by Misty Evans
John was tipping six-one and boasted a lean one-ninety on his frame. But with his winter coat on, he looked bigger. Add to that the fact he hadn’t slept and was wearing his don’t fuck with me face, he and Devons made an intimidating pair.
“May I help you?” The manager’s name tag read Stephan. He stopped a foot away from the desk, avoiding getting too close.
Devons flashed a fake badge of some sort. “Detective Andresen, remember me? We spoke yesterday about the woman who disappeared from Room Eighteen. This is my new partner, Detective…” He scanned John and made up a name. “Johan. We’d like to take a look at that room.”
“The police already went through the room.”
The woman had followed Stephan from the office and now stood behind his left shoulder, her attention firmly fixed on Devons again. He shot her a grin and she smiled back, raising one hand to touch her hair. “Detective Johan here is new to the case and needs to see the room himself.”
Stephan muttered something under his breath, then said to Devons, “The authorities ruled out any crime and turned the room back over to us. There are new guests staying in it.”
The woman—Alana, according to her matching name tag—jumped in. “The Austens are out of the room right now. The maid is cleaning it.”
Devons tapped the top of the desk with his fake badge and spoke to Stephan. “Perhaps Alana, here, could take us to see it then?”
Alana was already reaching for a key card on the wall behind her. “I’d be happy to assist the police in their investigation.”
They left Stephan sputtering behind them.
The maid was indeed cleaning the room. Devons kept Alana chatting in the hall while John did a sweep, working around the shy maid as he checked under the bed, examined every piece of furniture, and inspected behind the pictures hanging on the walls. The maid was changing the sheets on the queen-size bed when John decided to run his hand along the seams of the mattresses. If he ever wanted to hide anything in a hotel room, he’d sew it into a mattress.
Bingo.
His fingers encountered hard plastic buried under the fabric at the headboard end. While the maid hefted the dirty sheets to her cart in the hall, John slit open the edge of the seam with his pocketknife. A small, black cell phone appeared.
Undoubtedly, it didn’t belong to the couple currently renting the room, but if it turned out it did, he’d make sure they got it back. He slipped the phone into his pocket, caught up to Devons in the hall, and gave him the sign to wrap it up. Devons thanked Alana for her time, and the two made haste to leave.
They didn’t talk until they’d both crawled into Devons’s rental car. John retrieved the phone and handed it to the spy. “Battery’s almost dead.”
Devons found the call log and scanned its history. “Probably a dozen missed calls, several from Natasha’s granddaughter, Anya. Flynn thinks Ivanov blackmailed the girl into traveling to Moscow, and Del confirmed she’s living with him inside the Kremlin.”
He scrolled more and stopped, holding the screen so John could see it. “Natasha took a call Wednesday, February thirteenth, just after eight in the morning. The number’s private. She must have disappeared after that.”
“Any messages waiting in a voice mail box?”
Devons punched a couple buttons and put the phone on speaker. “Only ten.”
Voice mail demanded a password. The two men glanced at each other and Devons shrugged. “Anya.” He typed the letters in.
The soft, computerized female voice told them incorrect password.
He tried “Francine.” No luck. Natasha’s birthday and then Anya’s birthday, which he’d apparently memorized. The voice mail box remained locked.
Brainstorming a password was an art but sometimes luck played an important role. “Mother Russia?”
Devons typed in “Russia,” and next thing John knew, they heard a woman’s voice. “That’s Francine,” Devons told him.
They listened to all the new messages, most of them from Natasha’s friend, one from Natasha’s dentist telling her it was time to schedule a teeth cleaning, and one from a charity in D.C. asking her if she’d volunteer for their next fund-raiser. When the new messages were finished, the voice mail box began coughing up the previous messages.
The first one made the alarm bells in John’s brain ring like Sunday Mass. The voice was male, Russian. The message was short, less than ten seconds, and the Russian words faded out in places where a low background noise interrupted them, either because the battery on the phone was nearly dead or because the original connection had just been bad.
