The Traitor's Gold, page 25
‘Captain.’ The man answered the call immediately. ‘Have you secured the place?’
Miura knew he meant the casino, that the boss was asking if the mission was over. ‘No,’ he said, hoping the negative wouldn’t put him on an instant kill list. ‘But there are developments.’
‘Explain.’
Miura peeled drying blood from his fingers. ‘We interrogated one of the buyers,’ he said, knowing his superior would understand the reference. ‘Opened him up good. He told us everything that he knew.’
‘Excellent. I am listening.’
‘He told me that three Americans approached him with bags of coins. This was seven years ago. He told me the names of the Americans and where they lived. His feelings were…that they would still be there.’
There was a long silence as the boss considered this. ‘How would he know that?’ he asked.
‘The way the Americans talked, how they presented their homes and, frankly, where and how they lived.’
‘Go on.’
‘The American city of Las Vegas,’ Miura said. ‘These raiders, these archaeological leeches, are exultant, lifelong gamblers. They feed their habit by locating treasures.’
‘You think they will still be there?’
‘I think there’s a very good chance.’
Another silence, this one profound. The boss knew exactly what he was being asked, and the answer wasn’t clear-cut. ‘You know what you’re asking?’
Miura flicked blood onto the floor. ‘It is where the clues lead, sir. We should go immediately.’
‘To Las Vegas?’ The boss sounded like he was being strangled.
‘Are you okay?’
‘No, no, not at all. This is a potential career suicide. Well, pure suicide. If you fail…’
Miura knew exactly what the boss was saying. If anything went wrong, they might both end up dead. The Shadow Kings would not tolerate any kind of open failure.
‘We won’t fail,’ Miura said. ‘I have come this far without losing a man.’
‘You are still thirteen strong?’
‘We are.’
‘Do you think your men could handle a trip to Las Vegas?’
Miura considered that. The question wasn’t as silly as it first sounded. He had twelve highly trained, incredibly capable, vicious men with him, all of whom were perfectly willing to take out any target he set before them at any time. They weren’t normal people, not civilians by any means. They were at best animals. Of course, eternally better than the scum they would have to mingle with, but nevertheless animals. Dangerous, savage; they had a different brain-set to the standard, pliable, steady citizen.
How would they mix?
Miura wanted them to mingle, to see what would happen, but he knew that any kind of overt incident might embarrass his boss. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. Were his men capable of causing that embarrassment? Absolutely.
‘I believe we must make the journey,’ Miura said. ‘Because, if this Basso reveals the location of the casino to our enemy, then all is lost.’
The boss let out a heavy sigh. ‘You are right, I suppose. But I have to warn you – keep your men and yourself under control. If you have to…use your special skills…do it where it can be passed off as something else, something local. Do you understand?’
Miura understood perfectly. What the boss was saying was standard protocol. It was nothing new.
‘Can you organise the correct visas and airline tickets?’ he asked.
‘That is easy, the least of our worries. I have people who can do that at the drop of a hat. We got you into Japan with ease, didn’t we?’
Miura accepted that. He smiled at all the blood, at the grim faces of his men, at the nightmarish room with its chopped-up corpse, its stench of blood and death, the fallen figure of Ito, the picture of mortality and murder that it represented, and wondered how all this might transfer to Las Vegas.
It could be beautiful.
‘Book us on a flight to America,’ he said. ‘We can handle anything that arises.’
‘You can track down this Basso person?’
‘No. That is for your phalanx of office workers to do. I know you have hundreds at your disposal.’
‘Very well. That is all.’
The phone went dead. Miura continued to revel in the room, not wanting to leave. Finally, he turned to his men.
‘We have work to do,’ he said, and slipped his knife back into its sheath.
Chapter 39
Mason liked the way Paul Quaid made the best use of his time.
