The Blood Code (14 page)

Naomi came around the corner, a burly, dark-haired guy dressed in a guard uniform with a beard and an attitude in tow. His hand was wrapped around her arm.

John stepped forward, gun already clearing his waistband, when Naomi smiled at him and held up one of the heels from her shoe. “Broke my favorite Louboutins. Can you believe it, honey?” “Monsieur Blanc, here, insisted on helping me to the elevator.”

Monsieur Blanc looked less than excited about his escort services, but John eased the gun back into his waistband. The elevator’s soft
ding
sounded behind him. He pasted on a fake smile, and hustled Naomi away from the man and into the elevator. “Thanks,” he said to the guard and punched the button to return to the main floor of the bank.

Once the doors closed, Naomi leaned against the back panel, smiling and lopsided in her shoes. She pulled out an old floppy disk and handed it to John. “I miss fieldwork.”

John checked the disk over, his gut sinking. “This is it? This is all there was?”

Naomi’s delight faded. “And these.” She drew out a stack of old comic books. Seeing his frown deepen, she crossed her arms. “What’s wrong?”

In his ear, Devons’s voice crackled, stopping John’s reply. He handed the disk back to Naomi. “Say again, D. I didn’t catch that.”

This time, Devons’s voice came through loud and clear. “We got trouble.”

“Inside or out?”

“Both.”

Ding
. Securing Naomi behind him in one fluid motion as the elevator opened, John reached for his gun.

Chapter Twenty-One

GI 42 Prison

Moscow

Idiots. Iranians were far inferior to Russians. Always had been. He’d offered to sell them guns, and now they wanted missiles. As if he would actually sell them advanced nuclear weapons, plans, or warheads.

Natasha Radzoya, however, was as clever as he was, and as loyal. Not loyal to her country, but loyal to her granddaughter.

No longer gagged, she nevertheless remained silent. He’d switched tactics, allowing Andreev to give her water and bread. The cold, dank prison cell had been turned into a sauna. Instead of silence, screeching techno music filled the air. Natasha was ailing, but not close to dead. Not yet.

Her stubbornness was commendable. In the end, if he had to, he’d resort to physical torture. First, he’d play with the mouse a little more.

“Look.” He held up a Russian newspaper. A picture of Anya in the dark blue dress and Romanov necklace was front page news. He tossed an assortment of pop culture magazines on Natasha’s lap. “Our princess is assimilating into her true culture. People want to know about her. All over the world, they speak of her. She has become a media sensation, stealing the spotlight from the tight-ass British royalty.”

As expected, Natasha flinched at the idea. Drawn to the pictures of Anya, her eyes scanned the various photographs with a certain longing.

But she stayed quiet.

Fine. Patience was easy. He wanted the code, though, and soon. His plan, along with securing Anya, depended on it.

“Do you know why I killed Peter?”

Natasha didn’t answer, only continued to stare at her granddaughter’s picture.

“He knew all our secrets. The codes. The locations. Every detail about the missiles and warheads. Yeltsin thought the risk was too high. The CIA was too close. You were unstable. If the United States or Britain or those dirty, disgusting Arabs grabbed Peter, they would get all those details. So…”

He put a finger gun to his head and pulled the pretend trigger.

Natasha raised her gaze to his. Electronic bass thumped in the air between them. “That was your first mistake.”

The music was loud enough and her voice strained enough, he almost didn’t make out her words. He chuckled at her statement. “Mistakes? I do not make mistakes.”

The old woman’s eyes were hard chunks of ice. “You touch my granddaughter and that will be your last mistake.”

Her threat was meaningless, but her attitude irritated him. Raising a hand, he slapped her face. “Know your place, traitor.”

She rocked back from the blow but showed no remorse. Her chest heaved twice before she spoke. “The code you want died with Peter. You screwed yourself.”

“Yeltsin claimed otherwise. That you have the code.”

“Yeltsin was a weak, power-hungry man. Much like the man I see in front of me. He lied…as do you.”

“Yeltsin treated you with more respect and dignity than you or your family ever deserved.”

At that, she laughed. “We can talk Russian politics all day. Won’t change the fact that no matter what you do to me, I cannot give you the code. And I know for a fact, Anya will never agree to be your wife.”

Anya was already his. And there were many ways to break the immovable object in front of him.

“Enjoy the music,” he said, smiling as he left.

Lombard Odier Bank

Geneva

When the door opened, Devons was blocking their departure. He raised his hands, a typical response to a drawn gun, and smiled at John. “Easy, partner. The Russians aren’t the problem.”

