Operation Honey Pot

By Thomas Lee Mitchell

A financial whiz Simon Katz uses his considerable talents to develop a method for moving cash undetected. Enticed by power and money, he readily extends his unique services to the Chicago mob; that is until Simon discovers his partners in crime are reaping millions by offering his system to an international terrorist group. In a sudden moral quandary, and under physical threat, he decides to run.
Local police become involved when Simon’s date reports him missing. The investigation expands to the FBI as evidence of terrorist involvement comes to light, and tracking the source and destination of Katz’s transfers becomes key to thwarting enemy movements throughout the Middle East.
Agent Frank Henderson decides to find and follow Katz over several time zones using him as a honey trap to attract and corner his attackers. Simon, however, is clever at outrunning and outwitting all sides until he can leverage his secrets and come out on top.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543499483

Thomas Lee Mitchell

Tom Mitchell holds a Bachelor of Science degree from Northeastern University and a Master in Liberal Arts from the University of Chicago. In addition to Soul Tracks III, his previous writings include a personal memoire, New England Son, and earlier editions of Soul Tracks I and II. Mitchell has been involved in the information technology industry essentially since its inception and served as founder and chief technologist of a global IT services firm. He resides in Chicago with his wife Rosemarie. They have four children and nine grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2021 by Thomas Lee Mitchell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 01/12/2022

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1     4 Jacks Hotel And Casino, Las Vegas

Chapter 2     Chicago

Chapter 3     Chicago

Chapter 4     Chicago

Chapter 5     Chicago/Las Vegas

Chapter 6     Chicago/Abu Dhabi

Chapter 7     Chicago

Chapter 8     Chicago

Chapter 9     Chicago

Chapter 10   Chicago

Chapter 11   Beirut/India/Las Vegas

Chapter 12   Las Vegas

Chapter 13   Las Vegas

Chapter 14   Las Vegas

Chapter 15   Wayne Nelson’s Ranch, Las Vegas

Chapter 16   WN’s Ranch, Las Vegas

Chapter 17   WN’s Ranch, Las Vegas

Chapter 18   Las Vegas

Chapter 19   Las Vegas Airport

Chapter 20   Las Vegas Airport

Chapter 21   Las Vegas

Chapter 22   Chicago

Chapter 23   Las Vegas

Chapter 24   Las Vegas

Chapter 25   Washington

Chapter 26   4 Jacks, Las Vegas

Chapter 27   Las Vegas

Chapter 28   Las Vegas

Chapter 29   Chicago

Chapter 30   Syria

Chapter 31   Chicago

Chapter 32   Vegas/Los Angeles

Chapter 33   Los Angeles

Chapter 34   Los Angeles

Chapter 35   Chicago/Bangalore

Chapter 36   Los Angeles

Chapter 37   New Zealand

Chapter 38   Las Vegas

Chapter 39   Las Vegas

Chapter 40   Las Vegas

Chapter 41   Las Vegas

Chapter 42   Dunedin

Chapter 43   Las Vegas

Chapter 44   Chicago

Chapter 45   Las Vegas

Chapter 46   Addison, IL

Chapter 47   Chicago

Chapter 48   Las Vegas

Chapter 49   Las Vegas

Chapter 50   Las Vegas

Chapter 51   Las Vegas/Dunedin

Chapter 52   Chicago

Chapter 53   Dunedin

Chapter 54   Dunedin

Chapter 55   Dunedin

Chapter 56   Dunedin

Chapter 57   Otago Bay, NZ

Chapter 58   Chicago/Dunedin

Chapter 59   Chicago/Dunedin

Chapter 60   Chicago/Dunedin

Chapter 61   Chicago

Chapter 62   Dunedin

Chapter 63   Dunedin

Chapter 64   Syria/Dunedin

Chapter 65   Dunedin

Chapter 66   Dunedin

Chapter 67   Otago Bay, New Zealand

Chapter 68   Dunedin

Chapter 69   Quarantine Island

Chapter 70   Las Vegas/Israel

Chapter 71   Three Years Later

For my grandchildren

CHAPTER

1

4 JACKS HOTEL AND CASINO, LAS VEGAS

The moment Mark’s head hit the pillow, a loud sound like a gunshot went off behind the headboard. He was startled but awake enough to realize it came from the adjoining room. Afraid the walls couldn’t stop another potential slug, he rolled under the bed and waited for another blast that never came. Yanking the phone to the floor by the cord, he called for hotel security.

