The Hostage (Presidential Agent 2)

"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Castillo," the doorman said and opened the rear door. "Mr. Threadgill, the manager on duty, will be here momentarily."

Castillo and Fernando Lopez got out of the Yukon.

Fernando Lopez was an enormous man-six-foot-three, two hundred thirty pounds-with a full head of dark black hair and a swarthy complexion. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a crisp blue shirt with a white collar, a red-striped tie, and black ostrich-hide Western boots.

"If you want to get a cup of coffee or something," Castillo said to the driver, "I think this will probably take about an hour."

The Secret Service agent nodded but didn't say anything.

A tall, thin, elegantly dressed man in his late forties walked up to them.

"Mr. Castillo?" he asked and, when Charley nodded, put out his hand. "Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Castillo. My name is Edward Threadgill, and I am the manager on duty. If you'll follow me, please?"

He led them through the lobby. In a lounge to one side, three enormous television screens showed Air Force One taxiing toward a runway.

He stopped before an elevator, somewhat dramatically flashed a plastic card, and then demonstrated how the card operated the elevator door. He then presented the card to Castillo.

"He'll need one of those, too," Castillo said.

"Certainly," Mr. Threadgill announced, produced anotherplastic card, and handed it to Fernando. "There you are, sir. And you are, sir?"

"My name is Lopez," Fernando said.

"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Lopez."

"Thank you."

Threadgill bowed them onto the elevator.

The elevator ascended, then its doors opened on a large foyer. Threadgill led them to one of the four doors opening off it, ran the plastic card through another reading device, and then bowed them through the door.

Penthouse C was a large, elegantly furnished suite of rooms. Threadgill threw a switch, and curtains swished

open, revealing a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offering what in daylight would be a stunning view of the Gulf of Mexico, the sugar-white sandy beach, and the highway running along the coast. Now, a few lights twinkled out on the water and U.S. 90 was an intermittent stream of red lights going west, white lights going east.

There was a basket of fruit on a coffee table, and beside it a cooler holding two bottles of champagne.

"If you need anything, gentlemen," Threadgill said, "there are buttons in every room which will summon the floor waiter. There is of course twenty-four/seven room service."

"Thank you very much," Castillo said.

"Is there anything else, or may I leave you?"

"I can't think of anything, thank you very much," Castillo said.

Fernando Lopez waited until the door closed after Threadgill, and then said, "Knowing you as I do, Gringo, I'm sure there is some very simple reason why we are here in a suite normally reserved for really heavily losing baccarat players."

"Baccarat players?" Castillo asked.

"Yeah, this place is world headquarters for people who want to drop a couple of hundred thousand playing baccarat. You didn't know?"

Castillo shook his head.

"So what are we doing here?" Fernando asked.

"Thank you for not asking in the truck," Castillo said.

"That's the answer?"