Free Time of Attack by Marc Cameron Page A

black domes on the ceiling above, he remembered the line from the movie Ocean’s Eleven —someone was “always watching” at the Bellagio.
    He popped out to flashing neon lights on the north side of the casino and breathed a sigh of relief to be back outside again, even if it meant leaving the crowded hotel for a crowded street.
    It was warm, even for Vegas in the winter, though the sun had been down for nearly an hour. Taillights flashed and dimmed on stop-and-go traffic that backed up Flamingo Road all the way to the Las Vegas Strip. Quinn was able to trot between a bumper-to-bumper phalanx of two black stretch limos, a canary yellow Ferrari, and a pearl white Hummer to reach the great cluster of bone white buildings that made up Caesars Palace Casino and Forum Shops.
    Looking for any one guest who happened to be staying at a hotel as large as Caesars Palace would normally require a good deal of time and a large surveillance team, but Quinn had an inside man—Adam Norton, of Drake’s Capitol Police protective detail the year before. Officer Norton had pulled Drake’s dead wife from the Potomac River and had a strong suspicion that she’d been murdered. He knew the Speaker’s tastes along with his secrets. Of course, he’d been summarily kicked off the detail shortly after the incident, but Quinn had kept in contact with him for just this sort of event.
    As Speaker of the House of Representatives, Hartman Drake was allocated a small protective detail of Capitol Police officers when he traveled. According to Norton, he liked to keep them at a distance during his visits to Vegas so he could spend time with a certain Puerto Rican escort he’d taken up with since his wife had been killed. In the world of dignitary protection, there was often a sort of cat-and-mouse game played by the protector and protectee. People wanted and needed space—but it was that space that could get them killed. It was the detail leader’s job to figure out just how much space was possible to give and still keep the protectee safe from harm or embarrassment.
    Quinn made his way through the entry off Flamingo Road, past the bellmen and row of perky clerks at the Diamond VIP check-in desk. He strolled through the Palace casino like a tourist, eyes peeled for Drake. Norton had said the Speaker had a thing for blackjack, and since this was his last evening in Vegas, Quinn assumed that he’d be at the high-stakes tables.
    Failing to find Drake anywhere in the Palace section of the enormous gambling complex, Quinn ducked down a narrow, dimly lit hall of dark paneling and crushed velvet cocktail tables, passing under the bulbous wooden breasts of Cleopatra’s barge that hung over the walkway. The din of the crowds and rattling ping of slot machines grew louder as he neared the Forum casino floor.
    Quinn’s gut knotted when he finally saw the Speaker. He thought of Kim, of all the blood, and of Mattie, the sniper’s intended target. Pausing to take a slow breath, he pushed any notion of instant revenge to the back of his mind and studied the situation. Palmer was right. There was much more to this than a simple assassination. Otherwise, Quinn knew he would have been the target.
    Hartman Drake was seated at the nearest blackjack table, a fat cigar clenched between his teeth. Extremely fit, the Speaker spent several hours each day in the House gym and picked his clothing to show off broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He wore faded blue jeans and a tailored white shirt. Absent his trademark bow tie, it was open at the collar. A gold Rolex hung from the cuff of a navy blue blazer. Behind a cloud of cigar smoke, a derisive smile smeared across his mouth. He was winning.
    Quinn kept walking toward the sports book lounge. He ordered a Bacardi and Coke from a roving waitress and watched the Hispanic woman pressed in close beside Drake. She was young, maybe twenty-two, with expressively dark eyes and a wide mouth, heavily covered in crimson lipstick.