The Blood Code (5 page)

He extended his hands in a gesture not unlike an actor receiving a standing ovation. “Fellow world leaders, friends, welcome to the nuclear summit meetings, and welcome to my home. It is my pleasure to host all of you here at the Great Kremlin Palace. Suites have been readied for each of you and my staff has been instructed to take care of your every need.”

As more applause echoed in the hall, Ivanov gave a little bow, and then raised a hand for silence.

Ryan and Truman stood at the back of the crowd. A flash of peacock blue behind Ivanov caught Ryan’s attention and he shifted to get a better look.

“With me tonight,” Ivanov continued, “and all of this week, is Grand Duchess Anya Maria Alesandrovna Romanov Radzoya. Her bloodline traces back to Paul 1 of Russia.” He shifted to the right, turned, and held out his hand.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as Anya stepped to Ivanov’s side. Ryan’s breath stuck in his chest. Gone was the wind-blown hair and wild-eyed countenance. In its place, her white-blond hair fell elegantly coiffed around her face, and her eyes, which barely glanced at the crowd, showed tempered resistance. She was almost Ivanov’s height in the heels that matched her blue dress. This dress, like the red silk one, stopped mid-thigh, accentuating her long, slim legs.

Black hole, here we come.

Ivanov took her hand as more clapping welcomed her to the event, and Ryan gritted his teeth at the intimate gesture. “Czarevna Anya and I welcome you to Russia!”

Czarevna
. Interesting term. As if Russia was still lead by czars.

The attendees applauded and milled around to find their assigned places at various tables, many of them stealing glances at Anya as Ivanov escorted her to the head table. Waiters appeared with shoulder-lofted silver trays. The sound of conversations again filled the air.

Truman raised his camera and took a photograph of Ivanov and Anya. “There’s your Russian princess.” He lowered the camera and glanced at Ryan. “Before she showed up at the cabin, I didn’t realize there were any Russian princesses left, at least none so young and pretty. Wonder where he dug her up?”

Ryan pressed a finger into a cufflink on his left sleeve, engaging the camera hidden in the button of his shirt. Thad Pennington approached Ivanov, greeting the leader and shaking his hand, and Ivanov in turn introduced Anya. Her eyes brightened at meeting the president of the United States. She eagerly shook his hand and smiled openly as he chatted with her for a moment. She looked almost starstruck.

Beautiful
. Ryan angled his chest and pressed the cufflink to get a shot of her smiling.

When Pennington moved off to Ivanov’s right, however, Anya’s smile faded and she flinched at Ivanov’s touch—a subtle movement Ryan would have missed if he hadn’t been watching her closely. Ivanov guided her to a chair next to his.

“There are three living females descended from the original Imperial Houses,” Ryan murmured to Truman. “One is a widow in her forties who lives in the south of France and claims to be waiting for the Russian people to reinstate her as their ruler. The second woman of royal blood disappeared with her granddaughter—the third and youngest Russian grand duchess—back in 1998 after the girl’s parents died in a tragic auto accident outside Moscow.”

At the time, no one in or outside of Russia had said a word about the disappearances, as if they feared questioning them might result in their own disappearance or untimely accident.

“And Ivanov found her,” Truman said.

“That, or the Russian president knew her whereabouts all along.”

At the head table, Anya ignored the commotion around her. Her head was tilted down, attention locked on the china. Tense lines framed the corners of her mouth. Through the throng of waiters and the rustle of people taking their seats, she seemed to feel Ryan’s gaze. Slowly, she lifted her head and met his eyes.

For the second time that night, Ryan recognized the expression staring back at him. Like the deputy prime minister, Anya Radzoya was on a mission.

Only hers was a deadly game of treason.

And if he wasn’t careful, she’d bring him down with her.

Chapter Seven

He was here. Finally.

And damn, he cleaned up good. The soft light from the overhead chandeliers made his wheat-colored hair—now trimmed and neat—glow. Cheeks smooth, stubble shaved off. The tux added bulk to his already broad shoulders and emphasized his natural air of complete invulnerability.

