The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,32

button marked ‘5’. The elevator began its ascent. ‘The bottom floors actually are used by Helmont,’ he said. ‘They do a lot of low-level but still classified data-processing, so nobody thinks twice about the security measures. The upper floors are ours, though.’

‘The CIA?’ she asked.

‘Not quite. This project’s actually run by the Special Technology Section – STS.’

‘I’m glad it’s not called the Special Technology Division!’

It took him a moment to get the joke, which produced a crooked grin. ‘It’s connected to the CIA and other US intelligence agencies, without being controlled by them. The org chart for the US intelligence community is . . . complicated. To say the least.’

‘But your ID said you were with the CIA.’

‘I am. On paper, anyway. STS is a black agency – it doesn’t officially exist. Like I said, it’s complicated.’

A chime announced that they had arrived at the fifth floor. The doors opened.

Bianca was almost disappointed. She had half expected some kind of elaborate control room illuminated by stylish blue lights, the sort of place where James Bond or Jack Bauer would feel at home. Instead, she stepped out into what looked like a perfectly ordinary business, corridors leading off to various offices.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Carpenter,’ said a woman seated behind a reception desk. ‘Mr Morgan is waiting for you with the Admiral and Dr Kiddrick in briefing room B.’

‘Thanks. When did the Admiral arrive?’

‘About fifteen minutes ago.’

Tony’s expression suggested he had just tasted something bitter. ‘Should be fun,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Okay, Dr Childs. Follow me, please.’ He led the way down a hallway and opened a door. ‘After you.’

The room was anodyne, the view of the linden trees through the windows masked by a heavy tint applied to the glass. A very large flat-screen TV occupied one wall. Three men sat at a long conference table, rising as she entered – one of them somewhat belatedly.

‘Dr Childs,’ said Tony, ‘I’d like you to meet Martin Morgan, the project director’ – a stern, middle-aged black man with glasses and greying hair – ‘Dr Nathaniel Kiddrick, senior scientific adviser’ – the gangling slow-stander; late fifties, with unsettlingly wide eyes beneath a domed forehead, sporting the kind of tough-guy-wannabe moustache that could only be carried off successfully by a cop or soldier – ‘and Admiral Gordon Harper, Director of National Intelligence.’

Bianca shook Morgan’s hand, then Kiddrick’s before greeting Harper. Despite being introduced as an admiral, the white-haired man wore a suit rather than a uniform. His hand almost swallowed hers in a brief but steely grip. Unlike Kiddrick with his silly moustache, he didn’t need to try to be intimidating. Even though he was well into his sixties, he was still over six feet tall and clearly did far more exercise than the occasional round of tennis or golf. He had the hard, no-nonsense air of someone used to being obeyed immediately at all times, and who would not hesitate to take sanctions against anyone failing to fall into line.

‘Dr Childs,’ said Harper, voice as curt as she had imagined. ‘Take a seat.’ She did so, the men following suit. ‘Since you’re a Brit, I don’t expect you to know what my position as DNI entails. It means I’m in overall charge of USIC, the US intelligence community – CIA, NSA, FBI, Homeland Security, a dozen other agencies – and that I report directly to the President of the United States.’ He gave Tony an irate glare. ‘It also means that my time is extremely important.’

Tony looked uncomfortable, but met Harper’s gaze. ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘So, I’ll keep this brief. I know that you just spoke to Dr Albion, and that he asked you to help us by temporarily taking his place on this project.’

‘Yes, that’s right. But he didn’t tell me what the project actually was.’

His flinty stare warned her that he neither anticipated nor appreciated being interrupted. ‘Well, I’ll give you the précis. The Persona Project is a black-budget operation run by STS. The technology it has developed allows the memories of one person to be read, recorded and downloaded into the brain of another.’

It took Bianca a moment to process the statement, and when she did, it produced a short, disbelieving laugh. ‘What? Oh, come on. That’s not possible.’

If Harper disliked being interrupted, his displeasure at being contradicted was even greater. ‘Dr Childs,’ he said, interlocking his fingers and putting both hands on the table with an audible thud, ‘not only is it possible, it is being used to protect the