At hello he interrupted and said, This is Mark Eddy in room 424. I just heard a gunshot from next door. I believe it’s room 426. Can you send someone up to investigate? I think they are still there. He checked the clock: 11:33 p.m.

As soon as he hung up, the door in 426 slammed. He could see shadows of feet scurrying toward the elevator. About three minutes later, still safely bunkered, he heard a shuffle and 426’s door open. Excited chatter, barely audible through the plaster walls, was followed by the high pitch of a vacuum cleaner. Minutes later, another door slam was followed by silence. Hopefully, it was an accidental discharge in a state allowing concealed carry. Yet, why were people running away? He hopped back to bed, thinking it would be a good mystery to share over breakfast, so he drifted back to sleep.

The evening had been warm, dry, and on the cusp of Halloween, the waning hours of a golf vacation. At this point, nothing had happened that had to remain in Vegas. Mark was staying in old downtown at the 4 Jacks. There was a good reason it wasn’t called the 4 Aces—sixty-five dollars bought a room, breakfast, and a book of discount coupons. The table minimums were a third of the high stakes tables on the Strip, a few miles south reached by passing the Regional Justice Center and a mixture of storefronts advertising twenty-four-hour bail bonds.

Tom Lezar and Mark Eddy, reasonably comfortable in their sixties, could afford the pricier hotels on the Strip but would rather spend what they had on the finer golf courses. Their wives at home were more uptown girls. Some might say they were cheap but it was the spicy allure of the seamier side of life if they admitted the attraction. It contrasted with their homes amidst the staid Republican suburbs northwest of Chicago.

Another heart-thumping venue was the spectacular Fremont Street light and sound show. The Fremont Experience was an artful blend of outdoor technicolor video projected on the underside of a barrel-vaulted canopy running the mall. Sights were digitally enhanced by hyper sounds vibrating fillings. The view drew a diverse collection of tourists, from locals looking to blow off steam to hordes of LA weekenders. Many were in Halloween regalia. Some wore painted clothing and strutted around bare-skinned. A continuous stream of revelers pranced by the hotel, each outdoing the other to look more outrageous. Couples were sporting more tats than the Treasury has ink and more flesh than a beach in Rio.

Tom and Mark welcomed the show as a diversion from the high-risk, low-return gambling within the bordering casinos. They people-watched while catching the last show at midnight. As usual, it finished with a rendition of Don Maclean’s American Pie. The last stanzas repeated the line: This will be the day that I die. Every time Mark heard those words, he sucked in his breath. Following the show, six bands competed with lyrics smothered by the jangle of amped guitar strings and heavily whipped drums. Finally, confessing, We must be getting too old for this, they agreed it was another great trip and saluted each other good night. They sauntered off to separate rooms in adjacent towers.

Tom was an attorney, neighbor, and golfing buddy. They had been friends since their families moved to South Barrington thirty-three years ago. He ambled in the direction of the tower where, for extra dollars, there were amenities like large fluffy towels and complimentary coffee. Mark defended his penny-pinching by blaming the humble influence of parents who survived the Great Depression. He was reasonably content to suffer through frugal quarters on the fourth floor, street side with views partially obstructed by the enormous J in the hotel sign. The room was sparsely furnished with dark brown materials chosen to hide obvious stains on the carpet and bedspread. The rattling air conditioner leaked into the spongey carpet. He reminded himself that one bed is like any other and looked forward to sweet dreams and a good night’s sleep.

