"Is that still the plan?" Sam had asked.
She shook her head vehemently. "I grew out of that shit — got older and stopped reading comic books. But I'd put a lot of time into finding out how journalism worked and it looked like something I could do to make some money and have a decent life, so I stuck with it. Yeah, I know. There's no money in journalism any more. It's still better than flipping burgers or being someone's maid. And maybe I can do some good with it, even if that doesn't mean some stupid Batman shit about avenging my dad. So now you know why all this means so much to me. But if I sit here and indulge this crap all day we're never going to get to Vegas. So that's it. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
That had been her last word on the subject. Sam was intrigued — he wanted to know more about how she had managed to keep her head above water and what he could do to help her to catch a break. To hell with getting to Vegas on time. He was quite prepared to spring for a night's accommodation if she needed to stop. Yet every time he tried to gently raise the subject again, she would deftly change it. Before he knew it, they were approaching Cedar City and their cover story was in place.
"Last stop before Vegas," Julia Rose said, preparing to pull in at a gas station. "It shouldn't take us more than an hour-and-a-half from here; it'll be real quiet by now. So that means we'll get there at, what, eleven-thirty? Not bad going. Kind of sucks that we're this close to Parashant and we're just going to have to drive past it."
"True," said Sam, "but who's going to turn down a free trip to Vegas? You might make your fortune. I'm going to get a drink. Should I get you a coffee?"
"May I get a Red Bull instead? And maybe some aspirin, if that's ok. Do you want some cash for that?"
"No bother. It's all going on the Daniels account."
"Oh, ok. In that case, let's make it Advil!"
They rolled into Vegas slightly ahead of schedule. Julia Rose's feet seemed to be getting heavier on the gas pedal as they got closer to their destination. Sam consulted his scribbled notes for the address of their hotel, the Verbena. It took only a moderate amount of circling and swearing at each other to find it, at which point life suddenly became considerably easier. Despite Julia Rose's protestations that no hotel in Vegas would valet park her car, she handed the keys to Sam and let him toss them to the attendant. If the attendant judged them for arriving in a rust bucket, he did not let it show on his face but accepted Sam's tip, slipped behind the wheel, and told them to contact the reception desk when they wanted the car again.
At the reception counter they completed name tags identifying them as part of the FireStorm group and were handed keys to rooms 1850 and 1851. "Dinner service just got finished," the receptionist informed them, her smile unwavering, "but we have an extensive room service menu, so if you see anything you like, we'll send it right up. Your rooms are on the eighteenth floor. Are you sure you don't want someone to show you the way? Ok! Well, turn right as you get out of the elevator."
The elevators, like the rest of the Verbena, were a confection of white plastic and highly polished chrome. There were even a couple of glass lifts, like little bubbles that faced both the interior and exterior of the building, offering guests the opportunity to ride in full view of the lobby and the Las Vegas skyline. Sam could see why Sara had chosen this place as a meeting point for the Silicon Valley delegates. It felt like the whole place had been built out of iPhones. Selecting a floor could be achieved with a mundane push of a button, but there was also the option of speaking your destination to a voice recognition system, which cheerfully repeated Sam's words back to him.
"I see that you have just checked in!" the elevator voice said. "Please don't forget to check out our in-house casino, our award-winning restaurant, our world-famous champagne bar, our state-of-the-art gymnasium and spa facility, or any of the other extraordinary features we offer here at the Verbena! If you require anything during your stay or wish to personalize your Verbena experience, just speak into the microphone beside your bed and a member of our team will be right with you!"
Sam bit his tongue. He promised himself he would get through this first night, at least, without swearing at the technology. He thought fondly of some of the run-down bed and breakfast places he had stayed at through the years, places run by surly old couples who viewed their guests with anything from suspicion to open hostility. It seemed friendlier, somehow, than this mechanized place that offered a "personalized experience" while being utterly clinical.
He stepped out into the hallway of the eighteenth floor, Julia Rose behind him, and turned right as they had been instructed. Just as they set off down the corridor, another elevator pinged behind them. Instinctively, Sam turned around and saw the doors open to let out a well-dressed couple. The man was tall and heron-like, wearing small glasses and expert tailored clothing. Sam recognized him at once as Dave Purdue, the same thrill-seeking billionaire who had dragged him and Jefferson all the way to Antarctica in search of lost Nazi treasures. The obsessed magnate who had plummeted him into the dangers of sneaking into Tibet and desecrating temples to acquire the location of a religious item that drove men mad in its pursuit.
And the woman beside him was none other than Nina.
Chapter Six
The Verbena had nothing as low-tech as a normal alarm clock on its bedside tables. Instead, pale blue digits were projected onto the stark white walls. These read 03:07 when the faint tapping on the door began.
Sam was not asleep, of course. Even after a week in America, his sense of time was yet to catch up. He was sprawled diagonally across the vast bed, staring at the ceiling, half-listening to the news on the giant plasma TV, while he sucked despondently on the end of an electronic cigarette. Quietly, he rolled off the bed and crept across the floor. For all its gadgetry, the one thing the room did not have was a peephole in the door. He glanced around to see if there was something he should be pressing or whispering at to bring up information about who was on the other side of the door.
The tapping came again. It was soft, so soft that it would not have woken even the lightest of sleepers. Someone wanted to know whether he was awake. Sam wondered whether the person would be able to see light under the door or hear the sound of the TV. Then again, he thought, I could have fallen asleep with the TV on — and the lights too. It's no guarantee of anything. I could just—
"Sam? I would be surprised if you are not both in the room and currently awake. Please let me in."
Purdue. The voice on the other side of the door was Purdue. Sam pushed the button beside the door, making it slide open to let Purdue in.
"Thank you, Sam. I knew you would be up, I remember well your habits." He strolled into the room, examined the layout, then walked straight toward the far wall and pressed his palm against it. A panel swished out of sight, revealing the mini bar that Sam had searched for in vain a few hours earlier. Purdue took out two miniature bottles of vodka, complete with tiny chilled shot glasses placed over the top, and handed one to Sam. "Insomnia can be so useful when I am at home and have things I can work on. In a situation like this, I simply find my wakefulness incredibly tedious. Nina is no help at all. I have never known a woman to sleep as soundly as she does."