A thick white smoke hung just below the ceiling, trailing from the pillars and the chandeliers. Lights flashed on its underside. There was a stink of fireworks. My eyes began to itch, my nose began to run.
A group of guests fled past, chivvied by a man in combat gear. One of the women kept on asking, over and over, “Is it a shooter? Is it a shooter?” She got as much response as I had to my own questions.
The alarm throbbed. Someone was shouting. I heard a crack. Not gunfire—Taser, possibly?
A voice beside my ear said, “Not secure,” and we fell back, first to the wall, then, after a hasty reconnoiter, retreated to the gift shop. One window had been smashed. The carpet here was strewn with broken glass.
“Down.”
McAvoy and I were made to sit upon the floor. I saw figures race by outside. Somebody was screaming. It was hard to make things out. I craned my neck, trying to get a view. The soldiers took up their positions, in between the Hermès scarves, the china cups, the displays of Sony, Rolex, Nikon.
I watched a man dragged from a slot machine and bundled out. Incredibly, he had still been playing, even through the mêlée. A running battle had begun between security and the invading force. I heard orders bellowed over pop music and bleeping slots. At the same time, ordinary tourists were quickly and efficiently rushed to the exits. The scene was one of violence and confusion, but the operation had been smartly planned. With only a handful of men—I thought twenty, at the most—the building was subdued with an extraordinary speed. People were evacuated. Guests were brought down from their rooms and ushered out in groups.
So, in the midst of such a sweep, it was all the more surprising to see a newcomer appear.
He wore a dark bandana stretched across his mouth and nose. He moved carefully but quickly, slipping from machine to machine, zigzagging across the floor, constantly glancing back and forth. On his shoulder he had some piece of machinery. I couldn’t get a clear view. Rocket launcher? Bazooka? I felt a jolt of fear. Was he going to use military weapons? I watched him climb one of the machines, standing on the seat, one leg braced against the screen, a sniper taking up position. He swung the instrument around, panned left and right— A camera.
The guy was carrying a camera.
A power pack was slung around his waist. He wore a photographer’s vest, the pockets crammed. His manner was astonishingly calm, as if his very concentration shielded him from any danger, and from the chaos all around.
“Silverman . . . ?”
This, it struck me, was the way that he had always seen himself, deep down: guerilla filmmaker, pioneer, adventurer . . . His nervousness was gone. He glanced around himself, checked his monitor screen. He focused for a moment on an incident I couldn’t see, then climbed down, headed for the café, where a fierce punch-up was in progress. The invaders had cornered a group of security men. I heard the snap of a Taser, the shouts, the screams— No sign of Angel. That bothered me. It didn’t matter just how smart she was, how capable. I had to know she was OK.
I caught the eye of the officer. I begged him for my phone.
“This will be over soon,” he said.
“I’ve got to find my girlfriend. I need to know she’s safe.”
I leaned towards him, tried to get his sympathy.
“You understand that, don’t you? You’d feel the same?”
“Sit back,” he told me. “Wait it out.” Then, “Be glad you’re not the one he really wants.”
His eyes flicked to McAvoy, but McAvoy said nothing.
A loud hiss filled the air. A familiar sound—curiously English, like a downpour on a summer’s day . . .
The sprinkler system had kicked in.
A thin rain glimmered through the hall. The smoke curled lazily under its impact. Water drummed against the leaves of potted palms. It bounced on gaming tables and on chair seats. The slot machines began to wink out, bank by bank. I watched a lone croupier stumble out of hiding, his mouth open, pulling at his wet shirt—more baffled by the downpour, it seemed, than the assault which had preceded it.
McAvoy’s head bobbed nervously, a harsh, insistent tic. I tried to speak to him, to calm him down, but he would not respond.
Then Silverman was back.
He saw me now. His hand came up, he waved. He pulled the wet bandana from his face, mouthed something I couldn’t hear. He picked his way towards me, skirting an upturned rubbish cart, stepping round a fallen palm. His hair was plastered to his skull. He swung the camera left and right.
He got to within ten feet. Then the officer said, “OK, buddy. Close enough.” He raised his billy club in warning.
“It’s all right!” Silverman fumbled in his pocket, held out a crumpled piece of paper. It bounced and shook under the downpour. “See? I’m with you. I’m official!”
Twilight had fallen on the gambling hall. A dim halo of emergency lights turned Silverman into a silhouette before us.
“Switch the camera off.”
“I’m here to film. That’s my job, that’s what I was hired to do—”
“Switch it off.”
He lowered the lens. And the soldier beckoned him inside.
He wiped his mouth. He peered at me.