Casinos were wide open to the street where the music tangled with clinks of slot machines. Guitar music brushed against the blackened windows of the neighboring gentleman’s club. Brassy tunes accompanied the croupier’s place your bets please, and the roulette wheels spun, clicking like the sound of baseball cards clipped to the spokes of bikes. Mercifully, the bands’ riffs and percussions retreated to bandstands farther down the Fremont Street Mall as Mark smiled himself to sleep by reminiscing about the best golf shots and leaving the nightmare strokes behind.

Finally falling asleep, Mark was startled awake to a rapid pounding from what sounded like the room next door. Again, his reverie shattered. Frustrated, he muttered, Aw shit, what the fuck now! It was 12:16 a.m. He covered his ears with the pillow, praying for the nuisance maker to stop and go away. It didn’t help; the banging persisted. The flurry of a pounding fist now settled into a pleading, three-knock rhythm. He got up and practically sleepwalked to the peephole where he had a fisheye view of a young woman. It was not what he expected—a striking beauty was swaying unsteadily on her pumps, slouched against the doorframe while pounding determinedly for someone to let her in. She was exotically attractive, like an East European supermodel, dressed stylishly yet looked desperate and tipsy.

Either there were no other occupants on this floor, or they all decided not to get involved. With his family in mind, his heroic instincts kicked in. He threw on crumpled golf shorts and a shirt from the carry-on, added his concerned Mother Teresa face, and went to offer assistance.

As he drew closer to this distraught young woman, he was even more taken by how lovely she was. She was dressed in a sophisticated-looking floor-length gown, snuggly turned around a trim body. A sexy slit in the back of her dress revealed a perfectly shaped leg, thin and well-toned. The clinging fabric was absent of the usual telltale underlines. The spangle sprinkled and sheer top floated over a plunging neckline revealed a soft, apparently natural cleavage. Her girlish face contrasted with a curvaceous form. At this moment, she looked like someone who belonged in a better place and time.

When Mark approached her, a flood of tears gushed forth, making her blue eyes look even more liquid. The streams ran through rivulets of mascara and over flushed cheeks. Her once perfectly arranged ensemble, he surmised, accentuated her long blond hair, now in disarray. Loose locks were evidence of a previous engagement, fully indulged. Her hair’s shine was more radiant in the glow of the recessed corridor lights, adding allure. His heart raced, pushing his mind from partial to full consciousness. Sleep was no longer a priority. The situation promised to add welcome excitement to a week that was so far enjoyable but routine.

This damsel in distress whispered her story through sniffles and occasional hiccups. I checked into this room with my date before we went out to a party. He left early with a promise to meet back here later. My key doesn’t work anymore, and he’s not answering.

Why don’t you come in? I’ll keep the door open. You can use my phone, Mark said.

I’m afraid because we were having a great time until he received a call. He turned pale, and he said, ‘We have to leave immediately.’ She confessed that they were partying for two solid days, and she was now frustrated and tired with another obstacle to the rest she wanted and needed.

Her speech had a charming Slavic lilt. She pursed her lips when she spoke, emphasizing syllables at the front of her mouth. Instead of that, it sounded like dat. With a slight slur and hesitation she added recent history.

I was invited to the trade show by a client of mine. My life was all work and no play, so I decided to join him. Mark was quick to note she didn’t say boyfriend or fiancé, and noticed no ring on her finger. She continued her story, and as she spoke longer, her English improved. He wanted to impress this client and bought me this beautiful gown. He was nerdy but nice and admitted being uncomfortable with small talk. He said he needed me to carry the conversation with the host and other guests. I realized he was using me as arm candy, but I also used him for a vacation. He paid for a trip I could never afford on my own.

While blowing her nose and drying her tears on tissues from her purse, she confessed to over indulging in tequila shots. Sensing she felt better telling her story, Mark asked her to start from the beginning.

