by Misty Evans
He didn’t look like a man who’d spent the night passed out on the couch. He didn’t look like an assassin. Showered and shaved, he was dressed in a black designer suit, white shirt, and red tie. The moment his gaze landed on her, he smiled broadly and opened his arms as if to hug her.
The sight of him made her queasy and angry all at the same time. Was he really the monster who had killed her parents? Under the still-curious eyes of the guests, she had to play along. She gritted her teeth and stepped into his embrace.
Always appearing the gentleman, he did nothing more than lay his hands on her upper arms, and air kiss each of her cheeks in greeting. “Dobroye utro.”
Lacking a better hiding place, and knowing her room might be searched while she was absent, she’d tucked the warrants once again inside her bra. They seemed to press into her skin like a brand as she forced a smile. She returned his greeting deliberately in English. “Good morning.”
His eyes twinkled. “You look beautiful.”
She very much doubted that, since her hair was still damp and the only makeup she’d had time for was one sweep of mascara and a coating of cherry ChapStick. But she couldn’t have cared less whether he approved of the way she looked. The scent of buckwheat pancakes, sausages, and eggs filled the air. “What’s for breakfast? I’m starving.”
Immediately, he ushered her to his table where her order was taken by one of the waiters from the previous night. Inga and Andreev moved off. While Anya waited for her breakfast, she scanned the various tables of people and saw the person she was looking for. Ryan stood near one of the columns, sipping coffee, and speaking to the ambassador from the US Embassy. He was dressed in a dark gray suit with a clean-cut, tailored edge to it, white button-down shirt, and pale blue tie. When he caught her staring, he gave her a slight nod.
“You slipped out last night,” Ivanov said. “I am afraid I was a poor host.”
Dropping her gaze from Ryan, Anya opened her cloth napkin and placed it in her lap. Then she glanced at Ivanov. The guilt on his face surprised her. “It was a long day. We were both tired.”
He seemed relieved. “Today the summit begins and I will be tied up with meetings. Tonight there will be another dinner, and afterwards, I promise to spend time with you and not fall asleep.”
The chagrin in his voice was genuine. The desire in his eyes, seeking her forgiveness, was as well.
In the bright light of day, the idea he’d once been an assassin seemed preposterous. The MYI had to belong to another man. Maybe he’s not the man in black. Maybe he didn’t kill my parents. Maybe he can reasonable.
But as she picked up her coffee cup, the warrants bit into her skin. He was the man in black, she was sure of it. And his charm was nothing more than a façade.
The Belgian waffle she’d ordered arrived, covered in strawberries and whipped cream. It smelled delicious, but Anya no longer felt like eating. After her parents’ murders, she’d told Grams what she’d witnessed, and Grams had panicked, making Anya swear never to tell another human being what she’d seen. She’d packed up her and Anya’s belongings two days after burying her son and daughter-in-law and moved them to America, saying nothing more about it.
The impression that something was amiss diminished rapidly in the face of a new place with new people and experiences. Over time, Anya shut out the memories, did what Grams wanted, and threw herself into becoming an American. But the dread never left her, always lying under the surface of her new life, always reflected in Grams’s face. She never stopped looking over her shoulder, even as she immersed herself in growing up.
Executed. The word ping-ponged inside Anya’s brain. Her parents had been killed, murdered. The move to America, the change of their last name, the dread Anya always felt…the fear and remorse rushed back like a tidal wave.
The whipped cream on her waffle was melting. Anya picked up a fork and stuck it in a fat strawberry, imagining it was Ivanov’s eyeball. While the documents weren’t one-hundred-percent proof he’d killed them, Anya couldn’t shake her suspicions. Was there a way she could find out if he’d been in the KGB?
Andreev returned with an official red folder and sat down next to Ivanov. The two men spoke in low voices in Russian, and the prime minister handed Ivanov a stack of papers and a pen. Ivanov signed the papers with bold, flowing strokes.
