LITMIR.BIZ

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arranged to have him sent to Vegas,” Price said.

      “I didn’t know he was a gambler.”

      “He’s not,” Price said, and tapped her keyboard. “He is.”

      Brognola looked at the wizened face on the wall monitor. The eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses, a mane of snow-white hair flowing to the shoulders of his aloha shirt.

      “That,” Price said, “is Ezekiel Jacobs, the creator of Lightning Bat and its purported nuclear-powered capabilities, among other superweapons systems, as confirmed by your source’s intelligence. An Israeli national, he was educated in the States, then disappeared for a number of years after a brief stint with NASA. The NSA says he worked for the Russians during that missing time on a space program to someday see man travel deep space. Apparently a number of his theories, travel at light speed using controlled bursts of fission reactions, was a little too radical for the NASA crowd. He begged for funding to create what he called the Dynamo Matrix Program—again deep space travel at light speed—raised a stink, was fired by NASA and, it appears, sold his services to the Russians. He’s considered a genius, however, in the field of aerospace engineering and physics.”

      “And he spends his free time at the slot machines?” Brognola said.

      “Blackjack. He can count cards so well he’s been banned from several casinos. Now, apparently, he’s switched to dice just so he can get through the front door, or not end up in an unmarked grave in the desert.”

      “So what’s Pol doing out there?”

      “Helping an old friend from his Vietnam tour,” Price answered.

      “Come again?”

      “He was reluctant at first to go into much detail, then I pushed him when he asked about me arranging a classified flight out of your office, so he could take whatever hardware he needed, thus, as you know, bypassing the usual boarding inspections. If I overstepped my authority, Hal…”

      “No need to apologize, it isn’t like I have to go to Congress for a blank check or have to explain myself to a bunch of senators. And I’m sure you had good reason, and that you’re about to drop a bomb on me about Mr. Jacobs here.”

      “Pol’s buddy is a private investigator,” Price said. “For whatever reason, and I gather the reason is that there is some degree of danger involved, the friend enlisted Pol’s help.”

      “Called out of the blue?”

      Price shrugged. “I gather they’ve stayed in touch over the years, as a lot of vets of that war probably have. Anyway, the PI, he lives in South Dakota, near the ranch where Jacobs lived with his wife, and one day recently up and vanished. Being as he’s been known to hole up in Vegas before, she contacted this investigator who, in turn, called Pol.”

      “And the danger is?”

      “Russian intelligence operatives,” Price said. “Pol confirmed his PI buddy believes Jacobs is being courted by the Russians. Not only that, but Pol told me Jacobs had a classified job at a remote North Dakota installation that required he work there, four days on, four off.”

      “The Eagle Nebula,” Brognola said, watching Price nod. “So, we think we’ve fallen into some snake’s nest and by accident or by way of the accident or sabotage by our own military? And we have more riddles than answers, and we’re thinking there could be homegrown traitors clear from North Dakota to Iraq?”

      “Pretty much the usual,” Kurtzman said.

      Brognola worked on his cigar. “Okay. Barb call Carl and get those two to North Dakota, but have Pol stay put in Vegas for the time being, see what he digs up or what may fall into his lap.”

      “You’ll want Carl and Gadgets looking into Eagle Nebula? As what, part of some special task force from the Justice Department?”

      “Complete, if I can get it, with a presidential directive that gives them free and ready access to the base and to question whoever’s in charge there,” Brognola said. The grim note in Price’s voice and the wry glint in her eyes not escaping him. “Oh, yeah, I know. Lyons isn’t big when it comes to smearing on the gentle diplomacy. But, if they’re hiding something out there, covering up a disaster that involves civilian casualties, I’m counting on his crocodile style to flush out and chomp down on some raw meat. The perfect pit bull for the job,” Brognola added with a grim smile.

      EZEKIEL JACOBS HELD his Russian benefactors in contempt. Assuming they were either current or former Spetsnaz commandos or ex-KGB, perhaps even tied to some criminal organization, this ignorant rabble who lived by the sword and were enslaved by all the animal inclinations of such didn’t have a clue how to handle themselves when in the presence of genius—or women—much less understand the fine point that living well was the best revenge.

      “This is what we are throwing away good and very large sums, may I add, Comrade Jacobs, of money on? A computer graphic of an American Stealth fighter? Charts of chemical equations and numbers and physics babble?”

      And there it was, he thought, pulling back his flowing mane of snow with one hand, staring at Boris Rustov on the other side of the coffee table as the Russian glowered at the specs on Lightning Bat, his black ferret eyes nearly bugged out with profound confusion and anger over mathematical equations that only a few in his elite stratosphere could even begin to comprehend. Clearly this barbarian was blind to the creativity of pure genius that was as close, he thought, to the Divine as Earthbound Man could get.

      Ah, but why must he suffer fools gladly? Then again, why not? A few more days and playtime was over. For the moment he figured he was as close to heaven on earth as he could possibly ascend. One look out the massive window, and the constellation of neon out there on the Strip beckoned him the world could be his, but for one more roll of the dice, another few hours at the blackjack table. From his six-hundred-dollar-a-day suite on the north corner of the Bellagio hotel-casino—all the trimmings of two giant screen TVs, whirlpool, fully stocked wet bar and room service with all the frills, complete with ladies of the evening—he could drink in the glittering diadems of Caesar’s Palace, the Barbary Coast, the Flamingo Las Vegas, Imperial Palace.

      The 3000-room ultraresort was a marvel of flamboyance, he thought, grabbing up a fat chunk of real estate where the old Dunes was perched on the southwest corner of Flamingo and the Strip. Considered one of the most expensive hotel-casinos on the planet, it featured Italian gardens, a twelve-acre lake, showroom, water shows, with a few hundred million in art displayed and spread around all the heavenly opulence. The best news of all was that families with children were strongly urged to seek accommodations farther up the Strip, high rollers only to walk through these pearly gates. Granted, he was still mid-Strip, in the thick of the hustle and bustle, traffic and noise a near 24/7 nuisance, but there was no reason to venture farther north where the common folk—low-rollers—wasted their paltry sums in grind joints.

      From behind his dark Blues Brothers sunglasses, Jacobs watched the Russian scowl, looking him up and down as if he were some sideshow freak. Jacobs crossed one pajama-wrapped leg in white silk over the other, smoothed out the robe in matching color and fabric, brushing a fleck of tobacco off the Playboy bunny monogram on his left breast. Believing he could feel the steam building in the Russian’s primitive brain, sure Rustov’s blood pressure was ready to shoot off the monitor, he turned to Cleopatra, his companion. He watched her with an approving eye, as the striking Asian beauty slinked up to the couch to deliver him another brandy.

      “Thank you, my dear,” Jacobs said, twirling the drink in his snifter, then patting the seat beside him. And he thought Rustov would erupt as she dropped her luscious flesh, barely concealed in the leopard-skin one-piece, bottom thrust his way, snuggling close to genius, all purrs and caresses. Breathing in her exquisite fragrance, he felt the stirring of heat in his loins, then the guttural bark of his Russian visitor soured the rising mood.

      “There is a limit to our generosity and a bottom to our money pit. Explain yourself now, Comrade Jacobs.”

      Jacobs took his smoking pipe,

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