The Blood Code (8 page)

His hand was sweaty. While every instinct in her body screamed at her to drop it, she instead lowered his hand to the sofa with care.

Ivanov’s chest hitched and he let out a grunt. The book on his lap slipped an inch, ready to tumble to the floor. Anya froze, her hand still holding his. A glance at his face showed his eyes were shut, but his mouth kept opening and closing. He swallowed, his lips parted, and a soft snore escaped.

The hummingbird turned into a jackhammer inside her chest. She counted ten snores, and then another ten, before releasing his hand.

Free at last, she debated taking the book off his lap. The slightest movement would cause it to fall. Should she risk waking him in order to buy herself time?

Deciding to chance it, she left the book where it was, removed her heels, and tiptoed to the desk.

A spark of hope ignited inside her. There were navy blue files, red folders marked with the Russian Federation emblem, and dozens of loose papers covering the desktop. As she poked around and tried to read what she could, the spark dimmed. There was so much information, it would take her hours to read it all.

Uncovering a map of Russia, her hope rose again. Black dots marked locations along the border and around major metropolitan areas, Russian names next to them. There was a set of blue dots around Moscow. A set of red ones around St. Petersburg. Could one of the dots represent her grandmother?

She tackled reading the map with gusto, but none of the Cyrillic words matched Natasha’s Russian name. The manner in which the dots were laid out didn’t correspond directly to towns or other landmarks, and yet they seemed to shield the two major metropolitan areas. A defensive system of some sort?

Anya tossed the map aside and started on the blue files.

Frustration built as the words blurred and became meaningless. These appeared to be medical files of a dozen different people. What was Ivanov doing with those? This was taking too long and proving futile. She had discovered nothing about her grandmother and no proof for Ryan.

She moved on to the red folders. Ivanov continued to snore on the sofa and Anya eyed the book sitting precariously in his lap.

A few more minutes
, she begged the book.

A few more minutes and the Russian words once more blurred in front of her eyes. She rubbed them, blinked, and ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach. Where would he keep information about her grandmother?

Giving up on the desktop’s mess, she carefully tried one of the desk doors. Expecting them to be locked, she was surprised when the file door popped open with a soft
schick
.

Five minutes later, she still hadn’t found Grams’s name in any of the files. She had, however, found two other names she recognized, printed on documents buried in a red folder at the back of the drawer. Not just any documents—they were KGB execution warrants.

Peter Radzoya—Executed.

Ekateirna Radzoya—Executed.

Anya’s hands trembled. At the bottom of each document, the initials of the assassin were listed. MYI.

Maxim Yakovlev Ivanov

Crash!

The book on Ivanov’s lap fell to the floor.

Chapter Ten

Anya jumped, heart solidifying in her chest. Ivanov sputtered and choked, sitting forward, elbows on knees. Pure instinct made her want to drop to the floor and hide behind the desk, but what good would that do? She couldn’t hide from him.

The fire in the fireplace was gone and the room was cold. Even so, Anya clearly saw the sweat on Ivanov’s face as he coughed. Without taking her gaze off him, she slid the execution warrants into her lap and closed the red folder. If she was going to get caught, she damn well was going to confront the bastard about the truth.

Ivanov gave one more cough, wheezed a heavy sigh, and tipped to the left, disappearing behind the sofa’s high arm. When he didn’t reappear after a few seconds, Anya sat up straighter, peering over the edge. The most she could see was Ivanov’s body from the waist down. Too long for the sofa, his feet hung off the side at the far end.

Anya’s heart started beating again. She counted the seconds as she waited to see if he would wake fully and get up. If he would find her snooping in his desk.

An eternity passed before she heard the loud, congested breathing that told her he was dead to the world. She drew a thankful breath and swallowed the dryness in her throat. As quietly as she could, she returned the red folder to the desk. The click of the drawer closing made her flinch. Still Ivanov did not move.

Anya folded the warrants in half, then in half again, continuing until they’d formed a small square.
Executed
. She shuddered.

She needed time to think. Needed to get away from Ivanov. Now.

Rising from the chair, a new thought struck her. The posted guards outside the suite’s door might stop her. Might wake the monster.

How would she get back to her suite without passing the guards?

