The Persona Protocol

17


All In


Bianca emerged into the slot-machine clamour 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 thespian 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 towards 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 one point three million dollars. 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, not only did that deprive Adam of his clandestine partner, but also the tiny camera in her earring. No more computerised 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 towards 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 face-up 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’s 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 centre. 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 nor 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 two hundred and twenty thousand dollars 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.

Was 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 three hundred and twenty thousand dollars – 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 centre. They toppled, cascading down across the rest of the pot.

Two million dollars. All hanging on the final cards.

Adam battled to hide his tension. If he was wrong, if Zykov really did have a third king, there was no possible way he could beat it. The best hand he could get was three of a kind, fours – which would not beat three kings. Even if Zykov was bluffing, he would need a four, a queen or an ace to beat the two kings. The odds of that were now less than one chance in five. And that was without even considering Zykov’s last card, which might be a second three, or match his hole card . . .

I’m a gambler. So gamble.

He grinned at the dealer, affecting nonchalance. ‘Okay, then. Deal.’

Risk big, win big . . .

The dealer turned over Adam’s last card.

The queen of diamonds.

Ho-lee shit! Vanwall cried inside him. The gamble had paid off. Two pair, queens and fours. He still had a chance.

If he had been right about Zykov’s bluff.

The final card. Adam held his breath. The dealer turned it over.

Nine of diamonds.

He looked up from the card at Zykov. The Russian was, for once, completely stone-faced. Adam didn’t know if he had won or not.

Showdown.

Technically Zykov should have turned over his hole card first, but at this stage of the game it no longer mattered. Adam flipped his to reveal the queen of spades. ‘Two pair. Let’s see what you got.’

Even without a third king, Zykov could still win. If he had a three or a nine, his two pair – kings high – would beat Adam’s queens. The Russian reached for his hole card . . .

Even before he touched it, Adam knew he had won. Zykov’s hand shook. Not with nerves, or dismay at losing. With fury. The volcanic temper he had been fighting to hold inside all evening was about to erupt.

He slapped the card down. The six of spades.

Useless. ‘Mudilo!’

Twist the knife. Make him mad.

Adam began to laugh, slowly and mockingly. ‘Two. Million. Dollars,’ he said, beaming at Zykov. ‘Thank you very much, little comrade.’

The Russian seethed like a pressure cooker. ‘If you call me that again . . .’

‘Oh, don’t you be another bad loser like Bianca! Just face it, I beat you.’ He let the smugness return. ‘And you’ll never know how.’

Zykov reacted as if stung. ‘I will find out,’ he said in a low, threatening voice.

‘No. You won’t.’ Still smirking, Adam turned to the dealer. ‘Can you swap me those for something bigger?’ he asked, gesturing at his winnings. ‘I don’t want to drop any.’

The dealer raked in the loose chips, in return sliding him two larger plaques worth one million dollars each. ‘Thank you so much,’ said Adam. He clacked the plaques together. ‘Hey, my friend, do you hear that? That’s the sound of money. Your money – or, whoops, it was. Now it’s aaaall mine.’

‘Spend it fast,’ said Zykov, standing. ‘You never know when your luck will run out. It could be very, very soon.’

‘Not tonight, comrade. Not tonight.’ Adam got up, noticing in his peripheral vision that one of Zykov’s bodyguards was talking on his phone. To the other two goons, most likely – he was summoning the troops.

Time to get moving.

Adam left the VIP room and entered the main casino floor. He spotted Tony and Bianca not far away, but didn’t acknowledge them. Instead, he pretended to get his bearings, glimpsing Zykov and the two bodyguards steaming out of the room behind him, then slipped the plaques into his jacket and headed for the exit.

‘There goes Adam,’ said Bianca. Holly Jo had already told her he had won. She stood, about to follow him.

‘Not yet,’ said Tony sharply. He was several feet away, idly feeding coins into a slot machine. ‘Wait until Zykov’s gone.’

The Russian and his bodyguards emerged from the VIP area. Another two hulks joined them. ‘There are more of them! What if they catch Adam?’

‘They won’t.’

The group started after the American. Zykov, inside the human cordon, was barely visible behind his much larger companions. His gaze was fixed on the man disappearing with two million dollars . . .

Then something made him look to one side. His eyes met Bianca’s. He stopped.

‘Oh God,’ she whispered.

Tony gave her a sidelong glance. ‘What?’

‘Zykov’s seen me! What do I do?’

‘Stay calm. Do nothing.’

The Russian briefly spoke to his men, then changed direction. ‘He’s coming this way!’

Tony pretended to fumble money from a pocket, turning slightly to see Zykov and two of his bodyguards approaching. The others were back on Adam’s tail. ‘Ignore me, you don’t know me. Just stay in character. Holly Jo, patch Bianca’s earwig through to me so I can hear them.’ He walked away.

‘Ah, Bianca!’ said Zykov as he reached her, now all smiles and pushy charm. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was . . . sulking,’ Bianca improvised. He didn’t seem to fully understand, so she elaborated: ‘I was in a bad mood about losing, so I wanted to cool off before I did something stupid. And then,’ she added truthfully, ‘I realised my feet hurt, so I had to sit down.’ She waggled a high heel.

‘Louboutins,’ said Zykov approvingly. ‘Very nice, but I can see they would hurt after a time!’

‘So is the game over?’

He frowned. ‘Yes, the game is over.’

‘Ah. I take it you ended up in the same boat as me.’

‘I did, yes.’ He fired an angry look after Adam. ‘He did the same to me that he did to you.’

‘He cheated?’

‘Somehow, yes. I am sure of it.’

‘I knew it! But you still don’t know how he did it?’

‘No. But I will. He picked the wrong man to cheat. But enough about him!’ His face brightened again. ‘Would you join me for a drink? We can both drown our sorrows, as you say.’

She was about to give him a polite refusal when Tony’s voice sounded in her ear, making her flinch in surprise. She covered it by scratching her neck. ‘Go with him,’ said the American. ‘If he’s not following Adam, we need a new plan. Keep him occupied for as long as you can.’

‘Well, I was rather thinking of calling it a night,’ she told Zykov. ‘Losing a quarter of a million dollars to a cheat does rather dampen one’s enthusiasm! But . . . I think I could be persuaded to have one drink.’

He grinned. ‘Good! Although I should warn you – as a Russian, I never stop at just one.’

‘I could go as far as two, I suppose . . . All right, why not? Where shall we go? The bar?’

His chest swelled with braggadocio. ‘My penthouse suite, of course!’

Bianca pretended to be impressed, despite becoming more nervous by the moment. ‘You have a penthouse? Somebody told me this place has fifty floors – you must have a terrific view.’

‘It is very nice, yes.’ He was looking directly at her chest. ‘I have champagne, caviar, everything we need for a good time. Come, this way.’

It was all but a command. Behind Zykov and his men she glimpsed Tony, a phone to his head. ‘Go with him,’ he said through the earwig. ‘We’ll watch out for you, and get Adam up there as soon as we can.’

‘Okay,’ she said, replying to both men. She smiled at Zykov, hiding her worry. ‘Lead on.’