The Shadow Protocol (23 page)

“Well now, things are warming up, aren’t they?” Adam drawled. He tapped a chip on the top of one of his ragged stacks, then looked across the table at her reserves. Her remaining chips had dwindled to a meager handful. “Okay, I’ll call … and raise
fifty
.”

Zykov raised his eyebrows, but called the bet, apparently keen to see how things would play out. Bianca, meanwhile, visibly blanched. Playing to lose didn’t make the actual
act
of losing any easier to swallow. “All right,” she said after a moment. “All right. I go … all in.” She shoved all her chips to the center of the table.

She was still playing her bluff of three jacks. Under normal circumstances, Vanwall would have become more cautious: There was a chance she was not bluffing.

But Adam knew she was. “Okay,” he said, with a laconic smile. “Let’s see how this plays out.”

Fifth street: the last card. Bianca’s was the four of clubs. Adam got the five of diamonds. Two kings beat two jacks; he had won. Part of him felt an immense surge of cruel pleasure.
Crushed the bitch! That’ll teach her not to put out
.

He pushed the feeling down, both because he didn’t want to give anything away, and out of distaste for his own—no, Vanwall’s—thoughts. Instead, he waited for Zykov to be dealt his final card. Four of hearts. One pair at most, and the minuscule sag of the Russian’s shoulders confirmed it.

Since Bianca had gone all in, Adam now had the bet. “Well, looks like you might have three of a kind there,” he said to Bianca. Her only answer was a sly smile. “But you know what? I don’t think you do. Another fifty.”

Zykov mucked his cards. “Fold,” he growled.

There was nothing else Bianca could do but go to the showdown. Adam turned over his hole card. “One pair, kings,” he announced. He broadened his smirk to the widest, most arrogant extent it could go. “So, let’s see that trey.”

Breathing heavily, she slapped her hands down on the table. “You bloody cheat,” she said. “You bloody
cheat
!”

“Oh, now don’t be a sore loser, Bianca,” he said as he raked in his winnings.

“No, no, you cheated!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “There’s no possible way you could have thought you were going to win, unless you already knew what my first card was. You
must
have cheated!”

“Hey now, settle down, little lady,” Adam said in the most patronizing tone he could muster. “You’d better not throw accusations like that around unless you’re prepared to back them up.”

“I
am
accusing you of cheating! You did it in London, and now you’ve done it again. You’ve got something on you—a computer, or an earpiece or something.” She turned to the dealer. “He’s cheating, I know it! Can’t you search him?”

The dealer looked most unhappy at the prospect, but Adam simply held out his arms in a broad shrug. “I’ve got nothing to hide. If she wants to make a fool of herself, that’s fine by me.”

Zykov regarded Adam with a calculating expression. “Somehow, I do not think they will find anything, but … if he is willing, I can wait.”

The dealer reluctantly spoke to another member of the casino staff, who trotted out of the room, returning soon afterward with the man who had been running the metal detector. The wand was in his hand. Still smirking, Adam stood and allowed the device to be run over his body. It trilled several times, but each time Adam removed the cause—his watch, a phone, a set of keys—and the second pass was negative. The wand finally came down to Adam’s waist, warbling as it hovered over his belt buckle. “Now, I’ve been hoping all evening that you’d ask me to take off my pants,” he said to Bianca with a lecherous grin.

“There is nothing else on him, madam,” said the dealer. “I think it would be best if you were to leave now. Quietly.”

“All right, I’m going,” she snapped. The attendant
raised a hand as if about to take her by the arm, but she jerked away. “You
are
cheating, I know you are,” she told Adam as she walked out.

Making sure that Zykov could see, Adam silently mouthed a reply:
You’ll never know how
. The intense stare he found locked onto him when he looked back at his sole remaining opponent told him that the Russian had some ability to lip-read.

Insouciant smirk returning, he sat back down. “Okay, my little comrade,” he said to the affronted Zykov. “Let’s play some
real
cards.”

Bianca emerged into the slot-machine clamor of the main casino, feeling exhilarated … but also exhausted. Even though losing all her money was part of the plan, she had felt outraged at seeing her last chips swept away—and the smugness of Adam’s persona as he took them provoked a spark of actual anger.

Now, though, her part in the little play was done. “Okay, Holly Jo?” she whispered. “I’m out of the room. What do I do now?”

“Tony’s coming to meet you,” came the reply.

She spotted him approaching. “Well?” she said when Tony reached her. “What did you think of my performance?”

“For someone who didn’t even want to do it, you certainly threw yourself into the part,” he replied.

“I was in the drama club at university. We did
The Tempest
—I was Miranda.” She adopted an exaggeratedly thespianic voice. “I suppose the call of the craft never leaves you, dahling.”

“You did a great job,” Tony told her, grinning. “Once Adam cleans out Zykov, I’m sure we’ll hook him. I was watching him through your earring camera—he was getting pretty furious when he lost some of those games.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Adam was making
me
mad. So what now?”

“Adam knows he’s in the endgame now, so I don’t think this’ll take much longer. Once he leaves, if Zykov
goes after him the van’ll pick us up so we can follow him. All the PERSONA gear is loaded and ready for you.”

“
If
Zykov follows him.” That was still the wild card. She looked back toward the VIP room, wondering what was happening within.

Adam looked at the chips on the table. He had around two-thirds of the total: over $1.3 million. That put Zykov at a disadvantage, but not a crippling one. With strategic betting, the Russian could draw the contest out for some time.

More to the point, he could still win it. With Bianca gone, Adam was deprived of not only his clandestine partner, but also the tiny camera in her earring. No more computerized help with the odds.

It was all up to him. He had to rely on Vanwall’s poker skills … and his own ability to read Zykov’s bluffs.

