The Blood Code (A Super Agent Novel) (Entangled Edge)

by Misty Evans

  Russian architecture fascinated Ryan. Fresh out of the Farm, he’d once navigated Moscow by the intricately designed buildings on a field test, sans map. He’d learned Russian as a second language and fell in love with its art work. The Great Kremlin Palace was his favorite site in Moscow, but he wasn’t there for a sightseeing tour. As his gaze scanned the room, he counted fourteen of Ivanov’s security guards stationed at the room’s archways, and another dozen plainclothes police scattered amongst the US president’s secret service detail and the British prime minister’s security unit. Ivanov had guaranteed the visiting dignitaries the highest level of security available and apparently he was true to his word, at least on this subject.

  What Ryan didn’t see was Anya.

  He told himself not to worry about her. Whoever she was—double agent, innocent Russian princess, damsel in distress, or all of the above—she’d made it clear she was capable of handling herself in this place. His first order of business was his official Agency mission. Ignoring his lingering worries about her, Ryan scouted for surveillance equipment. Amidst the interior structural decor were hundreds of places perfect for cameras, and although he didn’t see any obvious lenses, he knew they existed and were tracking his every movement.

  Waiters with trays of champagne, vodka, and hors d’oeuvres circled small groups of socializing dignitaries at the east end of the ballroom. On the opposite side, long tables covered with damask tablecloths, fine china, sixteenth century candelabras, and shoulder-high floral centerpieces, were laid out in a U shape for dinner. A mixture of modern Russian rock music and classical opera added background noise from hidden speakers above everyone’s heads.

  Ivanov was nowhere to be seen. Ryan’s target, however, was at three o’clock, talking to his boss, the Russian prime minister. The balding deputy minister, Yuri Barchai, was sweating heavily, his gaze darting around the room as if he, too, were keeping an eye on all the security details.

  Ryan followed his gaze, scanning the different groups of dignitaries, security personnel, and even the waiters. All seemed exactly as it had been.

  With one exception. Someone was watching him watch Barchai.

  Across the vast expanse of the hall, Truman Gunn caught Ryan’s eye. He was standing near the British prime minister and talking to Ambassador Lutz, a clear drink in his hand, and a camera hanging from a strap around his neck.

  Ryan couldn’t acknowledge him as a friend or acquaintance since they were both undercover. When their paths crossed, they would pretend they were meeting for the first time. One of the many reasons it was difficult for operatives to have long-lasting friendships. In public, they had to ignore each other.

  Truman understood the game well, and with a subtle tip of the glass that no one but Ryan would’ve noticed, he shifted his focus back to Lutz.

  Ryan followed suit and returned his attention to his target.

  Along with the photographs of the Palace and grounds, Ryan had studied Barchai in detail. Bank accounts, extramarital affairs, bribes, even his elementary school records had been gone over with a fine-tooth comb. The smallest of details could give Ryan the upper hand when turning him, and if anything, Ryan was thorough with details.

  Even if he hadn’t known the man was unhappy in his current job, it was easy to deduce the conversation he was currently having with his boss made him agitated. When people felt upset, they were easier to turn into an asset because they gravitated to a sympathetic listener. Another of Ryan’s skills.

  But something about the man’s expression made Ryan step back into the shadows behind a marble column to watch him more closely. Along with the agitation, he seemed to be arguing a point. The set of his jaw, the directness of his gaze when it went back to the prime minister’s face, told him Yuri Barchai was on a mission.

  And a man on a mission was no one to fool with.

  When turning an asset, the first encounter was crucial. No sense rushing it and blowing the one chance he had of uncovering the truth about Ivanov. The nuclear summit would last a full week, and although it was a time crunch, Ryan would wait for the right opening.

  Just like he would with Anya.

  For the next half hour, he pretended to be the Pennington aide his backstopped identity said he was, all the while searching for any sign of her. He mingled and shook hands, wishing he could ask about the princess, but knowing it wouldn’t be a good idea. Instead, he had a brief conversation with Thad Pennington, President of the United States, who had no idea Ryan worked for the CIA even though Thad’s brother-in-law, Michael Stone, was the clandestine group’s deputy director. Pennington believed Ryan was one of his endless government worker bees, and that was exactly what Ryan wanted.

