by Misty Evans
Ryan nodded. “Did you know him?”
“Not well. I was too young. But my parents worked for him, and my grandmother…” Anya’s breath hitched in her chest. Grams.
“What about your grandmother?”
Anya swallowed the tightness in her throat. “I think she knew him well. She rarely mentioned anything about Russia, but a few times, I got her talking about her life here. She didn’t seem to like Yeltsin or his politics, but she never mentioned he was an alcoholic.”
The mantel clock’s second hand ticked softly in the background. The radio played soft Russian love songs. Ryan reached out, this time touching her cheek. “We’ll find her, Anya.”
Saying it didn’t make it so, and yet hearing the utter confidence in Ryan’s words made it seem possible. Sometimes possible was all you got. A swell of emotions flooded her chest, swirling in a crazy tornado of desire from Ryan’s touch, the surreal situation she was in with Ivanov, and the dread that Grams was in pain, or worse, dead at the maniac’s hands. “Do you have any idea where Ivanov is holding her?”
He started to say something, then hesitated, as if it were less than happy news. The confidence in his voice this time was forced, and he dropped his fingers from her face. “I’m working on it. I’ll figure it out.”
Shifting back, she closed her eyes, and ran her hands over her face. “This is all my fault. Ivanov kidnapped her to get me here. He knew I’d never come on my own. If it weren’t for my damn royal genes, he wouldn’t even care about me.”
“Don’t forget, she supposedly has that code he needs, and you have no control over your genes or your heritage. Your grandmother wouldn’t want you feeling guilty about this. In fact, she’s probably feeling guilty herself for putting you in this predicament.”
“Why would she feel guilty?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “For not protecting you better, hiding you better.”
“I thought we changed our last name to fit in when we moved to America. Now I wonder if we didn’t change it because she suspected this might happen down the road.”
“Do you remember much about your childhood here in Moscow?”
“Some things. School, friends, music lessons. My dad loved comics, just like I did, and he would bring me a new one every Tuesday when he came home from work. My mom had this great voice, but she would only sing ‘Love Me Tender’ when she cooked dinner. Once Yeltsin promoted my dad to his cabinet, things got crazy. Dad came home late every night. My mother couldn’t sleep, and she roamed our apartment, pacing and waiting for him. Grams took care of me a lot, even then.”
“Do you remember Ivanov at all?”
She shook her head, seeing the masked killer in her mind.
Ryan looked like he wanted to see inside her head. “Never heard your father or grandmother talk about him?”
“Ivanov? No.” Was she missing something? Did Ryan know something she didn’t? Had he confirmed the man who’d assassinated her parents was now the president of Russia? “Why?”
He glanced at the floor, seemed to think something over, then changed the subject. “Did you get another look at that map you told me about?”
The map. Anya grinned. “Better than that.” She stood, tugged on the drawstring of her pj bottoms to untie them, and removed the folded map from the waistband, where it had been poking her. “I stole it.”
Ryan’s eyes widened as he took the map from her hand, and a measure of satisfaction ran through Anya’s blood. She might not be versed in covert operations, but she did okay in the kleptomaniac department.
“See?” She retied the pj bottoms and sunk back down on the bed. “All those black dots? I think they represent the missiles he plans to activate when he gets that code. They all have names. I didn’t get it at first, so I thought the names referenced people, but now I think he’s named the missiles. Like they’re pets or something. Too weird, huh? I didn’t count how many there are, but there are hundreds.”
She pointed to a group of dots surrounding Moscow. “These are different. No names, no codes, and they’re in red. Another set of blue ones surrounding St. Petersburg. Maybe the code he needs activates these missiles?”
“Those are most likely defense missiles designed to protect Moscow and the Kremlin in the event of a nuclear war. But the government would have those codes. There must be something else to this.” He stared at the map, lost in thought. “Wait. These must be the ones he claims to the world are decommissioned.”
“Huh?”
“The decommissioned missiles. They’re not active because he doesn’t have the code to activate them.”
Ryan turned the map over, read the legend and the other wording in the upper right hand corner. “But we need more info, something concrete. There is nothing on this map that proves Ivanov is reactivating missiles or selling weapons to Iran. We couldn’t even prove this is his map.”
The satisfaction and hope building inside her popped like a balloon. “What do you mean? I took this from his desk, of course it’s his map, and I overheard him and that weasel of a prime minister talking about reactivating all those missiles, and…”
Her voice had risen and Ryan put up a hand to remind her lower it. “I know. I know. It sucks, but this is circumstantial at best, and again, your word against Ivanov’s won’t hold up anywhere.”
Biting her lip, she tried to hide her utter disappointment. “I risked my neck to steal a map that means nothing.”
“Pretty ballsy move if you ask me, and it doesn’t mean nothing. It means we’re on the right track. We just have to pile on some more concrete proof before I take it to Pennington and the CIA.”
She kept the exasperated sigh in her throat from bursting out. No sense acting like a four-year-old. “What’s it like being a spy?” The words were out before she could stop them.
He chuckled, but his face became shuttered. “Contrary to pop culture and movies, it’s not all women and futuristic gadgets.”
