange. Do they think Jimmy stole sensitive information?”

She stepped in front of him and blocked his path. “Stole what for whom, Kevin? What are you talking about?”

“I don't know. For, like, another country?”

She followed him and his camcorder to the front door. “Kevin, you know my husband as well as anyone. Would James ever do anything like that?”

“No, I don't think so. But you never know.”

In the dark Crocker sprinted down the steps to the promenade with Cyndi's smiling face in his head. Hundreds of curious people crowded the walkway to stare at the darkened strip. Tall, unlit casino hotels loomed like ghosts. Police sirens wailed in the distance.

The crowds hindered his progress, so he hopped the waist-high barrier and ran alongside the stalled oncoming traffic. Las Vegas Boulevard had become a parking lot and provided the only light. He juked around stalled taxis, limos, and tourist minivans and through the snarl in the Flamingo Road intersection, oblivious to the gently falling rain and exhaust fumes. A car horn blared to his left and a gray-haired man leaned out. “You trying to get killed, dumbass?”

He wanted to respond but didn't have time. Bigger fish to fry. Cyndi provided plenty of distraction already. He wanted to get this over soon and get back to her.

On reaching the corner, he texted, “Sorry. I have to take care of something. Will meet u later.”

He wanted to open up to her further. Maybe tell her about his family. Up the steps and past Serendipity 3 café a minute later his cell pinged. Holding it up to the reflected light, he read, “Wondered what happened. Be safe. Hope to see u soon.”

“Yes” he texted as he ran across the looping driveway blocked by fire trucks, their lights washing red and white across the façade. Stepping over the yellow police tape, he entered the lobby, now harshly lit with bright emergency lights. A fireman with a megaphone was telling restless, uneasy patrons to stand back and clear the rotunda.

“What the hell's going on?” someone asked.

A woman to his right commented, “Who ever heard of a power outage in Las Vegas?”

Entering the check-in area, he saw a way around the huge crowd clogging the central atrium with its marble fountain and statues of half-naked nymphs. For once, the casino was quiet. No jangling slots, no clinking of chips. Soon, he figured, an emergency generator would be started up somewhere and the machines would be active again.

He found Walker's office, which was lit by a battery-powered torch. Jeri stood in its penumbra, the harsh light transforming her face into a Halloween mask, speaking quickly into a cell phone. “I don't care how the fuck they get here. I want all agents in the area contacted and told to report. Now!”

She sighed, took a sip of something out of a paper cup, and announced to the half-dozen people standing in the room, “NPC says the transponders at Henry Allen station overloaded. They're trying to patch in other sources now.”

“Jeri—” Crocker started.

“Walker? Where's Walker?”

“Jer—”

He was cut off by a man standing in front of him. “What kind of time frame are they talking about?”

“I don't know. Has anyone seen Walker? Why are all you people standing around?”

Jeri spotted Crocker, crossed over to him, and grabbed his shoulder. “Crocker, oh god…”

“I got here as soon as I could.”

“Good. Good.” He could feel the anxiety coming off her body as she leaned into him and whispered, “Those slick fucks set their suite on fire and escaped.”

“The guys from before? The diplomats?”

“Yeah.” Remembering something, she called out, “Where the fuck is Walker? Somebody find him, now!”

Jeri took Crocker by the elbow, led him toward the door, and whispered, “Your colleague's on his way to Parking C,” she said urgently. “He's trying to stop those two assholes before they get away.”

“Mancini, good. I'll find him.”

He turned toward the door and simultaneously reached for his cell.

Jeri shouted at his back, “Nelson here will show you the way.”

She pushed a heavyset, balding man through the door toward him.

“Nelson, Crocker.”

“Follow me.”

Jeri shouted, “Wait!” She ran to him, pushed a walkie-talkie into his hand, and said, “Talk to me, Crocker. Channel C.”

“Lead the way.”

They pushed past crowds of gawkers clogging passageways to the back of the casino. Nelson knew a shortcut down a hallway, out an emergency exit, down a long concrete corridor, and up a flight of stairs.

“This way.”

He held a flashlight to illuminate the floor in front of them as they ran. Crocker found his cell phone and hit Manny's number on speed dial.

“Boss, where are you?” Mancini answered.

“Headed for the garage. You?”

“Reserved parking, level two.”

“Jeri told us C.”

“There is no C. It's level two.”

“Two. Copy.”

“How far away are you?”

“I think we're close. Hang on.”

He stopped and turned back. Nelson, who had been lagging with the flashlight, stood ten feet behind him clutching the back of his leg.

“What's the matter?” Crocker asked.

“I think I pulled a hamstring. You better continue without me. There's an elevator at the end to the right. The security code is 9114.”

Crocker nodded. “I'll radio Jeri and tell her to send someone.”

“Don't bother. I'll be okay.”

“I'm calling her now.”

He held down the button as he ran. “Jeri? It's Crocker.”

“This is a fucking disaster. What the hell is happening?”

“I'm about to find out. Nelson pulled a muscle. I left him in the security hallway to the right of the casino. He's near the ground-floor elevator.”

“I'll tell Walker to send someone if I can fucking find him.”

Emerging from the elevator Crocker realized he was unarmed and wearing his best shirt, pants, and new John Varvatos shoes. Not that it mattered. He heard the echoes of men shouting, the squeal of rubber against concrete, a car horn blaring.

“Manny, position?”

“Cars are exiting onto Frank Sinatra Drive, black Escalades, Arizona plates.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“What's your position?”

At the emergency stairway, he turned left toward the sound of shrieking tires. Saw a black Cadillac Escalade forty feet away whip around the corner and down the exit ramp. Mancini ran out from behind a pickup to its right and lunged toward the partially opened rear window of the SUV. Seeing him, the driver turned sharply right, smacking him with the right rear bumper and tossing him against the grille of a parked Mercedes. He bounced off and hit the pavement.

Crocker found him bleeding from the nose and disoriented. “Don't move,” he instructed.