The Blood Code (4 page)

Chapter Five

Anya banged her toe on a kitchen chair as Ryan led her around the table, his big hand wrapped securely around hers.

Damn, that hurt.
She sucked in a breath and kept going. No way would she act like a wimp even though her teeth chattered from fear, her feet were ice blocks, and her knees shook with pent-up adrenaline.

He hustled her through the living room and she nearly had to run to keep up. Her legs were long, but his were longer, and he covered the distance with quick, hard strides. Just adrenaline, she told herself, not anger making him whisk her away from the hidden bunker. Away from his men.

Well, maybe a little anger. Fear, too?

What a position she’d put him in, protecting her over the safety of the men. Even now, his group was removing equipment from below and scurrying out the back door with it. Loading up to leave.

Was he leaving as well?

Propelling her into the bedroom, Ryan closed the door behind them. He released her hand and cocked his chin at the bed. “The best I could do. They’ll be big on you.”

Clothes. Thermal underwear bottoms, a pair of gray sweatpants. Socks.

Ryan’s clothes.

Anya wasn’t a hugger—who would she hug besides her grandmother?—but her arms went around his neck of their own volition and she pressed herself against him. He was calm and solid and so handsome, she almost kissed him. Out of gratitude, she told herself. Not because she wanted to touch all that heat and strength and solidness. “Thank you,” she murmured against his neck. “For everything.”

He stiffened at first, then relaxed, one hand coming to rest on her back. “They’re just clothes. Nothing fancy, but they’re clean.”

Just clothes
. The irony struck her and she smiled into his shoulder. If only he knew what a few items of clothing had cost her in the past few days.

He gently pressed her away. “We need to talk.”

Her turn to stiffen. Embarrassed at her display of emotion, she kept her eyes averted and faced the bed. The supply of clothing didn’t include a shirt, so it looked like she got to keep the sweater.

Good
. She hugged herself and rubbed the soft cotton. Her teeth chattered and she clamped her jaw to stop them as she grabbed the long underwear. She tugged them on, followed by the sweats. Resigning herself to telling Ryan at least some of the truth, she flopped down on the bed, raised her knees to her chest, and rubbed her red toe. “What do you want to know?”

Seemingly without thought, he bent down and took over the rubbing, and massaging, of her injured toe.

Her breath caught at the shock of his warm hands against her cold skin.
Oh, God
. She’d never had a man touch her feet before.

So good
.

Too good. Her brain went fuzzy. On his knees in front of her, the action appeared to help him concentrate, his forehead creasing as the wheels in his head turned.

He stroked the injured toe, base to end, over and over. The fuzziness left and her thoughts became clear once more…although they were anything but appropriate. Ryan and her in this bedroom—on the bed—doing more than talking…

He glanced up, met her eyes. She blushed but he didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. Mr. Business had other things on his mind. “Truman told me about your grandmother and Ivanov. Solomon believes you can be an asset for us, and retrieve certain sensitive information from the Kremlin. You help us, we’ll help you. We need evidence Ivanov is a real threat.”

Anya hugged her knees, tried to focus. “I brought you the key. How much more do you need?”

Ryan’s face was impassive, though his fingers moved to massaging her whole foot. Warming it up. Warming
everything
up. “Launch keys for nuclear weapons are old school collectors’ items. What we need is some kind of evidence Ivanov is actually violating the NPT.”

Concentrate, Anya
. “NPT?”

“Nonproliferation Treaty for nuclear weapons.” He counted off the items on his fingers. “Nonproliferation, disarmament, and the right to peacefully use nuclear technology. We’re concerned about the first two obviously.”

“He’s amassing everything. Weapons, royalty, genetic research.”

He quirked a brow, stopped massaging. “Genetic research?”

Oh, God. Don’t stop
. “I think he wants me to do more than play the role of his princess at the summit. And I’m a two-for-one special.”

“Meaning?”

She wiggled her toes and he started kneading her foot again.
Nice
. “I’m a geneticist. From what I saw in the underground lab he showed me yesterday, I think he wants me to help him create a super race.”

Ryan’s brow dipped in confusion.

“He believes royal blood is superior, and wants to bring royal genes back to Russia.”

Ryan released a low whistle under his breath and absently began rubbing her other foot. “Based on your blood?”

“Possibly.”

Hemophilia ran rampant in the royal genes, but Ivanov didn’t know about her disorder. She’d been cursed with von Willebrand’s, a hereditary blood abnormality that was fairly common and rarely fatal. Only she had the more dangerous Type 3 variety. Less common, sometimes fatal. Definitely not super-race material.