They were inside the Narita International Airport waiting for their fourteen-hour one-stop flight to Las Vegas. They had booked to fly with Air Canada with a stop-off in LAX, not the cheapest but the fastest flight they could find right now, and were keeping an eye on the ever-changing flight information boards. It was evening in Japan, and the terminal was thick with people, most carting their carry-on luggage around, parents and couples and children and security staff all mingling, the air hostesses occasionally forging a path through to their flights in a swathe of colour, the captains in their caps and uniforms smiling as they went. Mason and his team had worked their way through security and past the duty free to find a quiet corner about three hundred yards from their designated gate. They were sitting beside a window, looking out at a runway through the drizzle-coated glass and chatting.
But it was Quaid who was doing the work.
Ever since he’d sat down, he’d been on the phone, calling his contacts in America and then focusing on Nevada, trying to get the ball rolling on Phoenix Basso’s current whereabouts. One of Quaid’s biggest assets was his worldwide contacts, established when he’d been a British army officer and enhanced later when he’d taken to helping the needy with traded goods from Bethlehem to Birmingham. Quaid had built up an army of connections. Now, they needed him to do his thing.
‘Fifth call,’ he said aloud, jabbing at his phone. ‘So far I’ve spoken to a cop, a judge, a waitress and a millionaire. You’d be amazed at how much diverse influence you can bring to a problem with a bit of thought.’
Mason listened as someone answered Quaid’s call.
‘Bill?’ he said and then went through the introductions eagerly before landing on the point of his call.
‘I’m looking for someone and I think you can help me. A man named Phoenix Basso lives in your town, in your area. He has two associates by the names of Rufus Silver and Rory Thompson. Now, I’m not saying they’re criminals, but you may have files on them. They’re gamblers, chronic gamblers, and are probably well known in certain casinos. These people have a connection. I’m guessing the leader at least will be relatively well-off.’ For good measure, he gave his friend a description of Basso too. ‘Tall with long blond hair tied up in a bun. The little finger on his left hand is missing. His teeth are yellow. He has blue eyes and a winning smile. That should give you something to work on.’
Quaid ended the call after a few more minutes of chit-chat.
‘Who’s next?’ Mason asked.
‘Stripper,’ Quaid said.
‘Friend of yours?’ Roxy asked, with an arched eyebrow.
‘Very much. A lovely girl. And it shouldn’t really surprise you to hear strippers know an awful lot of what goes on in the underbelly of a great city.’
Mason passed the time people-watching. He wandered over to the duty free and browsed, absently watching out for anyone who might resemble an SED soldier. He didn’t expect anything to stand out – in fact, he felt a little foolish keeping watch in the civilian-heavy airport – but you never could be sure.
Time passed. The hour of their flight grew closer. Mason and the others fought fatigue – they’d been on the go now with little rest for days. The clinical interior of the airport didn’t promote relaxation, not for Mason, at least. Quaid called fourteen people, not all in Nevada, and then sat back to await the return calls, stating he’d done all he could.
‘You expect anything positive?’ Luciane asked him.
Quaid nodded. ‘It should be simple enough for the cops. All the other calls are just backup.’
But nobody had called back at all by the time their flight was called. Mason led the way to the desk, passed through the passport checks and walked the length of the jet bridge, finally stepping onto the plane to be greeted by a flight attendant. He then picked his way down the aisle, found his seat and slid his rucksack into the luggage compartment. Now he had time to kill. He wondered if, for a change, he might be able to sleep on board a plane.
It wasn’t to be. The plane took off. The flight attendants came around with drinks and snacks. The team had split up, being unable to find adjacent seats because of their late arrival. Meals came and then the stop at LAX where Quaid briefly fired up his phone. His message service bleeped. He’d received seven messages in return, none of them positive, and none of them from any police-based entities. By the time they’d left LAX, Quaid had received one more message, this one also negative.
Mason worried. They were on the last leg to Las Vegas. Time and opportunity were slipping away. He settled back again, wide awake despite his body crying out for rest and relaxation.
It was 3.30 p.m. local time when the plane touched down with a whoosh of air brakes and a squeal of tyres. It slowed and then taxied slowly to its gate where it parked, the journey seeming to take for ever. Finally it stopped. Everyone stood up and went nowhere and, ten minutes later, started filing out. Mason waited for his friends to join him and then went ahead of them, crossing the jet bridge once again and finding himself in the terminal on US soil. This was McCarran Airport and would serve as their entry point to Las Vegas.
