The Shadow Protocol (22 page)

“Ah! English, yes?”

“Yes, I am. And you are … Russian?”

“That is right, yes.” He eyed her stack of chips. “So, you are playing against me tonight?”

“I am. I hope you won’t clean me out
too
quickly!”

He laughed, then regarded her with a sly grin. “Now, are you trying to give me a false sense of security by acting innocent?”

“Oh no, no,” she said, remembering her own persona for the evening. “I’m just here to have some fun.”

“It is an expensive way to have fun, hmm?”

“I can afford it.”

“Well, then I think we shall both have fun tonight!”

“I’m sure we will. By the way, my name is Bianca. And you are?”

“Ruslan,” he said proudly.

“Ruslan the Russian. That should be easy to remember!”

Another smile. “You will not forget me anytime soon.”

“I’m sure I won’t.”

A voice in her ear, a whisper so as not to startle her. “Bianca, it’s Holly Jo. Adam’s just gone through the metal detector.”

“Okay,” she automatically replied—before realizing her mistake and hurriedly adding, “So, where are you sitting?”

Zykov waved a hand at the stacked chips in one of the table’s places. “Here.”

“Do we pick our own seats, or—” She broke off as she saw Adam enter the room.

Even in a sharply pressed dinner jacket, there still seemed something vaguely crumpled and disreputable about him, Vanwall’s languid arrogance soaking through like a thin sheen of oil. He was living his part; now she had to do the same with hers. “Oh no,” she said, trying to sound disgusted.

“Do you know him?” Zykov asked.

“Yes. I’m afraid so.” She and Adam had devised a little act during the short journey to the casino. “I’ve played him before, in London. He
beat
me.”

The Russian picked up on the subtext, as she had hoped. “It does not sound like you think he did so fairly.”

Before she could say anything more, Adam spotted her and, with a big fake smile, strode over. “Well, looky who it is! This is a surprise, Bianca.”

“Not a pleasant one,” she replied, voice icy.

“Aw, don’t be a sore loser. Besides, a rich girl like you, it’s just a drop in the bucket.” He nodded toward her chips. “Looking forward to taking those from you tonight. Now, where are you sitting?”

“Why don’t you pick a seat first, then I’ll decide?”

He smirked, then pointed at the place facing Zykov’s. “That looks lucky.”

Bianca put her chips down beside the Russian’s. “This looks luckier.”

“Don’t count on it. Have a good evening—for as long as it lasts.” He dropped his chips in messy piles at his seat, then headed for the bar.

Zykov watched him, eyes narrowed. “You think he cheated you?”

“I’m absolutely positive. But I couldn’t prove it.”

A glance toward the two muscular men. “If he cheats tonight, he will regret it.” So they
were
his bodyguards.
Two in here—which meant the other two were probably somewhere close by in the casino.

She smiled at him. “I like the cut of your jib, Ruslan.”

It took him a moment to work out her meaning, but when he did, he was pleased. “I think we are both going to have a good evening tonight.”

“It’ll be interesting, I’m sure.” That was something she couldn’t deny.

Two million dollars. And I’m going to take it all
.

Adam’s poker face matched Peter Vanwall’s: a near-permanent hint of arch smugness, each card, good or bad, regarded with the same heavy-eyed smirk. It was a technique honed over many years by the Illinois card sharp, and it had served its user well. Stoic unreadability was one thing, but Vanwall had found early in his career that infuriating his opponents with nothing more than the curl of his lips was better. Pissed-off players made mistakes.

And Zykov was pissed off.

The Russian was trying to hide it, but his anger was rising with each lost hand. Bianca thought she had spotted telltale hints of when he was bluffing early on, silently relaying them to the team outside the casino with nothing more than gentle pressure on a fingernail. Holly Jo relayed her assessments back to Adam through his earwig, and it had taken only a few games for him to spot the pattern.

It wasn’t so much a distinct tell—no nervous tics or beads of sweat here—as a shift in Zykov’s entire demeanor. On a weak hand, he seemed to
shrink
, his squat, muscular frame drawing protectively inward. It was very subtle, but once noticed it became impossible to miss.

