"That's what I'm doing."
"A little more efficiency, please." He smiled. "Or I might have to deal with Tavak."
Rage tore through Dawson at the thought. Don't let him see it. "That won't be necessary. You've got the best man working on it now. It wouldn't be smart to change in midstream."
"That's why I haven't made that move." He lifted his mint julep in a toast. "To a mutually profitable relationship. And to Peseshet's tablet, which I earnestly hope lives up to its hype."
Dawson lifted his glass. "Well, a Pharaoh and his entire kingdom believed that formula was the real McCoy."
"Aw, hell, that's no comfort. Those same people thought crocodiles were gods."
"It's no more ridiculous than many of the things in your Bible."
Mills frowned and suddenly slid back into all the Southern phoniness with which he had first confronted Dawson. "Hey, hey, hey. No reason to get all blasphemous."
"Sorry. No offense intended."
"Don't apologize to me."
Surely this fat hypocrite couldn't be serious. Dawson smiled. "Mills, if you really believe in a Christian god, you know we're both going to hell." He inclined his head. "I'll call you."
He could feel Mills's gaze on him as he walked away. Mills had shown a perceptiveness he hadn't expected and had caught him off guard. But Dawson had handled the bastard very well considering the burning anger he was feeling. No one humiliated him as Mills had done. No one treated him as an underling.
In spite of Mills's so-called instincts, he'd bet the man hadn't even realized that he'd just signed his own death warrant.
* * *
Rachel left her suite and walked down the hall to Tavak's room. She felt tension tighten her stomach as she rapped on the door. What if he had taken off?
She shook her head. If she couldn't even trust him to stick around, why in hell was she crazy enough to trust him to do what he had proposed?
Tavak answered the door. He had shaven and now wore khakis and a white undershirt. He gestured for her to come in. "How are your graduate students?"
"Smart as hell. Simon did a good job rounding them up. He's still running drills with them now."
"Good."
Rachel stared at the room's king-size bed, now cluttered with a laptop, cabling, and several peripheral devices. "I see you've been busy."
Tavak smiled. "It was actually easy, thanks to you." He held up four silver keycards.
"Are those what I think they are?"
"Yes."
Excitement flared through her. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"I'll know in about an hour."
The computer beeped. Tavak leaned over the device, pressed a few keys, and pulled a fifth card from an attached EPROM writer. Tavak held up the card, his eyes dancing. "Want one?"
"No. I'm not sure this is a good idea anymore. You're enjoying it too much."
"It's a great idea. Not only do we get to test your algorithm, but it makes the kind of statement Demanski will respond to."
"You're acting as if you know him."
"I know men like him. Hell, I'm like him."
He could be right. Demanski was a high-stakes gambler, and so was Tavak. Only the stakes they played for differed.
Tavak was staring at her. "Let yourself go," he said softly. "Stop worrying. Remember the Rachel who got banned from this strip when she was only a kid. Wasn't that a hell of a kick?"
"I wasn't playing for the same thing. This is serious."
"Then pretend it isn't. Let's have fun with it." He turned back to the computer. "Trust me. And whatever you do, don't send your team in until you get my call."
* * *
Three hours later Rachel walked across the bridge that traversed the huge reflecting pond of the Demanski Hotel and Casino. It was almost midnight, and thousands of tourists were gathering for the elaborate laser light-and-water show that had become a Demanski trademark. She had been to conferences in which even the most jaded attendees had practically knocked each other over in their rush to see one of the several nightly shows.
"Miss Kirby?" A tall, blue-blazered security officer opened one of the casino's massive front doors for her. "Mr. Demanski is expecting you. Please follow me."
She was surprised. There were hundreds of people pouring into the casino, yet this young man had immediately zeroed in on her.
"This way, ma'am." He motioned for her to follow him through the main walkway.
She looked at the hotel's stately decor and beautifully appointed fixtures, seeing that Demanski had upgraded his taste since the days he had pioneered family-friendly-themed casinos. She turned back to her escort. "What if I told you that I wanted to play a few hands of blackjack?"
"We both know that can't happen."
"Really? Why is that?"
The security officer cast a sideways glance at her. "We all got your file before we came onto the floor tonight. I think you'd have a difficult time playing blackjack in any casino in town."
"Still?"
"When Mr. Demanski says 'banned for life,' he means it. I'm surprised he's actually meeting with you."
Rachel glanced at the multitude of security cameras scattered around the casino's main floor, knowing that there were dozens more above the one-way mirrors lining the ceiling. Somewhere in the hotel, she knew there was a control-room monitor bank that rivaled NASA Mission Control.
She smiled at one of the cameras. "What facial-recognition technology are you using here? FaceIt? Betaface?"
"You know I can't discuss that."
"Everyone knows you have them. Anybody who's ever been accused of card counting or a casino robbery has a visual record in your database, which is then shared with almost every other gaming establishment in the world. Whenever I walk through a casino to a restaurant or my hotel room, it usually only takes about forty seconds before a small army of security guys appear around me."
He smiled. "Maybe they just find you attractive."
"Even Angelina Jolie doesn't get that much attention."
The security officer motioned for her to enter an open elevator. He slid a gold card into a slot on the panel, then stepped out. "Have a nice evening, Miss Kirby."
The doors slid closed before Rachel could respond.
After what seemed like only seconds, the doors opened on the sixty-fifth floor. She stepped onto the marble tile of a spacious atrium lined with floor-to-ceiling Dutch paintings. There was no one in sight.
"Hello?" she said tentatively.
No reply.
"Mr. Demanski?"
There were angry shouts coming from the end of the corridor.
"Hello?" She walked toward the sounds.
"You stupid asshole!" a booming male voice shouted. "Shit!"
Rachel moved quietly down the corridor as the shouting continued. She heard a series of low blasts.
"What are you thinking, dumb-ass? I'm wide open here! Fall back! Regroup, regroup!"
Rachel rounded the corner to see Hal Demanski, dressed to the nines in a tailored black tux, standing in front of a wall-sized plasma television screen. He wore a wireless headset and gripped a futuristic laser rifle. A computer game was on the screen, and Demanski appeared to be shooting acid-spewing aliens. "Dammit, guys! Get your asses over here!"