Finally emerging into an eight-by-eight-foot space large enough to stand in, Dennis shook hands with Alex Bobrik, a wiry, bespectacled engineer about fifty years old. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Alex.”
“Welcome to the underworld,” said Alex, smiling.
Dennis glanced around the small room carved from the ground. An ice chest, toolboxes, laptops in hard cases, and shiny aluminum crates were stacked neatly in the space. Dennis noticed cabling was wound onto small wooden spools, a telephone handset attached to a thin line, and a bucket with the lid sealed that functioned as a toilet.
“So this is all of the equipment you will need?”
“Yes. We have already taken everything inside several times and practiced positioning it for the actual event. Then we brought it back here. So we are ready and now just standing by. Would you like to see the room?”
“Just to look inside, not to go in. So I can assure the boss we are complete.”
Three walls of the room they stood in were dirt; the fourth wall was poured cement, meaning they had tunneled right up to the exterior wall of some underground structure.
“We used a concrete saw to cut out this doorway,” said Alex. He pointed to a small panel, about three by three, with two handles attached to it. Alex bent down and easily pulled the panel out of the cement wall. Suddenly, a flood of cool air scented with ozone filled Dennis’s nostrils. The hum of machinery murmured in the superstill air.
“The panel is made of wood but painted to look like cement to fool any workers on the other side. It’s not a perfect ruse, but since the room is dim and seldom inspected, we should have no problems,” said Alex as he stood up.
Dennis got down on his hands and knees and peered through the small opening into the room beyond.
“Beautiful,” he said.
Less than seven miles away on West Tropicana, CID Agents Flood and Bates walked out of the office of Siegel Suites. No Russian-sounding names were on the guest register, and the manager and front-desk clerks were fairly certain that no one with a Russian or European accent had checked in recently. The names connected to the dozens of third-floor units in multiple buildings got extra scrutiny. And no one had recognized the eight-by-tens of Staci Bennings that the agents showed them. So the CID boys had no idea they stood about fifty yards from her location.
“What now?” asked Flood.
Las Vegas police detectives were already helping to check the hundreds of possible third-floor units in the city that might be the location indicated by Staci Bennings in her telephone message.
“We keep looking until we find the bitch,” said Bates, irritated. Neither of the men wanted to be looking for the woman, but CID brass wanted the army to have Staci as a way to get to her brother.
Staci Bennings slumped on the sofa pretending to watch TV. She was scared, very scared, because from the corner of her eye she watched one of her Russian captors, Gregory, playing a video game on his cell phone as he sat at the kitchen table. She faintly heard the sounds from the game; he was playing video golf.
Staci’s elation from having sent the text and voice messages had quickly faded. Help had not come. And the seconds ticking by were like dimmers ratcheting down her hope for rescue. Perhaps someone was looking for her, but she felt like the needle in the proverbial haystack.
And now, here sat Gregory playing with his phone. What would happen when he noticed the keypad tones were shut off? He had yet to make a call or send a text, but surely he would, and soon.
And then, almost as if he had been listening to her thoughts, Gregory turned off the game and placed a call. Staci steeled herself, waiting to see the reaction, the suspicious look sent in her direction. She waited for him to stand and charge across the room and lunge at her.
But nothing happened. He began chatting amiably in Russian, probably to a woman. He hadn’t noticed a thing.
Then Staci sensed something. She felt a presence and turned slightly toward the bedroom.
Lily Bain stood in the doorway, staring at her with a wicked smile, as she sensuously rubbed gun oil onto the frame of her pistol.
CHAPTER 27
Time was the enemy now. As soon as Buzz, Angel, and Jen had gone, Kit took Yulana to an electronics store and she picked out various tools and parts. They both bought new outfits—the fastest shopping trip in history—at a Ross Dress for Less clothing store, and Kit bought one hundred pounds of lead pipe, two identical three-feet-long steel toolboxes, and a hand dolly at a building supply store. Next stop was a private mailbox facility on Albuquerque’s Central Avenue, where Kit picked up a large Pelican case that had been dropped there by his friend from the Activity within the last hour. The case contained a slew of gadgets and just-generated fake IDs and other esoteric items that might be needed for the operation tonight.
From there it was a short drive to the Chili’s restaurant on Central near Eubank. Old habits die hard, and the happy-hour crowd in the packed bar area was full of mostly male black-projects scientists from Sandia getting their drink on and ogling the waitresses as they watched TV sports and talked shop, often while table-hopping.
The setting was much the same four years ago when Kit had pickpocketed security badges from the tipsy scientists. And as Kit had learned as a Red Team leader probing security arrangements at sensitive facilities, there was always an organizational impetus not to change, even after management had been shown the errors of their ways. He was counting on that dynamic to work in his favor tonight.
“All eyes will be on you,” said Kit to Yulana as they stood just outside the front doors. He held a brown briefcase that had been in the Pelican case. The briefcase had a button recessed in the handle. “I’ll be pretty much ignored.”
“I’m not sure how good I will be.”
“You’ll be fine. Just remember what I told you. But please unbutton one more button of your blouse.”
She did so, revealing even more cleavage.
“You look gorgeous. Just don’t start flirting until we find the right group.”
They entered Chili’s and squeezed into the raucous bar area. Yulana led the way, and that seemed to ease the process. Entire tables full of men stopped their conversations and just stared at her: the pale skin, aqua eyes, and unruly long black hair almost had a mesmerizing effect on some of the men—and maybe a few of the women too.
Kit scanned the standing-room-only crowd searching for faces but looked like he was coming up empty.
“Which way?” she asked.
“I don’t see them. Go right.”
She worked her way around to the other side of the bar, toward the rear door.
“There,” he said. “The last table before the exit.”
Three men and a woman sat in a booth against the windows. They were sharing an appetizer. Kit sent a round of drinks—doubles—to their table anonymously. The more the scientists drank, the better. He ordered an iced tea for himself and a vodka martini for Yulana. They stood near the bar, pressed in by people from all sides.
She took a sip as soon as the drinks came.
“Wow,” she said, looking at him. “That’s good.”
“No offense, but I think it will help loosen you up.”
He watched in awe as she guzzled the martini.
“I think you’re right. But can we just do it? I don’t want to get nervous thinking about it.”
He nodded slightly, ceaselessly amazed by how much Russians can drink, and they moved to the targets.
“No table here, either,” said Yulana loud enough for the four scientists sitting in the booth to hear. “Is this place always so crowded?” she asked, smiling, making eye contact with each person at the table.