Very little had happened in the early hours of the morning. If something had happened here at Babylon, a warning alert would have shown up the moment he brought his computer out of its sleep mode. That had not happened. Those four hours of sleep from six to ten had been an uneventful time. So, what should he do? He finally decided to check on Miss Kitty Passion to see if any other showgirls were going to attend the luncheon tomorrow besides the ones she had personally called herself. The Dixson Kelly Alumnae Club. He chuckled at the thought. If Kelly only knew.
Philonias tapped the keys, then stared at what he was seeing.
No!
He blinked and then blinked again. “Damn it to hell! They changed the date!” The words exploded out of his mouth like gunshots. He forced himself to look at his watch. Eleven fifty. There was no way in hell he could make it to town, even if he sprouted wings. Traffic in Vegas was horrendous no matter the hour of the day. In order to be on time for anything, especially in town, you had to allow for an extra hour traveling. Plain and simple, he was not going to the meeting of the Dixson Kelly Alumnae Club at the Cat & Cradle. Not tomorrow, not today, not ever.
Fluent in five languages, Philonias cursed in all of them as he stomped his feet in frustration. He spent all of ten seconds wondering if there was some way he could still make it, even if he got there late. Lunches where women were concerned usually ran to ninety minutes, ditto for businessmen. He wasn't stupid. Even if by some miracle he managed to get to town, he would have to enter the café and have everyone in the room stare at him, which then meant they would remember the big man. Not an option. He cursed again, this time more loudly.
He was beaten, and he knew it.
Angry and frustrated, he marched to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. While he heated it in the microwave, he munched on an apple. His day was truly ruined.
All he could do was check his own phone texts, his e-mails, and when he was done with that, read some sappy novel that never should have been published in the first place. He had no idea what had happened to the publishing industry in the years since he came of age, but it seemed as if the bulk of what was published these days was either about vampires running around in fancy cars or heroines from the Regency period hooking up with some duke or earl who was either penniless or worth more than the queen of England.
Maybe one of these days, he'd write a book. A book that would send people scurrying for cover for their blatant stupidity. Someday.
Cup in hand, Philonias made his way back to his computer room. He took a gulp of coffee and yelped at his burned tongue. “Son of a bitch!” He plopped the cup down on the desk with such force, the hot coffee spilled and trickled down his pant leg. He cursed again.
He knew in every pore in his body that things were closing in on him. He could feel it, and he could smell his own fear. The urge to cry was so great, he squeezed his eyes shut to ward off the burning feeling. When he finally opened them, he took deep breaths to calm himself down. Clicking the keyboard was hypnotic for him. Always was, always would be. Other people needed Xanax. All he needed was a computer keyboard to bring his world into focus and calm down.
He tapped now to check his e-mails. He had hundreds, most of them meaningless. He would get to them eventually; he always did. What he didn't see were any e-mails from TRIPLEM or PIP. He'd sent out two to each of them, and neither had been answered. In the past, he'd always gotten an instant response from his two star pupils. Philonias could feel his heartbeat escalate. He hacked into their phones. Dormant. No calls out in over twenty-four hours on either phone. PIP had a few incoming calls and texts. He read them. Nothing to send up a red flag. PIP's calls concerned her organic seed business, she had a few personal texts about taking in a movie with a girlfriend, and the post office had called to say she had a package to pick up. Nothing there. He went on to TRIPLEM, only to see absolutely nothing.
Nothing was worse than something. Alarm bells started ringing in his head. And then Philonias started to shake.
Philonias looked around his lair. He'd lived here a long time. It was home. He loved it. The thought of possibly losing it brought tears to his eyes.
He needed to get out of here, even if it was just for ten minutes. He remembered the promise he'd made to himself earlier, that he'd go for a walk to the park to feed the pigeons.
And that was exactly what he was going to do. Right now, right this minute.
Chapter 10
J
ack opened the door to the Cat & Cradle at precisely ten minutes to eleven, with Harry and Maggie behind him. He sniffed appreciatively. The smell of cheese and garlic permeated the air in the cozy old restaurant, which was a Las Vegas fixture. At least that was what the brochure at the hotel attested to.
The Cat & Cradle was owned by a fourth-generation Italian couple: Stella and Tony Cor-dello. The place was nestled between two ricky-ticky casinos that were just as old as the Cat & Cradle itself. Over the years, the Cordellos, along with the owners of the two ricky-ticky casinos, had been offered millions for their little slices of real estate. Much to the chagrin of those making the offers, and renewing the offers at least once a year, the owners always turned them down. The response to the offers was always an impeccably polite “No thank you. We are quite happy with the way things are.” And despite attempts to get the city of Las Vegas to exercise its right of eminent domain and sell the property to those making the offers, the restaurant had such strong support in the city that no politician would go anywhere by taking it away from the Cordellos. Which protected the two casinos, as well.
The eatery was overseen by the elder Cordellos, but they did little more than
schmooze
with the customers. The day-to-day operation was handled by two sons, two daughters, and assorted grandchildren, who milled about, filling water glasses, handing out extra napkins, helping with the to-go bags, which every customer left with. As the elder Cordellos said, the youngsters were learning to handle the practical side of the operation, which would one day be their own.
