by Misty Evans
Just as she’d feared. She wasn’t going anywhere and Ivanov was making busywork for her. Once again, the blood of her ancestors churned in her veins. “I am Grand Duchess Anya Maria Alesandrovna Romanov Radzoya. If I want to leave the Palace, I will.”
She stepped forward as if to break through the guards’ blockade, but all she managed to do was get both of her arms securely restrained.
“Abject apologies.” Inga’s gaze locked on the floor at Anya’s feet. “I cannot allow you to leave.”
With that, Anya was escorted back inside her suite by the guards and dumped across the threshold in a very un-princess-like manner.
Inga followed, setting the stack of files on the czarina’s desk. “If you would like, I could bring you tea while you work on these for President Ivanov. He’s very interested in your findings.”
Anya dropped her coat on the back of an elegant Queen Anne chair. “Just leave, please.”
The woman bowed her head and disappeared, closing the doors behind her.
Huffing, Anya returned to the bedchambers and kicked off the boots. It was then she noticed the Italian dresser had been returned to its original spot along the wall. A new idea took root in her head.
Ivanov was more than a eugenics nutcase. He was a power-hungry manipulator, a control freak. If he would kidnap Grams in order to blackmail Anya, what other injustices and corruption would he wield to get his way? There had been more than her parents’ execution warrants in that file. How many other secrets was he hiding in his office?
Removing her suit jacket, Anya eyed the door, a new seed of rebellion sprouting. Since she couldn’t escape from the dreaded foxhole, she might as well dig herself in deeper.
She rolled up the sleeves of her shirt.
…
He was definitely being watched.
Ryan found his name tag and gave an internal sigh. He sat down next to Lutz and pretended he didn’t see Andreev talking to one of the security goons about him. Now that he’d called attention to himself, he’d have to be on his best behavior. The last thing he wanted to do was get Anya in trouble.
Georgievsky Hall had been transformed into an official lecture hall. At one end, a podium had been set up, Russian, American and British flags providing a backdrop. Off to one side, in ornate high-backed chairs, sat the three world leaders. On this first day of the summit, each of them would address the audience in the hall with opening speeches centered on the topic of nuclear arms reduction and the current and perceived future threats of worldwide terrorism.
Audience seating was divided into two sections: one for the attending diplomats and one for the media. Reporters from thirteen countries had been allowed access to these proceedings. Three major news organizations, handpicked by Ivanov, had also been granted video privileges for the speeches.
Lutz glared at Ryan. “I thought you were staying at the Savoy during the summit.”
Less than a kilometer from the Kremlin, Hotel Savoy was a common place for Americans to stay while in Moscow. Ryan clipped the provided name tag on his lapel and shrugged. “There was an empty suite available here. President Pennington insisted I take it. My language skills and history doctorate have already proven helpful to him.”
The mention of Pennington stopped further needling. Lutz huffed and made a big deal out of gathering papers from his briefcase. Ryan withdrew a touch screen tablet that was CIA-pimped and field-operative approved from his briefcase. Amongst the apps for locating the best coffeehouse in Moscow and reading the Washington Post, were apps for translating the Cyrillic alphabet, instructions for creating a smoke bomb with sugar, potassium nitrate, and aluminum foil, and a facial recognition program with the faces of six thousand known, wanted, or suspected international criminals. Another of Del’s genius inventions.
Ryan intended to take notes using the keyboard, but he pulled out the titanium pen and fingered it. He’d give anything to have five minutes alone with the pen and his tablet. Whatever was encoded on its memory chip about Anya, though, would have to wait. He still had a job to do at the summit, and not just for appearance’s sake.
Barchai was still an option for an asset, and Lutz needed reassuring Ryan wasn’t spying on Ivanov. He’d have to play his part today full throttle to get Lutz, as well as Andreev, off his back. The time would be well-spent. He had research to do on royal blood, DNA, and gene sequencing. Notes to take on people. Especially Ivanov.
Every gesture, every facial reaction, every tic. Ryan wanted to know it all, right down to how many times the man took a piss.
