Craig Kreident #2 Fallout (10 page)

Not that the job was anything glamorous, but at least Nevsky had been dedicated to it. . . .

When Waterloo and the other On-Site Inspection Agency workers had finally reached their destination — a military base and weapons stockpile in the city of Sarny — he at last began to feel that he was ready to accomplish the task for which he had left his beautiful and spacious Southwest.

The OSIA team began a routine that continued for the next three weeks.
 
Breakfast at 0800, departure for the work site promptly at 0850, work itself at 0900 sharp.
 
The first day it poured down rain.
 
Waterloo stood with the others wearing identical parkas and OSIA baseball caps, watching the step-by-step procedures.
 
Russian escorts followed them suspiciously at every turn.
 

The SS-20 missiles slated for destruction were huge, fifty feet long and twelve feet high.
 
The Russians used only hand tools for the job — wrenches, hammers, hand saws.
 
Conscripts did all the work while officers supervised.

Waterloo watched one conscript having difficulty removing a hydraulic line because he was turning the wrench the wrong direction.
 
Forbidden to interfere with the work, Waterloo could say nothing, only watch, as the conscript tried one hand, then two hands, then a hammer to break the nut free.
 
When all else failed he cut the line off with a hacksaw, though never once did he attempt to turn the wrench the other direction.

Papers were signed by Russians and Americans, verifying completion of the treaty-mandated work, and then the team returned to watch the process all over again.

The OSIA inspectors lived in a rectangular compound surrounded by a twelve-foot-high concrete fence topped with electric wire.
 
The paper-thin walls readily passed every annoying noise from the outside, at all hours of the night.
 
Water dripped in pipes that ran through the wall next to his bed.
 
The wallpaper had begun to peel in large sections.

It took them a week to discover the hidden microphones, one in each bedroom, several in the day room, another in the hall.

Wonderful Russian hospitality
, Waterloo thought now.
 
Not quite like what we’re showing them. . . .

On the Circus Maximus stage, a blond woman went through a seductive dance with Copperfield, using cloth strips to tie his wrists to the headboard of a simulated bed, which was then surrounded by screens and raised up out of reach.
 
The blond picked up another loose bedsheet, swirled it around herself, draped it over her body — and suddenly Copperfield himself tossed the sheet away, having miraculously switched places with her.
 
When the bed came back down to stage level, the woman lay tied in the same position.
 
Copperfield released her, then launched into further performances.

The Russians sat astounded.

After the grand finale, Waterloo stood patiently with the Russians as they chattered among themselves.
 
He could tell from the sparkle in their eyes, the smiles on their faces how much they had enjoyed the show.
 
He continued to play nice, nodding, unable to understand a word they said.
 

It galled him to be so pandering.
 
The Russians, every last one of them, took undue advantage of the U.S. hospitality.
 
At least Ursov had the decency to be enraged at the death of his team leader — but these men seemed to be having the time of their lives . . . and from what he knew of the squalor in Russia, that could well be true.
 

He urged them through the casino away from the long galleria, because he knew he would never get out of there if they began to look into the stores.
 
For himself, he would rather be home, even if it meant an empty house without Genny . . . at least he could find peace in the surrounding quiet.

CHAPTER 10

Tuesday, October 21

6:45 P.M.

Excalibur Hotel and Casino

Las Vegas

With the evening, Las Vegas lit up like the Fourth of July.
 
Up and down the Strip, casinos and hotels pulsated with enough light to dazzle the sensors of a weather satellite: bright green illuminating the MGM Grand, Caesar’s, and Harrah’s; cool blue on the Imperial Palace and Bally’s; golden yellow on Treasure Island and the Mirage; crimson on the Rio and the Flamingo Hilton.

Craig took his rental car down Tropicana Avenue past the MGM Grand’s monumental crouching lion.
 
To his left, the enormous black pyramid of the Luxor blazed its white beacon into space.
 
When he found the Excalibur, he had to stop himself from laughing at the pearlescent turrets topped with scarlet and blue conical roofs.
 
It was what Craig had expected, but not quite so . . .
exactly
what he had expected.

Knowing Craig needed a place to stay, Goldfarb had enthusiastically recommended the Excalibur.
 
He and his family had vacationed there a year before, and the kids had adored the faux castle, the waving colorful pennants, and the clean fantasy adornments.
 

“Every hour on the hour an animatronic dragon rises out of the moat, and a knight fights it,” the other agent said, grinning as if the casino paid him to be a public relations specialist.
 
“Just make sure your room isn’t directly above it, or it’ll keep you awake all night.”

“I’ll remember that,” Craig said.
 

“If you want to see a show at night, they have a medieval spectacle, a jousting tournament, knights riding horses right in the arena,” Goldfarb continued.
 
“You sit in the stands and eat a Cornish game hen with your bare hands, just like in the Middle Ages.”

Craig had laughed.
 
“I’m not sure how many Cornish game hens were consumed in the Middle Ages.”

Now, as he drove under a plywood portcullis, attendants in colorful uniforms trotted up to help him.
 
A young man in pantaloons and a Henry VIII outfit offered to park the car.
 
Craig took his overnight bag and went to stand at the crenelated reception desk where women in medieval costume stood assisting customers.

Clutching his room key as he went in search of the elevators, Craig glanced at his watch — barely enough time to shower and change clothes before he meeting Paige Mitchell.
 
Despite his exhaustion, he was looking forward to seeing Paige again.
 
It would be a pleasant end to a wild day. . . .

After showering, Craig considered wearing the one set of casual clothes he had packed, jeans and a polo shirt . . . but he came to his senses and dressed nicely again.
 
Paige probably wouldn’t recognize him otherwise.

He fondly recalled working with her to solve the murder of a prominent scientist at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory.
 