Anya forced herself to eat the strawberry she’d speared. As she chewed, she looked for Ryan. One of President Pennington’s aides, one of Ivanov’s cabinet members, and Truman were all standing around him talking. He was smiling and joking, and at one point, the whole group laughed in response to something he said. Even though she had no idea what the punch line was, she smiled along. She wished she was part of them, listening to his strong, deep voice, and laughing at his jokes.
President Pennington wanted to be part of the group, too. He rose from his chair and meandered over with several people in his party. He shook Ryan’s hand and patted him on the back, and Anya saw a faint blush on Ryan’s cheeks as he accepted some compliment from the president. A strange sensation of pride rose in her chest.
A large, cold hand covered hers, interrupting the moment. Ivanov. He glanced once in Ryan’s direction, studying the way Pennington joked with him, before his focus returned to her. “How is your breakfast?”
The flat tone of his voice told her he was upset. The tight hold he had on her hand told her he wanted her full attention. He didn’t like her staring at Ryan. Didn’t like the fact Ryan was more entertaining than he was.
Andreev shuffled the papers into the folder, stood, and made haste to leave. The folded papers inside Anya’s bra pressed into her skin as if in warning. She knew Ivanov’s currency, what he traded in. If he was a former KGB agent, he was ruthless. What had she been thinking? Showing even an ounce of interest in Ryan could get him killed.
Throat tight, she forced down the waffle and gave Ivanov a pleasant smile. From this point on, no matter what, she had to ignore Ryan. “It’s just the way I like it. Better than any I ever ate in America.”
Once again, Hyde morphed into Jekyll. Ivanov’s face went from controlled anger to childlike joy. The squeeze he gave her hand this time signaled his pleasure at doing something better than the Americans.
He rose from his chair, leaned down, and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I will see you tonight.”
Outwardly she nodded. Inwardly she recoiled as if he’d set a tarantula on her head.
Ryan couldn’t get Anya to look at him.
Like a shepherd driving his flock, Ivanov ushered his guests ahead of him out of the Palace of Facets. The summit would take place back in Georgievsky Hall, where diplomatic meetings had occurred for centuries. Ryan had never attended a weapons summit and had been looking forward to this one. Now, as Anya wasn’t following Ivanov but looking down forlornly at her waffle, Ryan had no desire to sit through hours of political posturing.
As Pennington and Morrow rounded up their respective groups and moved out, Truman sidled up next to Ryan and handed him a platinum pen. “Thanks for letting me borrow this last night.”
The pen was one of Del’s favorite toys. He’d probably loaded the hidden memory chip inside the cap with information about Anya. Without missing a beat, Ryan stuck it in the breast pocket of his suit coat. No one was within earshot or paying attention to them, but he played along. “Anytime.”
“Interesting information about our princess and her grandmother your man dug up.”
Ryan paused. Now she was “our” princess instead of Ivanov’s plaything. He tapped his pocket. “You read the contents of a CIA file?”
Truman grinned. “The price you pay for using me as your courier.”
Truman knew more about Anya at the moment than he did. Fabulous. Still trying to catch her eye before he left, Ryan ambled back to the table where he’d left his briefcase.
Truman followed. “Piece of advice, mate. There are a thousand pretty women in this city who would shag you, and all a lot less da
ngerous than that one.” He jerked his chin in Anya’s direction.
Anya, dangerous? What was in the file Del had sent him?
Most of the room had cleared out. Twenty feet away, Anya sat motionless, face pale, bluish shadows under her eyes. Ivanov had stepped up his public display of affection toward her that morning, insinuating their relationship had grown over night. Ryan’s gut churned at the thought.
He picked up his briefcase and gave Truman a pat on his shoulder. “Dangerous women don’t scare me.”
Truman laughed and hiked his thumb toward the open doors. “You coming?”
“In a minute.”
Ryan left him standing there and walked toward Anya. The few people still in the room consisted of maids cleaning up dishes and a couple of Ivanov’s security detail keeping an eye on Anya.
She glanced up at his approach. A smile broke over her face, but in the next instance, she slammed the door on her emotions, resetting her face to stone.
