Anyway, we each made a pit stop, then went into the casino area, and I asked Ms. Sims, "Would you like a muffin?"

"I owe you a drink."

I headed directly for the Ego Lounge, which late at night becomes the Libido Lounge. We sat at the bar, and Ms. Sims inquired, "Have you been here before?"

"I think I may have been here on business."

The bartender-actually a tendress with big… eyes-asked what we were drinking, and Ms. Sims ordered a white wine while I got my usual Dewar's and soda.

We clinked glasses, and she said, "Cheers," then she asked me, "Why are we here?"

I replied, "Just to be sure Big Bird is playing and not meeting someone."

She reminded me, "We have a team here. Also, B.B. can have a meet in his room and we wouldn't know."

I replied, "The SO guys would know." I advised her, "You want to be around if something goes down. Being in the right place at the right time is not an accident." I asked her, "Were you listening to my stories?"

"Every word."

"You got someplace else to go?"

"Nope."

"Good. We'll give it an hour."

Actually, there was no reason to stay, except I needed a drink. Plus, I was pissed off at Big Bird for giving me the finger. That wasn't very diplomatic of him. I mean, it's my country. Right? He's a guest. And I'm not his host.

"John? I said, sorry I couldn't tell you about this." She explained, "They wanted to run it as a standard surveillance so that the subject couldn't guess by our actions that we knew where he was going." She added, "Only I knew in case we actually lost him."

"Right. Whatever." I had no idea whose brilliant idea that was, but I could guess that it was the idea of Tom Walsh, the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force in New York. Walsh is somewhere between a genius and an idiot, and there's not much space separating the two. Also, he loves the cloak-and-dagger stuff and doesn't quite get standard police work. I mean, this secrecy crap would never have happened when I was a cop. But it's a new world and a new job and I don't take it personally.

To change the subject, I said, "Call the SO team and get a fix on Big Bird."

We all have these Nextel phones that, as I said, have a bling feature-a walkie-talkie capability-and Ms. Sims blinged one of the SO people and reported our location and asked that we be called if Big Bird left his room and came down to the casino or wherever.

So we chatted, mostly about her living and working in New York, which she didn't like personally, but did like professionally. Lisa Sims reminded me in some ways of my wife, Kate Mayfield, who I met on the job three years ago on the previously mentioned case of the Libyan asshole. Kate, too, is from the hinterland, and she wasn't initially thrilled with the New York assignment, but after meeting me she wouldn't live anywhere else. And then there was 9/11. After that, she wanted us to transfer out of New York, but after the trauma wore off-we were both there when it happened-she rethought it and realized she couldn't leave. Which was good, since I wasn't leaving.

I had a second drink, but Ms. Sims-now Lisa-switched to club soda because I told her she was driving back.

Her cell phone blinged, and she took it and listened, then said to the caller, "Okay, we'll probably head out." She signed off and said to me, "Big Bird is alone at a roulette table."

"How's he doing?"

"I didn't ask." She called for the check, paid, and we left the Ego Lounge.

She turned toward the lobby, but I said, "I just want to get a close look at this guy."

She hesitated, then deferred to my professional judgment and nodded.

We made our way into the cavernous casino, and Lisa blinged her contact on the SO team and got a fix on Big Bird. Within a few minutes, we spotted him sitting at a roulette wheel with a drink in his hand.

The Iranian's sinful behavior was not my problem-in fact, we record all this on film and it can be useful-but I think there's something deep down schizo with these people, a total disconnect that is not good for the head.

Lisa said, "Okay? There he is. Let's go."

I observed, "Satan has entered his soul."

"Right. I see that."

"I need to help him."

"John-"

"Let's get some tokens and hit the slots."

"John-"

"Come on." I took her arm and we went to the cashier, where I got a hundred one-dollar tokens on my government credit card-the accounting office will get a good laugh out of that-and we headed for the dollar slots, from which we could see Big Bird's back.

Lisa and I sat side by side at two poker machines, and I asked her, "You ever play the slots?"

"No."

"You play poker?"

"I do."

So I divided up the silver coins and briefly explained the machine to Lisa, and we played slot machine poker. They should have a slot game called Sucker. You get a row of five suckers and the machine kicks you in the nuts and swallows all the coins in your tray.

We each got a drink from a passing waitress, and I inhaled the secondhand smoke of a catatonic fat lady sitting next to me.

Anyway, we were up and down, and Lisa was getting into it, hoping to retire early on the Zillion Dollar Jackpot. Meanwhile, Big Bird is sinking deeper into the fires of hell with each spin of the wheel. I had to save him.

After about half an hour, Big Bird cashed out and got up. He drifted over to the blackjack tables, then hesitated and decided to go somewhere else.

Lisa got four kings and the machine chimed and disgorged a stream of coins into her tray.

I said to her, "Big Bird is moving. Stay here and play my machine. Call the Special Ops team and tell them I've got him."

She glanced around, noticing her surroundings, then said, "Okay…"

I headed across the casino floor, hoping that Big Bird would head to the elevators, or the men's room, or the boardwalk-any place where we could be alone for a chat.

He walked like he needed to take a leak, and sure enough he headed out toward the restrooms. I followed him into a corridor and saw him go through the men's room door. I followed.

These guys don't piss at the urinal-they like privacy when they pull out their pee-pees-and Big Bird was in one of the stalls.

There were two guys at the urinals and one at the sink. Very quietly and diplomatically, I showed my creds and asked them to move out quickly, and I asked one of them to stand outside and keep people out.

They all exited, and I stood at the sink, looking in the mirror. The stall door opened-without a flush. In fact, Big Bird didn't even go to the sinks.

I turned and he gave me a glance and I could tell he didn't recognize me. But then he made his move. He suddenly rushed me and somehow managed to smash his balls into my fist. Well, that took me by surprise, and I stepped back as he made his next aggressive move, which was to sink to his knees and make threatening groans at me. His eyes were rolling like the wheels on a slot machine, and then he slumped forward and lay on the floor, breathing hard, ready to attack again. I didn't want to cause an international incident, so I excused myself by saying, "Fuck you," and left.

Out in the corridor, I released my deputy and went back into the casino, where I ran into Lisa, who was carrying a plastic container filled with tokens. She asked me, "Where were you?"

"Men's room."

"Where's Big-"

"Time to go."

We headed toward the lobby, and she asked me, "What do I do with these tokens?"

"Give them to accounting."

We got outside and headed toward the SUV.

Lisa asked, "What happened? Where's Big Bird?"

The less she knew, the better for her, of course, so I said, "Men's room."

She asked, "Who's covering him? Is he moving?"

"Uh… not too much."

"John-"

"Call the SO team and report his last location."