“So, little buddy,” he said. “You want to step this up?”

Zykov regarded him coldly. “What do you mean?”

“How about we raise the ante to, say … fifty thousand? Speed things up. I want to be out celebrating taking all your money before all the hottest girls are gone!”

“You will have nothing to celebrate tonight.” The arms dealer’s glance toward his bodyguards made it clear that would be the case whether Adam won or lost.

Adam gave him a toothy grin. “We’ll see about that. So, fifty thousand?”

“Fifty thousand.”

Both men pushed their chips into the pot. The dealer put down the first cards. Adam’s faceup card was the ace of diamonds, Zykov’s the king of clubs. The house rule was that aces were high, so Adam had the opening bet. He checked his hole card. Queen of spades. Potential for a straight, but it was unlikely. Only one game had been won with a hand that high—and it had been Zykov’s.

What was the Russian’s hole card? Adam watched Zykov closely as he thumbed back one corner of his own
hidden card. No visible reaction. That meant nothing at this early stage of the game.

The dealer waited for him to bet. “Okay, then,” said Adam, “let’s make this fun. Fifty thousand.”

Zykov glowered, but matched the bet.
He knows I’m trying to bleed him dry
. Adam’s larger pool of chips gave him the advantage. Even if the Russian folded on the first two cards, he would still be fifty thousand dollars down because of the increased ante. And if he played on, Adam could raise the bets to a point that would force him to go all in. If he lost then, he lost everything.

If
he lost. If Zykov won, his position would be strengthened. He might even regain the advantage.

Can’t let that happen
.

Next card. Four of hearts. Worthless. Zykov got the king of diamonds.
Crap
. That gave him one pair … or possibly three of a kind? The Russian seemed confident.

Zykov bet. He gave Adam an unpleasant smile. “Sixty thousand.”

A single pair was a weak hand, but at the moment it was all Zykov needed to win.
Fold, or play on?
The best Adam could hope for was three of a kind—which his opponent might already have.

Was Zykov bluffing? He was definitely tense, but with over a hundred thousand dollars already on the table, that was hardly surprising. Adam searched Vanwall’s memories for advice. Names and faces and hands of cards flashed through his mind: times when the gambler had tried to force an adversary to go all in. It was a risky strategy. Sensible players would fold and keep some chips in reserve rather than potentially lose everything … unless they were sure they had a winning hand.

But nobody playing for these stakes was exactly sensible.
Risk big. Win big
.

“Sixty … and raise you sixty.”

Zykov stared at Adam as he shoved the chips to join the crowd already at the table’s center. Both men were now
doing the same thing, trying to spot a bluff. Seeing who would crack first.

“Call.”

If Zykov was bluffing, he was doing a better job of concealing it than before. But neither did he seem as openly confident as he had on previous strong hands. The rising stakes had focused his mind, forcing him to suppress his emotions.

Those emotions would explode back out if he lost, Adam was sure. That would make him easier to lure into the trap outside.

But first, he had to be beaten. And even with all Vanwall’s experience, the American still didn’t know if that was going to happen.

Cards. The four of spades joined Adam’s hand. One pair, at least—but it was still lower than Zykov’s two kings. Nevertheless, he faked a small nod of approval. If he could convince Zykov that his hole card was an ace, he might still be able to bluff him into folding.

Three of hearts for the Russian. A small smile appeared on his lips. “One hundred thousand dollars.” Several imposing stacks of chips slid across the table.

Not many spectators remained in the bar area, most having left when the players they were accompanying had been eliminated, but the size of the bet still provoked sounds of surprise and awe. If Adam called the bet, there would be over six hundred thousand dollars on the table. If he folded, he had just lost $220,000 and put both players back on more or less level pegging.

And he still wasn’t sure if Zykov was bluffing. The Russian obviously wanted him to think he had three kings. But even if he didn’t, his two kings would still beat the pair of fours.

Adam regarded Zykov for a long moment. He appeared confident—but since he held the best hand based on the visible cards, that wasn’t surprising. Third king or not, right now he would still win a showdown.

Is he bluffing?

There had to be a giveaway, a tell. The Russian had been unable to conceal his feelings, positive or negative, earlier in the evening. There was no way he could have suddenly locked himself down now, not with so much at stake. He was smiling, but that meant nothing. Look
past
the smile, see what was behind it. True confidence, or just bravado?

The two men’s eyes were locked. Both trying to judge the other. A mental duel, seeing who would flinch first …

Just for a moment, Zykov’s eyes revealed … 
concern
.

The Russian quickly covered it up by speaking. “Well? Are you going to bet?”

Adam said nothing. He didn’t know what had caused the tiny flicker of worry, but something about it, an almost indefinable shift in the short man’s … 
aura
was the word Vanwall rather surprisingly chose, convinced him that it was involuntary. Genuine.

He was bluffing.

Make him angry. Attack
.

Adam leaned forward, a maddening smirk growing. “You know, little comrade?” Zykov frowned at the insult. “I don’t believe you’ve got a third king there.” He pointed at the other man’s hole card. “And I’m so confident of that, I’m willing to bet everything I have on it. All in.” To audible gasps from the bar, he shoved all his remaining chips into the pot.

Without the video feed from Bianca’s camera the other team members had been quiet, but the gamble drew a reaction even blind. “Uh, Adam,” said Holly Jo. “I really,
really
hope you’ve got a winning hand.”

So do I
. He waited for Zykov’s reaction. If the Russian believed his bluff, he would have no choice but to fold and take a hit of $320,000—half his remaining chips. That would make him extremely vulnerable to another round of high betting in the next game …

There was not going to be a next game.

“All in,” said the Russian. He pushed all his precisely
stacked chips into the center. They toppled, cascading down across the rest of the pot.