The Shadow Protocol

by Andy McDermott

  Adam. He went to a car, a Fusion like hers only dark blue instead of silver, and got in.

  A wild impulse took control. “Anyway, sorry, but I’ve got to go,” she hurriedly told James. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Bye.” Before he could reply, she had disconnected.

  Okay, mystery man, she thought. I’m going to find out something about you today, even if it’s only where you live.

  Adam set off. She started her own car and cautiously followed.

  While she didn’t know anything about the techniques of spying, it struck her that staying six feet behind his rear bumper would give her away, so she paused at the top of the ramp to let a couple of other cars pass before pulling out after him. It was now dark, which made her even more nervous about the mirrored rules of the road. But the traffic was not moving especially quickly, so she decided that if she just went with the flow she would probably be okay.

  Adam was still two cars ahead as they stopped at traffic lights. If her bearings were correct, he was heading east. Green lights, and they set off again. He changed lanes to turn left. Nervously, she indicated and edged into the adjoining lane to follow, getting an irate honk from the car behind. There was now only one car separating them as they made the turn.

  She maintained the gap as her quarry continued through Washington, making a couple more turns. Before long, she was completely lost. The satnav was no help, since she didn’t know where Adam was heading. All she could do was keep after him.

  A smile came to her lips. This was, in a strange kind of way, fun. Under the circumstances, playing the spy felt oddly appropriate.

  They left central DC on a main road, heading … northeast? She wasn’t sure. The office buildings gave way to a lower sprawl. Adam kept going, minutes passing. Her girlish enthusiasm started to fade. For all she knew, he lived fifty miles away. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a great idea after all …

  Adam suddenly switched lanes, cutting sharply to the right. Horns sounded. Bianca was not sure how to follow—there was no space in the lane beside her. She braked, indicating right and creeping over. One car refused to let her in, but she held her ground. To her relief, the vehicle behind it slowed to give her space. She waved in thanks and pulled into the gap.

  Adam was now out of direct sight, two or three cars between the two Fords. What was he doing? There was a junction ahead, a side road leading right. Was that where he was headed? She kept going—

  A brief shrill of tires and the growl of a fast-revving engine told her that he had made his move. His Fusion was almost lost in the dark, only the flash of reflected street lamps and the red scowl of its taillights giving it away. Had he chosen its color for exactly that reason?

  It took several frustrating seconds before she reached the intersection and could turn after him. He was clearly speeding, the red lights pulling away fast. Bianca accelerated, the smile returning. She enjoyed putting her foot down; the six penalty points on her license back home were testament to that.

  Her surroundings appeared to be mostly commercial buildings: warehouse-like retail outlets and industrial units. Nothing residential, so Adam didn’t live here.

  Had he seen her? Was he trying to shake off his tail?

  She kept accelerating, closing the gap. A glance at the speedometer told her she was doing over fifty, and she was pretty sure the limit was thirty. A pang of fear; American cops had guns. Her foot moved to the brake …

  Adam beat her to it. His Fusion’s rear lights flared as it made a hard left turn. Its tires squealed again.

  He was definitely trying to lose her. More doubts—she was chasing a genuine secret agent, for God’s sake! But she still braked and threw the car into the turn after him. Fright pumped through her heart as her Fusion’s rear end slid wide, but she wrestled it back into line.

  The new road was less well lit, lined with darkened warehouses. Adam was already turning again, sweeping right into a narrower side street. She lost sight of him, but could still hear the wail of his tires. In for a penny, she thought, following—

  His car had vanished.

  Bianca flinched, genuinely startled. There was no sign of the other Ford. But that was impossible …

  Headlights glared blindingly in the mirrors.

  He was behind her. But how—

  Her car shook as Adam’s hit it. The impact was not hard, but still enough to make it swerve to the left …

  The front wheel hit the curb before she could straighten out.

