The Blood Code (19 page)

“Highly unlikely he’d leave the Palace, but there’s a secret passageway that runs from his bedchamber to Government Installation 42.”

“Like the one I saw.” Growing up, Anya had heard the stories about the hidden bunker Stalin had built in case America attacked with nuclear weapons. From what she’d seen firsthand, Ivanov had created an entirely new one, complete with all the modern conveniences any tyrant might need. The entire Russian cabinet and hundreds of soldiers could hide down there from an attack of any kind and survive for months, if not years. “When he showed me the modern bunker, we accessed it from the Cathedral of the Annunciation, not his room.”

“There are at least four entrances, so he can escape to the bunker no matter where he is inside the Palace grounds.”

Another thought came on the heels of that one. “Is it possible my grandmother is down there? In Stalin’s old section?”

“We’re talking about a crazy Russian president. Anything’s possible.”

They shared a grin before Anya turned to snatch up the wool socks and boots. “Sorry, but I have to go find that passageway.”

Ryan grabbed her arm. “Not now. You could be in real danger, and not just from Ivanov’s guards. Government Installation 42 is linked to the subway system where the bomb went off. Whoever the terrorists are, we can’t underestimate them. Ivanov’s security is airtight, but if any of the terrorists got into GI 42, they might kill on sight, or take hostages. You can’t risk that.”

For Grams, she’d risk anything. “She’s my grandmother.”

Determination and exasperation lit Ryan’s eyes. “And she raised you to be logical, cautious, and sensible. What would she tell you to do in this situation?”

He had her there. Grams would never let Anya sacrifice herself. “Fine, but I have to get back to Ivanov’s quarters before Inga finds me missing. I want to search his office and maybe even his bedchambers.”

Ryan barely hid his eye roll from her. “This isn’t a game. It’s for real. If Ivanov or Andreev catches you—”

She shushed him with a finger to his lips, giving him a dose of his own silencing technique. His eyes darkened, heat and passion barely contained. “They won’t. I promise.”

With that, she took her boots, and ran for the secret door.

“Hey,” he called softly after her.

She turned back. “What?”

Three strides and he was in front of her again. He ran a hand down her arm as if he couldn’t stand not touching her. “If they don’t evacuate everyone, I’ll meet you back here tonight, after things calm down.”

A bubble of excitement rose in her chest. She slung one arm around his neck and kissed him. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

They shared a final grin before she went through the door.

Chapter Thirty

Things didn’t calm down.

Another bomb went off near, but not in, a train packed with morning passengers. A third destroyed an entire substation that had been closed for maintenance. The death toll was at zero and the casualties were so minor, they barely needed a Band-Aid.

Didn’t matter. Panic was rampant. Ivanov and his cabinet had been forced to shut down the entire Moscow train system. Not that anyone was using it after the bombs.

An attack on Moscow was an attack on Mother Russia, and the whole country seemed to be holding its breath.

Or instigating more trouble.

Using the political climate of the summit, Anya’s reappearance, and the terrorist attacks as excuses, several nationalist groups took to protesting in Red Square. On the heels of that, the media reported threats had been made against Pennington and Morrow. The news showed limited coverage, which seemed to heighten citizen concerns and cause more unrest. By ten a.m., the Russian Interior Ministry had held a press conference and stated security measures were in place. From what Ryan could see, the assurance was lost on those inside, as well as outside, the Kremlin Palace.

Aside from Ivanov’s initial insistence that everything was under control, the Russian president was AWOL. He was said to be behind closed doors with his advisors.

Whatever the case, everyone inside the Kremlin was effectively cut off from the outside world. Sitting ducks.

Ryan entered President Pennington’s quarters shortly after the second bomber struck, adding his knowledge to the brain bank surrounding the flustered leader. It was the first time Pennington had been to Russia, and the first terrorist act in the world on his watch. Top priority was his safety. After that, the safety of his American counterparts with him, and those Americans in the city. At the same time, he had to lend public, if not private, support to Ivanov. Behind the scenes, he and his advisors had to extrapolate who the terrorists were, and if they were planning more acts, especially aimed at America or its citizens.