John released the breath he was holding, and seeing Devons’s causal air of competence, returned the Glock to its hiding place. “Then what the hell is?”

Devons shifted so John and Naomi could see the massive hall behind him, including the desk where Grigory had been chatting up the manager.

A dozen or more people crowded around a body on the floor. A guard waved them away while another tried to revive the man with a mixture of shaking, slapping, and CPR. The recipient’s shoes came into view. Brown loafers that looked familiar.

Naomi recognized them, too. “
Adoni shelei
, Grigory. What happened?”

Devons eyed Grigory and shrugged. “My guess is a heart attack. Ambulance is on the way, and the guard reviving him says he has medical training.”

Naomi started forward. Devons grabbed her, guiding her out of the elevator and over to a nearby palm tree. “You can’t help him right now. Let the guards do their job.” He glanced at Naomi’s bag, then at John. “Did you get it?”

Whatever
it
was. “Yeah, we got it.”

“Secret codes? Diamonds? What?”

“A floppy disk.”

“Huh?”

“Computer disk from the eighties.”

“And comic books,” Naomi added.

Devons’s eyes lit up with a weird kind of admiration. Maybe he’d been a geek as a kid, spending his lonely days in front of a computer, a stack of Superman comics next to his desk. “No kidding.”

Naomi continued to watch the show around Grigory. “This isn’t the way the story is supposed to go. We’re supposed to find Natasha and reunite them.” She looked at Devons. “Do you think he’ll die?”

“He’s receiving medical care. He’ll be fine. While he’s in the hospital recouping, John and I will find Natasha, and we’ll reunite them just like you want.”

Naomi’s tension eased as Devons seemed be finally be on board with her fairy tale.

John stood by, quietly amused at the spy’s change of heart. “We need to get that disk to Del, but we shouldn’t leave Grigory alone. Ivanov’s goons could still come after him, and lying unconscious in the hospital makes him a sitting duck.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Naomi volunteered.

“No,” he and Devons said at the same time.

Devons got her walking, leading her away from the scene and toward the front entrance. “You’re not a bodyguard, Naomi.”

John agreed. “Flynn can send someone to guard Grigory. For now, we all need to get the hell out of here and get that disk in a safe place.”

“But he came in with me.” Naomi planted her feet, one heeled and one not. “People will wonder why I’m leaving without him. And I don’t want him to be alone at the hospital.”

An ambulance siren screamed in the distance. Cops would arrive with it. People would ask questions. Naomi’s passport and story wouldn’t hold up to that kind of scrutiny.

Devons gave Naomi a hard look. “Game’s over, babe. We can’t take any more chances. We have to go. Now.”

She caved, pissed, but understanding their dilemma, and the three of them started walking again.

John walked at Devons’s side. “I’ll contact Flynn and take care of the disk. You take Naomi back to her place.”

“Ask Flynn to put eyes on Naomi for the next forty-eight hours as well, will you?”

John saw the quiet fear in Devons’s eyes. Mossad or no, he was worried about the woman. John had the same feelings about a certain someone back home. “Sure, man.”

Passing the commotion at the manager’s desk, John peeked at Grigory, lying on the floor. The man’s eyelids fluttered open, his gray eyes scanning the crowd…

And landing on John.

The old spy sat up like someone had pushed his start button, knocking the guard out of the way and coughing loudly. Everyone gasped and took a step back.

“Oh, dear,” he said, looking around at the surprised crowd. “I’m afraid I’ve caused you all a fright. But it’s all right. I’m all right.”

The guard administering CPR looked as shocked as the rest of the group, and didn’t even offer to help Grigory to his feet. Outside, the ambulance and a police car swung into the parking lot. As the guard tried to get Grigory to sit again, the old man brushed him aside and waved at everyone. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just low blood sugar. Happens all the time.”

He made a shooing motion at Naomi, John, and Devons, staying on their heels as they exited the building. “Make haste,” he murmured. “We need to get out of here.”

“No kidding,” Devons said with a hint of impatience.

The four of them jumped in their car, and Devons gunned the motor, waving at the police officer who was directing traffic in and out of the parking lot. “Mind telling us what the hell that was all about?”

Grigory chuckled, sounding quite pleased with himself. “Just a little fun, like back in the day when I, too, could deceive.” He turned to Naomi and John in the backseat. “You took so long, I thought you’d run into trouble. I created a diversion to help you out. Did you get it?”