Ryan’s gaze dropped to her side where her wound lay hidden. “Did he do that to you? Cut you?”

Anya pinned her gaze to the floor. The memory of Ivanov’s rage, his attack with the dirk, slamming her hard. “I refused to wear the clothing he picked out for me. Couture dresses and shoes he believes a princess should wear. They’re all ridiculous. I look like a bridesmaid or a prostitute in them. When I said no to the red dress, he got mad, and cut off my shirt to teach me a lesson. In the process, he nicked me with the blade. Afterward, he claimed it was an accident. I’m not so sure.”

Brief silence descended. A deep silence charged with anger. “He got that upset over clothes?”

And there it was. The difference between a man like Ivanov and a man like Ryan. “He’s obsessed with me. With how I look, what I wear. I have to be a princess 24/7, no exceptions. Appearances are crucial.”

Another silence. This one longer. Anya thought she heard Ryan’s teeth grinding. He released her foot but stayed on his knees in front of her. He scanned her face searching for more answers. “How did you escape, Anya?”

She preferred Anya over princess, especially when Ryan said it. “After he cut me, Ivanov freaked out and apologized. He called in his personal doctor who bandaged the wound, but I refused to talk to Ivanov. I was…”

Should she admit she was terrified of him? That he was a madman? Oh, hell, she’d come this far. “I was scared. Terrified, actually. He thought I was playing hard to get. He thinks this is a dream come true for me, being a Russian princess.” Hate charged her next words. “It isn’t.”

She rocked back and forth on the bed, caught herself and stopped. Straightening her back, she grabbed the socks and shoved them on her feet.

Ah, wool socks.

Ryan’s
wool socks. Not as good as his hands, but still nice. “In the bastard’s warped mind he decided a spa day would appease me. Every princess needs one of those, right?” Bitter laughter escaped her lips. “A massage, a mani-pedi, and all’s forgiven. He lined up a complete package…hair, nails, sauna, makeup. Had to get me ready for the summit tomorrow. So he sent me to a private place that caters to his cabinet members and their wives. I used a pair of earrings he gave me—he claimed they were family heirlooms—to bribe the spa manager for a few hours alone. Then I climbed out a bathroom window while I was supposed to be in the steam bath and stole the car.”

Ryan got to his feet and sat on the bed next to her. The bed sagged from his weight. “Industrious.”

His approval filled her with pride. “Grams always said you have to work with what you’ve got.”
And I don’t have much at the moment
.

Except she did. She glanced at Ryan from the corner of her eye.

Sitting close enough their shoulders touched, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the door. Even his thinking was charged with tension.

But, she had to admit, all that energy coiled in his body was fierce and…sexy. “We need to get you back before they notice you’re missing.”

Anya’s knee bobbed.
I don’t want to go back
. “Inga—my babysitter—told me lots of the wives sneak out of the spa and meet lovers on the side. That’s how I got the idea to bribe the manager with the earrings. The manager will cover for me as long as possible, but not forever.”

More thinking.

You help us, we’ll help you.

Anya stayed quiet. The thought of returning to the Palace, to Ivanov, made her skin crawl, but Ryan needed her to find proof of Ivanov’s plans. What was he going to ask her to do?

He shifted to look her in the face. So brown, his eyes. So serious. “You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. I’ll make some calls. Get you into some type of protective custody.”

What?
She met his stare. “No way. I have to go back to the Palace. Ivanov will kill Grams if I don’t.”

“You’re sure he’s got her? Have you seen her?”

A sick dread crept into her stomach. “No.”

He uncrossed his arms, attention dropping to her lips as he leaned back on the bed with one hand, his casualness belying the gears churning behind the calm, impassive face. “This type of undercover work is rough. Things could get…intense. More intense than an accidental slip of Ivanov’s knife.”

She raked her teeth over her bottom lip. Ryan’s eyes flashed with a bit of heat at the gesture. She forced her knee to stop bobbing and put her hand over his. She could do this.
With his help.
“I can handle it.”

They stayed that way for a long minute. Anya’s face heated from the intensity of his stare. Her heart beat fast, echoing in her ears. Would he trust her? Would he stay in Russia and help her find Grams if she helped him nail Ivanov?

Suddenly, there was more to the heat in his eyes. More than the adrenaline from the close brush with the police and the anger over Ivanov’s rough treatment lingering in his body. The tension changed, morphed into something else. Something that made her smile, unexpectedly feeling very female.