Even as they walked through the terminal’s interminably polished passageways amid the crowd on their way to check-in, Mason turned to Quaid.
‘Switched your phone on?’
‘Yeah, it’s switched networks again. Just waiting for a connection.’
Mason needn’t have hurried. The long walk continued until, eventually, they came into a vast hall where the US Border Patrol were waiting. They joined the long queue, shuffled dutifully down the line, showed their passports, bypassed the baggage carousel and headed straight for the arrivals hall. Once there, surrounded by streams of people, fast-food restaurants, enormous potted plants and high ceilings and a stirring atmosphere of bustle, Quaid’s phone rang.
‘Bloody typical,’ he said, fishing it out.
Mason watched him stick a finger into one ear and yell, ‘Hello? Who is this?’
Quaid listened, then looked up. He said, ‘Just hold on. We’re in arrivals. Let me get to a place where I can hear you.’
Roxy pulled them into a restaurant that wasn’t doing brisk business. It was tiny, designed as a takeaway, with just a few plastic seats and chairs inside. Mason ignored the guy behind the counter, who asked him what he wanted the instant he stepped into the joint and looked around. Apart from the server, they were alone.
Quaid put his phone on speaker. ‘Go on, Bill,’ he said.
‘Phoenix Basso isn’t his proper name,’ the cop told them. ‘It’s Philip. Probably uses Phoenix because it sounds good, to him at least. Lives on Calico Ridge, Henderson, east of Las Vegas. You won’t easily find him there, though.’
‘What do you mean?’ Quaid asked.
‘Like you told me, he’s a gambler. Spends most of his time in the city, on the Strip. Yeah, he’s loaded, got a few bank accounts we can see and some we can’t. No sweat. It’s enough to see the guy ain’t short of the green stuff.’
‘Does he have any favourite haunts?’ Quaid asked.
‘Yeah, the In-N-Out Burger on the Strip near the Flamingo.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant—’
‘I know what you meant. Getting this information wasn’t easy, Quaid. I had to invent a fake case. I hope you got something for me.’
‘Will Captain Morgan Cannon Blast do?’
‘You’re kidding? Last seen July 2020.’
‘They discontinued it, but I recall it’s your favourite.’
‘You have some?’
‘A full box just for you.’
Mason knew Quaid still kept a couple of storehouses going in case any of his more precious contacts needed something. In his previous life, it had all been about greasing palms.
‘Might take me a few weeks,’ Quaid said.
‘I can live with that for the good stuff. So…your man, Phoenix Basso. He frequents Caesars.’
‘Palace?’
‘Yeah, Caesars Palace. What else would it be?’
‘That’s a pretty big place, if I remember correctly.’
‘You can say that again,’ the cop drawled on. ‘Over 180 gaming tables, 1,300 slot machines. You like poker? You got Pai Gow, Hold ’Em. Let it Ride. Three Card. $500 slots. Christ, I sound like an advert. Oh, it’s a big place all right. Six hotel towers. Nearly 4,000 rooms. 166,000 square feet of gaming space. Restaurants. Nightclubs. There’s—’
‘What game does he play?’ Mason asked quietly. ‘That should narrow it down a bit.’
Quaid asked the question.
‘Blackjack,’ came the immediate answer. ‘There are fifty tables at Caesars.’
‘Any idea of the split?’ Quaid asked. ‘Where they are.’
‘Eight in the high limit saloon. Nineteen eight-decks on the main casino floor. Nine in front of the Nobu nightclub. Others are located in the pit near the sports book and behind the main pit.’
‘You say he spends all his time there?’ Luciane asked. ‘Where’s he sleep?’
‘Caesars and its sister casinos are well known for establishing good blackjack relationships with their clients,’ Bill answered. ‘It offers substantial repeat comps. Starts off with free drinks but then, as you return more and more often, that turns into free rooms. Wouldn’t surprise me if your man Phoenix didn’t have a standing free reservation.’