Naomi smiled slyly, enjoying Grigory’s subterfuge. She removed the disk from her purse and showed it to him. Grigory let out a whoop.

“Put it back in the bag,” John said. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Naomi followed orders, and met Devons’s eyes in the rearview. He winked, and she rolled her eyes.

John looked out the window. Comic books and an old floppy disk. Whatever the hell was on that disk better be worth the drama and danger they were in now.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kremlin Palace

Moscow

The Presidential Library. Three o’clock. That had been the message Truman had delivered from Anya. Ryan checked his watch again and fingered the book he’d located on the pretense someone discovered him here.

Four minutes before three. Would she show?

The bigger question was why she’d asked him to meet her here. Had she discovered the evidence they needed about Ivanov’s plans? Had she discovered where her grandmother was being held hostage? She’d claimed last night in her room that she’d uncovered something about her family, but how would that help him?

It wouldn’t. And she was taking too big of a chance with this meeting.

But, damn, he was here anyway, ready to hear whatever she had to say, and cover for her if they got caught.

His mind returned to their meeting in her room. The dim light, the music in the background, her utter trust in him. The way she never hesitated to throw her arms around him and say thank you.

His ego liked that. Liked her. His body had never had such a strong reaction to a woman before. Forget his misgivings about her loyalties and her family’s history of treason, he wanted to kiss her, to hold her, to make her smile. He admired the determination in her eyes, the straight posture she erected when she felt challenged. He found everything about her irresistible.

The thought made him cringe. Falling for an asset was the ultimate no-no. The rush of adrenaline and secrecy could trick even the most experienced, hardened spy into inappropriate feelings. Sometimes followed up by inappropriate actions.

Like a kiss that never should have happened.

Two minutes.

Ryan tapped his fingers on a bookshelf. Anya had given Truman some half-baked excuse for needing to speak to him in private about a surprise she wanted to plan for President Ivanov. The only part of her message Ryan believed was that she had no phone to call the number he’d given her. She’d gone through Truman instead of coming directly to Ryan to avoid Ivanov’s suspicions.

Truman had warned him against the secret meeting. Warned him Ivanov’s eyes were everywhere, and he couldn’t take the chance. But Ryan had seen the change in Truman, the way Anya had affected him with her simple requests and obvious pretense. Either she was a very good actress playing on both their sympathies, or she was indeed a desperate young woman who truly needed help. He believed the latter, but hadn’t totally ruled out the former. He needed Del to dig up Natasha’s interview transcripts. They would tell him more.

The fact her grandmother had been a double agent hovered in the back of his mind. If Anya had followed in her grandmother’s footsteps, he was about to step across a line. A line there was no stepping back from.

One minute to go. He paced the floor near the back wall, not seeing the Persian carpets, tall windows, or three stories of Russian literary masterpieces. He wasn’t sure what he was about to take part in, or find himself trapped in, but he was here. And while his logical brain was screaming warnings at him, his gut was happy to have a few minutes alone with her.

As far as private meeting places inside the Kremlin complex went, this was a good one. Maybe the best in the entire Palace, outside of Ivanov’s private chambers. No cameras. No listening devices. No guards when the president wasn’t inside. The library was a sanctuary, more for show than use, and therefore off the security grid unless someone important was using it.

That didn’t mean the cameras in the hallway hadn’t captured his entrance. He’d pretended to be on his cell phone and looking for better reception, and then he’d scanned the shelves for a book just in case. If Anya entered via the same door and someone was actually paying attention, it might raise suspicion. She’d warned him about the cameras outside her room last night, but Ryan made a mental note to warn her to be more careful next time.

Next time?
His gut did another dance. He hadn’t gotten through this meeting yet, and he was already looking forward to the next one.

As the enormous clock over the fireplace bonged the hour, one of the double doors at the opposite end creaked open and slim fingers slipped around the edge, Anya’s face appearing before her body as if she were hesitant to enter. Her eyes were huge, jaw set, and her full pink lips pressed into a straight line. Even though his pulse raced at the sight of her, Ryan stepped back into the shadows…a habit born of caution.

She scanned the room, looking for him, he guessed, then slipped inside. She closed the door softly, leaned her back against it, and let out a long, deep breath. A sigh of relief or disappointment?

Since she appeared to be alone, Ryan stepped out from the shadows, his pulse double-timing it. Whether because the meeting was furtive or because he was simply anxious to see her, he wasn’t sure. To have her alone for a few minutes, all to himself, had been all he’d thought about since last night. Even so, he put a clamp on his emotions and drummed up complacency. As Truman had warned him, he was playing with fire.