He blinked, and just like that, the heat was gone. He slid his hand out from under hers. Stood and moved toward the door. “Your assignment will be twofold, then. Obtain proof of life regarding your grandmother and evidence against Ivanov regarding the nukes. I’ll be attending the summit meeting, so I can help you. There’s not much we can do at this point about his playing God with genes, but we sure as hell can stop him from adding to his nuclear arsenal.” He turned back and looked at her. “I’ll give you a quick rundown of evidence to look for before we drive you back to Moscow. Think you can handle it?”

Of course she could handle it. Didn’t mean she wasn’t freaking out inside. “I pocketed a launch key from Ivanov’s collection, escaped his security goons at the spa, and made it all the way here, bleeding, in a stolen car. What do you think?”

The side of his mouth quirked. “I think you’re resourceful as well as industrious.”

Anya couldn’t stop the satisfaction that flooded her. “Exactly. I’m the one person who can get up close and personal with Ivanov. So tell me, Eddie…” She used the code name to make her point. “What do you need me to do?”

Chapter Six

Moscow

Twenty-four hours later

“I want your assurance,” Ambassador Lutz said from behind his massive cherry desk, “that you’re not going to screw up everything we’ve accomplished with Ivanov in the past seven months.”

Ryan stared out the US Embassy window and absently watched snow pour from the heavens, wishing he could see the Great Kremlin Palace.

The Palace was an enormous complex, and Anya was one person, all alone, inside. If she’d kept his sweater, he’d have no trouble finding her using the miniature tracking device he’d planted in the seam. The MTD—the size of a pinhead—would only transmit when activated. Ryan just hoped he wouldn’t have to turn it on.

The nuclear reduction summit was scheduled to start the next day, but his mission would begin tonight, within the hour, at the opening ceremonies.

If, that was, he could get the US Ambassador off his large backside and into the waiting limo outside. Ryan turned from the window and gave Aldridge Lutz his sincere, you-can-trust-me face. “Of course, sir. My only goal is to assist President Pennington.”

The ambassador’s heavy jowls worked up and down above the tight collar of his tux as if were chewing over Ryan’s words. “Ivanov is a friend to the United States. Hell, he’s
my
friend. I want your assurances everything will go smoothly during the summit. If you, or the president’s entourage, step on Ivanov’s toes, you make my life a whole lot more difficult. Understood?”

Five thousand miles from D.C. and Ryan still couldn’t get away from diplomatic ignorance, or the State Department’s misguided ideas about the way the real world worked. Lutz’s attitude was more dangerous to his mission than being inside the Kremlin surrounded by Ivanov’s secret police. Lutz didn’t know Ryan was the CIA’s director of operations in Europe and Asia, and wouldn’t benefit from knowing the truth about Ryan’s covert mission any more than he’d benefit from Ryan showing him the sixty pages of transcripts, faxes, and eyewitness accounts, including Anya’s, suggesting Ivanov was no friend to the United States. So Ryan lied. “I assure you, sir, I’m only acting on behalf of the president, and we have no intention of stepping on anyone’s toes.”

“And your two assistants?”

Lutz said the word
assistants
like he was talking about a couple of rats.

Come to think of it, Del and Josh were rat-like in their intelligence and sneakiness, but that’s where the similarities ended. The computer geek and weapons expert were more like Ryan’s left and right hands outside the Kremlin once he went in. They’d outfitted his tux with a button camera, a doped-up optical fiber communication system in his cummerbund, and a smart card reader in the heel of one of his Bruno Magli’s. Since he couldn’t openly carry a weapon, Josh had loaded Ryan up with a few everyday items that would double as such. From the keys on his key chain to the buckle on his belt, he was a walking WMD.

He hadn’t planned on needing a weapon, since recruiting an asset was tedious work but rarely dangerous. However, this was Russia, and the asset he was targeting was a deputy prime minister in Ivanov’s cabinet. With any undercover op, things could get dicey, and in Ryan’s world, “Be Prepared” wasn’t just the Boy Scout motto. Combined with the accusations Anya had made about Ivanov and his New World Order, Ryan wasn’t taking chances. “You won’t even know they’re here.”

The ambassador stood, signaling the discussion was over. He snagged his long wool coat from a hook and motioned for Ryan to follow him. “Just don’t embarrass me.”