Because somewhere down the road, Ryan had no doubt he and Ivanov were going to tangle.
Chapter Thirteen
The secret door between the royal suites was locked. Of course.
Her plan to snoop through Ivanov’s suite foiled, Anya slumped on the four-poster and considered her options. Option one: stay in her room like a good girl and analyze the medical records Inga had left behind. Analyze them for what, Anya wasn’t sure, but there was no pretending she didn’t recognize the gene maps contained in each one. What was Ivanov looking for? While everything from hair color to propensity for disease was contained in those records, royal blood could not be discerned from DNA.
Option two: she could morph into Nikita, overpower the guards, and make a break for it.
Option three: channel Jason Bourne, disable the lock on Ivanov’s door, find unquestionable evidence he was a sociopath, and then make a break for it.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t Nikita or Bourne. Her options for the day’s entertainment thus boiled down to analyzing those files or watching another day of Russian soap operas with Inga until Ivanov returned from the summit meetings.
Either way, she was getting out of the damn power suit and putting on her jeans.
In the dressing room, she ignored the clothes hanging in the walk-in closet with their designer labels and went straight to her suitcase. She didn’t want to wear anything Ivanov had bought her, no matter how beautiful or expensive. She wanted to be Anya Radcliff again, if only for a few hours.
Changing into a pair of worn jeans and her favorite cotton sweater, she buried her nose in the sweater. The familiar smell of her laundry detergent. The smell of home. Even if she managed to get Grams released from Ivanov’s grip, they would never again share a lighthearted conversation over laundry. They’d never eat at their favorite Italian restaurant down the block, or order in pizza and watch a French film, complete with subtitles.
Anya removed the warrants from her bra. Her fingers shook as she unfolded them.
Executed. The word jumped out at her every time, a cobra striking without warning. It made no sense. Why would Ivanov and the KGB have wanted her parents dead?
After lowering herself into a plush chair, Anya drew up her legs and hugged her knees. Losing her mother and father in such an abrupt way had been like losing two of her limbs. In the hours and days after the accident, her world canted sharply to the left, body and mind limping along.
Enemies. They’d obviously been enemies of Ivanov’s. People he saw as a threat to his master plan. But what was it about a member of Yeltsin’s cabinet and a geneticist that threatened Ivanov’s plans?
A knock came from the door and Anya jumped. Before she could hide the papers, the double doors swung open, and Inga appeared, tray in hand. “I’ve brought you tea, Czarevna Anya. Where would you like to take it?”
Inga entered without waiting for Anya’s reply. Behind her, Andreev stepped into the room.
Trouble One and Trouble Two. Anya’s stomach dropped, her first instinct to hide the papers, but any rash movement to do so would call attention to them. Instead, she sat up, put her feet on the floor, and simultaneously folded the warrants in half, slipping them under her thigh. “Thank you, Inga. Please set it here.”
Inga obeyed, bringing the tray to the coffee table in front of Anya and pouring her a cup of tea.
As Andreev circled the room, eyeing everything, Anya raised up to her full seated h
eight. Andreev’s gaze cataloged every vase, piece of furniture, and portrait hanging on the walls. What was he looking for? “Did you come to take tea with me, prime minister?”
He stopped at the bedchamber’s French doors, glancing inside, no doubt, to make sure she hadn’t moved the furniture again. Satisfied everything was in its rightful place, he snapped his fingers at Inga and shooed her to the door.
Andreev wanted her alone. Anya’s stomach dropped another notch.
As the double doors closed behind Inga, Andreev faced her. His skinny mustache twitched above his narrow lips. “The card the American gave you this morning.”
Should she play dumb? Act like she didn’t know what he was talking about? He’d clearly seen Ryan slip her his business card and pretending otherwise would be foolish. “What about it?”
“Give it to me.”
Anya leaned forward, picked up the cup of tea she didn’t want, and blew on the hot liquid to buy time. No way she was pulling that card out of her bra and handing it over to Andreev or anyone else.