  While Ryan worked the crowd, he spotted Truman snapping photographs. It was doubtful Truman would compromise him in such a way, but he made sure to stay out of the camera’s eye at all times. Continuing to mingle, he kept Barchai in sight, waiting for the opportunity to introduce himself. He also steered clear of Lutz, who kept shooting him nasty glances. When the moment came to approach his target, Ryan snagged a shot of vodka from a passing waiter’s tray and walked toward the deputy prime minister who happened to be talking to Truman.

  But just as he was about to join them, Barchai checked his watch, turned on his heel, and left the hall, eyes once again darting over the posted guards.

  Too late to turn around or pretend that he hadn’t been headed in Truman’s direction, so Ryan stuck out his hand, plastered on a benign smile, and introduced himself. “Ryan Jones, advisor to President Pennington.”

  Truman shook his hand, sipped his drink, and affected his snootiest British accent. “Bond. James Bond.”

  Ryan glanced around and saw no one was close enough to overhear them. They were also underneath one of the ceiling speakers so if a listening device was in the vicinity, the music would drown them out. “You need a new pickup line.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. Russian women love that line.”

  There were all of two women in the entire place, one a British diplomat with Truman’s delegation, and the other a waitress who had a distinct mustache. Neither of which Truman had paid any attention to. “You didn’t mention you would be here. What’s your cover?”

  Truman scanned the room as if bored, slipped a business card from his inside breast pocket to give Ryan. “Tony Westport. Journalist for the Guardian.”

  “Covering the summit all week?”

  A single head dip. “Have you seen the princess?”

  “No. You?”

  Truman shook his head and Ryan’s gut twinged. Had Ivanov found out about the key? Ryan had given it back to Anya with instructions to return it to its case as soon as she could, but what if Ivanov had discovered it missing or worse, discovered Anya’d gone AWOL on him? When she’d returned to the Kremlin, he could have been waiting for her.

  Ryan swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat. Where is she?

  He steeled his nerves, shook off the worry. Anya had already proven she could think on her feet. “You’re the only media here. Seems like Ivanov would have his own press junket covering the summit.”

  “They’re tucked inside his right pocket.” Truman waived off a waiter with a tray of caviar on toast points before speaking again. “They’ll only come out when he’s in the spotlight shaking hands with Pennington or Morrow over the new treaty.”

  Ivanov, like many world leaders, was a known control freak. “So why’d he let the Guardian in?”

  Truman cut his eyes to the female British diplomat. Shrugged. “Ivanov would love to win Britain’s friendship away from America, I imagine.”

  Ryan was about to respond when a bell rang, silencing everyone. All heads turned toward the sound. The security guards at each of the archways stood even straighter and the hair on Ryan’s neck tightened in response.

  A door, invisible from inside the hall, opened at the far end behind the dining tables. Barchai appeared in the doorway, pausing for a moment to be sure he ha
d everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present your host for the evening, and this week, the president of the Russian Federation, Maxim Ivanov.”

  The deputy prime minister moved out of the way. A round of applause broke out as the other dignitaries and guests stepped forward en masse to get a glance of Ivanov as he entered the grand hall.

  A showman who enjoyed making an entrance, the fifty-three-year-old leader was dressed in his military attire rather than the designer dress suits worn by his British and American counterparts. His hair, barely graying at the sides, was military short as well.

  He extended his hands in a gesture not unlike an actor receiving a standing ovation. “Fellow world leaders, friends, welcome to the nuclear summit meetings, and welcome to my home. It is my pleasure to host all of you here at the Great Kremlin Palace. Suites have been readied for each of you and my staff has been instructed to take care of your every need.”

  As more applause echoed in the hall, Ivanov gave a little bow, and then raised a hand for silence.

  Ryan and Truman stood at the back of the crowd. A flash of peacock blue behind Ivanov caught Ryan’s attention and he shifted to get a better look.

