“Well, neither does a gentleman,” said Morgan. “I guess you’ll just have to keep on wondering.”
“I’m certain I will.” She stood up, putting on her sunglasses.
“Mr. Morgan, such a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Shall I see you at the casino tonight as well?”
“You can count on it.”
He watched her as she walked away, and had to chuckle as she did. She was . . . something. He didn’t know what, not yet. But she was something, all right.
He looked around, got up out of his chair, and made his way back to his room. He checked that the cameras he had set up were in place and nothing had been moved. Then he spoke aloud, “Bishop, come in.”
“Getting you loud and clear, Cobra.”
“Did you get all that?”
“I got you chasing tail when you’re supposed to be on the job.”
“I was assessing,” said Morgan. “Do you think you can get an ID for me? Is Shepard there?”
“Right here,” came Lincoln Shepard’s voice.
“I took a picture on my glasses,” said Morgan.
“Okay, downloading,” said Shepard. “Hot damn, do I hate being the one with a desk job right now.”
“You’ll hate it less when I’m being shot at,” said Morgan. “The woman—the name she gave was Lily—Elizabeth—Harper. Can you get me an ID?”
“Well, not everyone’s in a database, and if she’s interesting, she’s using a fake name, so—yes. I can do anything, Cobra.”
“Good. Make it snappy, then.”
“What about Weinberg?” asked Bishop.
“He’ll be at the casino tonight,” Morgan told him.
“I know, I heard,” said Bishop. “It’ll be a good time to break into his room and see what you find.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Morgan. “Tell Bloch I need some money. For tonight.”
“Some?”
“Around fifty grand. I’m going to put in an appearance at the casino, and I need to put on a good show for Weinberg.”
“Fifty grand? Jeez. Bloch’s not going to like this. Why don’t you just hit his room once he goes?”
“He’ll be suspicious if I don’t show up, and he might send that walking side of beef to come check up on me. I’d rather avoid concussions this time, all right? I’m going with him, and once I’m sure he’s busy, I’ll get the hell out of there and gain access to his room.”
“Okay, Cobra, I’ll run it by her, but she’s going to want to talk to you.”
“Then have her call me. Also, what do we have on Weinberg’s sister?”
“Let me check,” broke in Shepard. “Not much, Cobra. She’s been involved in the family business, but she keeps to herself for the most part. Never been the public face of the company, and she shows none of Gunther’s showboating, playboy behavior. Why do you ask?”
“Apparently she’s dropping by this evening. I’m thinking maybe someone should keep an eye on her,” said Morgan. “If Gunther is as rotten as he seems to be, what are the odds that the other apple is glowing waxy red and plump?”
“I’ll have to do a little more digging,” he said. “Speaking of digging, I’ve managed to tap into hotel security. We’re getting a live feed from all the security cameras in the place.”
“Fantastic,” said Morgan. “What about the casino?”
“Getting to work on it now.”
“Good. Hopefully you’ll get it set up by tonight.”
“People who know me know better than to bet against me,” bragged Shepard.
“Yeah,” said Morgan. “But Weinberg has a hell of a lot of money to bet with.”
Chapter 28
June 7
Monte Carlo
“Zeta, this is Cobra, come in.”
Morgan stood in front of a full-length mirror framed in carved wood covered in gold leaf, adjusting the lapel on his tuxedo.
“Shepard here,” came the response.
“Just about ready,” said Morgan. “Are we go on your end?”
“I’m in the fingerprint database to give you access to Weinberg’s room,” said Shepard. “I’m going to wait to grant you permission, so that no alarm bells go off and no one corrects it between now and then. I’m also ready to reprogram your key card.”
Morgan walked to his suitcase and drew out the key-card writer he’d brought with him and set it down on the living room credenza. He then drew the key card from its slot by the door and inserted it into the device. “All right,” said Morgan. “It’s in.”
“Give it two minutes,” said Shepard. Morgan ran a comb through his hair and slipped on his Ferragamo wingtips using a shoehorn.
“All right,” said Shepard. “That should do it.”