Devons frowned. “You get any of that?”
John was skilled in search and rescue, medical training, and a host of other special ops skills. None included being a Russian linguist. “Not a word.”
While hitting a button with one hand to make the message repeat, Devons motioned at the glove box. “Grab that extra battery in there, would ya?”
Sure enough, a brand-new, still-in-the-package instant cell phone battery was inside. John unwrapped it, and Devons plugged it in. They listened to the message again. Still in Russian and still fading out in spots.
Devons banged his fist on the steering wheel. “I’ll have to send it to Del and have him run an audio analysis. See if he can filter out the distortion and translate the message.”
John, feeling like a walking zombie, groaned. “How long will that take?”
His new partner shrugged. “Few hours.”
A few hours and he’d be facedown on whatever surface was handy. “Surely the Agency has a spook around here who speaks Russian.”
“I might know someone.”
Devons took out his own phone, sent a text. The two of them sat in silence waiting for a response, and John nearly fell asleep before the phone beeped. Devons stuck the car in gear even as he was reading the screen. “Got it. Friend of mine not far from here can help us out.”
His friend turned out to be a tall woman with black hair, guarded eyes, and a distinct Israeli accent. She ushered them into a loft apartment, stuck her head out the door, and looked both ways before closing the door and glaring at Devons. John noticed a discreet bulge on her hip under a thick sweater. “Let me hear it,” she said.
Fine by him. John removed the cell phone from his jacket, called up the voice mail message, and punched the speaker button. “Can you translate this?”
She didn’t take her gaze off Devons as the harsh-sounding words spilled from the phone over the sounds of the background noise. When the message was done, she said, “Play it again.”
John obliged, and they all listened once more to the clipped Russian voice. The corners of the woman’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “It’s an address. Something near the Russian Church on Rue Toepffer.” She took the phone from John’s hand and repeated the message a third time, pressing her ear to the speaker. “A law office?”
John sent Devons a look. “What do you think?”
The spy shrugged. “Looks like we better go find ourselves a lawyer.”
“I will go, too,” the woman said, reaching for her coat on a hook near the door. “In case you need more translating.”
Devons’s insouciant body language disappeared. His hands went to his hips. “Not a good idea, Naomi. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. Could make trouble for you.”
She made a dismissive noise in the back of her throat. “If I ran from trouble, I would never have met you.”
Definitely history between these two.
Devons gave John a pleading look, but John didn’t feel like arguing with her, or letting the spy off the hook so easily. “She might come in handy. Let’s go.”
Naomi smiled at Devons. “I’ll get my phone and meet you downstairs.”
The spy started to argue. John grabbed him by the coat and shoved him out the door.
“Bad idea, man,” Devons murmured under his breath as they hit the stairs.
“Why? Because she gets under your skin
?”
“She’s former Mossad.”
Agents never really left Mossad. Like a Marine was always a Marine, Mossad wasn’t just an intelligence service; it was a way of life.
They headed outside, making their way to the rental car. “We won’t be spilling national secrets to her, just using her to help us speed up this process. Soon as I’ve got what we need, we’ll thank her, and be on our way.”
At the car, Devons stared back at the apartment building’s front entrance. Naomi emerged, and he tensed at the sight of her. “Don’t count on it.”
John opened his door. “What? That she’ll help us?”
Devons shook his head and sighed. “That we won’t be spilling national secrets to her before this is over.”
Chapter Fifteen
KREMLIN PALACE
MOSCOW
Ivanov came for her at six that evening.
Anya was dressed in another designer gown. This one—a ball gown made of midnight blue silk—molded to her breasts and dipped low in the back, but at least it covered her legs.
Ivanov was dressed in a suit, although he hadn’t completely forgone his military uniform. He’d eliminated a traditional tie in favor of a red ascot, complete with the Russian Federation’s coat of arms.