There was no time to figure out why, so Ryan simply placed his card on the table and slid it in her direction. “If you need anything, cell number’s on the back.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, using the card exchange as a simple way to give her a message. “Be in your room at midnight.”
He didn’t wait for her to answer. Turning on his heel, he spotted the reason for her sudden change of heart. Prime Minister Andreev had emerged from behind one of the massive columns and was watching. As Ryan passed by, Andreev fell into step behind him.
If Andreev wanted to intimidate him, he’d have to work harder than that. Ryan smiled to himself. As he passed through the doorway, he chanced a glance back at Anya.
The exquisite Russian architecture of the great hall paled in comparison to her beauty.
Now all he had to do was figure out just how dangerous she was.
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY
“Good morning, director. I trust your doctor officially released you from the hospital?”
Conrad Flynn waved a hand at his assistant, Katie, as he walked past her to his office. Good was relative, and who cared what the doctor thought. His stomach still hurt like a son of a bitch, and Julia was pissed he was returning to work so soon. To top it off, the power was out at their apartment, thanks to the fluky storms the area had experienced since Friday, and he was going to have to borrow the shower in Michael Stone’s office to wash off the smell of the hospital clinging to his skin. “Morning.”
As usual, Katie followed on his heels, giving him his messages and running through the day’s agenda. “I called in Sergeant John Quick, sir, to help with the Radzoya situation, since you promised Agent Morgan you wouldn’t send Lt. Commander Vaughn on another mission until after their baby comes. Sergeant Quick will be here in fifteen minutes.”
Johnny Quick was part of Pegasus, and Vaughn’s right-hand man. “The Rad-what situation?”
“While you were in the hospital. Don’t you remember?”
How could a bout of food poisoning screw up his head so much?
“Of course I do.” He tossed his briefcase on the desk and shrugged off his winter coat. “Refresh my memory anyway.”
Katie placed a cup of freshly brewed coffee on his blotter and retrieved a file from a stack of paperwork on the far corner of the desk while Conrad hung up the coat. She opened the file and laid it in front of him. “Radzoya, sir. Natasha Radzoya disappeared sometime Wednesday while visiting a friend in Geneva, Switzerland? Her granddaughter, Anya, flew out of Dulles and landed in Moscow on Friday. Director Smith asked us to follow up on allegations Natasha was kidnapped?”
Katie ended sentences as if they were questions. Whether she was questioning his memory or his competence, Conrad wasn’t sure. Neither was working at full capacity, so he didn’t blame her.
Anya Radzoya. Smitty’s call. Snatches of their conversation came flooding back, but he was still blotto about the past week’s events. One minute, he was enjoying a steak at his favorite steakhouse in D.C., the next he was puking up his guts with his ass hanging out of a hospital gown.
He glanced at the eight-by-ten photo clipped to the inside of the file’s cover and scanned the information sheet opposite it. Natasha Radzoya had been a double agent, working for the US government during the Cold War. After the war ended, she and her granddaughter had sought refuge in America. All of it taking place before his time as director of operations. Even before his time in the field. “And why do I care about this?”
“I received word this morning from our source at GenLife Laboratories. Anya didn’t show up for work and rumor has it she’s taking time off for a ‘family emergency.’” Katie made air quotes around the words. “The source reported she didn’t know when she’d be back. Our source believes it has to do with her grandmother and President Ivanov.”
Conrad prided himself on knowing everything about everyone directly or indirectly connected to his employer, but for some reason he’d entered a parallel world this morning with this latest intel. Hell of it was, he didn’t think he could blame it on the aftereffects of the food poisoning. “Why do we have a source at GenLife Laboratories?”
A glint of mischief lit Katie’s eyes. He knew she loved knowing something her boss didn’t. “GenLife is the premier DNA lab on the East Coast, sir, handling the analysis for a large clientele of politicians, bureaucrats, and the rich and famous. Also has a specialized group of geneticists contributing to the Human Genome Project. Keeping an eye on Anya Radzoya is only a small part of our source’s job description.”