Pennington had to decide, would he stay or would he go? The threats to his and Morrow’s lives could not be easily verified, but they were nevertheless taken seriously.

If the president chose to stay, the spin would be that Pennington was showing solidarity with the Russians. If he decided to go, they would spin it so his departure allowed all security protecting the US president to be reassigned to investigate the terrorist attacks.

Ryan’s knowledge of Russia had him dead center in Pennington’s circle, which was where he needed to be, even if he preferred to be with Anya. However, Ryan knew far more about the Chechen terrorists staking claim to the bombings, and their MOs, than a typical worker bee in the president’s employ would. He couldn’t blow his cover to the men and women surrounding Pennington, but he needed to advise the president as a highly trained counterterrorism expert, not as a Russian affairs authority.

Yet full disclosure wasn’t an option. As an employee of the CIA, his job was classified, so the morning crawled by in a quagmire of politics as Ryan confirmed information from the State Department on the Chechens as well as hinting there was more going on behind the scenes. Ryan considered asking to speak to the president in private, but discarded the idea. This wasn’t the first or last time a president was kept out of the loop. There were things the commander in chief shouldn’t know to maintain plausible deniability.

As Pennington’s other aides insisted the president should leave, Ryan pushed for him to stay, wanting Pennington to be there if Anya found proof about Ivanov violating the NPT. Soon, Ryan was hedging questions he could no longer answer.

And that pissed off the president of the United States.

Big time.

So be it. While Ryan was concerned about the state of emergency they were in, and he’d do all he could to help his commander in chief, he was worried about Anya. Admitting who he was, and who he worked for, would only endanger their operation and her. He had more critical things to worry about, and yet she dominated his every thought.

Which was ridiculous. He was a trained operative. She was an asset. A beautiful asset, but a dangerous one nonetheless. He tried to focus on details of the bombings, but instead of seeing the destruction flashing on the television, he saw Anya’s face, glowing with excitement.

He wondered if she’d found anything in Ivanov’s quarters they could use against him.

Remembered how incredibly good she’d felt in his arms.

How soft her lips had been against his.

Imagined how her long legs would feel wrapped around his waist…

What the hell was he doing, falling for her? The CIA files didn’t tell him more than a few pertinent facts and a whole lot of useless ones—or what her real game plan was in all this. He couldn’t shut down his cynical side. The grandmother was missing. The CIA had verified that. But had she been kidnapped in order to bring Anya to Russia, or was this whole mess over a code? Possibly both, if what Anya had overheard was accurate.

Ryan excused himself and headed for the bathroom. There, he retrieved his tablet and the microchip inside the pen. A few seconds later, he skimmed the transcripts of the interviews Natasha had given to the Agency.

Holy shit
. He stopped, read more thoroughly. The two interviews were brief, but packed a hell of a punch.

DNA sequencing. Russian missile codes. The brilliance of a geneticist and computer programmer. No wonder Natasha had been so eager to move Anya to America after the death of her parents. But did Ivanov know he needed Anya for more than her royal genes?

Along with the transcripts was another file. One directly from Del, confirming Natasha’s statements, and saying Devons had recovered a copy of what they believed was Anya’s gene map secreted away in a safe deposit box.

The implications were staggering, but at the moment, all Ryan could do was put the tablet away, destroy the pen and its damning information, and rejoin the president.

The TV running with the evening news popped up a photo of Anya in her peacock blue dress from the night of the opening ceremonies. Ryan’s heart rate sped up. His pants grew tight.

Like the night at the cabin, he would meet the terrorists at the door, smooth talk Pennington in his fluent CIA language of denial, and take on Ivanov barehanded if necessary to save her.

