Allison smiled. “If anyone does, it would be Giambi. The man’s seventy-eight years old. He’s been everywhere and knows just about everyone in the gaming world, on both sides of the table. Beth, I know what finding your father’s killer means to you. When I realized we were going to go after Giambi, I thought of you immediately in spite of your lack of experience in physical missions. I’m extremely confident in you. We need somebody who can create the right kind of identity for this operation and you’re the best at choosing the right identity for the game. And for you, this is a win-win. You help us and yourself at the same time. Though you aren’t specifically trained for this kind of mission, you’re exactly right for it.”
Damn, she did it, Beth thought. She’s got me.
She could see in Allison’s eyes that she knew she had won. All of Beth’s arguments fell mute. All the energy she’d built up preparing to go toe-to-toe with this woman, with the organization, collapsed.
Allison said, “Are you interested?”
“Of course. How could I refuse now? Who will I become?”
“A very wealthy, jet-setting widow and businesswoman.”
“As of last night, I’ve become a little short of funds.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll fund this operation. Your new accounts will have plenty of money in them. But don’t lose it all.”
Beth smiled. “I usually win. What’s my new identity?”
“Anne Hurley, a rich widow with two major interests that happen to be Giambi’s passion—Formula One racing and poker. You’re going to arrive in Monaco with all the trimmings of a ‘whale’ who’s looking for some action at the tables and also looking at the possibility of investing in Giambi’s dream of fielding a Formula One team.” Allison slid the envelope over to Beth. “You’ll find your new passport, credit cards, driver’s license, et cetera, inside this envelope.”
“I know nothing about Formula One. Vegas is a NASCAR town.”
Allison pulled an Apple laptop from her shoulder bag. “Everything you could possibly need to know is stored on this laptop.” Allison handed the laptop to Beth. “You also have access to all the data we have on Giambi and his casino.”
Allison continued, “Right now Giambi is rounding up investors. Before you make an appearance at his casino, your money will arrive ahead of you for deposit toward your gaming. And we’ll see to it you have an established reputation, a past and the financial records to go with your new identity. Everything is being inserted into the digital universe. If he does a background check on you, and he will, you’re going to come up as the ideal candidate for his needs. He’s ambitious. He’s even floated an idea to the mayor of Las Vegas about bringing Formula One there.”
“Why would Vegas want Formula One?”
“Because it’s the elite venue in racing, catering to the international jet set. And it wouldn’t impact NASCAR negatively. Their fan base is rock solid. Giambi seems to be trying to create a legacy. He’s also looking into building a casino in Kestonia. He apparently believes that Eastern Europe could be the next Vegas. And he might be getting ready to leave Monaco in the near future. Prince Albert is trying to clean up Monaco’s act. As Somerset Maugham once said, Monaco is ‘a sunny place for shady people.’”
Beth nodded. “Sounds like a fit description for the old Vegas as well.”
“Prince Albert wants any money laundering in the principality ended. He’s trying to cooperate with the European Union banking regulations to get rid of illicit tax havens, and the presence of the Cosa Nostra. When and if this becomes a reality, Giambi will have to move his operations elsewhere.”
Allison pulled out a photo from her laptop bag and handed it to Beth. “Giambi’s Formula One driver, John David ‘JD’ Hawke. He’s a bit of a bad boy who’s been involved in some battles that got him suspended from Formula One. He’s reinstated now, but needs a ride. He likes fast cars and hot women. A little mixing of pleasure with business might just fast-track your operation.”
Beth stared at the photo of JD. He had it going on, no doubt. Right up to the cocky I-get-what-I-want smile, his blond cropped hair, smoky blue eyes and a slight dimple in his left cheek. She looked up at Allison and said facetiously, “Mixing pleasure and business dulls my edge.”
“Getting close to JD will make your penetration of Giambi’s computers and files easier. But it’s your call.”
“How close is JD to Giambi?”
“Very. Giambi has all but adopted JD Hawke. He’s given him an apartment adjoining his sumptuous fifteen-thousand-foot Playboy-mansion style suite atop the casino. A lot of partying goes on up there.”
“A real player.” Beth stared at the picture for a moment longer then slipped it into the envelope.
“You should have everything you need, including the latest hacking software. If you’re missing something, contact Delphi. You’re leaving for Nice at five-thirty this evening. It’s a short chopper-hop from there to Monaco. A villa has been rented in Monaco for your use. Take a couple days to prep. And enjoy the Mediterranean lifestyle.”
Allison glanced at her watch, then stood up, saying, “I have a meeting.”
Beth had one more question. “Just who is Delphi?”
Allison gave her a wry smile. “That’s strictly need-to-know.”
As they left the office, Allison said, “Oracle agents and Athena graduates have finally become a force in this town. The walls of the old boys’ clubs have been breached. Some, of course, are fighting back. We still have a long way to go to achieve our final goals and we can’t allow this current problem with Arachne to derail us.”
Every Athena grad knew what those goals were. A woman in the White House and parity, or dominance, across the board.