We were having a good time at the dinner dance until he got this call. His mood immediately went from light to dark. He looked stunned. He began scanning the room as if expecting someone to jump out of the crowd and attack. I braced myself as I realized the evening was too good to be true. Coming on this trip was a mistake. The Cinderella feeling collapsed. His behavior was demanding and rude. He said, ‘Get your things. We are leaving now.’ I resented his tone that sounded like an order.

Why didn’t you go with him?

I started too but suddenly felt sick. Perhaps it was the drinking and the added tension. I asked him to wait while I went to the ladies’ room. He was so agitated, pacing the floor that I told him to go ahead and I’d catch up with him at the hotel.

So that was the last time you saw him?

Yes, and now I think he left me for a reason I cannot explain. She stiffened as the words left her mouth. "He shoved some cab fare in my purse and rushed out yelling that he had to go and promised to see me back in the room. As he left through the glass doors, I noticed him waving for a cab. I went into the restroom and collapsed on the settee and must have dozed off.

"An attendant woke me. I felt sick and threw up. I was alone in this strange city. He arranged everything, and I was not used to traveling to places like this. I was a teenager when I came to this country, and my life revolved around the same neighborhood where everyone was either related or from the same area in Poland.

I thought I’d feel better if I washed my face and put on more makeup, but I panicked when I couldn’t enter the room.

Mark learned her name was Monika. He encouraged her to keep talking, How well did you know this man?

His name is Simon Katz. We met when he was a new spa customer of mine a year ago. Conversations became friendlier during weekly manicures, and we had begun to see each other for dinner. Our dates were not serious but more frequent over the past few months. He was always kind and considerate. Never forcing unwanted intentions. That is why this sudden change startled me. A taxi took me back here, and here I am, locked out of a room in this cheap, rundown hotel. I would never consider staying if it were my choice. No offense.

None taken.

When she finished the story, he reminded the young woman that she could use his phone and call hotel security. He hoped they could access her room for sleepwear and overdue rest.

After hanging up, she said, Security was abrupt and wouldn’t discuss the situation over the phone. They told me I have to go down to the office to fill out a formal request. Still distressed and unsteady, Monika said, Please, come with me. I don’t trust myself right now, and security sounds like they couldn’t care less about my situation. With his curiosity continuing to pique, Mark agreed to join her once he dressed properly.

A pause in the conversation seemed to be the appropriate moment for a formal introduction. So he extended his hand and said, My name is Mark. My buddy and I are finishing up a golf vacation and are planning to head back home to Illinois tomorrow afternoon. Her hand was easily lost in his, but the grip was strong.

I’m Monika Kawiecka. I work at The Peninsula Chicago Spa where I met Simon.

She didn’t offer much more to her story, so Mark excused himself and went to the bathroom to change into a fresh shirt and slipped on shoes without socks that seemed to be missing or packed somewhere out of sight. When he came out, he recited his standard bio, starting with, My full name is Mark Eddy. I have a background as a network security specialist and partner in a consulting firm in the Chicago suburbs. So she didn’t worry that he was an ax murderer, he quickly added, I am married with four adult children and nine grandchildren.

Monika feigned interest, understandably distracted by the situation and the alcoholic after-effects. Her eyes were studying her feet as she rocked from side to side. They left the room together and walked slowly to the elevator. She squeezed Mark’s arm for support and assurance. I must develop a more exciting bio that will grab a young woman’s attention, Mark thought.

It seemed to take forever for an elevator to arrive. Competition for a ride should have been minimal during these wee morning hours. When it finally landed, he pressed the half-worn G button. The doors shook closed, and the car shuddered to begin a snail-like descent. She sobbed on Mark’s shoulder, and he stiffened, not knowing how to respond. Tears mixed with mascara left an imprint on his white Polo golf shirt. He wondered what explanation he’d give his wife when she discovered this evidence in the laundry basket. On the lobby level were signs for everything but security. Finally, an employee noted their confusion and directed them to a narrow hallway squeezed into a corner behind a coffee shop.