His feelings for her were completely illogical. His imagination, running wild. He wanted her on that damn four-poster bed in all its Russian glory, with her legs spread wide, her cherry flavored mouth open, and her hands reaching for him.

Problem was, if Ivanov went to ground and tucked himself away in his bunker, he’d take Anya with him. Ryan might never see her again.

Under the guarded eyes of the president, Ryan left the suite and headed for the hidden door of a secret passageway.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Get your hands off me.” Anya stood rigid against Andreev’s manhandling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Inga drew in a sharp breath. The woman stood off to the side, nearly hiding behind the blue draperies of Ivanov’s suite. Once the president had left, taking his protection detail with him, Andreev had locked the door.

The prime minister’s small, dark eyes bore into Anya, amused at the challenge rather than angry. His grip tightened on her upper arm, and he shook her. “You ungrateful bitch. My orders come from President Ivanov. He insists on placing your safety above his own.”

Yeah, right. Psychopaths didn’t put anyone’s safety above their own. Anya pried Andreev’s fingers off her bicep and shoved him away. “I should be doing something to help my fellow Russians, not hiding in that bunker.”

“You are royalty! The Emergency Security Plan calls for…”

“I couldn’t care less what your plan says. I’m staying here.”

He charged her, grabbing her by the wrist this time, and backing her up against a wall. “This is not America.” He turned his head and spit on the floor. “You will do as I say. Go into the bunker. Now.”

She was going into the bunker, all right, but on her own terms, not to be locked away in Ivanov’s private quarters down there where she couldn’t search for her grandmother. “What do you think they’re going to do? Overrun the Palace? Hang me from the rafters? If they’re unhappy with anyone, it’s you and the president.”

Andreev jerked her toward him, prepared to yell another curse at her. With her free hand, she smacked him across his bulldog face. Then she raised her leg and kicked him in the shin.

He talked a good game, but he was weak. He barked a cry of pain and outrage, letting go of her for a second before raising the back of his hand to strike her.

So much for being royalty. She dodged the blow, kicked out, and swept his legs from under him. For half a second, his body seemed suspended in air before it dropped like a rock.

Inga sobbed at her to stop in both English and Russian.

Hell with that.

Anya had endured all she was going to take. From Andreev and from Ivanov. She was done cowering and playing stupid games. Where had the game-playing gotten her anyway? She didn’t know any more now than she had three days ago, and in the meantime, her grandmother’s heart could be giving out.

While Ivanov was tied up with the bombings and protesters, she was going to search the Palace from one end to the other for Grams. And then she was getting both of them the hell out of Dodge. Hopefully with Ryan’s help.

Her first step would be Government Installation 42. But if she went with Andreev and Inga, she’d be locked up inside Ivanov’s personal quarters. That wouldn’t do her any good.

Andreev rolled to his side, cursing her in Russian, and looking like a mad dog. The only way Anya was going to accomplish her search was to take Andreev out of the picture.

She hopped over his prone body, snatched a heavy malachite paperweight of the Russian Federation flag off Ivanov’s messy desk, and brought it down on Andreev’s head. The prime minister’s body seized for a second and then went limp, blood trickling from the injury.

Inga sucked in another horrified breath and covered her mouth with one chubby hand, eyes wide. Anya expected her to call for the guards outside the suite’s doors, but the woman’s eyes rolled up inside her head and she fainted.

Takes care of that.

Anya was trying to decide if she should move the bodies, or simply stuff rags in their mouths and tie them up, when she felt more than saw a presence behind her. Whirling around, she threw the paperweight in defense. It was heavy, but her aim was true.

Thank God, Ryan’s reflexes were outstanding. A few feet away, he caught the glass missile one-handed with the ease of a ballplayer. “Nice throw.”

His gaze scanned Inga’s limp body, and then Andreev’s, in that typical unperturbed manner of his. Anya’s pounding heart slowed a bit. “I came to save you,” he said, casually tossing the paperweight up and catching it again. “But it looks like you’re doing just fine as usual.”

