The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,62

a more cursory examination – the dress was snug enough to make hiding anything under it a tricky proposition – before nodding to her guide and respectfully stepping back.

She set off again, rounding a corner to enter the VIP room itself.

The mission’s target was already there.

She recognised Ruslan Zykov immediately from the surveillance photograph. What it hadn’t revealed about the Russian was how short he was. Zykov was only about five foot five – and something about his stance, an imbalance she knew from her own high heels, suggested that he had resorted to lifts in his shoes to bring him up to that. If he was sensitive about his height, that went some way to explaining his temper.

Zykov had permanent frown lines creased into his forehead, despite presently smiling – with condescension – as he spoke to an Asian man. He also clearly worked out a lot, compensating for the vertical with the horizontal. His barrel chest and thick arms stood out even under his tuxedo.

Dangerous, she thought. She would have had the same instinctive opinion if she’d known nothing about him beforehand.

She took in the room. Softly lit, lavishly if tackily decorated. There was a bar at one end with tables from where the players’ companions could watch the game. About a dozen people, expensively dressed men and women, were already there. Two of the men appeared to be drinking only water rather than anything alcoholic, and were watching Zykov closely. His bodyguards? According to Tony, he had arrived at the Imperial with four companions: all male, all large. This pair matched that description.

Dominating the room was the poker table, an elongated oval of green baize rimmed with darkly varnished hardwood. Nine chairs were arranged round it. One for the casino’s dealer, the other for the players.

And she was one of them. The game was a regular event at the Imperial. There was no need for an invitation, or even a recommendation by an existing player. To buy in, all you needed was enough money. Tonight, that amount was two hundred and fifty thousand US dollars.

Eight players. Two million on the table. Zykov thought he was good enough to take it all.

Adam had to be better.

‘Madam?’ said her escort, directing her to the table.

Zykov caught the new arrival in his peripheral vision – then did a double-take to get a better look at her. His smile became genuine, if predatory. He said something dismissive to the other man, then turned to face Bianca. ‘Dobryi vecher,’ he said, following it with, ‘Good evening.’

‘Good evening,’ Bianca replied, giving him a bright smile.

‘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 any time 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 realising 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