The Shadow Protocol (26 page)

“Okay, the way to the roof is straight ahead,” Levon told him, but he was already moving; there was nowhere else to go. He passed more cabinets and stacked boxes, reaching a narrow metal staircase that zigzagged upward. He ascended, footsteps echoing.

The room above was only dimly lit. Large pieces of machinery lurked in the shadows, a loud electrical hum coming from somewhere nearby. “Where’s the hatch?”

“Head right from the top of the stairs,” said Levon. He turned to see a narrow passage, and went along it. The hum grew louder as he neared a short set of steps. “The hatch is at the end.”

“I see it.” It was set into the steeply angled roof. He climbed the steps. The hatch was padlocked, but a few seconds’ work with one of his tools took care of that. He swung it open.

He was right behind the illuminated
IMPERIAL
sign, the
glare from its thousands of powerful bulbs dazzling even indirectly. Macao spread out vertiginously before him.

And he was suddenly gripped by fear, a cold terror paralyzing him. His hand clamped around the edge of the hatch. The city far below seemed to roll, as if the towering casino had turned to rubber.

He forced out words. “We’ve got a problem.”

“What is it?” Holly Jo asked.

“It turns out Vanwall … is afraid of heights.”

Bianca was running out of things to say. Zykov had oozed closer, his hand caressing her shoulder, making his intentions absolutely clear.

And he was getting impatient. “Bah, enough about that,” he said, waving away her latest attempt to draw him into a hopefully very long story about his military career. “Forget the past, eh? What is done is done. What counts is what we do next, eh?”

“Well, what I’d like to do next is …” She quickly finished her drink. “Use the bathroom, I’m afraid!” She shrugged his hand off her arm and stood. “Sorry, but sometimes nature’s call does come first.”

The look in Zykov’s eye frightened her for a moment. Her resistance was angering him. “In there,” he said in a brusque tone, waving toward a door.

“Back soon.” Wishing that she had thought to take off her shoes, she went through it—finding to her alarm that she had just entered Zykov’s bedroom, his king-sized bed dominating the space. Another glass wall to the balcony overlooked the island city.

A door led to a bathroom. She thumped it shut behind her, turning the lock with a firm
clack
and leaning back against the polished wood. “Holly Jo!”

“Yes?”

“Where the hell is Adam?”

*   *   *

“Why the hell didn’t this come up before?” said Tony.

Even through the earwig, Adam had trouble hearing him over the gusting wind. He forced his hand off the hatch to cover his ear and blot out part of the noise. “It didn’t register until I saw the drop.” A vision of a similarly high vantage point—though inverted—leapt vividly from his adopted persona’s memories. “Vanwall once crossed the wrong people in Vegas, and they hung him upside down off the roof of the Sands!”

“You’re not Vanwall,” Tony reminded him. “You’re Adam Gray, and you’re
not
afraid of heights. Push him back down and get across that roof.”

“Easier said than done.” He reluctantly stepped through the hatch, revealing more of the vista below. His sense of vertigo returned.

Not my sense. His. I don’t have vertigo. I’ve …

He wasn’t sure
how
he was so certain, only that he
was
certain. The more he tried to recall why, the greater the feeling that something was missing from his mind.

Not missing.
Taken—

“I know you can do it,” said Tony, bringing his focus back to more immediate concerns. “Ignore Vanwall. He’s just an imprint, and he’s done his job. You don’t need him anymore.”

Another step. The wind caught the bags he was carrying, their straps digging into his shoulders as they shifted. The neon cityscape swayed beneath him. Despite the wind in his face, he felt as if there were no air.

This isn’t me! I’m not afraid. Ignore his fear. It’s his, not mine. I can do this
.

Adam drew in several breaths, filling his lungs. He took in the view again, picking out points of interest: a flashing sign on another casino, cars weaving ant-like through an intersection. They remained steady.

I’m not afraid
.

Tony spoke again. “You’ve got to get to Bianca, and soon. Zykov’s getting impatient. She needs your help.”

