The Persona Protocol

by Andy McDermott

  Bianca watched the Vityaz as it trundled towards the airport boundary. It was a low, wide slab of snow-caked metal painted a dingy military green, riding on broad caterpillar tracks. As it turned to follow the fence, she saw that it had two separately articulated halves, an equally boxy trailer on its own set of tracks connected to the forward section by a clutch of hefty hydraulic rams. From the way it was effortlessly carving through the snow, it appeared Baxter was right about its off-road capabilities, even if speed had not been high on its designer’s list of priorities.

  ‘Is al-Rais in it?’ Tony wondered aloud. ‘Kyle, get the drone over there. I want to see who’s inside.’

  It took another couple of minutes for the Vityaz to reach the terminal. By that time, the UAV had taken up station to observe it. ‘Damn it, we can’t see anything from this angle,’ muttered Baxter, looking over Kyle’s shoulder. ‘Bring it lower.’

  ‘If I do that, someone might see it,’ Kyle shot back. ‘I know what I’m doing, brah.’

  ‘I’m not your braaahhh,’ Baxter said, growling the word.

  ‘Keep it at the same height,’ Tony ordered. ‘But pull back so we can see into the cabin.’

  Kyle complied, zooming in on the Vityaz’s row of four front windows. Reflections made it difficult to see inside, but movement within revealed a shadowy form at the controls. ‘I don’t see anyone else.’

  ‘Could be someone in the rear cargo bed,’ Baxter suggested. ‘Or the trailer.’

  But the only person who got out when the Vityaz stopped was the driver, an overweight, bearded man wearing a large fur hat. He waddled to the terminal entrance and went inside. After a couple of minutes he emerged, now accompanied by Zykov and his two bodyguards. Zykov asked a question; the driver responded by pointing in the direction of the little town across the fjord.

  ‘Al-Rais is in the town,’ Adam said suddenly. ‘That’s where they’re meeting. We need to get over there.’

  ‘We can track him with the UAV,’ Tony pointed out.

  ‘No, no. Something’s not right.’ The agent’s concerns sounded incongruous in Browning’s staccato speech patterns. ‘You said yourself that al-Rais won’t take the RTG away by sea. Too vulnerable. And Zykov won’t be flying it out on his own jet. Far too risky. But there aren’t any other planes here. So how’s he getting it out?’ He stabbed a finger at the Vityaz on Kyle’s screen. ‘Mr Baxter just said that thing can go anywhere.’ Another jab, this time through the portholes at the cars parked by the terminal. ‘The road into town’s obviously passable. You don’t need something like that just to be a taxicab. They’re going somewhere else. Somewhere with no roads.’

  ‘They’ll have to come back to the airport, though,’ said Holly Jo. ‘I mean, this is literally the only way out of here.’

  ‘No! No it isn’t, young lady, no it isn’t. Sevnik’s an army colonel, he has command of helicopters.’ Zykov and his men clambered aboard the Vityaz. ‘We’ve got to follow them. Tony, how much more bribe money do we have? Roubles and dollars.’

  The question surprised Tony. ‘I’m not sure. A few thousand of each?’

  ‘I’ll need it all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We need a car. I’m going to follow them into town.’

  ‘The UAV can do that.’

  ‘Tony, trust me. I need to stay close. We can’t afford to lose them.’

  ‘If anyone’s going after them, it should be my guys,’ said Baxter.

  ‘I’m sure a team of armed commandos skiing through town will pass completely without comment,’ Adam retorted, to the Alabaman’s annoyance.

  ‘Okay. Adam, you go,’ Tony decided. ‘But don’t get too close – Zykov knows you. And take a gun.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Bianca, come on.’

  ‘What?’ she yelped. ‘I’m not going out there!’

  ‘We might need the PERSONA. If we have a chance to record al-Rais’s memories, we have to take it.’

  ‘It’s too risky,’ said Tony, shaking his head.

  ‘He’s setting off,’ Kyle warned. The Vityaz lurched into motion, bending like a metal caterpillar at its central joint and making a tight turn back along the track.

  ‘Tony,’ said Adam, more forcefully. ‘We’re running out of time. I won’t take any unnecessary risks. Especially not with Bianca there. Zykov knows her too.’

