Game On

95.

In fairness, the architecture is superb and the concept grandiose. Build me a hotel/casino/playground mirroring that of the great pyramids of Egypt, says the boss, and spare no expenses, except those of labor and materials. “I wonder what the time to return on investment was,” I think as we make our initial sweep of the location, knowing what fanatics Americans are of kitch, liquor, tawdry entertainment and the lure of instant financial gratification. Toss in some sun, a poolside cabana, easy access from several populous cities and Wayne Newton, and the odds are good that you’ll eventually hit jackpot or roll nine the hard way. Such are my thoughts while the tactical brilliance of this wide open public space for terrorist operations challenges my considerations of its counter. 

Drysdale is driving the outfitted 2000 Ford Explorer, dusty, dirty and proudly waving the scars of races past like a red badge of courage, as I nervously sit shotgun. We need every bit of stealth possible on this phase of the play for the simple reason that we will only get one chance at it. The same is true for Vi, less than thirty minutes behind us in a rented Kia. The distinct possibility that Mr Big and Cy have lured Vi into an ambush with the sole intent of keeping their sphere of executive management small, is the reality, yes, the gamble, we face. Anyone who has ever toyed with the idea of ‘putting it all on red’ knows this feeling, it is both a magnificent rush of adrenaline and a terrifying prescience of karma about to be unleashed. I chuckle at this thinking, ‘and karma can be a bitch.’ 

Even at this time of day the plaza is busy with people determined to force relaxation or pay their mortgage. They all share a common expression, that of fear. What if I can’t sleep? And what if we lose? at the top of their list of phobias. The differentiation between them and the cold, professional, icy visage of a motivated criminal is night and day. That is the good news, with the flip side being that they know this as well and, given the talent, will mask it with sometimes Oscar-worthy performances designed to do the one thing that will blow their cover: Act like clowns. Such is the world of spy vs spy. 

Drysdale and I go through the routine com check with Saunders and Bromden back at the landing strip. Davis and Calahan are patched-in back in Colorado and TOM is in the loop as well. Vi is going in with just the bug, no audio or video, due to our concerns that they might scan her first thing, and the bug, being a hybrid of novel cartilage polyvinyl alcohol and saline is ninety-nine percent scan proof. She is, in the parlance of the trade, going in naked. 

It is 0925. Drysdale and I are set up in the huge open lobby as Vi walks in, as planned and on-time, looking like a typical Vegas showgirl. She takes a position under a massive replication of King Tut and inspects her burner cell phone. 

What appears to be an assistant concierge walks directly to her from behind the check-in counter, itself longer than a football field, asks a question to which she shakes her head in agreement, and hands her a sealed envelope. He leaves and she breaks the wax seal to open the note. 

With the odds of surveillance high, we must assume that she is being watched. A pause, a beat, an obvious moment of thought and she moves to her left and around the royal gold and blue statue and towards the elevator hallway. She abruptly stops and goes to a highly polished marble counter, reaches into her purse for her cell, answers a call, gives a one-word reply, puts the phone back in her purse. And leaves. 

Leaving the note behind.