The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [54]
Steve frowned. “Then why are we having this conversation?”
“There’s only one reason to do anything. Because you know it’s right.”
Rhodes’s office was large and divided into sections. There was his desk, with a wide, thin monitor on top and a huge Rothko behind it. There was another area with a treadmill and a television. The third was a sitting area large enough for a dozen people, occupied for now by only Rhodes and his Saudi guest. There were artifacts from Stephen’s odd collections, and books all around, the sum of their knowledge not amounting to a nickel’s worth of the wisdom he and the Concrete Sheik kept locked inside their heads.
“My father said everything we know will be discovered in time.”
“We protect an ever-dwindling number of secrets. One day the tradition will be irrelevant.”
“And in the meantime we kill each other. And other people, too. For what? To preserve our relevance?”
“To preserve our existence. And not just ours. Everyone’s. When everyone knows what we know, our species will cease to exist.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You already know what I think is coming next.”
“You already know I think you’re crazy.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“She was supposed to be here tonight.”
“And?”
Rhodes shook his head.
The Sheik shifted in his chair. “Has she ever been late before?”
“Sure. She’s a flake.”
The Sheik gave his cognac a gentle spin in its glass. He was down $200,000 to the house just in baccarat the last two days. When his losses reached a million, probably toward the end of this year, he would wire the Colossus the money. Or he’d offer Steve Rhodes a horse from some royal racing bloodline. Because of their sworn allegiance to the Thousand, Rhodes was unable to pressure the Sheik to pay. For the same reason, the Sheik would never let his debt to Rhodes go bad. Such arrangements were how secrets and civility had coexisted among warring factions for 2,500 years.
“She’s a flake who can beat your casino.”
“She’s a cheat.”
“Is she so different from you and the other mathematici? You use the divine teachings to gain the slightest advantage in your games, to move the odds a few tenths of a percentage point in your favor. You cheat pennies and dollars from thousands of tourists every day. I even know how you’re doing it, and I can’t beat this casino at cards. And yet she …”
Rhodes didn’t reply.
“You need to find her. Tonight.”
“I already have my people looking. But not because I think they’ve taken her. I’m more afraid of Elizabeth than I am of you.”
“You should be. She thinks you’re looking after her daughter.”
“The mathematici won’t go after Canada. Elizabeth would never allow it.”
The Sheik ignored him. “Where would they take Canada Gold?”
“It’s not conceivable.”
“Where would they take her?”
“Miami. New York. Chicago. Rio. Mumbai. London. Someplace where we have a good surgeon.”
“They could bring a doctor in from anywhere. What about Montana? Upstate New York?”
Rhodes shook his head. “They would stay away from a hospital, but they would do it in a city where there are good facilities and expertise. Where they could gather without drawing a lot of attention. If something went wrong—if she tried to run away or something—they’d want other people around. Variables. Distractions. The ability to create a diversion.”
“To hide their crimes behind the chaos, as usual.”
“But they won’t touch that girl.”
“You don’t give your mathematici brothers enough credit.”
“And once I find her?”
“Retrieve it. Smash it. Crush it under the big heel of that boot. There will be nothing left for them then.”
If it had been anybody but the Sheik talking to him this way, or Elizabeth Gold, he’d be on his feet, arms waving, launching the kind of tirade that made him one of the most feared men in Las Vegas. Quietly, he said, “How am I supposed to do that? I’m not a fucking brain surgeon.”
After the Sheik left, Rhodes was alone in his office with a joint and a glass of scotch. He paged through surveillance screens on