  ‘Okay, go,’ Tony said, with reluctance. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘Don’t I get any say in this?’ Bianca protested.

  ‘Sorry. But Adam’ll take care of you, trust me.’

  Adam was already moving down to the cabin to collect his gear. ‘Come on,’ he called over his shoulder to Bianca. ‘And wrap up warm.’

  27

  The Face of Terror

  ‘

  So you bribed some poor Russian to borrow his car?’ asked Bianca.

  ‘I gave him enough to buy a whole new car,’ Adam replied as he carefully guided the ageing Lada around the edge of the bay. Even with chains on the tyres and following the Vityaz’s tracks, the snow-covered road was still tricky to navigate. ‘And then I had to pay off the others who were jealous that I didn’t choose their cars.’

  ‘Did you tell them why you needed it?’

  ‘No. That’s the whole point of a bribe. I pay, they don’t ask.’

  She was already irritable about leaving the comfort and security of the plane, and being patronised did nothing to help her mood. ‘So, two new things I know about Dr Eugene Browning – he speaks Russian, and he’s a sarcastic git.’

  Adam laughed. ‘Yes, sorry. Sometimes a persona comes through without my meaning it to.’

  She regarded him quizzically. ‘You’re not in total control?’

  ‘Oh, nothing like that, no. It’s more a subconscious influence. Like picking up a local accent after moving to a new town.’

  ‘Or saying “I” instead of “he”, like you did when you were talking about that bribe Browning took in 1985?’

  ‘Just living the part. Less chance of messing up my pronouns in front of the bad guys.’ He looked across at her. ‘Are you warm?’

  Despite wearing a thick hooded coat and padded overtrousers, she was hunched tightly in the seat, the medical gear and a case containing a Geiger counter in her lap and gloved hands wedged firmly under her folded arms. ‘Do I look warm?’

  ‘I’d turn up the heater, but as you can see . . .’ The dial was already as far into the red as it would go.

  ‘Adam,’ said Holly Jo through his earwig, ‘Zykov just reached the town. Looks like he’s going to the docks.’

  He looked across the fjord. ‘It’ll probably take us about ten more minutes to get there. Keep me informed.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Bianca gave him a questioning look. There had been no time to fit her with an earwig. ‘Zykov’s heading for the port,’ he told her.

  ‘Like you thought.’

  ‘Yes. Al-Rais is almost certainly aboard the Woden. Two questions: one, where are he and Zykov going to meet Sevnik? And two, how many terrorists has he brought with him?’

  ‘You don’t think al-Rais has come alone?’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Well, that’s . . . cheery.’ She slumped back in her seat.

  The car continued around the inlet. After ten minutes of slithering through the snow, it passed a sign: ПровидEния. Provideniya. Beyond was the town itself, strings of buildings stretched out parallel to the shore. Under the grey sky it looked thoroughly uninviting, even the brightly coloured houses providing little cheer.

  ‘We’ve reached the town,’ Adam told those in the jet. He looked along the waterfront. Dark cranes rose above the docks. The Woden was visible, lights shining in its wheelhouse. ‘Heading for the port.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Holly Jo. ‘Zykov and his men just went aboard the ship.’

  ‘No sign of al-Rais?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Right. Keep watching. We’ll be there soon.’ The road into the town had been
partially cleared of snow, making progress easier.

  Even in such bitter conditions there were still people out and about, moving briskly in heavy fur-trimmed coats and hats. A few regarded Adam and Bianca with curiosity – or suspicion – as they passed, recognising the car but not its occupants. ‘Nice place,’ said Bianca as she took in the run-down state of the buildings. Several of the apartment blocks were derelict, windows boarded up or broken.

  ‘Now who’s being sarcastic, young lady?’ Adam retorted. ‘The town’s lost more than half its population in the past twenty years. That’s why some of the buildings are abandoned.’

  ‘I’m surprised not all of them are. Who just told me that, by the way? You, or Browning?’

  ‘Me. I researched the town on the flight. But the “young lady” part was Browning.’

  ‘Tell him that if he calls me that again he’ll get a slap. And so will you.’

  Adam grinned, then slowed as the car approached a junction. ‘Okay, that looks like it leads down to the docks.’ He turned on to the new road, rounding a large warehouse-like structure.