Morgan stowed the card and then called the lobby and had his car brought around. It was a short drive through picturesque cobblestone streets to the Palatine Casino, an imposing building, full of old-Europe luxury and elegance. As he gave the valet his car keys, he saw a figure approaching, a woman in a sleek green gown with a leg slit that reached her upper thigh, with red hair and catlike eyes that matched the color of her dress.
“Ms. Harper,” he greeted her tersely, as he might a confidante.
“Mr. Morgan,” she said, giving him a kiss on each cheek. “It wouldn’t have worked better if we had planned it. Will you escort me inside?” She extended her arm. Morgan gave her a look, and took her arm in his. They walked together into the casino.
The magnificence of its façade was more than matched by the interior, with thick, lush carpets, columns and ornate cornices everywhere. Jennifer sure would love this. He looked at Harper, wishing for a moment that his wife were there and that he weren’t running this charade. Then again, much as he loved his wife, he loved the thrill of the danger, too.
“Not exactly Las Vegas, is it?” Ms. Harper said sarcastically. Indeed it wasn’t. It had nothing of the brash, garish style of Sin City, none of its cheesy themed spaces, none of the constant cacophony of bells and whistles. This was a sober environment, the level of noise barely above that of a high-end restaurant. All the guests were dressed formally in gowns and tuxes.
Few things intimidated Morgan, but he never felt at home in this kind of scene. He could blend in fine, he always did, courtesy of his CIA training, but it wasn’t his place. It wasn’t real or raw, and hid who people really were instead of revealing them. Harper, on the other hand, seemed like she was born to walk among these people—and still, in some way, she seemed to be an outsider like him. He couldn’t quite put a finger on why.
It didn’t take them long to spot Weinberg, in a black velour tuxedo, his face tinged with a light pink flush, perhaps caused by the whiskey in his hand, or maybe the one before that. He was standing at the bar, talking to a tall woman who Morgan recognized.
“Ah, Mr. Morgan, Ms. Harper. Please, come meet my lovely sister. This is Lena.”
Lena Weinberg was a towering blonde, taller even than Gunther and a few years his junior. She had angular features, with a sharp, prominent chin, a straight, thin, pointed nose. She was wearing a heavy gown that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a funeral. Beautiful she was, but with nothing of the airy, seductive beauty of Lily Harper. Lena Weinberg’s beauty was not inviting, not even in a teasing or manipulative way. Her look was harsh and aristocratic, something like a Roman statue, displaying naked superiority and nothing more.
“Mr. Morgan,” she said, with feigned warmth that was all the more distant for its pretense. “A pleasure to meet you.” She kissed him twice on the cheek, then turned to Lily Harper. “Ms. Harper,” she said, with a more cutting tone to her voice.
“Enchanté,” said Harper, who detected the tone and responded in kind. They kissed with forced formality.
“I understand you and Gunther have become . . . acquainted,” she said to Harper.
“You might say that,” said Harper. “We were inseparable last night on the casino floor, weren’t we, Gunther dear?”
“Ms. Harper here gave me quite the streak of good luck,” Weinberg told his sister.
“Then I would suggest that Ms. Harper’s luck has run out by now, Gunther.” Something about how Gunther and Lena Weinberg acted around each other put Morgan off. There was something almost possessive in the way Lena clung to her brother.
“Lena, play nice now,” said Weinberg. “How about a turn at the roulette table?”
“How about poker?” piped in Harper. “After all, we should strive to make Mr. Morgan feel at home in a strange land.”
“Very well,” said Lena, tight-lipped. “Gunther, would you find a waiter? A glass of Margaux, if they have it. If not . . . well, you know what I like.”
“Certainly, dear sister. Ms. Harper, Mr. Morgan, can I tempt either of you for a drink? Ah, of course, Mr. Morgan, you don’t partake. Ms. Harper?”
“I think the night is ripe for a Bloody Mary.”
Weinberg gave a half-smile and went off in search of a waiter. Morgan, taking his cue, wandered off, pretending to look at the slot machines, but keeping close enough to be able to eavesdrop on the conversation.