  “Shit!” she wailed as the steering wheel bucked in her hands. The Fusion leapt up over the sidewalk. Chain-link fence flashed through her headlights—then there was a flat bang! and another jolt that threw her sideways.

  The stricken Ford juddered to a stop. Dazed and shaken, Bianca sat up. The car’s front wing was buried in the fence.

  Her door was yanked open. She looked around in fright—

  A fist froze inches from her face. She shrieked.

  “Bianca!” said Adam, sounding as shocked as she felt. “What are you doing?”

  “What am I doing?” she cried. “Jesus Christ! What are you doing? You just rammed me off the road!”

  He looked at the damage, then back at her. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know, I …” She experimentally moved her limbs. All were still attached. “I think so.”

  “Good. Here.” He extended a hand to her. She shot him a mistrustful look, then let him help her out.

  “Oh God,” she said as she saw what had happened to the Fusion. Between the pavement and the fence was rough ground, soil and gravel and strewn garbage—and broken glass. The front tire had run over a smashed bottle and instantly punctured. What remained of it was wrapped loosely around the wheel rim like a rubber lei. “They give me a car, and less than twenty-four hours later, it’s wrecked. That’ll make me popular.”

  “Yeah. Uh … sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I’ll call STS to pick it up and fix it. I’ll explain that it was my fault.”

  “Well, yes!” she exclaimed. “Why did you ram into me?”

  “Why were you following me?”

  “Because I …” She tried to find an answer. “I don’t really know, okay? I suppose I just wanted to find out more about you. Anything about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like being told no? Especially not by idiots like Kiddrick. I don’t know!” She threw up her hands. “But what about you, suddenly turning into Mad Max?” She looked back at the corner, seeing a darkened loading dock set into the warehouse wall. He must have hidden inside it, but she couldn’t imagine how he could possibly have made such a tight turn at the speed he had been going. “How did you get behind me like that?”

  “Evasive driving,” he said. “Useful when you want to get rid of a tail.”

  “You have a very odd definition of evasive. I always take it to mean not hitting other cars.” She gave the damaged wheel another mournful look, then turned back to him. “Wait, how long did it take before you realized I was following you?”

  “About three blocks. You’re not very good at it. Are you sure you’re okay?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just shaken up.”

  “Okay, good.” He took out his phone. “I’ll call STS.”

  “About that,” Bianca said. “Maybe it would be better if you didn’t say exactly what happened?”

  For the first time since they had met, his face showed a hint of a smile. It suited him. “I’ll just tell them you had an … incident.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He made the call, being told that someone would collect the wounded car within twenty minutes, then pocketed the phone. “I’d better give you a ride. This doesn’t look like a very good neighborhood to be waiting for a cab. Where are you staying?”

  “Oh, a hotel. The, ah … the Beauregard.”

  “I don’t know it, sorry. You have the address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. You got eve
rything from your car?”

  She collected her bag, on Adam’s suggestion leaving the car key on the driver’s seat to make life easier for the mechanics, then got into his vehicle. He entered the hotel into the satnav and turned back the way they had come. Near the junction, Bianca saw curving tire marks freshly scorched onto the road surface. Whatever Adam had done to get behind her clearly involved some sort of controlled skid, but she still could not figure out exactly how he’d managed it.

  They returned to the main road. Adam headed back toward central Washington. “So,” said Bianca when the silence became overpowering, “I’ve found out something about you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not very chatty.”

  Another little smile. “No, not really.”

  “But like I said at STS, I think it’d help us work together if I got to know you better.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “So …” He didn’t respond to the prompt. She changed tack. “Roger said you used to be a soldier—Special Forces?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.”

  “Oh. But you volunteered to join Persona after you left?”

  “I can’t discuss that. I’m sorry.”

  “Right.” She sighed, frustrated by the diktats of security. “Okay, so what about you personally? I don’t know much about American accents—I can recognize N’Yawk and yee-hah Deep South, but that’s about it, so I can’t tell where you’re from originally.” Silence. He might be a spy, but taking hints was obviously not in his training. “So, where are you from originally?”