The minute he crossed the threshold, she expected a reprimand. He took one look at her in the gown, with her hair swept into a low bun at the back of her neck, however, and said nothing about the earlier incident with Andreev. “I have something for you.”
He held out his hand, and Anya reluctantly placed hers in it. Traitor, her mind whispered. He killed your parents.
Revulsion rolled through her, and it took every ounce of willpower not to jerk her hand back. Oblivious to her horror at his touch, he gave her hand a squeeze and propelled her toward the bedchamber.
Why was he leading her to the bedroom? Her feet stumbled.
Gritting her teeth, she righted herself and prayed the “something” he had for her wasn’t what she thought it was. The very idea made her gag.
Ivanov bypassed the bed and a modicum of relief rushed over her. But then he strode to the hidden pocket door and opened it.
A new wave of anxiety sent a cold chill over her skin. “Where are we going?”
It was a dumb question. Obviously, he was taking her to his bedchamber. Unable to stop herself, she drew back, resisting the step that would launch her across the threshold.
His only answer was a knowing smile as he opened the matching door on the other side and forced her through it.
She had no choice but to give in and enter. The night before, she hadn’t had the presence of mind to pay attention to the king-size bed. Tonight, it took center stage. With certainty, Anya knew she would be face-to-face with that bed, and soon. She just hoped it wasn’t tonight.
Ivanov skirted the bed and led her through his chambers to his office. On the wall opposite the built-in bookshelves, a portrait of Peter the Great hung on the wall. Ivanov stopped in front of it, gazing at the oil painting as if it were his own reflection, and a prickle of intuition ran down Anya’s spine.
She’d picked out several Russian history books from the czarina’s library and read them that afternoon. One of the books had devoted an entire section to the famous Russian leader, Peter I, of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. The painting on Ivanov’s wall showed a middle-aged man dressed in military attire, a sword in one hand and his other laying on a map. She’d seen the painting in the book, his pose suggesting he ruled the world by force. The symbolism and the light in Ivanov’s eyes as he studied the oil painting suggested he saw himself as the next Peter.
Peter I had renamed himself Peter the Great, and while he initiated massive economic and foreign policy reforms for the times, he’d also been cruel and ruthless. He’d interrogated his own son, whom he suspected was plotting against him, and threw him in prison.
After a moment’s pause, Ivanov swung the picture away from the wall, revealing a safe hidden behind it. He pressed a selection of numbered keys on the keypad and pushed down on the metal handle. The safe beeped, opened with a click and a soft swoosh that sounded like a sigh to her.
The deep, cavernous opening was high enough up, Anya had to stand on her tiptoes to see over Ivanov’s shoulder. Once the door was opened, a small, recessed light in the ceiling of the safe lit the contents, illuminating another safe, this one the size of a shoe box. Along with the smaller safe, dozens of files, USB drives, and assorted guns filled the inside. The odd mix also contained what looked like several velvet jewelry boxes.
It was one of these Ivanov removed. Facing Anya, he held it out and lifted the lid. “This belonged to the Romanovs. As the rightful heir to the throne, it is yours.”
The necklace had a center sapphire bigger than a half-dollar coin and was crowned by three rows of diamonds. The diamonds continued around the entire necklace, all the stones set in gold.
So stunning it took her breath away, Anya couldn’t help but admire the beautiful jewels and exquisite details. She’d never seen anything so glamorous up close. The necklace was made for a red carpet affair or inaugural ball.
Or a grand duchess.
Without waiting for her consent, Ivanov removed the necklace from the black velvet box and wrapped it around her neck. The weight of the jewels pressed into Anya’s skin, matching the heaviness in her chest. Accepting the jewels seemed every bit as treasonous as accepting food from her enemy. As accepting his hand.
She did it anyway.
She acted like a princess in order to fool Ivanov into trusting her.
Running her fingers over the stones, she smiled. “It matches my dress perfectly. Spasiba.”