Conrad sipped his coffee and read more of Natasha’s file. His predecessor, who had handled the Radzoyas’ defection to America, had highlighted one particular section. As Conrad read the brief paragraph, the coffee in his stomach turned to acid. He glanced up at Katie, who was standing in the doorway, the phone call from Anya Radzoya suddenly coming back to him. “How soon will Quick be here?”
Seemingly pleased he’d finally caught on to the importance of the situation, the glint in Katie’s eyes sharpened. “I believe he just arrived. Shall I show him in?”
“Yes.” Conrad motioned toward the door. “And get Del Hoffman on the phone for me. ASAP.”
Chapter Twelve
THE GREAT KREMLIN PALACE
MOSCOW
Anya’s bra was getting entirely too full. She really had to find a better hiding place for all the surreptitious contraband she was carrying.
The warrants she’d stolen from Ivanov’s file were hidden under her right breast. Ryan’s business card, with his personal contact information, hidden under her left. Why he hadn’t given it to her at the cabin was a mystery, but instinct told her he was starting to trust her.
Be in your room at midnight. What was he planning? Her body tingled in anticipation.
While uncomfortable, she had to admit the feel of Ryan’s card against her skin was also reassuring. The heavy card stock, the raised lettering in bold print, the simplicity of his name, and the forwardness of his gesture all combined in an impressive cocktail. Believing he was her friend on the basis of what had passed between them was juvenile, and yet she couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t alone in the Great Kremlin Palace complex.
Of course, Ivanov’s guards were always close by, as was Inga, so technically she wasn’t alone. Even Andreev monitored her every move, and the way he’d purposely followed Ryan from the banquet room made her uneasy. He would report back to Ivanov about her and Ryan’s exchange. Ivanov was a suspicious and distrustful person who obviously considered her his property. If Ryan continued to talk to her or show any kind of interest, his life would be in danger.
Alone inside her suite, she carefully drew the card out of her bra, flipped it over, and admired the straight block letters and numbers carefully printed on the back. Her instincts continued to reinforce he was a good man, a good person, and she’d be damned if she’d stick him in the crosshairs of Ivanov’s Mr. Hyde personality.
Midnight was a long time away. Slipping the card back
inside her bra, she considered her options. While she had a lot to sort through in her mind, she wasn’t one to sit and twiddle her thumbs. From the large mahogany wardrobe in the dressing room, she took out her coat, scarf, and purse, and then she exchanged the heels she’d worn to breakfast for a pair of low-heeled boots.
By the door, she paused in front of the mirror to adjust the scarf around her neck.
Even though she was under constant guard, it was time to see just how far being a princess would get her.
It didn’t get her far. The minute she walked out the suite’s French doors, the security guards stationed there stopped her.
“Where are you going?” one of them asked her in Russian.
Pretending she didn’t understand, she gave him a little wave and walked down the hall. She had no idea exactly where she was headed, but it was away from Georgievsky Hall. At some point, she’d find a door leading out of the building.
“Czarevna Anya!”
The two guards hustled past her, cutting her off, one on each side. Taking another step would result in running into them.
Heart racing, Anya swallowed her alarm and called up as much royal indignation as she could muster. “What is the meaning of this?”
Out of nowhere, trouble known as Inga emerged. “Princess Anya, where are you going?”
Anya narrowed her eyes at the guards and lifted her chin. “The president will be in summit meetings all day. I’m going out sightseeing and I might do some shopping as well.” She turned her gaze to Inga. “Is there a car ready for me?”
The older woman seemed more flustered than normal. In her arms was a stack of folders like the ones on Ivanov’s desk. “I’m afraid that is not possible.”
Wondering what the czarinas and czarevnas before her would have done, she flipped a mental coin and went with righteous anger. “And why not?”
Inga’s gaze dropped to the files in her arms. “President Ivanov wishes you to stay inside the Palace. He would like you to look over these health reports and write a summary of each one.”