  “Sorry, I can’t discuss that.”

  She regarded him with incredulity. “Seriously? You can’t even tell me where you grew up?”

  “I can’t …” He looked confused, as if only just realizing what he had said.

  “Adam?”

  His expression hardened—though his eyes still betrayed uncertainty. “I don’t think we should discuss this any further. Sorry.”

  “Okay,” she said, making her bewilderment clear with each syllable.

  “Your hotel’s only a few minutes from here. I’ll drop you off, and see you at STS tomorrow.”

  “Fine.” It only took one syllable to show her disapproval.

  He gave her an apologetic look, then continued driving. They soon reached the hotel. Bianca got out. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Oh, and … sorry about the car.”

  “Thanks,” she said, unsure what to make of him. She watched as he pulled away, then went into the hotel.

  Bianca jerked awake as her phone rang. Its screen said 6:03. Who the hell was calling her so early in the morning? Someone in England who hadn’t grasped the concept of time zones? “Mmyeah?”

  “Bianca?”

  It took her a moment to identify the voice. “Tony?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Why—what is it?” she complained. “It’s only six in the morning.”

  “We need you to come into STS, right away.” If he had also only recently been stirred from sleep, his voice gave no sign; he sounded alert and focused. “We have a mission.”

  All the Bullpen’s screens were alight with information, every workstation occupied by hurriedly roused staff … but nobody was looking at the monitors. Instead, all eyes were on the person who had just entered the control room.

  Bianca didn’t recognize him. “Who’s that?” she quietly asked Tony as the tall, thin man in an expensive suit shook hands with Morgan.

  “Alan Sternberg,” he replied. Her blank look prompted him to elaborate. “The national security adviser.”

  “I thought that was Harper?”

  “He’s the director of national intelligence.”

  “Ah, I see.” A beat. “No, I don’t. What’s the difference?”

  “Political, mostly. The DNI has to be approved by Congress, so there’s always a lot of horse trading to get someone both sides agree on. The national security adviser doesn’t need approval, though. The president can appoint anyone he wants. And Sternberg just so happens to be the president’s old friend—and campaign manager.”

  “So who’s the top dog?”

  “In theory, Harper, as he’s got congressional authority. In practice … well, being the president’s golf buddy gives you a lot of sway.”

  Another tall man entered the Bullpen. This one Bianca recognized: Harper. He seemed discomfited to find Sternberg already there, but quickly covered it and marched over to join him and Morgan. “Do they have different agendas, then?” she asked.

  Tony chuckled. “Oh yeah. Harper is from the Department of Defense, which controls the NSA, NRO, DIA, and half a dozen other three-letter intelligence acronyms. But Sternberg is ex-CIA—and the CIA isn’t controlled by the Pentagon. It’s probably fair to say they hate each other almost as much as al-Qaeda.”

  “The CIA and the Pentagon, or Sternberg and Harper?”

  “Yes to both.” A wry smile. “The Pentagon would love to take full control of the CIA—and the other independent agencies like STS, for that matter. It’s not likely to happen, though. Certainly not while Sternberg has the president’s ear.”

  Harper and Sternberg concluded their chilly greetings, then had a brief exchange with Morgan before the black man turned to address his audience. “All right, everyone.” The murmur of conversation ended. “As most of you know, we discovered on the mission in Pakistan that Malik Syed had been in direct contact with one of Muqaddim al-Rais’s lieutenants. At that meeting, Syed heard that al-Rais was planning something big. He didn’t know what—he wasn’t told anything more than a code name. But after using PERSONA to obtain information from Syed, we discovered that code name: Operation Lamplighter.”

  Bianca had been groggy from her early wake-up call, but the name of Muqaddim al-Rais caught her full attention. She didn’t need to be a spy to know the name of the world’s most wanted terrorist. Any residual sleepiness was now gone. She listened intently as Morgan continued.