They knocked twice without a response they could hear. They were permitted to enter from a barking command, Come in already! The security office had the imprint of a hoarder, crammed with file cabinets, scattered electronic parts, and old mismatched furniture. Mark and Monika stood in front of the desk in the center of the mess. A nameplate was resting near a crust of bread on chipped 4 Jacks porcelain. The sign on the desk indicated the occupant was Sergeant Deegan (no first name or initials, nothing too revealing). Monika took the only available seat and repeated her story with intermittent sniffles.

The sergeant remained placid throughout the background recitation. He also didn’t introduce himself. His thinning gray hair framed an ample face, rounded and colored like a ripe tomato. Immense girth was divided by a gun belt separating a rotund figure at the equator. Deegan’s body was a testament to years of overindulgence. His butt cheeks oozed over the padded office chair patched by duct tape and what looked like a decade of accumulated grime. He had the look of an over the hill but hardened street cop who had probably heard and seen everything.

Over the sergeant’s beefy shoulders was an array of flickering vintage monitors. Some screens were blank, and others displayed grainy black and white images. Mark could barely make out loading docks and corridors. The gaming tables must have more up-to-date technology. It seemed like room security was on a severely limited budget.

Curious about the fourth floor, Mark said, I noticed you have security cameras on every floor. Can we review the previous few hours on the fourth?

He turned around to say, Looks like those floor cameras aren’t working. It happens. In a dismissive wave at Mark’s reference point, he said, But thanks for pointing that out. I’ll let the maintenance guys know.

Mark was surprised. Don’t you have another camera that could be useful? My company knows that Vegas ranks third in the US for the number of access devices for high-resolution video and audio surveillance.

He was familiar with the city’s installed equipment. Its microphones and cameras record everything within earshot and bounce warnings to a control center where analytical software can detect a person or event of interest. Leading-edge resolution allowed elevated cameras at great distances to zoom with incredible detail, even finding a freckle on the cheek of an individual in a crowd.

After a pause, he looked Mark in the eye and asked, Why are you here, mister?

I was the caller who reported the earlier gunshot from the room in question.

I just came on duty, but there was an incident in the log reporting an accidental gun discharge in room 426. Is that the room we are talking about? We told the occupant to vacate the premises. We can’t have guests with loaded firearms in the hotel even if they are licensed to carry.

That conflicts with this woman’s claim that her date was registered to the room, and she was previously with him at a party.

Although his face didn’t change expression, he looked down at his folded hands, a sure tell if it was poker. Mark wagered the whole incident wasn’t recorded for a reason. Perhaps it was the concern for the casino’s reputation. Places like this wanted a low profile to keep cops from sniffing around and finding other client transgressions.

The sergeant pulled Mark aside and whispered, This woman looks confused to me. I’m not sure I would take her word over that of our hotel staff.

Pressing him on that subject wasn’t going to be productive. Mark asked, Would you allow us to enter the room to check for belongings?

Okay, but I need to check with the front desk to verify it’s her room. He called registration to check. After several minutes, all Mark heard was, Are you sure? and he hung up the phone and said, No one by that name has occupied 426 in the past several days. The front desk said an occupant just checked out.

What was the name of that guest?

Monika was frustrated because she had mentioned her escort’s name earlier. With a deep sigh, she repeated, Simon Katz.

We protect the names of our clients. I can’t tell you, but I know it wasn’t Katz.

Mark sensed his unease with the answer but held back, knowing this wasn’t going anywhere. When Mark insisted on checking the room for themselves, the sergeant admitted no harm in granting them access to an empty room. He picked up the radio to order floor security to escort them. The sergeant was too glued to the chair to accompany them. Mark wondered why he didn’t get huffy when their claims, if untrue, would be considered outrageous if he believed the casino’s version