  Bianca pointed ahead. ‘There’s the . . . the thing. Whatever Baxter called it.’

  ‘The Vityaz. It means “knight”.’ The DT-10 was parked near some rusting shipping containers. The Woden was moored not far away. ‘Kyle, any activity on the ship?’

  ‘Not since Zykov and his two guys went aboard,’ came the reply.

  ‘Is the driver still in the ATV?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay.’ Adam continued past the Vityaz.

  ‘What are we doing?’ Bianca asked.

  ‘I want a closer look at the Woden.’

  Alarm filled her voice. ‘You’re not going to go aboard, are you?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not crazy.’ He stopped the car behind a row of containers, out of sight of both the Vityaz and the ship. ‘Wait in the car.’

  He was about to switch off the engine when Bianca batted his hand away from the key. ‘Leave it on!’ she protested. ‘There’ll be no heat otherwise.’

  ‘And I thought you’d be against pollution.’

  ‘I’m against freezing to death even more!’

  Amused, he acquiesced. ‘I won’t be long.’

  He got out and quickly surveyed the docks. There was no sign of anybody, the cranes empty and unmoving and the other moored vessels dark. Pulling up his hood, he advanced to the last container in the line and peered round it.

  The Woden’s black-painted hull and white superstructure were both scarred by orange streaks of rust. The freighter was at least fifty years old, a privately owned tramp that plied the Pacific on behalf of individual clients, taking their cargo between ports too small for bulk carriers.

  And not just cargo. Such vessels sometimes carried passengers. The one he suspected was aboard would have paid very handsomely to travel while avoiding the usual customs checks.

  He briefly considered going to look through one of the portholes, but it was entirely possible someone inside the ship was watching the docks. Instead he retreated back up the row of containers and slipped between them. A little labyrinth had formed where several of the metal boxes had been haphazardly dumped. He went through to the far side and glanced out at the Vityaz. A small flare of orange light revealed the driver in its cab, smoking a cigarette. The engine was still running; like Bianca, the Russian wanted to stay warm.

  ‘Adam,’ said Tony urgently. ‘Movement on the ship.’

  ‘Okay,’ he whispered, looking back towards the waterfront. One of Zykov’s bodyguards had emerged on to the aft deck. His coat was open, a hand inside. He wasn’t impersonating Napoleon. He had a gun at the ready, surveying the shore for signs of danger. Adam retreated into the shadows.

  The other bodyguard came through an open hatch, followed by Zykov. The arms dealer was talking over his shoulder to someone.

  Another man appeared. Tall, rangy, with a long dark beard spilling over his coat’s collar. Olive-brown skin, a thin, prominent nose.

  Muqaddim al-Rais.

  The world’s most wanted terrorist. The man behind atrocities that had claimed hundreds, even thousands of lives across the globe, including that of the US Secretary of State.

  And he was here, in a tiny town on the frozen fringes of Russia.

  For a moment, Browning’s persona vanished from Adam’s mind. His only thought was a sudden urge for vengeance. From this distance, even his pistol would be more than accurate enough to score a killing shot. His vision seemed to tunnel, locking on to the terrorist leader’s head. One bullet would do it . . .

  His focus widened as more men followed al-Rais on to the deck. The majority looked to be Pakistani or Afghan. None appeared acclimatised to the cold. The mountains of the Hindu Kush were far from hospitable in winter, but sub-arctic Siberia – Provideniya was only barely south of the Arctic Circle – was something else entirely.

  The men kept coming. Five, six, seven in all, each carrying a bag containing something suspiciously similar in length to a Kalashnikov rifle. Two of them also bore suitcases; the seven million dollars? The last man out gave Adam an odd feeling of recognition. It took him a moment to realise why. His name was Qasid, one of al-Rais’s lieutenants; Adam had pulled his face from Syed’s memories during the debriefing on the flight from Pakistan. Holly Jo had also found his picture in the USIC database.

  But a brief meeting and a single photograph didn’t seem enough to have produced the feeling of familiarity. Was there something more? He wasn’t sure.

  He wasn’t sure why he had felt such a surge of anger towards al-Rais, either. He was an enemy of the United States, yes, but this had been almost personal. Why? He hadn’t encountered al-Rais before.