Would he have picked up on it without Vanwall’s persona in his mind? The gambler had taken on every kind of player imaginable in his long career, thousands of different faces blending together into twenty or so types. The raccoon, skulking at the edge of the action and only darting in with a big bet when it felt completely safe. The pigeon,
pecking at everything on the table. The shark. The spider. The owl. Everyone was an animal.

Almost everyone. Bianca was the exception. The fact that she was deliberately playing to lose made her hard to assess. A cat, maybe, carefully stalking until the right moment? He wasn’t sure.

But Zykov was definitely a bear, appropriately enough. He relied on sheer force of presence, slamming down big bets at the earliest opportunity in an attempt to scare off the competition. And if anyone dared to challenge him, they would frequently find that he was not bluffing.

Only now, Adam could tell when he was.

Most of the time. That remaining uncertainty made the game dangerous, even with help to tip the odds in his favor.

“Okay, Adam,” said Levon inside his ear, “there’s a twenty-four percent chance that Zykov has a hearts flush. Be careful.”

He hadn’t needed Levon’s program to know that, based on the cards already played, but the precise odds helped him assess the risk. If Zykov’s hole card was a heart, then the Russian had won this game. His own hand was three of a kind, sevens. He surveyed the table. Three players had already dropped out of the betting. Bianca also had a potential three of a kind, but only fours. The Indian, Nair, might have a straight, but with the weakness of his bets it was unlikely. Cau, the Chinese, possibly had two pair, but was also reluctant to keep up with the betting.

Zykov’s bet. Was the hidden card a heart?

The Russian pondered his hand, then slowly slid a stack of chips away from his others. Ten thousand dollars. Calling the last bet …

And raising it. Another ten thousand in neatly ordered chips joined the first pile. “Raise ten,” he said.

Nair threw in, as did Cau. Adam’s turn. Was Zykov bluffing?

Yes
.

He was sure of it. The Russian had almost imperceptibly raised his defenses.

Almost
imperceptibly.

Bianca made the tiniest movement with her little finger, pressing the tip of her fingernail against the table. Twice. Two bleeps would have just come through Holly Jo’s headset, passing on the Englishwoman’s belief that Zykov was bluffing. In a moment Holly Jo would relay that to him through the earwig.

But he didn’t need that help anymore. He could now tame the bear for himself.

“Bianca thinks he’s bluffing,” Holly Jo told him redundantly.

Adam looked back up at Zykov, allowing his smirk to fade slightly. Satisfaction in his opponent’s eyes. Then it returned in full force. “I think I’ll see your ten,” he said, nudging chips into the pot, “and raise you … twenty.” A flick of his forefinger, and another stack clinked across the baize.

The Russian’s stony poker face cracked. His lips tightened, eyes narrowing in anger. Then he managed—with evident effort—to bring himself back under control.

Bianca’s bet. In a normal game, Adam could tell that she would have dropped out. But she was playing to lose. “Call,” she said with reluctance, thirty thousand of her own joining the pot.

Back to Zykov. “Call,” he growled.

Showdown. Adam had been the last to raise, so went first. He turned over his hole card. Seven. Three of a kind. Bianca had the option to “muck” her hand, simply giving up without turning over her hole card, but instead opted to give Levon’s card-counting program more data. Jack of diamonds. One pair of fours, that was all.

Zykov’s turn. The reveal of Bianca’s card increased the probability that his hole card was a heart. Had Adam misjudged him? He watched, tension rising, as the arms dealer put his fingers on the last card …

And with a barely contained snarl of anger shoved it
away, unturned, with the rest. Without a fifth heart, all he had was a king high. Worthless.

Adam grinned at him. “Well now,” he said, sweeping the pot across the table to join the rest of his chips, “looks like I just bought myself a new Porsche. Thanks, everyone.”

The other players glowered at him, while Zykov was positively seething. “There is still a lot to play for,” he said through his teeth.

“There sure is.” Adam cracked his knuckles. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Play continued. Before long, players started to drop out. Nair was first to leave, going all in with a bluff that he held a full house—but Adam already knew via Holly Jo that Bianca held one of the two cards he needed, the tiny camera in her earring having revealed her hole card to the team. His own hole card was the other. The Indian ended up with nothing but two pair, losing everything to Adam.

Another Chinese player, Hong, departed next, followed by a rotund South African called Lumbano. Five players remaining, then four as Cau finally threw in the towel. Bianca stayed, having the benefit of Levon’s program herself, and trying to make sure that if she lost any large bets, they were to her secret partner.