She gave a dismissive shrug. “I left it in the dining room. I have no interest in the upcoming American art exhibit in St. Petersburg.”
Andreev’s coarse brows drew together. “Why would he invite you to the exhibit?”
“Not just me. President Ivanov as well. First Lady Ruth Pennington will be there, and the president asked his aide to extend a personal invitation to us to come and show our support of the expanding American presence in Russia.”
Andreev clasped his hands behind his back and paced the room. When he disappeared behind the tall back of the wing chair, Anya slipped the papers into the crack between the chair arm and cushion.
Andreev rounded the far edge of the room and returned to where she was sitting. Sipping her tea, she stared at the portrait of Catherine the Great hanging over the marble fireplace, and pretended she cared little about Ryan, Americans in general, or Andreev’s concerns.
“The card was not on the table after you left.” Andreev stopped in front of her, blocking her view of the fireplace. “What did you do with it?”
Even if she hadn’t been a grand duchess of Russia, his tone was rude. Between the guards manhandling her, and Inga ignoring her earlier refusal of tea, Anya was becoming truly annoyed. She may have been a prisoner, but she was not weak, stupid, or a pushover. “As I recall, you left the banquet hall this morning before I did.” She rose with a grace instilled by her grandmother, placing herself in a face-to-face standoff with Andreev over the coffee table. “I left the card on the table, and I don’t appreciate you insinuating I’m a liar.”
“I came back and checked the table, princess.” He sneered the title as if it were a disease. “You took the American’s card, and now I must insist you hand it over to me.”
“It’s a damn business card. I’m sure he has hundreds of them. Why don’t you just ask him for one?”
Andreev held out his hand. “Give me the card.”
“Even if I had it,” Anya said, not bothering to keep the defiance out of her tone. “I wouldn’t give it to you, Prime Minister Andreev. And if you don’t leave this minute, I’ll be sure to tell President Ivanov about your inappropriate behavior.”
Her threat gave him pause, but he was undaunted. “Give me the card.”
With Catherine looking down on her, Anya tipped her cup and poured hot tea over Andreev’s outstretched hand.
GI 42 PRISON
MOSCOW
Even with a black eye and a dirt-smudged face, the elderly Natasha Radzoya was as strikingly beautiful as her granddaughter. Age had not diminished her looks, only heightened it, pulling her skin tight over her high, sculpted cheekbones and deepening the set of her blue eyes. Eyes that shot bullets at Maxim as he paced around her in the cold, barren jail cell.
The summit was keeping him busy. He didn’t have enough time with Anya and he lacked time to properly torture her grandmother. A shame.
Natasha was a very verbal woman, although she’d refused to tell him what he wanted to know about the missile launch code. He’d grown tired of her insulting tone and harsh criticisms, and had taped her mouth shut. Now he enjoyed how this simple technique stripped away the last of her power, and she knew it. She could not fight him physically or with words, and it was killing her as sure as lack of sleep, food, and water.
Since she wouldn’t tell him where she’d hidden the information he wanted, he’d decided to torture her in a different, more strategic way.
“Anya is beautiful,” he said, stopping in front of her. “Beautiful, intelligent…innocent.”
Natasha was tied to a chair, hands and feet bound. As she struggled against the restraints, he smiled. She was as determined as ever to break free and castrate him, even though her strength was nearly gone. He admired her intense desire to save her granddaughter, although he didn’t understand it. She could have saved herself all this and died a quick, quiet death if she’d come forth in the beginning with the information.
But he was a royal, just like she was, and used to getting what he wanted. “Also, she is stubborn. She refused to trade in her Western garb for appropriate Russian attire.” He fingered the ornate handle of the dirk secured by his wide leather belt. “So I sliced the clothes off of her.”
Natasha’s mouth moved under the tape. The noise she made came out sounding like a growl.
