the Second Horseman (2006) (8 page)

"Unfortunately, whether they're right or wrong, the Palestinians consider it their crappy piece of land, sir." Hamdi said. "The sad reality is that we're trapped. We can make every effort to be evenhanded in disputes between the Jews and Arabs, but we can't go so far as to make enemies of the Israelis. They're far more dangerous than the Arabs will ever be. In the past, they've proven their willingness to spy on and attack us if they feel it's in their best interest. They are, very simply, much mor
e e
ffective terrorists than the Arabs. If we ever began to support Arab causes to a degree that worried them -- if we ever tried to force their hand -- I can personally guarantee you that they would attack America in the most brutal way possible and leave a trail back to the Palestinians."

"You're full of strong opinions today, aren't you, Edwin."

Hamdi knew he should remain silent on this particular point, but he couldn't. "That's not an opinion, sir. It's a very dangerous fact."

Chapter
NINE

Brandon rolled down the window and adjusted the car's side-view mirror, burning his fingers on the sun-heated metal in the process. The white Chevy tailing them was unimaginative to the point of looking government issue. The major difference between it and the one he was riding in was that instead of being driven by the lovely yet undoubtedly deadly Catherine, it was piloted by a square-built man who looked like he'd spent his childhood pulling the wings off flies. The guy riding shotgun looked marginally less Gestapo, but that was probably just the reflection off the windshield talking.

"Could you move that back, please?"

"What?"

Catherine slammed the accelerator to the floor and changed lanes, squeezing into a gap in traffic about six inches longer than the car. He could see the surprise on th
e f
ace of the chase car's driver, despite the fact that this was about the tenth such pointless maneuver Catherine had performed. They seemed to be the equivalent of a nervous tic for her.

"The mirror," she said, ignoring the chorus of honks coming through the open window. "Move the mirror back. I can't see."

Once he'd readjusted it, she raised his window and cranked up the air
-
conditioning, trying to dry the sweat beginning to stain the back of her blouse. Though all evidence seemed to be to the contrary, she continued to exude more apprehension than threat. Not that she really needed to be all that intimidating -- the guys behind them were doing a good job handling that angle. They'd been waiting on the tarmac when the private jet that had delivered him and Catherine arrived. And that was yet another thing to worry about. He'd looked into private jets once -- stealing, not owning -- and knew that the one they'd arrived on was worth at least twenty million, confirming again that whoever was behind this thing wasn't your average criminal loser.

Catherine slammed on the brakes and they were briefly surrounded by a group of Japanese tourists crossing the street. Th
e c
hase car hadn't managed to fully catch up yet and was hanging three cars back, but the guy in the passenger seat had popped his door open slightly and was staring straight at Brandon. Making a run for it seemed like a good idea on so many levels, but suffered from a few logistical issues. First, he couldn't seem to figure out how to unlock his door, and second, he wasn't such a fast runner.

"So . . . ," Catherine started hesitantly. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Why not?"

"In Chicago. How did you get away with the money?"

He turned in his seat to look at her. "That's it? That's your personal question?"

"I'm just curious. From what I read, you'd have had to make it from one side of the city to the other in less than five minutes. It's not physically possible."

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about or where you're getting your information about me. I'm a law-abiding citizen falsely accused and erroneously convicted."

"Come on. What would it hurt to tell me? What if you just give me a hi--"

"Maybe you're just a cute cop and all this is a setup. Maybe you're just trying to close the files on a few unsolved cases."

"You think I'm a cop?" She was vaguely pleased.

"Not really, no."

The bright sun coming through the window created a halo around her hair, taking her face slightly out of focus. He concentrated on that for a moment, then down her torso and to the legs protruding from her cotton skirt. "Honestly, I'm not sure what you are."

She looked over at him and, as if by clairvoyance, stepped on the gas just before the light changed to green. One of the pedestrians had to break into a jog to avoid getting clipped.

"Did you just imply a question? Is that curiosity I'm hearing?"

She was, of course, referring to the fact that he changed the subject every time she began rolling around to what she wanted from him.

He shook his head. "I know everything I need to and almost everything I want to."

"Oh, really? What is it you think you know?"

"Well, you're a very classy and well
-
funded outfit, despite your taste in cars. You want something stolen and you can't figure out how to get your grubby little hands on it. So you give a guard some money to throw me out of prison and set it up so I can't really go back. Then you have me chased through the woods by a bunch of guys with guns to see if I still have what it takes to help you. Now you're feeling good about the fact that I'm between a rock and a hard place and you're going to spring what's probably an impossible job on me while you butter me up with images of a vineyard in South Africa." He took a breath. "Pretty close?"

She didn't react at all, instead concentrating on weaving through the traffic in a way that seemed more like meditation than impatience. Brandon pushed his seat back and turned toward the window, gazing at the graceful lines of the Stratosphere as they passed by. If there was one positive thing that had happened to him in the last forty
-
eight hours, it was ending up in Vegas. The city was, more than anywhere, his home. He knew every casino, every strip joint, every cheap diner. Hell, he'd worked in about half of them at one time or another -- covering the full spectrum from front
-
office suit to dishwasher.

"So if that's everything you need to know," Catherine said finally, "what is it you want to know?"