Anya laughed on a hard exhale, releasing the pent-up stress building inside her chest. “Fine? Are you kidding? I just took out the prime minister. Pretty sure that’s a no-no.”

Ryan crossed the room, eyed the blood leaking from Andreev’s head wound, and leaned down to check the man’s neck for a pulse. Apparently finding one, he straightened. The paperweight went up in the air and came down again as Ryan seemed to turn the situation over in his mind. He was dressed in casual attire and wore a winter coat.

“Where did you come from?” Anya asked.

“You weren’t in your room.” The coat was unzipped and he rubbed the paperweight on his sweater, using the sweater to carry it back to the desk. Erasing both of their fingerprints.

Smart but probably pointless. He eyed the jumble of papers and files left on Ivanov’s desk, rifled through a few of them. “Figured you were either here, or in the bunker already, so I slipped in through the secret door.”

Wearing a winter coat meant only one thing. “Looks like you’re leaving.”

“We’re both leaving.” Sticking a couple of the papers inside his coat, he grabbed her hand and led her toward Ivanov’s bedchamber. “Go get your coat.”

She didn’t want to, but she tugged her hand out of his. “You know I can’t go until I locate Grams. If she’s in that bunker, I’m going to find her.”

He reached out and took her hand again. He didn’t propel her forward, only brought their entwined fingers to the center of his chest while he looked her in the eye. “Read my lips, Anya. I’m not stranding you or your grandmother here in Moscow. We’ll find her together, and then we’ll get the hell out of here. Until both of you are back on North American soil, I’ll be by your side. Are we clear?”

Maybe it was the sincerity in his eyes. Maybe the complete control in the tone of his voice. Or the fact he was holding her hand so carefully, as if she would break if he squeezed too hard, or slip away if he held it too loose. “You’re a good man, Ryan.”

The subtle lift of his lips made her heart speed up again. “And, you’re an amazing woman.”

Amazing was stretching it, but she had her moments. “Inga told me the presidential bunker has a direct rail line from the Palace to the airport.”

“We can’t take a plane out of here. Too conspicuous. And I don’t know what condition Natasha may be in, so crossing land with so many checkpoints exposes us. We may have to float down the Moscow River. But whatever we do, we leave tonight.”

He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. A silent agreement.

Inga groaned from her spot on the marble floor. So much for grabbing her coat. It was time to move.

Ryan, hand still holding hers, swung them both toward the bedchambers. “Where’s the secret entrance to the bunker?”

Anya half ran behind him to keep up. She waited until they were out of the main room and the waking Inga. “In Ivanov’s closet,” she whispered, pointing toward two French doors that hid a walk-in the size of her entire apartment back home.

Overhead lights came on the second the doors opened, and Anya pointed to the back wall. She’d discovered the hidden door right before Inga had arrived that morning to babysit her. A large, gilded floor-length mirror swung out to reveal the secret escape passage. Anya opened it, gesturing at him to follow.

For a second, Ryan hesitated, looking back at the closet rather than into the tunnel.

“What is it?” Anya asked. The dark, gaping tunnel yawned open in front of her. She ran a hand over the interior tunnel walls, searching for a light switch.

“Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d see the inside of a Russian president’s apartment, much less his private dressing room.”

From the living area, Inga screamed. Trouble all right. High and piercing, like an actress in a slasher flick, the sound made the hairs on the back of Anya’s neck stand up.

Squeezing Ryan’s hand, she jerked him toward the gaping dark mouth of the tunnel. “When we get back to America, I’ll show you a Russian princess’s apartment, complete with a closet the size of a phone booth.”

He touched her face in a gesture she couldn’t quite read, but felt like a mixture of support and apology, sending a cascade of happiness over her. She caught his almost nonexistent grin as he closed the mirrored door and plunged them into darkness.