When they first opened the place, the original owners, the first generation of Cordellos to own and operate a restaurant, had decided to serve only breakfast and lunch. Lunch would run to four o'clock, and then the place would be shut down and cleaned from one end to the other. The great-great-grandfather of the clan had said that money was more easily made by selling eggs, pancakes, and waffles than by serving a steak at night. His family had followed his tradition, and they all went home to their families at night, because that was where families belongedâat home. The kids, too, because they had to be up at four in the morning to start serving breakfast at six o'clock to the long line of customers waiting outside the doors.
The decor was simple, comfortable, and homey, so much so, in fact, that the diners had to be prodded to leave once the bill was paid, so the others in line could take their place. Black-and-white-checkered curtains hung on the windows and were washed and starched once a week. The windows were also washed once a week and sparkled in the spring sunlight. The tables were round, solid oak, old, and scarred, full of character, with red-and-white place mats, which matched the cushions on the comfortable captain's chairs that graced every table.
The main dining area had eighteen tables, and off to the side was a special room for extra-large parties, called the Reservation Room. Off to the left and down a short hallway was the ladies' room, and to the right and down an identical short hallway was the men's room.
Maggie took it all in at a glance, and she knew exactly where she wanted to be seated once she noticed that the long table in the Reservation Room, which could easily seat at least twenty people, was already set up. She immediately knew the table had been set up for the Dixson Kelly Alumnae Club.
She locked eyeballs with a young, rosy-cheeked woman with merry eyes and a fat, curly ponytail running down her back. The girl smiled and asked how many were in their party.
“Just three. We'd like to sit over there,” Maggie said, pointing to the table closest to the Reservation Room.
The young woman, whose name tag said she was Emily, smiled and led the way to the table. Maggie looked at her watch. Eleven fifteen. Forty-five minutes to settle in and wait for the club members to arrive. She looked around and saw that the main dining room was already filled to capacity, so that meant they wouldn't be booted out too quickly. She was allowing a full ninety minutes before the pert little hostess would show them the door.
“What's the plan?” Jack asked, looking around.
“I'll let you know when I figure it out. Truthfully, guys, I don't think there is going to be a plan. I think I'll just wing it. Don't look at me like that, Harry. I'm pretty darn good at flying by the seat of my pants. I've found over the years that an opportunity invariably presents itself if you're patient. You just have to be ready to seize the momentâyou know, carpe diemâwhen you see it. A suggestion here . . . When our waitress comes to take our orders, say you need more time because everything looks so good, and you can't decide. That will give us at least an extra ten minutes, not a minute more.”
A little boy around seven or so carried one glass of water at a time, using both hands so he wouldn't spill it, to their table. He grinned, showing his missing front teeth. He lisped when he spoke to welcome them to the Cat & Cradle.
“I think this is going to work,” Maggie said. “As you can see, they're really busy. They haven't taken our drink order yet. When they come to do that, they usually ask if you're ready to order. That's when you say no and pretend to study the menu to gain time. If my calculations are right, we should be placing our food order just about the time that the members of the so-called club start to arrive. I think this place is the kind of place where, if you are not on time, they give your table to those who are waiting in line. I can see a long line outside from here.”
“You look nervous, Maggie. You need to kick back here, or you're going to blow it,” Jack warned, not liking how tense she looked.
“I know. I know. I guess because my gut is telling me this is really important and has to do with what Bert is worried about. It's my gut, so that could or could not mean
something
.”
“I think so, too,” Harry said, surprising both Jack and Maggie that he had even been paying attention. Sometimes, Harry Wong was a mystery.
“Here comes the girl to take our drink order. Play it up, boys.”
All three ordered iced tea and begged for a few minutes. Maggie did her best to engage the young waitress in conversation by asking what the specials were and what the Cat & Cradle was best known for. The girl, who looked a bit frazzled, said everything on the menu was delicious and cooked from scratch, even the bread. She said she would be back in a few minutes. And that was the end of that.
The time was 11:51.
Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie noticed five tall, attractive, casually dressed women weaving their way through the tables to the Reservation Room and then to the head of the largest table in the room.
“Game on,” Jack whispered as he buried his nose in the oversize menu.
At five minutes past the hour, the threesome placed their orders. Maggie and Jack opted for the spaghetti and meatballs because they figured they would gain a few minutes until the pasta was cooked. Harry ordered a garden salad after the waitress promised the greens were from the owners' very own garden. He asked for the soy dressing on the side, then asked if they could double the amount of edamame beans in the salad. The waitress assured him that could be done.
Thanks to Maggie's wise choice of tables, she and Jack had a clear view of the women at the long table. Harry had only a partial view, but that didn't prevent him from offering up a comment.
“It's hard to believe all those women are showgirls. They look more like soccer moms or suburbanites. Look at how they're dressed.” With Harry, it was hard to tell if he was voicing approval or disapproval.