Allison stopped and looked Beth in the eyes. “Good luck, Beth. I hope Salvatore Giambi gives up what we’re looking for, and I hope you find what you’re looking for as well.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve made an appointment for you in thirty minutes with Randolph. He can help with a new look. He’s very good.”
She gave Beth Randolph’s card, shook her hand and headed for the door to her office. Then she stopped and turned to Beth. “Oh, by the way, do you tango?”
The question caught Beth off guard. She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes, actually. I’m not great, but—”
“Good. Get yourself a tango outfit. Giambi loves to tango. I understand he’s an excellent dancer.”
It never failed, one hour with Allison and you walked out ready to give your all to the mission. The woman, Beth mused, would have made a fantastic no-limit poker player, but then those skills were also the same ones necessary for success on the big stage of politics and power.
As for Salvatore Giambi, he had suddenly become the most important person in the world to Beth. He was the key to protecting Athena, and he was the key, she hoped, to finding her father’s killer.
On her way to her appointment with Randolph, Beth got a call from Detective Ayers informing her that Curtis was in stable condition. “He’s going to survive, and we have one of the shooters in custody. He’s not talking, but that’s a temporary condition, I’m sure.”
She told Ayers where she left the bike at McCarran, and thanked him for calling with the information about Curtis.
Beth didn’t know what problems she would have to deal with in Vegas over the shooting and her leaving town, but they would have to wait until she got back.
“I’d like you to come into the office to answer a few questions,” he said.
“I will,” Beth promised. “But I have some important business to take care of first.”
Relieved with the good news, Beth ended the call and wondered just what JD Hawke was up to at that exact moment, and what type of woman would get under his skin.
She had thirty minutes to figure it out.
Chapter 4
B eth quoted the movie lines with Grace Kelly’s silky purr:
“‘Hold them. Diamonds…the only thing in t
he world you can’t resist. Then tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. Even in this light, I can tell where your eyes are looking.’”
Randolph, a short, plump, bald stylist, chuckled. “Believe me, honey, as wonderful as your assets are, they’re not in my portfolio of thrills.”
Beth laughed as she sat in Randolph’s boutique in a trendy Washington D.C. neighborhood getting a makeover.
While he did his magic, she watched clips of Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief on her PDA, mimicking the heroine’s classy intonation. Grace was a woman’s woman. Someone to emulate, to watch, to impersonate. Beth wondered just how much of it was an act. Was Grace Kelly the consummate actress on the silver screen and in real life?
“‘Ever had a better offer in your whole life? One with everything?’”
Randolph stopped fussing with her hair and looked at Beth in the mirror. “You’re good. You sound just like her. She was a princess, wasn’t she? Such class. And that hair, like spun platinum.”
Randolph fitted yet another wig on Beth’s head, this one honey-colored and shoulder-length. “How do you like this, darlin’? Hot and sexy? I think the color looks fab with your hazel eyes.”
Beth twisted from side to side to get a better look in the mirror. “It’s close, but I want it a little shorter.”
Randolph slipped the honey wig off and replaced it with a blond, jaw-length bob.
“You’re in a play, right?”
Beth decided to go with his guess. “Yes. Off, off Broadway. It’s a spoof on Grace Kelly movies.”
Beth had always loved morphing into an imaginary “other” ever since she was a child living a desperate life with her gambler father, bouncing from losing streak to losing streak. They were flotsam in the rapids of Las Vegas gaming, caught, injured, then tossed back into the current.
Her father, who had predicted he would end up buried in the desert, ended up dead in a Dumpster.
Her mother was only a figment of Beth’s imagination, having fled before Beth could know her. So Beth created and recreated her life, her image, her history, shedding skin like a rattlesnake in August. It made her an accomplished actress on the world stage.
Beth tugged at the wig, getting it straight on her head. She liked this one. It gave off the right look—wealthy, without being too brash. Plus, it had just the right amount of retro to give her that elegant Grace Kelly look.
“Perfect,” she said. “I want my hair lightened this exact shade of blond and cut in this style.”
“Wish I could see you perform. I bet you’re good.”
“I’m a method actor, dahlin’,” Beth purred. “I scare ’em and excite ’em at the same time.”
Randolph laughed. “Ooh, you play rough.”
“Sometimes, but I’m worth it.”
He stepped back from the chair and gave her the once-over. “Yeah, I can see it. You’ve got that edge to you. Like you’re hiding a tiger under a pink dress.”
They both laughed.
As Randolph worked his magic on her, she thought about how crazy her life had been growing up in Vegas. As a kid, she never felt anger or hatred or even animosity toward her father. She had seen too much of his struggle, his love for her, his ambition—even in hopeless failure—to give her a better life. It was his purpose, his goal. And though he’d died when she was only twelve, without accomplishing that goal in the end, above all else, his love for her was the source of her great inner strength. Because he believed in her, she never doubted who she was beneath the disguises. She merely used them as a means to an end, not as an attempt to erase her true self.
The following day, wearing several thousand dollars’ worth of designer clothes, shoes and obscenely expensive jewelry, carrying Louis Vuitton luggage filled with more of the same, Beth, aka Anne Hurley, rich widow, poker player, businesswoman and passionate lover of open wheel Formula One racing—and the tango—left Dulles International for the four-thousand-mile flight to Nice, France, followed by a seven-minute hop to Monaco by helicopter.