“My dirk slipped and accidently cut her. I thought that would be enough warning for her not to challenge me again. I was wrong. She ran off for a few hours. Did not get far outside of Moscow before she stopped and came back. Her loyalty to you is strong, as I surmised it would be. All I need do is strip the Western ideas about independence you brainwashed her with, and I can mold her into the next czarina of Russia.”
Maxim strolled around Natasha, noticing that her whole body heaved as she breathed. She bowed her head, the physical strain of her predicament taking a toll on her aging heart.
“My personal physician attended to her wound, gathering her DNA while he was at it. The geneticists in my lab are running a full battery of tests on it. Paternity, gene mapping, everything. When we announce our engagement, I will show the world the proof she is a true Russian princess and that her blood is perfect.”
Natasha’s head came up, her eyes scrutinizing and fierce. Since she wasn’t yet ready to give him the information he wanted, he would push her mental and physical well-being to the limit. It was risky to strain her heart to the brink of collapse, but he hadn’t achieved the ultimate power of Mother Russia by playing it safe.
Leaning over, he lowered his voice. “Anya belongs here with me. You and her parents, in essence, sold her soul to me through your actions. For betraying Russia, you owe your homeland much. Anya is payment for that debt.” He smiled. “What a delicious payment she is. I will enjoy every moment with her.”
Natasha surged against her restraints, desire to get her hands on him so evident, he chuckled.
“I watched her for years, you know, waiting for the chance to bring her back. Once you are out of the picture, she will forget her time in America. She will reject the propaganda you have fed her. She will be mine, and together, we will make history. A history where Russia becomes the leader of the free world.”
Natasha stopped struggling. Her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t fully understood what her traitorous ways would cost her in the end. Whether she gave him the launch code or not, she was a dead woman, and she knew it.
Maxim stepped forward and patted her face. Retribution was a sweet pill on his tongue. She jerked away, but couldn’t move far. He stood over her, giving her the full impact of his size and power. “Traitors to Russia must die a tortuous, lingering death. It will give you time to wallow in your guilt, to suffer for your crimes, and to miss your granddaughter. But I promise, she will never feel your pain because she is a true royal. She is already embracing her destiny, relearning her place in the history books. She will be true to me, and true to Russia. You can be sure of it.”
&n
bsp; For once, Natasha sat immobile, face pale as the ghosts of her dead ancestors.
Chapter Fourteen
HOTEL MONTAGUE
GENEVA
TWELVE HOURS LATER
John Quick watched the revolving door of the hotel from a corner of the lobby, pretending to be on his cell phone. The moment Josh Devons sauntered through, John put his phone in his pocket and flagged him down.
The newest member of Conrad Flynn’s secret army of spies, Devons was medium height but broad as the front end of John’s Ford F-250 back home. His brown hair was buzzed like a Marine’s, and he sported a scar on his left cheekbone. He walked with the tight air of a bouncer and his dark brown eyes missed nothing, including John, when he entered the lobby.
“Hey, man.” Devons swung his arm in an arc before making contact with John’s hand and shaking it with a crushing intensity. Yep, definitely a bouncer or a bodyguard, or maybe even a defensive end, before the spy gig. “Nice boots. You’re from Texas, right? Love the ladies down there. You a one-man team this mission?”
A one-man team who’d just returned from a grueling rescue in South America and was so not up for partnering with a spy who couldn’t shut his trap. Five hours of sleep in the past three days made John light on patience and heavy on irritation. “Flying solo for now. Boss man wanted it that way. We find your asset and recover her, Pegasus will assist if necessary.”
Devons leaned one beefy shoulder against the nearest wall. “The hotel bagged up Natasha’s belongings and turned them over to her friend Francine Harris, an ex-pat living here in Geneva. I interviewed Fran and went through Natasha’s stuff with a fine-tooth comb. Found nothing of interest.”
“Search the room?”
“My next step. Or I should say, our next step.”
The two of them walked casually to the main desk, asked the middle-aged woman manning it if they could see the manager on duty. Her gaze lingered on Devons before she disappeared into the office. A moment later, a skinny man with greased-back hair and a crooked nose appeared, looking them over with obvious apprehension.