  Or . . . had he?

  There was no time to consider that. ‘Tony,’ he whispered. ‘I have eyes on al-Rais. Repeat, Muqaddim al-Rais is here.’

  ‘We see him,’ came the reply. ‘Stand by.’

  The two bodyguards came down the gangplank on to the dock. Adam pulled back deeper into cover. Zykov followed his men, then the terrorists filed on to the shore, al-Rais shielded by their bodies at the centre of the group. They all marched towards the Vityaz. The two bodyguards, al-Rais and one of his men entered the cab; the other six clambered into the back compartment of the DT-10’s front unit. Presumably the trailer would be used to carry the RTG.

  Zykov, however, didn’t get in. Instead he reached into his coat and took out a telephone. Its oversized antenna revealed it to be a satellite unit rather than a cellular.

  The Russian started to tap in a number. ‘Holly Jo,’ Adam said, ‘Zykov’s making a call on a satphone.’

  ‘I’ll try to snag it,’ she replied.

  Zykov put the phone to his ear. After a few moments he frowned and peered at the unit’s screen, then moved several paces away from the Vityaz and held the phone up to the sky. He turned in place, finally looking satisfied when he was facing south. Satellite phones depended on line-of-sight to their orbiting relays, and were also susceptible to local interference; the Vityaz, a big metal box housing a powerful engine, would not help reception.

  He put the phone back to his head, waiting several seconds before getting a connection and starting to talk. Adam – or rather Browning – could make out most of what he heard, his current persona having acquired a fair knowledge of Russian during his years as an international atomic energy inspector. Zykov was talking to Colonel Sevnik: his seller.

  A tension – no, an excitement, the thrill of the hunt – rose in Adam as he realised what Zykov was doing. ‘They’re arranging the meet,’ he told the team. ‘This is it – they’re going to collect the RTG.’

  He was about to ask Holly Jo if she had tapped into the call when Zykov suddenly waved to the driver, who leaned out of the cab. ‘Put these in!’ Zykov called out in Russian. ‘Sixty-four! Twenty-five! Thirty-three, north! One-seven-three! Four! Thirty-seven, west!’ The driver typed each number in turn into a unit on his dashboard.

&
nbsp; A GPS. He was entering the coordinates for the rendezvous with Sevnik.

  Adam hurriedly relayed the figures. ‘Where is that?’

  ‘It’s about four and a half miles due east of your current position, up in the hills,’ Tony replied. ‘That’s as the crow flies – it’s a lot further going round the inlet.’

  Adam glanced around the container. The desolate snow-covered hills rose steeply and uninvitingly on the fjord’s far side. He guessed the summits to be well over a thousand feet high. ‘What’s there?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I can tell. Looks like a glaciated valley.’

  Zykov concluded his call, then returned to the Vityaz and climbed into the cab. The driver revved the engine, a plume of dirty exhaust smoke spouting skywards. Wherever they were going, Adam knew he had to follow. But the borrowed Lada would not get far off the road, while the articulated Vityaz could negotiate almost any terrain. So how . . .

  Only one way. He hurried back to the car, pulling Bianca’s door open. She looked up at him in surprise. ‘Come on. Bring the PERSONA – quick!’

  She had not seen the terrorists leave the ship. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Come on, now! They’re moving out.’

  Still bewildered, she scrambled from the car. ‘Who’s moving? Zykov?’

  ‘Yes – and al-Rais.’

  ‘He’s here?’

  ‘Yes, but not for long. Hurry up!’ They retrieved the PERSONA’s cases, taking one each, then ran along the row of containers. Adam cautiously checked the road. The Vityaz was performing its caterpillar trick again, bending at the middle to drastically tighten its turning circle. Snow and gravel spitting up from its tracks, it ground back the way it had come.

  Adam waited for the driver’s mirrors to be blocked by the trailer, then broke into a run after it. ‘Move, quick!’

  Bianca followed, confused. ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘We’ve got to get aboard!’ Adam quickly caught up with the crawler. The trailer’s rear entrance was a wide bottom-hinged tailgate with only a canvas flap above it to shield the interior from the elements. He pulled the canvas away and swung the case inside, then clambered in after it. ‘Come on!’