“But I bet it is exciting and the women are pretty and competent, right?”
He met her gaze. While the shuttered look was still in place, an amused light shown in his eyes. “Only the genetic research scientists who steal maps from a Russian president’s personal chambers. Gorgeous and extremely adventurous. That kind of risky move is usually only something spies do. You’re not a Russian operative, are you?”
Anya’s pulse sped up. He thought she was gorgeous. The female inside her did a whoop of joy.
There was real concern in his question about her being an operative, however. “I’m no operative, believe me. I’m conflict adverse, not risk adverse, and I’d do anything for my grandmother. Besides, it was pure luck, not skill, helping me steal those documents.”
“Either way, you need to hide them in a safer place.”
He rose from the bed and went to the wall closest to the bathroom door. There he knelt on the floor and retrieved his glasses. Using the screwdriver, he pried the five-inch molding from the wall on a short section spanning the right side of the door.
Standing behind him, Anya saw where the plaster didn’t go all the way to the floor and an old paint color peeked through. Ryan took the screwdriver and dug it into the plaster. Within a minute, a small pile of soft plaster rose on the floor, and a tiny opening now existed in the wall. A square just big enough to hold her contraband.
As Ryan folded the map into the same shape as the hole in the wall, Anya tugged the papers and business card from her bra. “Here.” She handed him the items and noticed how he hesitated for a heartbeat when he saw his card. “Andreev tried to take it away from me,” she told him. “I refused to give it up.”
That crooked grin lifted the right side of Ryan’s face, but he didn’t say anything as he shoved the card and paper into the hole with the map. He replaced the molding, giving it a little tap to secure it.
He stood, stuck the glasses back in a pocket, and retrieved a cell phone from another one. “This phone has a camera in it. If you get back into Ivanov
’s chambers, and you have a clear opportunity, take pictures of any documents you find. There may be tangible physical evidence in his office we can use if you get a picture of it, but don’t take unnecessary risks, okay?”
Playing spy was growing more and more fun. Seeing Ryan make a safe for her in the wall reminded her of Ivanov’s. “There’s evidence all right. Do you know how to crack a safe, Mr. Spy Man?”
“Yes.”
Another valuable skill. “Will you teach me?”
“No. No safecracking. Just take some pictures if you get the chance.”
He walked toward the dresser and the door to the passageway, checking his watch and lowering his voice to a whisper. “Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another long day.”
Anya followed, watching him hop on top of the dresser and press his ear to the door. She climbed on the bed, clutching the phone. “Ryan?” she whispered and he turned to look at her over his shoulder. “I won’t let you down.”
He nodded and mouthed the words Be careful.
Something passed between them again, that silent communication that seemed to say more than any words could. Anya slid off the bed, running on full instinct, and grabbed his arm to pull him down. She kissed him on the lips. Then she mouthed back You too.
He hesitated, seeming a bit stunned, yet recovered quickly, taking hold of the back of her neck, and leaning his lips fully to her mouth. Not too soft, not too hard, the kiss was still forceful and erotic. Heat shot to the spot between Anya’s legs.
Spying on the Russian president or kissing a princess, Ryan was clearly in control.
They broke apart, staring at each other, and breathing hard. A second later, Ryan was gone, the door sliding shut behind him.
Anya sunk into the soft mattress, happiness over their plan mixed with worry at the thought of him in the dangerous passageway alone.
He’ll be fine.
The cell phone was warm from his body heat, and her lips buzzed from his kiss. After touching her lips, she turned on the phone and began searching through the functions. The address book was empty. The call log was empty. The picture files were empty.
Spies. Talk about secrets.
Anya touched her lips again and smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
US EMBASSY
MOSCOW
When the call connected to Langley, Devons put Conrad Flynn on the speaker of the encrypted phone. “What d’ya got, boys?”
Devons looked at the ancient computer monitor and made a face. John knew how he felt. The head of US Operations wasn’t going to like his answer. “Letters and numbers. That’s all we got off the floppy. Took me hours to hunt down a computer to read it, and all we got was a string of letters that make no sense, and four columns of numbers that also make no sense.”
Flynn’s tone was brusque. “They mean something. Radzoya had that information for a reason. What’s Quick think?”
John faced the phone, ignoring the look Naomi shot Devons from the corner of her eye. As per her MO, she’d refused to stay in Switzerland and was now in Moscow with them. Devons had told her not to say a word while he and John spoke to the director of operations or he would kill her. Seemed like the only way they’d get rid of her at this point.
Grigory was also there. The two of them were currently sitting with Del at the conference table, flipping through the comic books they’d retrieved from the safe. “The numbers aren’t longitude, latitude, or any kind of coordinates for air, sea, or land. We tried playing with the letters, but, like Devons said, they make no sense.”
“They’re probably a code,” Devons added. “But none I’ve ever seen.”
There was a long, strained pause on the other end. Then Flynn’s voice lowered a notch. “I didn’t send my weapons expert and best tracker on a wild goose chase two thousand miles away for nothing. What’s your gut say, Devons? Why would a former operative of the Soviet Union, who worked for our side, hide a bunch of numbers in a safe deposit box fifteen years ago in Switzerland, that only she and her granddaughter could access?”