Recruiting assets in Russia had been a priority of Ryan’s since he was promoted to top-dog over the European and Asian sectors. Getting CIA operatives into Russia, however, was still risky business. Twenty years after the end of the Cold War, animosity toward Americans ran like an electrical charge under the surface of Russian culture, waiting for a spark to ignite it. Something, no doubt, Ivanov was counting on down the road.

The new Russian president pretended to be a friend of the United States, but the CIA suspected Ivanov of covertly funneling money and weapons into Iran and Afghanistan. The only reason he would do such a thing would be to undermine America’s ongoing war with terrorism.

While Ryan had a bevy of spies he could have used in Moscow to recruit assets, part of being director of operations was identifying the best man or woman for the job. In an extremely sensitive case like this, the man for the job was him.

The casual air of the opening ceremony would give him the perfect chance to meet the deputy prime minister and strike up a conversation. It might take the entire week of summit meetings, dinners, and parties to gain the man’s trust, but if he was as disgruntled as Ryan’s sources claimed, the time would be a worthy investment. Keeping an eye on Anya, and figuring out if Ivanov truly held her grandmother captive, was his second mission. She hadn’t told him everything, he was sure of that. Just enough to persuade him with that damned launch key into believing he was saving America, as well as her grandmother, if he helped her out.

Ryan gave the ambassador a slight nod. Time to go to work. “After you, sir.”

Half an hour later, Ryan was in Georgievsky Hall, otherwise known as the Hall of St. George, along with a mass of American and British diplomats. An appropriate place to host the trilateral summit welcome ceremony, its massive columns were crowned with statues exemplifying Russian weaponry. Marble plaques built into the walls showcased commanders who’d received their highest military decoration—the Order of St. George.

Russian architecture fascinated Ryan. Fresh out of the Farm, he’d once navigated Moscow by the intricately designed buildings on a field test, sans map. He’d learned Russian as a second language and fell in love with its art work. The Great Kremlin Palace was his favorite site in Moscow, but he wasn’t there for a sightseeing tour. As his gaze scanned the room, he counted fourteen of Ivanov’s security guards stationed at the room’s archways, and another dozen plainclothes police scattered amongst the US president’s secret service detail and the British prime minister’s security unit. Ivanov had guaranteed the visiting dignitaries the highest level of security available and apparently he was true to his word, at least on this subject.

What Ryan didn’t see was Anya.

He told himself not to worry about her. Whoever she was—double agent, innocent Russian princess, damsel in distress, or all of the above—she’d made it clear she was capable of handling herself in this place. His first order of business was his official Agency mission. Ignoring his lingering worries about her, Ryan scouted for surveillance equipment. Amidst the interior structural decor were hundreds of places perfect for cameras, and although he didn’t see any obvious lenses, he knew they existed and were tracking his every movement.

Waiters with trays of champagne, vodka, and hors d’oeuvres circled small groups of socializing dignitaries at the east end of the ballroom. On the opposite side, long tables covered with damask tablecloths, fine china, sixteenth century candelabras, and shoulder-high floral centerpieces, were laid out in a
U
shape for dinner. A mixture of modern Russian rock music and classical opera added background noise from hidden speakers above everyone’s heads.

Ivanov was nowhere to be seen. Ryan’s target, however, was at three o’clock, talking to his boss, the Russian prime minister. The balding deputy minister, Yuri Barchai, was sweating heavily, his gaze darting around the room as if he, too, were keeping an eye on all the security details.

Ryan followed his gaze, scanning the different groups of dignitaries, security personnel, and even the waiters. All seemed exactly as it had been.

With one exception. Someone was watching him watch Barchai.

Across the vast expanse of the hall, Truman Gunn caught Ryan’s eye. He was standing near the British prime minister and talking to Ambassador Lutz, a clear drink in his hand, and a camera hanging from a strap around his neck.

Ryan couldn’t acknowledge him as a friend or acquaintance since they were both undercover. When their paths crossed, they would pretend they were meeting for the first time. One of the many reasons it was difficult for operatives to have long-lasting friendships. In public, they had to ignore each other.

Truman understood the game well, and with a subtle tip of the glass that no one but Ryan would’ve noticed, he shifted his focus back to Lutz.

Ryan followed suit and returned his attention to his target.

Along with the photographs of the Palace and grounds, Ryan had studied Barchai in detail. Bank accounts, extramarital affairs, bribes, even his elementary school records had been gone over with a fine-tooth comb. The smallest of details could give Ryan the upper hand when turning him, and if anything, Ryan was thorough with details.