She’d changed her voice, her walk and her attitude to fit her new persona. The next part of the metamorphosis was done at a fabulous villa Delphi had rented for her on a Monaco hillside above the Monte Carlo casino.
She spent much of the next forty-eight hours out on the patio working on her laptop, stopping once in a while to take in the breathtaking view of the French Riviera, while a soft breeze rising from the Mediterranean washed over her.
Periodically she’d look down at the yachts settled like a great flock of white birds on the deep blue sea, the steep hillside covered with pastel villas bathed in the golden sunlight and the endless blue sky above. What could be better, she wondered, than to be filthy rich in Monaco, playground for the rich and the royal?
With her near photographic memory and a capacity to focus for long periods of time, Beth could inculcate volumes of information quickly. To fake a background with success she needed the fine details, the particulars people in the profession paid attention to, the latest jargon.
She listened to dozens of CDs, watched DVDs, read bios of drivers and memorized the complete history of Formula One.
Through a tiny pair of binoculars she carried in her purse, she could see the Sapphire Star Casino on an adjacent hill. It had the look of old Europe to it. Understated. The home of her target: Salvatore Giambi.
We will meet soon, Mister Giambi, she thought. He’d been made aware of her arrival, and had been given advance notice that she was interested in investing in his racing team.
And she knew he was desperate for investors. Not just because of financial problems, but, according to the files she’d been reading, his marquee driver, JD Hawke, had a bad boy history that scared off would be investors. JD’s on-track fights, off-track mouth, and daredevil driving had made him a pariah. Only his great talent, and Giambi’s willingness to gamble, made a comeback possible.
On the fifteenth floor of the Sapphire Star Casino, Salvatore Giambi stormed into his office. He was in a sour mood.
His race driver, JD Hawke, was seated at Giambi’s desk playing a video game on an open laptop.
“To hell with the prince! To hell with Monaco!” Giambi bellowed.
JD nodded without looking up. “What’s going on?”
Giambi stared at him. “JD, when the hell is this Anne Hurley supposed to show up?”
As JD obviously crushed his cyber opponent, he held up his arms in complete victory and looked up, beaming. “I thought you said tonight.”
Giambi stared at JD for a moment, wondering what the hell was so exciting about those damn games. “Can you do that somewhere else, I have work to do.”
“Sure,” JD said as he closed out and stood up.
“Let me know when she gets here.” He walked toward his desk just as JD was leaving it. “How much did I say was transferred to her account with us? I forgot.”
“An even million. If you took that Ginkgo biloba I bought you, your memory would improve.”
“I hate pills.”
“It’s a vitamin.”
“I don’t care what you call it, it’s still a pill.”
“It’s your choice, but I—”
“I don’t have time for this.” He waved JD’s statement away. “She didn’t want a comped room. What, my five-star hotel isn’t good enough for her?”
“Apparently she’s got friends to stay with,” JD said, as he tried to leave.
“Don’t get lost. I want you to meet this woman when she gets here.”
JD tossed him a look. He didn’t like being treated as if he was one of Giambi’s assistants, but the way Giambi looked at it, the guy had nothing to do but train with weights, party all night with his friends and wait until he, Giambi, got him a seat in a race car. Nice life if you could get it. “You might as well do something besides play video games and party.”
“Okay, boss,” JD said, with that Tennessee drawl of his.
Giambi didn’t particularly like the way JD called him “boss�
� like he was making fun of him. Like the way Paul Newman said it in that movie. What was it called? Shit! He couldn’t remember, but it had something to do with prison.
JD left and Giambi settled in behind his desk. He was moving money as fast as he could out of Monaco and out of Europe. He knew he was being targeted by Prince Albert personally in this crusade against money laundering.
No respect.
And after all he’d done protecting the principality and the Grimaldi family over the years.
God he hated that Rainier and his beautiful princess were gone. Those were the days. When they were in power, Monaco was the greatest country on earth.
He blamed the Bush administration’s war on terrorism more than the European Union for the present crackdown.
At the same time he was dodging the new regime, that bitch who was blackmailing him was demanding a bigger piece of his pie. Between her, the Monaco cleanup, and investors in his racing team suddenly getting scarce, Giambi felt the walls closing in. He was being forced to reach out to people he had never done business with and he didn’t like it. You reach out, you don’t know who you’re gonna get.
That tended to kick his normal paranoia up a notch.
Now it was the time of the month, as with every month, that he had to wire the money to the biggest mistake of his life. One that was slowly bleeding him to death. He wanted be rid of her in the worst way, but he’d all but given up trying to kill her. Half the intelligence agencies in the world had been no more successful than he had.
He unlocked the drawer of his desk and pulled it out. The laptop came up into position. He opened up the secret account. The bitch seemed to know exactly what his take was each month and she made sure he handed the lion’s share over to her. It was a double transfer from his bank in Monaco, through an intermediary, and eventually to her accounts in Puerto Isla. She changed numbers and destinations so often he’d begun to think she wasn’t a person but an organization.
Stacked Deck Page 3