Zykov; a taciturn Korean named Pak; Bianca; Adam. Adam already had over a million dollars in chips before him, more than half the total buy-in. Zykov had the next-largest reserve, arranged in neat towers as if trying to build a protective wall. Bianca’s stacks were shrinking quickly, and Pak was almost out of money; on the next game he dropped out, having no choice but to go all in with three of a kind. Unluckily for him, Zykov had a straight, and that was the end of the Korean’s night.

Adam and Bianca had both folded early on, recognizing that Zykov was not bluffing about having a strong hand. “Well, this is cozy, isn’t it?” said Adam. “Just the three of us. Of course, three’s a crowd, so …” He waved a dismissive
hand at Bianca’s shrunken reserves. “You might as well just slide that across to me right now, Bianca. Save some time.”

“The night isn’t over yet,” she snapped back.

“Try to make it soon, though,” said Tony through the earwig. “Everything’s set up for the crash—John and his team are in position, and Lau’s got the truck ready. Adam, step things up—it’s time to get Zykov mad.”

Adam let his ever-present smile widen, looking directly at Zykov as the dealer shuffled the pack. “You know, little buddy, I think this next round’s going to be a good one. It’s almost like I can see your cards.”

Zykov stiffened, then quietly spoke to the dealer. The current set of cards was removed from the table, replaced by a fresh pack—which on the Russian’s suspicious glower was swapped for still another cellophane-wrapped deck. Adam smirked again. The seed planted by Bianca, that the American was somehow cheating, had just been given fresh water.

The game resumed. This time, it was clear from as early as the third street that Zykov had three of a kind, despite his best efforts to cloak his confidence. Bianca folded rather than risk losing any more money to him, while Adam stayed in until the showdown. He had been right, Zykov’s three tens easily crushing his meager pair of eights. “You did not see my cards
that
time, did you?” the Russian gloated.

“I’m still ahead,” Adam replied. “But if you’re so confident, how about we make this next one more interesting? Double the ante, maybe?”

Zykov shrugged. Bianca was less happy. “But that’s ten thousand dollars to open,” she protested.

Now it was Adam’s turn to shrug. “Funny, what was it you called that much money the last time we played? ‘Chicken feed,’ wasn’t it? Mind you, that was before I took it all from you.”

“All right,” she said, pouting, “ten thousand it is.”

New cards were dealt. Thirty thousand dollars went
straight into the pot on the ante, which Bianca raised by another ten thousand on her bet. “Her hole card is the ten of clubs,” reported Holly Jo after Bianca had checked her hand. Her first faceup card was the jack of diamonds. There was potential for a straight, then, but it was more likely that the best she could hope for was two pair or three of a kind.

Adam’s own hand was nothing notable: a king and a six, different suits. Nevertheless, he called Bianca’s bet. So did Zykov, his visible card a nine. Still plenty to play for.

With fewer players, and therefore fewer faceup cards, Levon’s program had far less data to work with. The game now became as much about reading the players as the table. Adam watched Zykov closely as the next cards were dealt. Good hand, or bad? It was hard to judge. The Russian now had a nine and an eight visible, but didn’t seem either pleased or angered by his hand. If his hole card was a ten or a seven, he had an outside chance at getting a straight.

Adam received another king. That beat Bianca’s hand so far, but he gave nothing away on his face. Bianca had been dealt a second jack. She had the highest visible hand, so controlled the bet. “All right,” she said, smiling. “I bet … twenty-five.” She assembled a large stack of chips and thrust it into the pot.

She wanted the others to think she had three jacks. Adam pretended to mull over his next move, then: “Raise ten.” He added his own bet. Zykov called, leaving Bianca with no choice but to do the same to stay in play. “I don’t think you’ve got anything there. Just a feeling.” He put a smug emphasis on that last.

Bianca frowned at him. “We’ll see.”

Fourth street. Bianca was dealt the two of spades; Adam the eight of clubs; Zykov the three of diamonds. Bianca still had the best visible hand and bet another twenty-five. Adam again raised by ten. Zykov, with veiled reluctance, called. He probably had only one pair at best. Bianca hesitated, then: “I raise twenty.”