Even if he hadn’t known the man was unhappy in his current job, it was easy to deduce the conversation he was currently having with his boss made him agitated. When people felt upset, they were easier to turn into an asset because they gravitated to a sympathetic listener. Another of Ryan’s skills.

But something about the man’s expression made Ryan step back into the shadows behind a marble column to watch him more closely. Along with the agitation, he seemed to be arguing a point. The set of his jaw, the directness of his gaze when it went back to the prime minister’s face, told him Yuri Barchai was on a mission.

And a man on a mission was no one to fool with.

When turning an asset, the first encounter was crucial. No sense rushing it and blowing the one chance he had of uncovering the truth about Ivanov. The nuclear summit would last a full week, and although it was a time crunch, Ryan would wait for the right opening.

Just like he would with Anya.

For the next half hour, he pretended to be the Pennington aide his backstopped identity said he was, all the while searching for any sign of her. He mingled and shook hands, wishing he could ask about the princess, but knowing it wouldn’t be a good idea. Instead, he had a brief conversation with Thad Pennington, President of the United States, who had no idea Ryan worked for the CIA even though Thad’s brother-in-law, Michael Stone, was the clandestine group’s deputy director. Pennington believed Ryan was one of his endless government worker bees, and that was exactly what Ryan wanted.

While Ryan worked the crowd, he spotted Truman snapping photographs. It was doubtful Truman would compromise him in such a way, but he made sure to stay out of the camera’s eye at all times. Continuing to mingle, he kept Barchai in sight, waiting for the opportunity to introduce himself. He also steered clear of Lutz, who kept shooting him nasty glances. When the moment came to approach his target, Ryan snagged a shot of vodka from a passing waiter’s tray and walked toward the deputy prime minister who happened to be talking to Truman.

But just as he was about to join them, Barchai checked his watch, turned on his heel, and left the hall, eyes once again darting over the posted guards.

Too late to turn around or pretend that he hadn’t been headed in Truman’s direction, so Ryan stuck out his hand, plastered on a benign smile, and introduced himself. “Ryan Jones, advisor to President Pennington.”

Truman shook his hand, sipped his drink, and affected his snootiest British accent. “Bond. James Bond.”

Ryan glanced around and saw no one was close enough to overhear them. They were also underneath one of the ceiling speakers so if a listening device was in the vicinity, the music would drown them out. “You need a new pickup line.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Russian women love that line.”

There were all of two women in the entire place, one a British diplomat with Truman’s delegation, and the other a waitress who had a distinct mustache. Neither of which Truman had paid any attention to. “You didn’t mention you would be here. What’s your cover?”

Truman scanned the room as if bored, slipped a business card from his inside breast pocket to give Ryan. “Tony Westport. Journalist for the
Guardian
.”

“Covering the summit all week?”

A single head dip. “Have you seen the princess?”

“No. You?”

Truman shook his head and Ryan’s gut twinged. Had Ivanov found out about the key? Ryan had given it back to Anya with instructions to return it to its case as soon as she could, but what if Ivanov had discovered it missing or worse, discovered Anya’d gone AWOL on him? When she’d returned to the Kremlin, he could have been waiting for her.

Ryan swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat.
Where is she?

He steeled his nerves, shook off the worry. Anya had already proven she could think on her feet. “You’re the only media here. Seems like Ivanov would have his own press junket covering the summit.”

“They’re tucked inside his right pocket.” Truman waived off a waiter with a tray of caviar on toast points before speaking again. “They’ll only come out when he’s in the spotlight shaking hands with Pennington or Morrow over the new treaty.”

Ivanov, like many world leaders, was a known control freak. “So why’d he let the
Guardian
in?”

Truman cut his eyes to the female British diplomat. Shrugged. “Ivanov would love to win Britain’s friendship away from America, I imagine.”

Ryan was about to respond when a bell rang, silencing everyone. All heads turned toward the sound. The security guards at each of the archways stood even straighter and the hair on Ryan’s neck tightened in response.

A door, invisible from inside the hall, opened at the far end behind the dining tables. Barchai appeared in the doorway, pausing for a moment to be sure he had everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present your host for the evening, and this week, the president of the Russian Federation, Maxim Ivanov.”

The deputy prime minister moved out of the way. A round of applause broke out as the other dignitaries and guests stepped forward en masse to get a glance of Ivanov as he entered the grand hall.

A showman who enjoyed making an entrance, the fifty-three-year-old leader was dressed in his military attire rather than the designer dress suits worn by his British and American counterparts. His hair, barely graying at the sides, was military short as well.