The czarina’s Golden Chambers were next to Ivanov’s personal quarters. She’d noticed a hidden door in the bedroom the day she’d arrived. The door itself was part of the wall, a pocket door, which slid back and forth on a rail. There was no lock on her side, but she hadn’t been able to open it, which meant it was locked from the other side.

Kings and queens, czars and czarinas, had kept separate quarters throughout history, and yet they could come and go from each other’s rooms without being seen by the rest of the Palace. If Anya’s bedchamber had a secret pocket door, odds were it led to the presidential bedchambers.

Tiptoeing to the sofa, Anya scooped up her shoes and made sure Ivanov continued to sleep. She crept past him and the fireplace, remembering the layout of her suite and where it had to be connected to his.

A few steps later, she stood inside his bedchamber. Soft light emanated from half a dozen wall sconces, spotlighting a massive bed, draped on all sides by heavy blue curtains. Anya ignored the dark premonition that rolled through her at the thought of Ivanov’s plans.

While the connecting door on his side was also a pocket door, it was much easier to find amidst the furniture, oil paintings, and elaborate wallpaper, because his door had an obvious lock. An ornate gold one that stood out like a neon sign. Czars could apparently visit czarinas at will; wives, however, could only visit their husbands if invited.

Holding her shoes by the straps in one hand, Anya slowly turned the lock. She was pleased to hear the click of the bolt sliding free.

Almost home.

Funny how even the smallest amount of freedom felt good. She slid the door back with a small smile. The smile fell off her face when the door made a high-pitched squeak.

She froze in place, listening for the rasp of Ivanov’s snores. The edges of the stolen documents scratched the skin under her breast as her chest heaved.

Her body demanded she fling herself across the connecting hallway to the door of her own suite, but she held still. She’d come this far, avoiding Ivanov’s advances, snooping through his official papers and stealing secret documents. She would not blow her chance of making an escape to her own room by panicking.

No shouts erupted from behind her. No sounds of marching feet coming for her. With trembling limbs, she stepped out of Ivanov’s bedchamber, and with slow, protracted movements, slid the door closed. This time the squeak was minimal.

There was no way to relock the door from the other side, so she left it.

Sconces dotted the hallway between the rooms, casting dim light and eerie shadows. Anya reached out and found the small lever to her suite. As suspected, there was a lock on this side, but a twist of her hand released it.

Anya slipped inside her dark bedchamber, closed the door, and leaned against it, pulse racing. As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she dropped the shoes and collapsed onto the four-poster bed.

Two seconds later, she got off the bed and pushed a short, fat dresser in front of the secret door. The dresser—made out of seventeenth-century Italian mahogany—outweighed her and she grunted with the effort. Once it was in place, however, a sense of calm pervaded her mind and body. She may not have been able to lock Ivanov out, but by God, she wouldn’t be a sitting duck in case he decided to sneak into her room. He hadn’t tried it yet, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

She grabbed the bedside table lamp and several ornate silver candlestick holders, stacking them on top of the dresser for good measure.

Her muscles trembled from utter exhaustion. She had no intention of sleeping in the blue satin dress, but the bed called to her and she once more sank into the soft silk bedspread, drawing the white gauze curtains around the sides. While they were no real protection from prying eyes, they gave her comfort.

I’ll just rest for a few minutes. Then I’ll wash my face, take my pill, and put on my pajamas.

She tugged the documents from her bra. It was too dark in the room to read, but she didn’t need to see the Russian words. She knew what they said and more important she knew what they meant.

In her tired mind, Ivanov and the man in black morphed into one.

Closing her eyes and swallowing her tears, she held the names of her parents close to her chest, missing them, and her grandmother, even more than her freedom.

Chapter Eleven

Anya woke with a start to a hand gripping her shoulder and shaking her hard.

A woman’s voice, strangely familiar and thickly accented, spoke over her. “Czarevna Anya. Wake up,
pazhaloosta
.”

Blinking her eyes open, Anya looked up to see Inga wringing her hands and frowning at her.

Inga had been assigned to her as an assistant by Ivanov. Bodyguard in sheep’s clothing was more like it. Today the older woman was dressed in a dull brown suit, but her favorite color, yellow, was represented by a scarf. She’d helped Anya unpack when she’d arrived, kept her apprised of Ivanov’s schedule, and been in charge of last night’s entertainment. In some ways, Inga reminded her of Grams. Only Inga didn’t have the same grace or regality.