‘There are six of us,’ Quaid said. ‘We should be able to cover the tables easily.’
‘There is one item of news you may not like,’ the cop called Bill said.
Mason found that he’d been half listening, half watching the flow of people that passed the open restaurant. Now, he turned towards the phone.
‘What news?’ he asked.
‘You mentioned that Phoenix Basso had two associates. Rufus Silver and Rory Thompson.’
Quaid nodded at the phone. ‘He did. They helped him steal the coins from the Chinese casino.’
‘Silver and Thompson are both dead. Years ago. Silver died in a vehicle collision on the I15 in 2017. Thompson unfortunately caught cancer and died back in 2019. Neither death was suspicious.’
Quaid looked surprised. ‘Ah, thanks for that, Bill. I guess we’re lucky Basso is still alive.’
‘I guess you are. And, Quaid, don’t forget that Cannon Blast.’
Quaid assured the man he had him covered and then ended the call. They all looked at each other. Roxy was the first to walk out of the exit. She looked back as she went.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she said. ‘We just got an excuse to gamble in Vegas. Are you coming with me?’
Mason almost ran after her.
Chapter 40
Las Vegas is a globally famous resort city, celebrated for its no-holds-barred gambling, its world-class shopping, cutting-edge dining, diverse entertainment and glitzy nightlife. The Strip itself resonates with every kind of experience imaginable, a place where a man or woman can be anything they want to be. In Vegas, nobody really knows you. It’s an extravagant playground, an all-day buffet where everything is on the table. From the Strip to the landmark casinos to the concert halls, from the buffets and slots and rollercoasters and clubs to the incredible restaurants, there is a magnetic energy in the air, an expectation of the best of times. A hypnotic buzz unavailable anywhere else.
You don’t visit Vegas. You live it like it’s your last day on Earth.
These thoughts ran through Joe Mason’s mind as he climbed into a large taxi with his team and made the brief journey from McCarran to Las Vegas Boulevard, using South University Centre Drive. From red light to red light, they picked their way, sitting back and taking in the sights. The pavements were full of life, from beggars to dancers to tourists and children, from magicians to cops to partygoers and families. When they stopped at crosswalks, throngs of people strolled by, blocking out all other sights.
As they neared the Strip, Mason made out the themed hotels and casinos. They came to East Flamingo and took a left, followed the road for a while, past congestion where the road branched for Koval. They came up to the Strip near the Flamingo with the Bellagio and its famous fountains to the left, Caesars Palace to the right, then joined the crawling traffic on the wide boulevard. Roxy had her nose to the window, calling out the sights, seemingly quite pleased to be back in her native country.
Mason turned to her as the car inched its way towards Caesars.
‘Happy to be home?’ he asked. ‘In America, I mean.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Where do your parents live?’
‘Los Angeles,’ she said and, when Mason raised an eyebrow, elaborated slightly. ‘An old A-frame in the Hollywood Hills.’
‘How hard would it be to go back there now?’
Roxy glanced at him. ‘I don’t know. I’m growing, I’m raising barriers, but I’m not sure I’m there yet.’
‘I think you are.’
‘Thank you. We’ll see.’
She wasn’t any more forthcoming than that. It surprised Mason that she didn’t try to turn the conversation back onto him and his current situation, but then she seemed entirely too ensnared by the streets of Las Vegas to even think about him. At the next lights, they were the first car, and Mason was treated to the sight of the Bellagio fountains in full flow, the music reverberating across the Strip. More than a thousand illuminated fountains swayed and danced and jetted to the beat of a song, captivating Mason for long minutes. Then they were past the junction and approaching the long road that marked the entrance to Caesars Palace. The taxi driver drove them right up to the front door and let them out into the mid-afternoon sunshine. The day was hot, the sun blasting down from a cloudless sky, reminding Mason that, even here, right now, they were in the middle of a desert. From the Gobi to the Mojave in just a few days.