I’m in control
.

“I’m going,” he said firmly, moving fully out onto the roof. He stepped over skeins of electrical cables and headed for the Russian’s penthouse. The sign jutted out from the roof’s edge on a gantry. There was just enough room for him to put one foot in front of the other behind it; once he cleared the last letter, he would have a little more space—but nothing to hold on to if he slipped. The tiled roof curved steeply upward, offering no handholds.

He nudged the heavy laptop bag behind his back for better balance. The medical case bumped against it. He kept going, picking his way past more letters.
I
,
A
,
L
, and he was in the open.

Vanwall’s terror resurfaced as he looked straight down over the edge for the first time. Eight hundred feet, neon hyperspace streaks pointing the way to earth.
Not my fear
. Another deep breath. He brought up his arms to balance himself. One foot in front of the other. He looked ahead. The corner of the roof projected outward in an oversized parody of a traditional pagoda. He could see part of the penthouse’s balcony beneath it.

One foot, then the other. The distance slowly closed. He kept his eyes fixed on his destination.
Keep moving
. A stronger gust caught him, making him wobble, arms seesawing before he regained his balance. The laptop bag swung behind his back, twenty pounds of bulky electronics acting like a pendulum. Even with the gambler’s fear suppressed, the seconds before he stabilized were terrifying.

“Adam, I can see you on the UAV’s cameras,” said Holly Jo, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Just some wind.”

“That’s always a problem when you eat Chinese,” Kyle cut in.

“Kyle, shut up,” Tony barked, but the moment of levity was what Adam had needed to get over his fright.

He set off again. “What’s Bianca do—”

His leading foot stepped on something slick and jerked forward. He staggered, arms flailing.

He was going over …

He twisted and deliberately fell against the steep roof. The impact was hard, tiles grinding under his weight. The laptop bag thumped heavily against the rooftop.

His foot slithered over the edge—

He clawed at the tiles. Fingernails got a grip. Gasping, he held himself in place. His wayward foot found solidity again.

“Adam!” Holly Jo cried in his ear. “Are you okay? Adam!”

“I’m okay,” he croaked. He carefully levered himself back upright and probed the edge with his foot. “Shit.”

“What happened?”

“Like I said, shit. Literally. I just slipped on a big patch of bird poop.”

Her brief laugh was somewhere between relief and disgust. “Jesus, Adam.”

“Kyle, get the UAV in closer and warn him if there’s any more,” said Tony, concern clear even behind his professional tone. “Adam, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Just a scare. The PERSONA gear took a knock, though.”

“How bad?”

“No way to tell until we try to use it. Okay, I’m moving again.”

Kyle gave him warning of a couple more potential hazards. Adam stepped over them, heading out onto the overhang above Zykov’s penthouse. “What’s the situation inside?”

“Bianca’s still in the bathroom,” Holly Jo told him. “Zykov doesn’t look happy—he’s pacing about in the lounge. I think he’s getting fed up with waiting.”

“What about his bodyguards?”

“I don’t see them. They must be in the back rooms.”

Adam pictured the penthouse’s layout, recalling the floor plan Levon had procured. “Which bathroom is Bianca in?”

“The one off Zykov’s bedroom.”

“Damn.” To reach the balcony, he would have to
monkey-climb down the support beam—making him fully visible to anyone in the main bedroom, and at risk of being seen from the lounge as well. “Okay, tell me when he moves. I’m going to the corner of the roof.”

More carefully than ever, he advanced along the edge of the precipice.

“Adam’s almost in position,” Holly Jo told Bianca. “He’ll be—uh-oh.”

“What?”

“Zykov’s coming!”

She heard the muffled thump of footsteps outside, followed by sharp raps on the bathroom door. “Bianca! What are you doing in there?”

“I’m fine, I’m nearly done,” she called out, fidgeting in near-panic before forcing herself to calm down. She flushed the lavatory. “Just a second …”

It took exactly two seconds before he knocked again. “Are you coming?”