As he walked seemingly out of earshot, Lena looked at Lily with murderous eyes and said in a low, menacing voice, “I know what you are. You do not fool me. There have been dozens like you before, and there will be more after. You will get nothing out of him or us, you hear?”
Morgan hid his reaction. So Lena saw something in Ms. Harper, too—some hidden cunning. She took the Brit for a gold digger, evidently. Morgan wondered if that was it, or whether something else was going on. As a spy, he’d learned to be suspicious.
“Whatever do you mean?” said Harper, with mock innocence.
“You know very well what I mean, you worthless—”
“Now, now,” said Harper. “Dear brother will return at any second. I don’t think he would like it if you were rude to his close personal friend, now, would you?”
“Do you know what I have already done to the likes of you, Ms. Harper? Do you think you’re the first little whore that has had designs on my brother? I will destroy you before you can harm us.”
“You could certainly try, love.”
“You do not know how far the power of money goes in such matters,” said Lena.
They stared into one another’s eyes with looks that might have sizzled and sparked in their animosity. Their staring contest was interrupted by Weinberg’s return, which caused the loathing on their faces to morph into a veneer of airy politeness. Morgan also rejoined the group. “They did not have the Margaux, alas,” Gunther said. “I hope you can make do with a 2000 Chateau Lafite Rothschild.” He handed her a crystal goblet.
“That will do fine, thank you,” said Lena in a clipped tone, taking the glass by the stem and sniffing it with her sharp patrician nose.
“The waiter will find us shortly with your drink, Ms. Harper. Shall we make our way to the poker tables?”
Weinberg led the way across the casino floor, greeting people whom he seemed to recognize, and found a recently vacated poker table. The croupier, a thin, bony man with a shaved head in a red smoking jacket, greeted them. “How many players?” he asked.
“I believe I’ll sit it out,” said Lena. “Poker is a game for men in cowboy hats and mirrored sunglasses.”
“Don’t be a sourpuss, Lena,” said Weinberg. She shot him a look. “Fine, fine, suit yourself,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Ms. Harper, will you do us the honor of joining in our game?”
“The stakes are a little rich for my blood. I’d just as soon sit it out and watch.” She perched on a stool by the table near Morgan and sipped her drink. “As it happens, I rather enjoy watching.” She crossed her legs and her lips curled up on the left in a half smile. Lena stood on the opposite side of the table, arms crossed and eyes made into slits of suspicion and hostility.
“What shall be the stakes?” asked Weinberg.
“I propose a gentlemen’s agreement,” said Lily Harper. “Gunther can certainly beat Mr. Morgan by betting higher and higher, and Mr. Morgan is sure to reach his limit much before Gunther reaches his.”
“Intellect is such an attractive trait in a woman,” said Gunther.
Harper continued without missing a beat. “I say you boys agree on a limit beforehand. That should make this game more fun.”
“That is acceptable to me,” said Gunther.
“To me, too,” said Morgan, locking eyes with Harper. What was she playing at? “Let’s say, a fifty-thousand-dollar limit?”
“That would be well covered by my account here,” said Weinberg.
“Let me just make a phone call,” said Morgan. He stepped away from the table and pretended to start a call on his phone. He then spoke into it, “Hello, this is Dan Morgan.” He gave an account number and other identifying information. “I’d like to transfer fifty thousand dollars to my account at the Palatine Casino in Monte Carlo.”
“Got it,” said Shepard over the comm. “I’m putting it through now, Cobra.” Morgan pretended to hang up and walked back to the table.
“My bank is making the transfer right now,” he said to the croupier. Morgan took his seat once more across from Weinberg.
“You’ll find I am not a man who likes to lose, Mr. Morgan,” said Weinberg.
“Then you’re going to hate playing against me.”
“We shall see, we shall see.” The waiter came, bringing Lena’s wine and a gin and tonic for Weinberg. “Drink?” he offered Morgan. “Ah, apologies, again I forgot. That should perhaps give you an advantage, no?” He took a sip from his glass.
“You want me to tie my arms behind my back to make it fair?” Morgan said with a grin.
“Being cocky is not a winning strategy with me,” said Weinberg, leaning forward against the table with a wolfish look of savage competition.