He was put together and in control of himself. Hell, in control of everything.

Which made her less freaked out about her situation, and more freaked out that she was so attracted to a spy.

Ryan’s direct, unwavering gaze held hers across the room. His presence reassured her, although she wasn’t sure why—he’d been less than encouraging about her plans to save her grandmother and stop Ivanov’s treachery. Having him there took some of the weight off her shoulders, though. If she got into hot water, he would step in. She could trust him, even though he still didn’t quite trust her.

He continued to stare, his attention traveling down her body, his eyes dark and unnerving. As if he suspected she was more than a kidnapped woman trying desperately to put her shattered world back together. As if he suspected she was screwing him over.

Her cheeks heated.
You’re paranoid, Anya. Stop it.

She had a right to be paranoid considering what had happened in the past few days. Since arriving back at the Kremlin, Ivanov or his guards had watched her every move. Not just goons following discreetly behind her, but full-on security details shadowing her every step. He hadn’t said anything to suggest he suspected she’d left the spa, but she was now under 24/7 surveillance. When she’d asked, he’d said it was simply because of all the foreign guests arriving for the summit. The mass of strangers presented more risk, and one couldn’t be too safe. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how she looked at it—he’d been so busy preparing for this joke of a summit, he’d barely given her ten minutes of his time. And in those ten minutes, he’d refused to discuss her grandmother.

Grams.
God, I hope you’re okay.

While Natasha Romanov was healthy for her age, she’d had mild heart trouble. The one and only time she’d been in the hospital was for an angiogram, which had uncovered a blockage and resulted in the insertion of a stent, and daily heart medication. It hadn’t slowed her down, as evidenced by her constant traveling to see friends, but how long could she go without her meds?

Have you seen her?
Ryan’s words echoed in Anya’s brain. The thought Grams might be suffering, or even dead, fired up the constant dread sitting in Anya’s chest. It also fired up her determination. From across the room, she met Ryan’s stare, forgetting the heat in her face. No one—not Ivanov, or the CIA—was going to stop her from carrying out her plans.

Eyes locked with hers, Ryan suddenly smiled, full-on charm, and all traces of scrutinizing gone. Anya swallowed. For a second, she forgot she was sitting next to Ivanov in a room full of dignitaries. She forgot all her problems. That smile…
damn
.

He really should smile more often.

Ryan’s body language combined with that smile made her believe for half a second that everything was going to be okay.

He’d instructed her to act like they were strangers at this dinner. Well, duh. She might not be a spy, but she knew better than to tip her hand to Ivanov, or endanger Ryan in any way by acting like they were friends. Ryan, Eddie, whatever the hell his real name was, they
weren’t
friends. Anya didn’t even know his last name. He probably had several of those, too.

Like her.

Yes, their secrets were better left alone, but how was she supposed to ignore the tingling in her lower stomach? The fact that she had to keep looking at him to calm her nerves?

Truman, the British spy, said something to Ryan, and he responded without breaking eye contact with Anya. Reassuring her that he was keeping an eye on her?

Another place, under different circumstances, she might have returned his smile with something more than reserved hope. She couldn’t keep her heart from jumping around, though, and struggled to keep her face solemn. The only way to suffocate her very female reaction to him was to break their eye lock.

Drawing a determined breath, she forced her gaze to the sweeping arches and towering pillars of the room.

Georgievsky Hall was awe-inspiringly beautiful. From the grandiose arches to the highly polished floors, the hall’s magnificent and elegant design reminded the men and women attending tonight’s celebration that Imperial Russia lived on in the heart and soul of the capital, even if the country was now led by an elected president.

Everywhere Anya looked, light reflected off gold, crystal, marble. And everywhere she looked, ghosts rose in her mind.

The hall had hosted dozens of important foreign diplomats since the end of the Cold War. It had also been the site of official domestic ceremonies. When her father, a favorite member of then-President Yeltsin’s cabinet, and her mother, a geneticist who’d worked for Yeltsin in a special government laboratory, had been killed in an auto accident, the president had arranged a formal wake in Georgievsky Hall for them.

