Now they were inside a tropical forest. A jungle canopy stretched overhead and the inside of the cab’s windows began to fog from the humidity. The driver pulled in front of the main entrance and stopped.

“When you get out,” he said, “watch for the birds. I had a customer last week who claimed he was dive-bombed and pecked.”

Truitt nodded and paid the driver. Then he climbed out, opened the rear door and retrieved his bag, then closed the door again and motioned for the cabbie to pull away. Turning, he watched as a bellman shooed away a thick black snake from the main doors with a broom. Then he glanced up at the canopy overhead. There was no sunlight visible, and the sound of birds chirping filled the space.

Lifting his bag, Truitt walked over to the bellman’s stand.

“Welcome to Dreamworld,” the bellman said. “Are you checking in?”

“Yes,” Truitt said, handing the bellman a fake driver’s license from Delaware and a credit card that was tied to the false identity.

The bellman swiped both through a machine and then took an adhesive coded strip that printed out and slapped it on Truitt’s bag. “We will send your bag to your room on our conveyor system,” he said efficiently. “The room will be ready and the bag will be in the room”—he paused to stare at the computer screen—“in ten minutes. There is a front desk inside if you wish to arrange casino credit or for anything else you might need. Have a great stay here at Dreamworld.”

Truitt handed the bellman a ten, took the card key for the door and walked toward the entrance. The twin glass doors opened automatically, and what Truitt saw inside astounded him. It was as if the natural world had been brought indoors.

Just inside the door was a man-made lazy river with guests riding on small boats. In the distance to the left, Truitt could just make out the figures of people scaling an artificial alpine peak. He watched as snow cascaded down, only to be swallowed up by an opening at the base. Truitt shook his head in amazement.

Truitt continued on until he came to an information desk.

“Which way to the nearest bar?” he asked the clerk.

The clerk pointed in the distance. “Just past Stonehenge on the right, sir.”

Truitt walked into a domed area and past an exactsized replica of Stonehenge. An artificial sun was mimicking the summer solstice and the shadows formed an arm that pointed to the center. Finding the door to the bar—a thick-planked affair peering out from under a thatched roof—Truitt opened it and entered the dimly lit room.

The bar was a replica of an old English roadhouse. Walking over to a stool constructed from wood, leather, and boar’s horns, Truitt sat down and stared at the bar itself. It was a massive slab of wood that must have weighed as much as a dump truck.

The bar was empty save Truitt, and the bartender approached from the side.

“Grog or mead, my lord,” she asked.

Truitt considered this for a moment. “Mead, I guess,” he said finally.

“Good choice,” the bartender said, “it’s a little early for grog.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Truitt said as the bartender reached for a glass and began to fill it from a wooden cask behind the bar.

The bartender was dressed in the costume of a serving wench. Her bosom spilled out of the top of the uniform. Setting the glass in front of Truitt, she made a half bow then backed away down the bar. Truitt sipped the drink and sat in the dark room thinking about the man who had created this man-made wonderland.

And how he would break into the man’s office to search.

“How much do I owe you?” Truitt asked the bartender.

“I can put it on your room card,” the bartender offered.

“I’ll just pay cash.”

“Morning special,” the bartender said, “one dollar.”

Truitt sat a few ones on the bar then walked through the dim room and out the door.

TURNING LEFT PAST Stonehenge, he entered a massive atrium. In the distance a chairlift led toward the top of a ski mountain with the crest covered in clouds. Walking past the base of the mountain, where people on skis were waiting to take the chairlift up, he watched a few skiers coming down the hill as the fake snow flew through the air like real powder. Continuing past, he came upon an information booth.

“Do you have maps of the hotel?” Truitt asked the clerk.

The man smiled and withdrew a map from below the counter and marked their location with a felt-tip pen. Truitt handed the clerk his door card.

“How do I find my room?” he asked.

The clerk ran the card through the scanner and stared at the details on the screen. Taking the pen again, he made notes on the margin of the map. “Take the River of Dreams to Owl Canyon and exit the boat at mine shaft seventeen. Then board elevator forty-one for the ride up to your floor.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Truitt said as he gathered up the map and slid his room card back in his pocket.

“That way, sir,” the clerk said, motioning.

Thirty yards past the information kiosk, Truitt came to a railing along the river that led to a boarding station. There, a line of canoes were awaiting passengers. Attached to a cable like an amusement ride, the canoes circled the hotel on a river with no beginning or end. Truitt climbed into the first one in the line and stared at the control pad. Entering mine shaft seventeen on the keypad, he sat back and waited a moment as the canoe lurched from the stop. It headed down through a false canyon with rocky walls.

Once the canoe automatically stopped at his destination, Truitt climbed out and walked toward a bank of elevators. Finding forty-one, he rode it up to his floor, then exited and walked down a long hallway to his room. Using the card key, he unlocked the door.

The room was decorated in a mining-town motif. The walls were paneled with weathered wood planks and accented with pressed tin. A sagging bookshelf with old books and novels was propped against the wall. On another side was an old gun rack with fake Winchester rifles bolted down. The bed was wrought iron, piled with what looked like antique quilts. It was as if Truitt had been transported back in time.

Truitt walked over to the window, parted the drapes and stared down at Las Vegas as if to ensure himself that the world outside was still the same. Then he closed the drapes again and walked into the bathroom. Although it was decorated to appear old, it featured a steam shower and tanning lamps. Splashing some water on his face, he dried himself off then walked back into the room to telephone Hanley.

“HICKMAN CAN PLAN a major operation,” Truitt said when Hanley answered, “that’s for sure. You would not believe this place—it’s like a theme park with slots.”

“Halpert is still researching him,” Hanley said, “but he’s secretive. Have you devised a plan to search his office yet?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Be careful,” Hanley told him. “Hickman is very powerful, and we don’t want any backlash if it turns out he’s not involved.”

“I’ll get in and out as quietly as possible,” Truitt said.

“Good luck, Mr. Phelps,” Hanley said.

Truitt started humming the theme to Mission: Impossibleas he disconnected.

SITTING DOWN AT the rolltop desk in the room, Truitt studied the hotel map and the building plans that Hanley had faxed to the Gulfstream before they had landed. Then he took a shower, changed clothes and left the room. He took the elevator down, boarded a canoe and rode it to the main entrance. Then he walked outside and hailed a cab.

After explaining his destination to the driver, he sat back and waited.

A few minutes later, the driver pulled up in front of the tallest hotel in Las Vegas. Truitt paid the fare and climbed out. Then he walked into the lobby, purchased a ticket and rode a high-speed elevator to the hotel’s observation deck. The entire city of Las Vegas was stretched out beneath him.