“Incognito to a point,” Maggie said as she eyeballed the women's attire. Some wore jeans with holes in the knees, sneakers, capris with flip-flops, slacks and tees. None of them appeared to be wearing makeup or jewelry, and yet they still managed to look beautiful and drew plenty of male attention from the diners, and even from a couple of the waitstaff. Two of the women wore baseball caps and had long ponytails hanging down their backs. All of the women carried whopping carry bags or backpacks.
“Obviously, this is their day off, and they don't want to wear all that theatrical makeup, which is so hard on your complexion, and dress to the nines. This is a girls' luncheon with
an agenda
. La natural. In other words, guys, they do not want to call attention to themselves and really do not care how they look.”
The threesome continued to watch as the women greeted one another, laughed and joked as they poked each other on the arm. For all intents and purposes, a fun luncheon with a large group of friends. Carafes of white wine were placed on the table. The little boy who had delivered the water to their table had been replaced with a gangly young boy who carried a tray of water glasses and set them on the table for the women to help themselves.
“They're just socializing right now. They won't get to the main event until they've finished the first glass of wine. So, relax, guys. I know how this works,” Maggie said, her voice ringing with authority. Since this was really Maggie's show, there was really nothing for Jack or Harry to do but go with the flow.
“Hold that thought, guys. A text is coming through from Sparrow,” Jack said.
While Jack's fingers worked the keys, Maggie looked around to see if she could spot Snowden and the two operatives he'd brought with him. She finally spotted one of the females in the little hallway by the women's restroom. She smiled to herself, because she knew that the button on the operative's blouse was a mini-camera and that she had positioned herself to film the women she could see at the long table. Maggie's gaze traveled to the opposite hallway in time to see the male operative doing the exact same thing. That was good. They had photographed everyone on both sides of the table. At least now they would know who they were dealing with. They no longer had just a burner phone with a name. They had real flesh and blood to complete the ID.
What happened next made Maggie's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. She kicked Jack under the table and rolled her eyes. Snowden's two operatives converged at the same moment from the restrooms and collided at the end of the long table. Both laughed and apologized profusely to the women, who just stared at them, mesmerized by their clipped British accents. Maggie wondered if anyone but she and Jack saw the clever sleight of hand with which a listening device was planted under the table just as Snowden himself showed up, presumably to enter the restroom. He deftly sidestepped the two operatives, and a second device was planted behind one of the women's chairs.
“Slick,” Harry said as he speared a chunk of lettuce onto his fork.
“Yeah. That's why he gets paid the big bucks,” Maggie said.
Maggie's cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Charles. She looked down at the text, then over at Jack. “Do we stay or go?” she hissed.
* * *
“Time to go,” the two Snowden operatives on babysitting duty said at the same time.
Mary Alice looked at them with defiance, wondering what, if anything, would happen if she dug in her heels and refused to leave now that the Chinese guy and the killer dog were gone. Then, her eyes narrowed into slits, she looked over at Sparrow, who was watching her carefully.
“I know what you're thinking,” he said. “I know what you
think
you can do once we get you outside. You
think
you'll be able to alert someone by screaming or somehow calling attention to yourself. Right now, right this very second, I want you to rid yourself of such foolish, negative thoughts, because it isn't going to happen. Do you want to know why that isn't going to happen, Miss PIP?”
“Why? Because you're going to kill me! You goddamn well kidnapped me, and that is against the law. In broad daylight,” PIP shrilled. “I know who you are, too! So there! I've seen your pictures in the paper. You head up the FBI. Wait till I get out of here! You just wait! I'm going to sell my story to every damn tabloid there is. Picture this, you bastard! Director of FBI kidnaps woman and takes her across state lines to hack into a gambling casino! Can you picture that! Huh? Well, can you, huh?” she screeched.
“No. Because that is not going to happen. I want you to picture
this
. It's a felony to lie to an FBI agent. We can hold you for seventy-two hours without benefit of counsel. People other than myself, those more . . . shall we say . . . attuned to dealing with people like you, might take it into their heads to secure or extract whatever they think might be in your head. Waterboarding is not off the table. Sodium Pentothal is another possibility. Now, if you ever want to send out another packet of your organic seeds to your customers, straighten up and fly right.” Sparrow threw his hands in the air and said to the two operatives, “Do it. She's not going to cooperate.”
“Do what? What are you . . . listen . . . okay, okay,” Mary Alice screeched.
“What did I just tell you about your decibel level? As my mother always used to tell me, âIndoor voice. Indoor voice.' Or do you have some sort of hearing problem? No, you're lying. I can see it in your eyes,” Sparrow said. He turned to Snowden's two operatives. “Just do it so we can leave,” he said to the two operatives.
Before she could move, blink, or draw a deep breath, PIP felt something go around her neck and clamp shut. She tried to grab for it, but someone yanked at her arm and held it steady. Snowden's operative then clamped a bracelet onto her wrist that was attached by a fancy, gem-studded chain to an identical bracelet, which she clipped onto her own wrist.
“What you're now wearing, Miss PIP, is something that is more or less like a dog collar that pet owners use to train their dogs. This collar, while pretty and sparkly, will choke you if you so much as make a whimper. All that pretty lady has to do is move that jewel-studded tether, and you're toast. Nod if you understand what I just said. Remember what I said would happen to you if you so much as whimper.”