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shut. X, crouching in the left corner of the closet with the light bulb in his hand, breathed again.
    He exited the closet and headed straight for the bedroom. He hurriedly ripped off the turban and false beard and stuffed them in a night table drawer. The man's black shoes fit fine; the sleeves of the jacket were a bit short. X rolled up them up.
    Learning a hotel safe's code by recognizing the distinct tone of each key as it's punched in was a trick he'd learned ages ago. He popped open the safe and retrieved hubby's wallet from its hiding place. Jon Preston, the Arizona driver's license read. Also in the wallet was an official-looking badge. Tucson Police Department.
    Christ almighty, the guy is a cop!
    There was $400 cash and assorted credit cards. X stuffed the wallet in his pants pocket. There was a holstered .45 in the night table. Even in a state of panic, X was not tempted to take it. He found a cell phone plugged in and hurriedly punched in Samantha's number. On the third ring she answered.
    "Sam, remember to pick up my medicine," he told her.
    "What, why?" she demanded.
    "Can't talk now," he shot back and hung up.
    That was another code phrase. Within 15 minutes, Sam would have vanished from the apartment. The operation had blown up in X's face and it felt as if his world was crashing down on him, but he had an ace in the hole: Steven Holdenbrook.
    Steven Holdenbrook was X's ultimate creation. An identity so perfect, so complete, that X could step into it and disappear forever. In a parking garage of the Trump Casino, walking distance away, was a green Ferrari. In the glove compartment lay stashed $100,000 cash and documents authenticating his identity as Steven Holdenbrook. X thought of that car, always parked near a "jobsite," as his lifeboat. If he could get there he would be safe. Of course, that left the minor task of first getting out of this building.
    He looked out the peephole and, seeing no one in the hall, ventured out.
    X pressed the button for the inclinator, and stood trying not to tremble while he waited. The agents must still be checking out the floors above, he thought. They never could have imagined he made it down three stories. But they'd be down here any second.
    The inclinator arrived and though it was crowded, X pushed his way in - earning him a look of chagrin from a porky occupant in a Michael Moore baseball cap and his equally chunky bride, who couldn't spare much space. He maneuvered to the back. Just as the glass doors whooshed shut, X saw a half dozen agents emerge from a stairwell into the hall.
    X ducked down so that he was concealed behind the obese pair and the inclinator continued its descent. From his vantage point looking down through the glass he could see dozens of agents swarming through the casino.
    What in blue blazes is going on?
    He was a small-time con man. Okay, maybe a big-time one, this was no occasion for false modesty. What could possibly make him so important to the Justice Department? Whatever hopes he had nursed of simply walking out through the front door were dashed.
    X crossed the casino floor, where an unusual number of uniformed security guards as well as men his practiced eye identified as undercover security personnel were also roaming. He approached a beefy, mustachioed security guard.
    "What's going on?" X demanded in as tough a Southwestern voice as he could muster.
    "What do you mean?"
    "Come on, all this heat."
    "I can't tell you anything, sir."
    X flashed the Tucson police badge.
    "Hey, I'm a cop, cut me some slack."
    The guard leaned down and whispered confidentially, "Department of Homeland Security operation. There's some kind of terrorist loose. A high-value target." He didn't look bright enough to know precisely what "high-value target" meant.
    X felt his blood run cold. Some kind of terrorist. So THAT explained the Gestapo-type raid.
    What exactly was going on now came to him in a rush. Ali Nazeer's carefree-playboy persona was merely a ruse. He