  “With me tonight,” Ivanov continued, “and all of this week, is Grand Duchess Anya Maria Alesandrovna Romanov Radzoya. Her bloodline traces back to Paul 1 of Russia.” He shifted to the right, turned, and held out his hand.

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd as Anya stepped to Ivanov’s side. Ryan’s breath stuck in his chest. Gone was the wind-blown hair and wild-eyed countenance. In its place, her white-blond hair fell elegantly coiffed around her face, and her eyes, which barely glanced at the crowd, showed tempered resistance. She was almost Ivanov’s height in the heels that matched her blue dress. This dress, like the red silk one, stopped mid-thigh, accentuating her long, slim legs.

  Black hole, here we come.

  Ivanov took her hand as more clapping welcomed her to the event, and Ryan gritted his teeth at the intimate gesture. “Czarevna Anya and I welcome you to Russia!”

  Czarevna. Interesting term. As if Russia was still lead by czars.

  The attendees applauded and milled around to find their assigned places at various tables, many of them stealing glances at Anya as Ivanov escorted her to the head table. Waiters appeared with shoulder-lofted silver trays. The sound of conversations again filled the air.

  Truman raised his camera and took a photograph of Ivanov and Anya. “There’s your Russian princess.” He lowered the camera and glanced at Ryan. “Before she showed up at the cabin, I didn’t realize there were any Russian princesses left, at least none so young and pretty. Wonder where he dug her up?”

  Ryan pressed a finger into a cufflink on his left sleeve, engaging the camera hidden in the button of his shirt. Thad Pennington approached Ivanov, greeting the leader and shaking his hand, and Ivanov in turn introduced Anya. Her eyes brightened at meeting the president of the United States. She eagerly shook his hand and smiled openly as he chatted with her for a moment. She looked almost starstruck.

  Beautiful. Ryan angled his chest and pressed the cufflink to get a shot of her smiling.

  When Pennington moved off to Ivanov’s right, however, Anya’s smile faded and she flinched at Ivanov’s touch—a subtle movement Ryan would have missed if he hadn’t been watching her closely. Ivanov guided her to a chair next to his.

  “There are three living females descended from the original Imperial Houses,” Ryan murmured to Truman. “One is a widow in her forties who lives in the south of France and claims to be waiting for the Russian people to reinstate her as their ruler. The second woman of royal blood disappeared with her granddaughter—the third and youngest Russian grand duchess—back in 1998 after the girl’s parents died in a tragic auto accident outside Moscow.”

  At the time, no one in or outside of Russia had said a word about the disappearances, as if they feared questioning them might result in their own disappearance or untimely accident.

  “And Ivanov found her,” Truman said.

  “That, or the Russian president knew her whereabouts all along.”

  At the head table, Anya ignored the commotion around her. Her head was tilted down, attention locked on the china. Tense lines framed the corners of her mouth. Through the throng of waiters and the rustle of people taking their seats, she seemed to feel Ryan’s gaze. Slowly, she lifted her head and met his eyes.

  For the second time that night, Ryan recognized the expression staring back at him. Like the deputy prime minister, Anya Radzoya was on a mission.

  Only hers was a deadly game of treason.

  And if he wasn’t careful, she’d bring him down with her.

  Chapter Seven

  He was here. Finally.

  And damn, he cleaned up good. The soft light from the overhead chandeliers made his wheat-colored hair—now trimmed and neat—glow. Cheeks smooth, stubble shaved off. The tux added bulk to his already broad shoulders and emphasized his natural air of complete invulnerability.

  He was put together and in control of himself. Hell, in control of everything.

  Which made her less freaked out about her situation, and more freaked out that she was so attracted to a spy.

  Ryan’s direct, unwavering gaze held hers across the room. His presence reassured her, although she wasn’t sure why—he’d been less than encouraging about her plans to save her grandmother and stop Ivanov’s treachery. Having him there took some of the weight off her shoulders, though. If she got into hot water, he would step in. She could trust him, even though he still didn’t quite trust her.

  He continued to stare, his attention traveling down her body, his eyes dark and unnerving. As if he suspected she was more than a kidnapped woman trying desperately to put her shattered world back together. As if he suspected she was screwing him over.