  “We passed that code name to other agencies in the USIC to see if anything came up. Last night, something did. NSA got an ECHELON hit on Operation Lamplighter from this man.” He indicated a grainy photo, blown up to fill a block of the screens behind him. “His name is Ruslan Pavelovich Zykov. He’s a Russian arms dealer.”

  Bianca stared at the image. It had been taken using a telephoto lens, looking down from on high at the subject as he climbed into the back of an SUV. The group of beefy men shielding him suggested that he preferred to be in public view as little as possible. He appeared to be in his forties, with bristling black hair and a broad, pugnacious face, a chunky gold necklace around his neck.

  “The code name came up in a phone conversation between Zykov and a man called Hadrami, whom we strongly believe has a direct connection to al-Rais,” said Tony, moving to stand beside Morgan. “The full transcript is in your file packets, but to summarize: Zykov is acting as a middleman between Hadrami’s client—presumably al-Rais—and an unknown party, who has possession of something vital to Operation Lamplighter. Whatever it is, a price has been agreed to buy it. Seven million US dollars.”

  That produced a stir around the room. “So it’s more than a crate of RPGs, then,” said Holly Jo.

  “It looks that way,” Morgan replied. “For that kind of money, we’re talking high-end anti-aircraft systems, NBC materials, armored vehicles or gunships—the works.”

  “NBC?” Bianca whispered to Levon, whose workstation she was standing beside.

  “Nuclear, Biological, Chemical,” he told her. “Germ warfare, dirty bombs … nasty stuff.”

  “Oh. Great.” She felt a sudden chill.

  “Whatever it is,” Morgan went on, “if al-Rais wants it, it’s not to make the world a better place. Now, other agencies will be working on this from their own angles, but since it was STS that learned about Lamplighter in the first place, we’re being given the chance to follow up on it and prove the Persona Project’s worth.
” He looked over at Harper and Sternberg, who were standing with their respective aides between them like human barricades. “So, as of now, our mission is: Find out what Operation Lamplighter is, and stop it. Start thinking, people.”

  “Snatch team,” said Baxter, who was standing near the front of the audience. “We go in and grab Zykov like we did Syed.”

  “If it were that easy, you’d already be on a plane to do it,” said Morgan, shaking his head. “Zykov isn’t a small-timer like Toradze. He’s … connected. He’s former FSB and still has close links to the Russian secret service—and also the Russian government. At very high levels. As you can see from the photo, he’s also paranoid enough to have constant protection from bodyguards, most of whom are also former FSB. His dacha outside Moscow is like a fortress. Grabbing him by force would be tough—and if anything went wrong, it would cause a serious diplomatic incident between Russia and the US.”

  Sternberg spoke. Even though his voice was quiet and calm, it dominated everyone’s attention. “The president has made it clear that this cannot be allowed to happen. Any operation in Russia will be under condition of maximum deniability.”

  “Sounds like we’re being disavowed,” Kyle muttered to Levon.

  Levon nodded. “Your mission, which you don’t have a choice about accepting …”

  “There may be a way to catch him outside Russia, though,” Tony told the room. “According to his file, he’s a serious gambler. He’s often dropped half a million dollars or more on poker games. And usually won.”

  Kyle whistled appreciatively. “Dude’s a real player.”

  “NSA also went through all Zykov’s other communications and found that two days from now, he’s going to be in Macao. There’s a regular high-stakes VIP game at the Imperial Casino there—quarter of a million dollars minimum buy-in. And he’s buying in. That’s where he’ll be vulnerable. Macao is Chinese territory, and he won’t be able to call on the kind of backup he can in Russia.”

  Sternberg cleared his throat. “Deniability of operations extends to China just as much as to Russia. The State Department is not willing to jeopardize the current round of trade talks.”