She took several rapid breaths, trying to recover some façade of composure. “Yes, yes.” Steeling herself, she opened the door.

Zykov was right outside. While he was a long way short of filling the doorway vertically, with his broad shoulders he blocked it widthways. He had a full champagne glass in each hand. “I was getting worried,” he said.

“It was just … you know, foreign food. It takes a little time to adapt.”

He offered her a glass. “You will be fine with this, I think!”

“Thank you.” She took it. He showed no inclination toward letting her through. “So, ah …”

He smiled, exposing pointed teeth. “What did you think of my bedroom? Nice, hey?”

“I didn’t get a proper look, I’m afraid,” she said. “I was in rather a rush to get in here.”

“So, you prefer the bathroom?” The smile widened,
and he stepped into the room. There was still not enough space for her to get past him.

“I, ah, wouldn’t say I prefer it,” she said, desperation behind her own, very tight, smile. He kept advancing. She tried to camouflage her retreat by turning as if to take in her surroundings. “But it’s a very nice—Oh!”

Completely unintentionally, she stumbled on her high heels. It was only a small trip, but it was enough to spill some of her champagne. She looked down at the puddle. “Oh no, I’m sorry.”

“No matter.” Zykov backed her into a corner. He put his own glass down on the counter, then slipped his arms around her waist. “So. Here we are. It is time that we—”

Sudden movement behind him—and Adam delivered a single hard chop to the base of his neck.

Zykov staggered, face contorted in pain, then his knees buckled. The American grabbed him under his arms before he fell. “Help me get him on the bed,” he said, voice low.

Bianca was too startled to move. “What—what happened? What did you just do to him?”

“Knife hand strike. Come on, we don’t have long.” He dragged the woozy Russian toward the door.

“But—I thought that sort of thing only worked in movies!”

“You’d be surprised. Hurry up. If he calls for help—”

“Okay, okay!” She gingerly took hold of Zykov’s feet and they hauled him into the bedroom. Bianca saw the medical case and a bulky bag on the bed. The exit to the balcony was open.

“Shut the lounge door,” said Adam as he dumped Zykov on the mattress. “Then work out the Hyperthymexine dose.”

Bianca quickly closed the door, then returned to the bed. “How long will you be able to keep him from shouting for his bodyguards?”

Adam produced a silenced gun and pressed the muzzle
against the Russian’s forehead. “Long enough.” He thumbed back the hammer with a loud metallic
click
. Even in his groggy state, Zykov recognized the sound and stiffened in fear.

“Oh God, oh God …” Flustered, Bianca tried to remember what Albion had taught her. Calculating the dose itself was straightforward enough; the associated theatrics was the hard part. She opened the case. The sight of a penlight torch reminded her of part of the show, but she struggled to recall anything more. “Okay. Eyes. Check his eyes.” She took the torch and performed a quick arm’s-length examination. “Yes. Two. They look fine.”

Zykov screwed up his face in response to the bright light. “What you doing? What is this?”

“Shut up,” Adam said firmly. “Make a sound and I’ll kill you.” The Russian finally focused on his face. “You! But—”

“I said shut up.” Adam pushed the gun down harder. Zykov fell silent, narrowed eyes burning with anger.

Bianca found a measuring tape in the case and stretched it out beside the prisoner. “Okay, sixty-five inches, that’s, ah …”

“Five-five,” Adam prompted.

“Five-five, right. Although …” She tugged at one of his shoes, revealing not only a stacked heel but a wedge inside. “Jesus, his heels are nearly as high as mine! Okay, more like five-three. So, ah, the dose would be, let me think …”

He gave her an odd look. “Aren’t you going to weigh him?”

“Did you bring any scales?” she snapped.

“No.”

“Well, then! You just picked him up; how heavy would you say he is?”

“I’d guess about … a hundred and eighty pounds?”

“That means nothing to me—I work in kilograms!”

“Eighty-one kilos,” said Holly Jo through her earwig after a moment.