Devons shook his head, gaze scanning the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “The numbers are a code.”
“No shit. A code you have seen before.” Flynn drew an impatient sounding breath. “Look at ’em again, and tell me what they’re for, weapons expert.”
The term seemed to flip a switch in Devons’s brain. His eyes lit up, and he stared at the screen. His focus intensified as his gaze flew back and forth across the columns. “Goddamn,” he whispered under his breath. “There’s at least a thousand of them.”
John stepped toward him and looked over his shoulder at the numbers for the fiftieth time. “A thousand of what?”
“Missile launchers,” Flynn said from the speaker at the same time Devons said it, too.
“As in nuclear warhead missile launchers?” John asked.
Devons tapped the monitor with a finger. “These are missile launch codes for a thousand different sites.”
Flynn sounded pleased at his pupil’s assessment. “Missiles pointed at England and the United States. If Ivanov grabbed Anya Radzoya, he’s trying to cut a deal to get those codes back.”
John didn’t get it. “Why doesn’t he already have them? And what about the nuclear arms reduction summit? Those missiles from the 1980s were decommissioned, weren’t they?”
A chuckle came from the speaker phone. “Decommissioned doesn’t mean destroyed. The missiles are still there, just sleeping, and Ivanov wants to wake them up. Natasha Radzoya either stole those codes, or Yeltsin gave them to her for safekeeping. I assure you, that floppy disk is the only surviving copy, and if Ivanov gets his hands on it…”
Devon slapped the table next to his phone. “We’re gonna be toasty critters before the year’s out.”
“Exactly.” A squeak came from the speaker as Flynn shifted in his chair. His tone once again took a brusque manner. “Give those codes to Del, and destroy the disk, Devons.”
“What about the funky letters?”
“Those too. Del will figure them out. Oh, and Quick?”
“Yeah?”
“Find Natasha Radzoya. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about Anya?” Devons asked. “She knew about this. She brought us that launch key.”
“Natasha is our priority right now. You got any leads, Quick?”
“Three, actually.”
“Don’t give me three,” Flynn said, impatient again. “One. Where’s Ivanov got her stashed?”
John planted his feet further apart, rubbed a hand over his face. Devons’s intense focus was on him now. “The Kremlin. My best guess is she’s under the Palace in GI 42.”
One of Devons’s brows lifted. The speaker was eerily quiet.
Another squeak from Flynn’s chair broke the silence. “Better figure out a way to get into the Kremlin, boys. Smith’s going to need all the help he can get.”
The phone line went dead. Devons, Grigory, and Del stared at John, looking like they thought he was suddenly going to pull a full-proof plan for crashing the summit meeting party out of his ass.
Naomi, still reading the comic book in front of her, flipped a page and frowned. “What is this?”
John and Devons gathered on either side to get a better look. A piece of paper with an unusual graph on it was folded into the comic book’s pages.
The graph had headers and footnotes, some typed and others handwritten. All of it was in Russian.
“Beats the hell out of me,” Devons said.
“I’ve seen one of these before.” Naomi unfolded it, laying it on the table and pressing out the creases. Below the graph were a couple of spreadsheets.
“What is it?” John asked.
“My mother had one of these done when she was trying to prove my paternity.”
O-kay. “It’s a paternity test?”
“Mine looked different than this, but yes, there are three DNA profiles.” She pointed to the first spreadsheet. �
�This column shows the mother’s, this one, the child’s, and this one, the father’s.”
She trailed a finger down the page to the second, and more extensive, spreadsheet, translating the Russian softly under her breath. “But this is something else. The child’s genes appear to have been tested for various markers.”
“Markers?” Devons asked.
Naomi nodded. “A marker is a gene or DNA sequence that can be used to identify individuals or species.”
Grigory seemed to choke. “Is there a name on the paternity test?”
Naomi shook her head, pointed to a handwritten line at the bottom. “The child’s marker letters are combined into one, here.”
“Let me see that,” John said. He took the paper over to the computer. Sure enough, the string of letters on the screen matched the genetic markers.
Devons saw it at the same time. He whistled under his breath. “The kid’s DNA is some kind of code? Why would it be listed with ICBM codes?”
“Oh, dear.” Gregory wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Peter, what did you do?”
“Peter?” Devons asked.
“Natasha’s son was brilliant…and he designed the first computerized system to launch nuclear weapons.”
Naomi closed the comic book. “The paternity test belongs to Anya Radzoya, doesn’t it? Her gene sequence is somehow tied to the missiles.”
Grigory nodded. “I believe you may be correct.”
Anya. Natasha. They were both in big trouble. And if John didn’t find them, he’d have more to worry about than Flynn riding his ass. “We need to get into the Kremlin. Better yet, the bunker underneath it. We need to come with a solid plan, and fast.”
Devons grinned. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Playing a fake cop won’t cut it this time. Breaching the bunker is impossible, and the Kremlin isn’t much easier.”
“Not a cop.” The grin grew and he patted John on the back. “Terrorist, my friend. We’re going in as terrorists.”
…
The next morning at breakfast, Ivanov and Andreev were MIA. Worse, Anya was also missing.