  Her cheeks heated. You’re paranoid, Anya. Stop it.

  She had a right to be paranoid considering what had happened in the past few days. Since arriving back at the Kremlin, Ivanov or his guards had watched her every move. Not just goons following discreetly behind her, but full-on security details shadowing her every step. He hadn’t said anything to suggest he suspected she’d left the spa, but she was now under 24/7 surveillance. When she’d asked, he’d said it was simply because of all the foreign guests arriving for the summit. The mass of strangers presented more risk, and one couldn’t be too safe. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how she looked at it—he’d been so busy preparing for this joke of a summit, he’d barely given her ten minutes of his time. And in those ten minutes, he’d refused to discuss her grandmother.

  Grams. God, I hope you’re okay.

  While Natasha Romanov was healthy for her age, she’d had mild heart trouble. The one and only time she’d been in the hospital was for an angiogram, which had uncovered a blockage and resulted in the insertion of a stent, and daily heart medication. It hadn’t slowed her down, as evidenced by her constant traveling to see friends, but how long could she go without her meds?

  Have you seen her? Ryan’s words echoed in Anya’s brain. The thought Grams might be suffering, or even dead, fired up the constant dread sitting in Anya’s chest. It also fired up her determination. From across the room, she met Ryan’s stare, forgetting the heat in her face. No one—not Ivanov, or the CIA—was going to stop her from carrying out her plans.

  Eyes locked with hers, Ryan suddenly smiled, full-on charm, and all traces of scrutinizing gone. Anya swallowed. For a second, she forgot she was sitting next to Ivanov in a room full of dignitaries. She forgot all her problems. That smile…damn.

  He really should smile more often.

  Ryan’s body language combined with that smile made her believe for half a second that everything was going to be okay.

  He’d instructed her to act like they were strangers at this dinner. Well, duh. She might not be a spy, but she knew better than to tip her hand to Ivanov, or endanger Ryan in any way by acting like they were friends. Rya
n, Eddie, whatever the hell his real name was, they weren’t friends. Anya didn’t even know his last name. He probably had several of those, too.

  Like her.

  Yes, their secrets were better left alone, but how was she supposed to ignore the tingling in her lower stomach? The fact that she had to keep looking at him to calm her nerves?

  Truman, the British spy, said something to Ryan, and he responded without breaking eye contact with Anya. Reassuring her that he was keeping an eye on her?

  Another place, under different circumstances, she might have returned his smile with something more than reserved hope. She couldn’t keep her heart from jumping around, though, and struggled to keep her face solemn. The only way to suffocate her very female reaction to him was to break their eye lock.

  Drawing a determined breath, she forced her gaze to the sweeping arches and towering pillars of the room.

  Georgievsky Hall was awe-inspiringly beautiful. From the grandiose arches to the highly polished floors, the hall’s magnificent and elegant design reminded the men and women attending tonight’s celebration that Imperial Russia lived on in the heart and soul of the capital, even if the country was now led by an elected president.

  Everywhere Anya looked, light reflected off gold, crystal, marble. And everywhere she looked, ghosts rose in her mind.

  The hall had hosted dozens of important foreign diplomats since the end of the Cold War. It had also been the site of official domestic ceremonies. When her father, a favorite member of then-President Yeltsin’s cabinet, and her mother, a geneticist who’d worked for Yeltsin in a special government laboratory, had been killed in an auto accident, the president had arranged a formal wake in Georgievsky Hall for them.

  Fifteen years had passed since Anya had been in Moscow, in this very hall, a dark abyss opening at her feet at the loss of her parents. Eleven years old and staring in shock at the ornate caskets, closed due to the damage done by the fire when the car went up in flames. Or so they told her. Anya knew the truth. Both her parents had been shot. Murdered. Before her eyes. The car had gone up in flames to hide the bullet holes and destroy the bodies beyond recognition. She’d been there, having run from the car and hidden in the woods at her mother’s insistence. She’d seen the masked man dressed in black approach the car. Heard her trapped mother’s screams before the car exploded.