Her thank-you garnered Ivanov’s approval. He nodded his head, closed the safe, and ushered her toward the main door of his suite. “Dinner awaits.”
She took his proffered hand, steeling herself for the coming evening. Two things were crucial to tonight’s performance.
Ignore Ryan Jones.
Endure Ivanov’s advances.
As she entered the lavish hall set up for dinner, Ryan locked eyes with her, and her heart skipped a beat.
It was going to be a long night.
…
The day had been a damn long one.
Ryan had called up his benign, friendly, aide personality and kept it in place throughout the boring opening day speeches. He’d laid low, kept his head down, and done his damnedest to fall off Andreev’s radar.
Unfortunately, President Pennington had taken a liking to him, inviting him to eat lunch with his group, and placing Ryan in the spotlight several times during the lunchtime conversation.
When someone learned you were a spy, their body language, verbal language, and personality changed. Ryan had seen it dozens of times. Trust disappeared and they stole glances at you from the corner of their eye, or blatantly demanded you share top secret information as proof. Pennington’s sudden interest in Ryan suggested he’d learned the truth about who Ryan really worked for. The president’s body language, however, suggested otherwise. His interest was genuine. He still believed Ryan was one of his worker bees, but one whom Pennington found refreshingly nonpolitical.
Pennington and the British prime minister were not exactly BFFs. And Pennington, who was used to being the star of every summit, found himself dwarfed by Ivanov’s ostentatious performances. Seeking to impress someone and regain his ego’s solid footing, he’d decided to take Ryan under his wing. Which certainly helped Ryan’s standing with Ambassador Lutz, but kept him in the spotlight where he didn’t want to be. Whenever Andreev was around, his laser beam attention followed Ryan everywhere.
Between Andreev watching his every move and Pennington keeping him busy, Ryan hadn’t had enough time to get through the whole file on Anya. What he had managed to read bothered him, and he was anxious to get back to it once he was in the safety of his room. More important, he wanted to see Anya again.
Midnight. Five hours from n
ow. If he could get away, and if his plan worked, he would see her.
Georgievsky Hall was once more laid out for an impressive dinner. Everyone was in their assigned seats, talking, drinking, and laughing as they waited for their host and hostess to join them. Where were they? What was taking so long? Was this another of Ivanov’s pretentious displays of ego?
Ryan was lifting a glass of Absolut to his mouth when Ivanov and Anya appeared in the archway at the end of the hall. His hand froze in midair, immobilized at the sight of her.
What a difference twenty-four hours could make. Gone was the awkward and nervous young girl from the night before, and in her place, was a poised, dignified woman. While there was still a look of determination on her face, her eyes glittered brighter than the sapphire and diamond necklace circling her neck. But her newfound vivacity had nothing to do with her jewelry.
She was every inch the princess. It oozed from the tilt of her chin down to the swagger in her walk. Had Ivanov finally gotten to her? Had the idea of becoming the Russian president’s wife, and ruler of Russia turned her?
Sadness and a certain amount of betrayal nipped at the careful control Ryan had on his emotions. He tried to catch her eye to no avail. She and Ivanov took their seats and dinner was served. The whole time she avoided looking in Ryan’s direction.
Tonight he was seated next to the British diplomat Truman was investigating. Her high-pitched voice and wheezing laugh barely penetrated his awareness. He should have been working any angle he could to befriend her and find a chink in her armor for Truman, if not for the CIA. Instead Ryan picked at the evening meal and tried to block out everything but Anya while appearing oblivious to her.
One didn’t need spy training to figure out her clear signals. She wanted nothing to do with him.
The logical director of operations insisted that was perfect. Exactly what she should be doing, pretending he meant nothing to her.
But his male ego made him want to punch the table. He’d given her his number and made it obvious he was available if she needed anything. Had told her he’d be by tonight to see how she was. His ego be damned, there was nothing left to do but his job.