He rolled down the window again an
d s
ubtly felt around for the latch on his seat belt. His stop was coming up.

"Where they found you."

"Me? Why?"

"Because I've been around a lot of criminals over the years and they all have a certain ... I don't know. A certain je ne sais quoi. You don't have it. Which means either you don't belong here or you're the most amazing liar I've ever met."

"If I don't belong here, then where do I belong?"

"Advertising. You look like an advertising person to me."

"Do you know a lot of advertising people?"

"Not a single one, actually."

They rode in silence until Brandon saw an almost imperceptible shaking of her head in his peripheral vision.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said.

"Come on. What?"

"Nothing . .
. I
t's just that . . . Well, it's funny. I actually thought about going into advertising when I was in college."

"Why didn't you?"

"I wish I had."

The Treasure Island hotel and casino became visible ahead and Brandon leaned
a l
ittle farther toward the open window. The entire front of the building was dominated by a man-made lagoon with life-size floating pirate ships. They were props in what had been "The Battle of Buccaneer Bay," an over-the-top exhibition of sword-wielding pirates and dangerous-looking stunts that an old girlfriend of his used to perform in. A few years before he'd been sent away, she'd given him a tour and explained how it all worked.

He'd heard that show had been replaced with a more sexed-up version now, but the set looked pretty much the same. Or at least he hoped it was.

"I'm not feeling good about that," Catherine said suddenly, disrupting his concentration.

"Huh?"

"You said I was feeling good about you being between a rock and a hard place. I'm not. It's just that you don't understand how important this is. We --"

"Do you gamble?" he asked, trying to change the subject while he searched the rearview mirror for the chase car.

"Do I what?"

"Gamble. Do you gamble. We're in Vegas."

He finally spotted the vehicle tailing them. Catherine's opportunistic driving had left i
t f
our cars back in traffic too thick to move through. They were traveling at about ten miles an hour at this point, though it looked like the cars ahead were starting to slow. Treasure Island was only about twenty yards away.

"Slots sometimes," she said. "That's about it."

"Slots are for suckers, you know."

"You sa--"

Brandon pressed the button on his seat belt and pulled himself through the open window all in one semigraceful motion. He had his butt on the sill and was trying to slip the rest of the way out when Catherine's hand clamped around his ankle and threw off what he'd hoped would be a balletlike maneuver. Instead, he fell backward, ramming his head into the asphalt with his legs still inside the car. The driver of the truck coming up alongside them slammed on the brakes and narrowly missed running over his face.

"Brandon!" Catherine shouted. "Get back in the --"

He managed to get his free foot out of the window and used it to push against the door, holding his pants up with both hands. A moment later, she lost her grip and he was free.

Traffic around him had completely stopped, and a few people had gotten out of their cars to watch. A little more scrutiny than a guy in his position really needed, but his audience was unintentionally doing its part to slow the guy who was bearing down on him from a few cars back.

Brandon struggled to his feet and slid across the hood of the truck that had almost run him over, landing on a sidewalk full of staring tourists.

"Look out!" he shouted, shoving his way through them. The man chasing him was already halfway across the same hood Brandon had come over.

The crowd on the sidewalk thinned a bit as he ran, stumbling gracelessly every time he looked over his shoulder. The guy was only ten feet back now and closing fast. Brandon faced full forward and ran hard, skirting along the railing that bordered Treasure Island's huge lagoon for a few seconds and then throwing himself over it.

He was five feet into what was about a ten-foot fall when it occurred to him that the performers never came to this part of the lagoon. For all he knew, it was six inches deep.

He heard the splash when his feet hit, and tensed for an impact, but instead felt th
e w
ater slide over his body and cover his head. He opened his eyes and looked up at the railing, seeing the wavy form of the man who had been chasing him, along with countless other people pointing and shouting soundlessly.

He kicked his feet and started swimming underwater toward one of the large ships, surfacing only when the burning in his lungs became too much for him to stand. A glance back confirmed that the man pursuing him was moving along the railing toward the hotel, but not diving in after him.

Brandon went under again, making it to the back wall and skirting along it, starting to feel dizzy from lack of air. Despite his increasing disorientation, though, he found what he was looking for: an underwater passage that was used by the stunt people to get back into the hotel. He ducked through it and broke the surface, feeling his head clear as he gulped in air and looked around him at the locker-lined room stacked with dry towels.

Chapter
TEN

"Slow down and tell me exactly what happened," Scanlon said, closing the door to his office and giving it an extra shove to make sure it was fully latched.

"I lost him, that's what happened! I was stupid. I thought ... I let you convince me that I could han--"

Scanlon held his hands up, but she ignored him for one of the first times in her life. "I let him roll down the window and jump right out of the car. How could I have been such an idiot? I didn't think he'd run."

"Catherine . . ."

"You've never met him, Richard! You can read reports about him all day long, but when you're actually sitting there with him . . . Even with everything I knew about him, even knowing he was playing me ... I let my guard down."

"But you got along?"

"What?"

"You liked him. And he liked you, yes?"

"What the hell are you talking about? He isn't capable of liking anybody -- of anything resembling a normal relationship. He just uses people." The words came out a little angrier than she intended.

"I'm not sure that's entirely true, Catherine."

"With all due respect, Richard. Trust me. It's true."