Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [62]
Whether his was a skill learned early in life or a trait embedded in his DNA, Sherry didn't know. She only knew that David's affability was an invaluable campaign tool that, if harnessed properly, would carry him all the way to the Oval Office.
Sherry did not share her husband's considerable people skills. She was a good manager — cool under pressure, efficient, detail-oriented. She possessed plenty of business savvy and a political horse-sense, too. Sherry was adept at handling people, at manipulating them into giving her what she needed. But she could never win the loyalty, the respect, or the genuine love and friendship accorded her husband. David didn't manage people, he seduced them, and under the spell of his undeniable charisma, they willingly followed his lead.
Sherry glanced at the delicate, jeweled Rolex on her wrist. She should have heard from Lev by now.
How long can the meeting take? she wondered.
Jong Lee was supposed to hand off the cash, and Lev was supposed to take it back to his suite, and call her immediately. Once again, Sherry squeezed her tiny handbag to make sure the cell phone was inside, that she hadn't misplaced it somewhere.
Becoming more concerned by the minute, she turned away from her husband, walked to a line of dining tables along the glass wall. She saw a seating card marked "Mr. Jong Lee," at a table designated for businessmen concerned with the detrimental effects of the drug epidemic. Though most of the seats were filled with stuffy men and their plump wives, Lee's chair remained vacant.
If Lev didn't call her in the next fifteen minutes, Sherry resolved to go searching for him. You can't trust anyone these days, she mused bitterly. Not when it came to five million dollars...
* * *
8:57:56 p.m. PDT
Las Vegas Boulevard
Curtis awoke to the smell of flowers. Then he felt the floor bump under him. He tried to open his eyes, but only one eye actually opened. The left side of his face was swollen, the eye glued shut, His head throbbed. He tried to touch the wound and found his wrists were bound together with thin steel wires that bit into his flesh. He felt another bump and realized he was riding on the floor in back of a truck.
Finally Curtis remembered it all — the identical white trucks, the Cuban hit team, the presence of the feared Rojas brothers in Las Vegas, the plot to blow up the anti-drug conference and its VIP guests at the Babylon.
Curtis studied the ferns and flowering plants around him, sniffed again. Underneath the cloying scent of flowers was another ominous smell, one he was familiar with. Curtis was definitely detecting the distinctive lemon-citrus odor given off by the plastic explosive Composition 4. Eyes darting, Curtis' intense gaze moved beyond those plants, to rows of plastic garbage cans hidden behind them — each one filled with C4 explosives and rigged to a timer with bright blue detonation cords.
This truck had five others just like it. More than enough to bring down one of Las Vegas' most glittering casinos, and murder everyone inside.
When Stella Hawk shot him in the chest with the police special, the relatively small .38 caliber bullet hadn't penetrated the Kevlar vest Curtis wore under his jacket, but the impact stunned him, knocking him out cold for a few minutes. He finally came around when Stella kicked him out of her car, onto the floor of Bix's garage. Fortunately, the wound on his leg and the deep gash in his side caused by a shard of glass, provided enough blood to fool Stella, Hugo Bix, even the Cubans. No one took the trouble to examine him because they all believed he was dead or close to it.
While the conspirators talked over him, Curtis feigned unconsciousness. It hadn't been easy to remain motionless during repeated jabs from Bix's cowboy boot, or the rough treatment he'd received from the Cubans, who'd tossed him into the back of