The moment Anya saw him, her face broke into a smile. A relieved, happy-to-see-you smile, as if he were her best friend. She was wearing the black pencil skirt from that morning, which covered half of her long, slender legs. The upside was, the skirt’s narrow hem emphasized her hips and forced them to swing wider as she walked. Coupled with her smile, the effect was megawatt glamorous.

Ryan’s brain stuttered.

Without even telling his feet to start walking, he found himself meeting her in the middle of the room.

“Mr.
Jones
.” She was breathless and still grinning, and for split second, he forgot Jones was his cover name. For a second, he even forgot his real name. So much for complacency.

Searching his face, she looked away, pressed her lips together, and then spoke in a rush. “I didn’t get to tell you what I found last night.” She didn’t give him a chance to respond, hurrying on to cover her awkwardness. “What I am about to tell you is going to sound crazy, but I swear I’m not making this up. I’m not crazy. I have my moments, but…”

She stopped herself, pressed a hand to her forehead, and closed her eyes. “Of course if I was crazy, I’d still tell you I wasn’t, so that doesn’t help does it?”

Just like his feet had moved on their own accord, his hand reached out and touched her arm. “Anya, it’s okay. I know you’re not crazy. I’m here, and I’m listening.”

At his touch, she opened her eyes and looked straight at him, her high heels bringing her within an inch or two of his height. She dropped her hand and took a deep breath. “It’s worse than I thought.”

As she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, the black hole in his brain opened a little wider. “Worse how? Is your grandmother dead?”

Her eyes widened. “God, I hope not, but this isn’t about her.”

She rattled off the conversation she’d overheard the previous evening in her bedchambers between Ivanov and Andreev. His body tensed at the thought of either man being in her bedroom, and he found it hard to concentrate on what she was saying. Weapons, Iranians, a code.

“We have to talk to President Pennington.” She grabbed Ryan’s arm and gave it a small shake of urgency. “There probably isn’t anything he can do to find my grandmother, but he has to stop Ivanov from getting his hands on that code and selling weapons to the Iranians. Millions of people could die…” Her voice trailed off and she bit her bottom lip again. “I can’t figure how, or why, but the code seems to involve Grams.”

None of what she’d said surprised Ryan. Grandma Natasha having a code to ICBMs? Big surprise. As a double agent, she’d probably stolen it…and other top secret information as well.

Anya’s story, however, opened the door on his anger. The door he had so meticulously locked. Ivanov’s treachery truly knew no bounds, and although Ryan wanted to march into the summit meeting and punch Ivanov in the face, years of experience had taught him the only way to defeat a sociopath was to outsmart him at every turn.

Ryan hated to dash Anya’s hopes of a simple fix, but he wouldn’t lie. “President Pennington can’t accuse Ivanov of anything unless he has proof in black-and-white. It’s your word against the president of Russia. We discussed this at the cabin. Even under better circumstances, your word doesn’t count as much as his.”

Hands on her hips, Anya looked down at the floor, tapping the toe of one shoe in frustration, and chewing so hard on her lip, Ryan thought it would bleed.

He reached for something—anything—he could say or do to help her out. She had the potential to be the key that ended Ivanov’s reign, and this was the opportunity he’d been waiting for, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to point her in the direction she needed to go.

He didn’t have to.

“Wait.” Her head snapped up. Determination lit her blue eyes as she met his gaze again. “Evidence in writing, that’s what you said. Pictures or anything that shows he’s breaking the treaty. I know where to find it. In his office. His personal office in his private chambers. There are maps and files all over his desk. I just have to get back in there. Which shouldn’t be hard since he’s determined to do more than show me his genealogy books.”

The anger roared low and hot in Ryan’s stomach. He didn’t want her in Ivanov’s private chambers, didn’t want her anywhere near the man. The cards were dealt, however, and she was willing to use her access to get the evidence he needed.

His training demanded he give her the rope but his heart refused to let her hang herself. “Ivanov’s security is one of the best in the world, and he didn’t get where he is by leaving evidence of his crimes lying out in the open. Even our meeting right now could cause us both problems. I’ll help you however I can, but we have to be careful and smart about what we’re doing. We need a plan.”

Anya’s megawatt smile blindsided him once more. She reached for his hand and squeezed it firmly. “I have a plan.”

The black hole at Ryan’s feet swelled.