Fifteen years had passed since Anya had been in Moscow, in this very hall, a dark abyss opening at her feet at the loss of her parents. Eleven years old and staring in shock at the ornate caskets, closed due to the damage done by the fire when the car went up in flames. Or so they told her. Anya knew the truth. Both her parents had been shot. Murdered. Before her eyes. The car had gone up in flames to hide the bullet holes and destroy the bodies beyond recognition. She’d been there, having run from the car and hidden in the woods at her mother’s insistence. She’d seen the masked man dressed in black approach the car. Heard her trapped mother’s screams before the car exploded.

If it hadn’t been for her stoic and regal grandmother moving Anya through the formalities of shaking hands and accepting condolences from Yeltsin and her parents’ peers, Anya would have been a basket case. Even now, a thousand tiny razor blades of memories assaulted her. Buried emotions threatened to flood her chest.

Never tell
, Grams had said.
Or the man in black will find you, too
.

Anya averted her gaze from the spots where the caskets had sat. Averted it from where she’d watched Grams, after everyone had gone, throw herself on top of her son’s casket and weep. Where Anya had cried silently, shaking so hard she could barely stand, as the bells of Dormition Cathedral rang a death toll in the distance.

Ivanov’s booming voice jarred her from her depressing walk down memory lane. It rang with unchallenged authority. “A toast.”

On her right, he stood and raised a crystal glass full of champagne. He continued to speak in English, his Russian accent thick as his words hushed the guests. “This week marks a historic event, as Russia, Britain, and America join together in their quest to reduce nuclear weapons. We achieve a safer place for all our peoples and create a world of peace.”

He paused, briefly meeting the eyes of his counterparts in the room. Anya chanced a glance at Ryan. He now studied the Russian president with the same intense scrutiny he had her.

“Tonight we lift our glasses in solidarity.”

Truman snapped a picture. Next to her, Ivanov’s prime minister mimicked the president’s raised glass. Like a ripple of water, the seated diplomats down both tables did the same, clinking glasses together to echos of “hear, hear.”

Ivanov smiled down at Anya and her stomach dropped. Nothing at all like Ryan’s smile, his was that of the conqueror, the subjugator.
The cat who’d swallowed the canary
, Grams would have said. He was in his glory in the glow of the limelight, and his eyes told her what he wanted her, expected her to do.

Her throat went dry.

Do it for Grams.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she raised her glass and let him clink his against it. Under his scrutiny, she put the glass to her lips and pretended to sip. The champagne fizzed on her lips, but she refused to swallow. Drinking a toast with her sworn enemy would betray every moral and ethical element of her being.

Ivanov returned to his seat wearing a satisfied smile. As the first course was served, he touched her hand under the table. Anya flinched, his cold skin so different from the warm, steadying hands of the spy across the room. “We will enjoy a traditional Russian feast tonight, Czarevna. I’ve instructed the chefs to represent each region of Russia during the various courses. You will enjoy it.”

He was old enough to be her father, and although she loathed him, she had to admit he was a striking man. His salt and pepper beard, mixed with his graying hair and dark eyebrows reminded her of Sean Connery in
The Hunt for Red October
, only thirty pounds heavier. Grams loved those movies as much as the Clint Eastwood ones. By outward appearances, Ivanov was polite, attentive, and charming. Women must have swooned over him, but Grams would have said he was
velik telom, da mal delom.
Big of the body, but small by his deeds. Why he wanted her by his side was exceedingly clear.

Czarevna
.

The antiquated and inaccurate title—she was no daughter of a czar—he used so frequently burned her ears. His touch sent goose bumps racing over her skin.

He noticed her shaking. “You are cold?”

Even though the hall was drafty, and the dress Ivanov had insisted she wear wouldn’t cover a twelve-year-old, the chill in her bones had little to do with either.