There, he had uncovered a web of intrigues and complicated schemes, security breaches and classification infractions . . . but the real killer had not turned out to be at all what Craig expected.

Refreshed but still starving, he returned to the main casino level where he listened to the jangling electronic tones, coins clinking into winnings cups, Keno games, baccarat tables, roulette wheels.
 
The flashing lights and the noise reminded Craig of a giant videogame.
 
Couples with small children wandered through, looking at the castle decor, the suits of armor on display, the coats of arms high on the stone block walls.
 
Clouds of cigarette smoke wafted along in weather patterns.

He lingered around the reception desk, pacing near a small sunken bar called the Jester’s Court, glancing at his watch repeatedly.
 
Finally he saw heads turn as a young woman entered the casino alone.
 
He spotted the trim, blond form and smiled as he waved to catch Paige Mitchell’s attention.
 

“We meet again, Agent Kreident,” she said, looking at him with her bright blue eyes as she extended her hand.
 
He took it, squeezing warmly; she let the grip linger a second longer than was necessary.

“Unfortunately, yet again, it isn’t under the best of circumstances,” he said.
 
“Does someone always have to die before we get together?”

“We’ll see after this is over,” she said.
 
Her smile was wide on her delicate chin, her expression bright and wide-awake.
 
She wore a teal silk blouse and tight-fitting black jeans, significantly less formal than when he’d seen her at the Livermore Lab — but the Nevada Test Site was filled with cowboys instead of businessmen.
 
She carried a soft-sider briefcase under one arm, and she reached to unzip it, ready to get down to business immediately.
 

Craig held up one hand.
 
“Wait, I haven’t eaten all day, and if you’re going to talk about a case, I have to get some food first.”

Craig carried his cafeteria tray, its plates laden with mashed potatoes, chicken, sliced baron of beef, honey-glazed ham, baked fish, steamed vegetables, baked zucchini, rolls and butter, and a salad — he would make a second trip for the dessert bar at the King Arthur’s Buffet.
 

Craig made fast work of his plateful of food while Paige watched with wry amusement, eating more slowly herself.
 
“I’d think the FBI could provide an eating allowance, some kind of per diem so you don’t have to starve yourself.”

“It’s not the money,” Craig said wiping his mouth with a napkin, “it’s the time.”
 
He summarized the day’s events at the Hoover Dam and the continuing investigation into the Eagle’s Claw — an investigation which he had passed on to Jackson and Goldfarb because of the Nevsky murder case.

Taking the hint, Paige took out her soft-sider briefcase, moving salt and pepper shakers to make room for it.
 
“I know you don’t want to shift gears,” she said, “but if the Russians pull out of the disarmament work, all our reciprocal treaties will be put on hold.
 
The summit gets canceled, the president is embarrassed, and it’ll be years before we can build up the same momentum.
 
Friday is their last day — if we can just keep the Russians calm enough, we’ll squeak through this.”

“Friday is also the day the Eagle’s Claw has threatened their big disaster.
 
Not much time for either of us,” Craig said, then smiled wearily at her.
 
“But I won’t argue with you over which case has the greater importance.”

Paige wiped her mouth with a napkin.
 
“I think there could be a lot more to the ambassador’s death.
 
Everybody else thinks it was just an industrial accident.
 
The Russians are taking it pretty well, except for the new team leader, General Ursov, who’s outraged — but we don’t think they suspect foul play yet.
 
We have to put this to rest as soon as possible.”

“Three whole days.
 
Lucky me,” Craig said, then smiled to take the edge off his comment.
 
“I guess I am lucky in a way.
 
I’d been looking forward to working with you again.”
 
He reached over to take the papers she offered.

“I was hoping to see you again, too,” she answered, “but preferably under circumstances other than a murder investigation.
 
This is a real political landmine, Craig.
 
Because the DAF was a secure facility with very few people around, we have a limited pool of suspects to interview.
 
We’ll get started first thing in the morning — it’s too late tonight.
 
An hour drive out to the DAF, and with everyone gone you couldn’t see anything but the murder scene.”

“Sounds fine.”
 
Craig finished his plateful of food and stood up to get dessert.
 
“Now that I’ve got a full stomach, I can tackle any case.”

CHAPTER 11

Tuesday, October 21

9:55 P.M.

Excalibur Hotel and Casino

Las Vegas

Craig lingered in the swirl of people in the Excalibur lobby as Paige swayed gently out of the casino.
 
The jumbled sounds of slot machines and laughter faded in the background as he concentrated on watching the set of her shoulders, the flow of her hair.

He still remembered the Livermore murder investigation, swimming at the Lab pool and watching the water glisten off her black one-piece suit, sipping a pint of Red Nectar Ale at the Lyons brewery, watching the wind whip her hair as she drove him in her red MG convertible.

The new case had placed them once again on a professional basis, and daydreaming about a relationship with Paige didn’t seem professional.
 
Before, he’d always gone out with someone outside his realm of work, outside his circle of interests, someone with whom he had little in common —

Someone like his former girlfriend Trish.

Craig walked past the huge roulette wheel, the green-felt blackjack tables, people leaning over padded craps tables.
 
He had not played those games, barely even knew the rules — but he enjoyed watching.
 
A Federal agent had to be a good observer.
 
Gray-haired women with pearl necklaces and artificial-looking perms walked by, followed by older men holding plastic buckets of change.
 

Despite his exhausting day, he felt too wound up, too frazzled, to retire to his room.
 
Craig’s feet ached, but at least he was no longer hungry.
 
Trish would never have agreed to eat in King Arthur’s Buffet.
 
As a medical professional, she would have lectured him about cholesterol and saturated fat.
 
Trish liked trying to improve him, “keeping him fit for his stressful life.”