“What is the style, gentlemen?” asked the croupier.
“Texas hold ’em,” said Morgan. “Aces high, no wild cards. Is that good for you?”
“A gentlemen’s game,” said Weinberg.
Lena snorted.
The croupier dealt the first hand. Morgan glanced at his cards, barely lifting them off the table. Mostly, he watched Weinberg’s face intently. He knew well enough that, in poker as in spycraft, you play your opponent’s cards rather than your own. He’d learned to play for stakes with the best in his group at the Farm, the CIA training facility, where the players used the deception techniques they were instructed in for the game. He had never played more difficult players, never encountered stronger poker faces, than those men, and in consequence, he won almost every poker game he ever entered. He wondered if the German’s face would give anything away.
The flop gave Morgan a pair of jacks. He kept his eyes fixed on Weinberg—no sign of a reaction. Weinberg tossed in two thousand, and Morgan saw the bet. The croupier dealt the turn, which gave Morgan nothing. Another round passed where Morgan matched a low bet of Weinberg’s, and still no sign of anything on his face. Morgan could tell he was no novice. The croupier then turned the river: jack of clubs. And he saw it: a slight twitch on Weinberg’s lips, on the left. Bastard had a tell.
Weinberg raised him five thousand. Morgan had to know about the twitch, had to find out what it meant. It would be worth losing this that much. He saw the bet.
Weinberg showed his cards: a two and a four, which paired with a four on the table. The croupier dragged the chips over to Morgan. So that was his tell for a bluff. It meant he had nothing. Good to know.
“An auspicious beginning, Mr. Morgan,” said Lily Harper. Both Morgan and Weinberg were too intensely involved in the game to respond.
Another hand was dealt, and the flop. Morgan had a king in his hand, another on the table. Eyes still on Weinberg, he made a three-thousand-dollar bet.
“Bold,” Weinberg said. “But bold might lose you this game faster than otherwise.”
“Maybe you should take a look at who has the bigger pile of chips,” said Morgan.
&nb
sp; The croupier showed the turn—another king. That was three kings. Morgan had a strong hand—and he had not taken his eyes off Weinberg. The croupier turned the river—queen, of no consequence to Morgan’s hand. He just kept his gaze fixed on his opponent’s face.
Morgan tossed in ten thousand.
“Very well, Mr. Morgan. I see your ten, and raise you twenty.”
And there was the tell, the minuscule twitch of the lips. He was bluffing. He had to be.
“I’ll see that bet,” said Morgan.
Weinberg showed his cards. An ace and a two of spades. With three spade cards on the table—
Flush. A winning hand.
“Oh, goodness, Mr. Morgan,” said Harper, “I think I am not clear on the specifics of this game, but that’s bad news for you, isn’t it?”
Morgan looked at Weinberg again, masking his suspicion. Had he been mistaken? Had he misread the twitch in Weinberg’s lips? No, Morgan was sure of what he had seen. It could only mean one thing. Weinberg was playing a subtle game. He had pretended the tell at first, to lure Morgan into a greater bet. He knew how to wrap deception in the semblance of truth—even more, to disguise it as an involuntary betrayal. He was a clever one. But not clever enough—he had shown his hand too soon, so to speak. He might have saved his trick for a coup de grace, but now Morgan knew, and it wouldn’t work on him again.
Weinberg smiled, as though he couldn’t contain his self-satisfaction at his own cleverness. Good, thought Morgan. He was smart, but he didn’t have the patience to take full advantage of it. He would throw away a dominant position just to gloat. It was a weakness to exploit—especially effective because Weinberg counted on it as a strength.
“Ah, I’ll say, this hardly stings,” said Weinberg. “Thirty thousand dollars, feh. Pocket change.”
“Let’s make this more interesting, then,” said Morgan. He knew how men like Weinberg worked. Morgan wanted to impress him, to give him a thrill—something that would cloud his thinking, leave him high from a big win, and hence vulnerable to pride and carelessness.
“Oh?” said Weinberg.
“Oh, good, I like interesting,” said Harper excitedly, taking another sip of her Bloody Mary. Half the glass was gone now.
Black Skies Page 14