Five more days. She only had to endure the game until the end of the summit.

A waiter slid a bowl of steaming borscht in front of her. Grateful for the distraction, she drew her hand away from Ivanov’s and picked up the spoon next to her plate, hoping it was the right one. “The soup will warm me.”

Seeming content with her answer, he snapped his napkin open, and dug into his own bowl of beet soup. Anya stared at the liquid, the color of blood, and bile rose in her throat. She raised a spoonful to her mouth, but her lips refused to open.

Appearance was important. Stirring the soup, she bobbed her knee under the table, trying to release the pent-up anxiety coursing through her body. Once or twice she glanced at Ryan to calm herself. He was there, his gaze steady and encouraging. Holding her breath, she lifted the spoon to her lips once more. No way could she pretend to eat the soup like she’d pretended to drink the champagne.

But the thought of swallowing borscht turned her stomach.

I can’t do it.

She returned the spoon to the bowl. Surely, there would be something more appetizing next.

Ivanov spoke in her ear. “Is there something wrong with your soup?”

Startled from his sudden nearness, she jerked her head back. “Oh, uh, no.” Peering down at the soup, she swallowed hard. “I just…um. I’m allergic to beets. Beetroot,” she amended. Only in America did they refer to the vegetable as beets.

Allergic to beets?
Who in the world is allergic to beets?

She could have slapped her forehead, but Ivanov only seemed embarrassed. He looked down at this own soup, coughed into his napkin. “I did not know.”

A snap of his fingers at a nearby waiter and the borscht was replaced with a mushroom soup that smelled exactly like her grandmother’s version. The earthy aroma filled Anya’s nostrils, memories of eating Grams’s soup pushing out her anxiety.

Beside her, Ivanov watched her closely. “This is more to your liking,
da
?”

There was true concern on his face, like a child wanting to please a parent. Where was the madman lurking behind the clear blue of his eyes? Why did he care if she liked the soup when he was causing her such torment over her grandmother?

For a split second, Anya considered standing up and announcing to the entire group that the Russian president was holding her grandmother hostage. Would President Pennington demand Ivanov release her? Would the British prime minister charge Ivanov with international crimes?

Grams’s life wasn’t worth the risk. Ivanov would deny Anya’s claims, and since he was probably the only person who knew where Grams was, it was imperative Anya not force his hand until she discovered the location herself. Then, hopefully, Ryan and the CIA would come through. If they didn’t, Anya had no qualms about rescuing Grams on her own. She had no idea how she’d liberate an ailing seventy-year-old woman from Ivanov’s clutches and get her out of Russia safely, but she had five days to figure it out.

Five days to show the world that Maxim Ivanov was nothing less than a modern day Hitler.

Reaching deeper into her willpower, she took the clean spoon the waiter provided and tasted the soup. “This is delicious.”

The statement wasn’t untrue. The soup was good. Not as good as Grams’s, but good enough to eat.

Pleased by her response, Ivanov returned to his borscht and resumed a conversation with Pennington as if nothing had happened.

Which was fine with Anya. The hum of conversations rose and fell as people ate and drank freely. When Ivanov wasn’t watching her every move, she could block out reality and pretend she was out to eat at a fancy restaurant by herself. With a handsome man in a tux making eyes at her across the room.

Until the foie gras arrived in a purple sauce that looked like grape juice. Tiny pinecones were strewn across the plate. She would never order that, fancy restaurant or not. She didn’t even try to force down the pâté, only moving some around on the plate to look like she’d eaten it. Seeing others try the edible pinecones, she nibbled on one. While the pinecone itself was delicious, the texture in her dry mouth made her choke.

Thankfully, Ivanov didn’t seem to notice.

Ryan did. Across the room, he glanced at Ivanov to make sure the man was distracted, looked down at his plate, and drew the edges of his mouth down in a comical frown of disgust. His focus came back to hers and he winked.

He winked
.
At me
.

It was so unexpected, a soft bubble of laughter escaped her throat before she could stop it.