Inga appeared to be the helpful personal assistant, but like it or not, Inga was trouble.

Two feet behind the woman stood Ivanov’s prime minister, Fyodor Andreev. Short and boxy, he reminded Anya of a bulldog. He was also frowning.

Beda ne prikhodit odna.
Trouble never comes alone, Grams would have said.

“What’s going on?” Anya struggled to sit up. Her head hurt, her eyelids were rough as sandpaper, and she was light-headed. She’d just fallen asleep. How could it be time to wake up already?

“Breakfast is being served.” Inga’s dark eyes cut to the side, over her shoulder, as if fearing Andreev would yell at them both. “You must get ready, and hurry.”

Anya was still wearing the blue dress and it was off center, revealing a great deal of her right breast. Reaching up to adjust it, she realized she still had the papers she’d stolen from Ivanov’s desk in her hand. Projecting modesty that wasn’t all faked, she turned her back to Andreev and made a production of correcting the dress’s top. As she did so, she once again slipped the folded documents into her bra. Standing up, she shooed Inga away. “Give me fifteen minutes.” She sent an unwavering look to Andreev. “Alone, please.”

Inga glanced between Anya and Andreev. The prime minister narrowed his eyes a fraction before nodding once and heading for the outer door. His gaze raked over the out-of-place dresser before he marched out of the bedchamber.

“Please,” Inga whispered. “Hurry.” She followed on his heels.

Anya waited until she heard the outer doors close, then she, too, followed and locked them. While it obviously did no good in keeping anyone out if they really wanted in, pretending it did helped her sanity.

She didn’t have to wonder what to wear to breakfast. Inga had laid out a conservative suit with a white blouse. Anya brought the suit and blouse into the bathroom and went to work on waking up in the shower.

Her wound was seeping. She cleaned it carefully, wishing again she hadn’t forgotten her kit. Being a walking defect didn’t mean she was helpless when it came to taking care of herself. After cleaning and re-bandaging the wound, she took her birth control pill—at least she hadn’t forgotten those. All she needed was to get her period and not have her pills.

The irony of the situation hit her all over again. She’d been taking birth control pills for over twelve years—not to prevent pregnancy, but to control the heavy periods her blood disorder produced—and the only man to have ever seen her naked was Ryan. A man she didn’t know, and who didn’t know her.

She just wished she had her kit. The antibiotic cream Ryan had used on the wound had cleared up the infection, but without an infusion of clotting agent, the wound refused to heal completely.

Make do for now. And stay the hell away from Ivanov’s dirk.

As promised, she was ready for breakfast in fifteen minutes. The Palace of Facets was the largest banquet room Anya had ever seen. Italian frescoes decorated the walls, mammoth columns and domed ceilings in a beautiful balance of blues and golds. Tiered candelabras hung from the high ceilings, each tier holding white electric candles.

There was no time, however, to take in all of the beautiful surroundings. As Anya entered the banquet hall, Inga on her left and Andreev on her right, she was at once under Ivanov’s scrutiny.

He didn’t look like a man who’d spent the night passed out on the couch. He didn’t look like an assassin. Showered and shaved, he was dressed in a black designer suit, white shirt, and red tie. The moment his gaze landed on her, he smiled broadly and opened his arms as if to hug her.

The sight of him made her queasy and angry all at the same time. Was he really the monster who had killed her parents? Under the still-curious eyes of the guests, she had to play along. She gritted her teeth and stepped into his embrace.

Always appearing the gentleman, he did nothing more than lay his hands on her upper arms, and air kiss each of her cheeks in greeting. “
Dobroye utro
.”

Lacking a better hiding place, and knowing her room might be searched while she was absent, she’d tucked the warrants once again inside her bra. They seemed to press into her skin like a brand as she forced a smile. She returned his greeting deliberately in English. “Good morning.”

His eyes twinkled. “You look beautiful.”

She very much doubted that, since her hair was still damp and the only makeup she’d had time for was one sweep of mascara and a coating of cherry ChapStick. But she couldn’t have cared less whether he approved of the way she looked. The scent of buckwheat pancakes, sausages, and eggs filled the air. “What’s for breakfast? I’m starving.”

Immediately, he ushered her to his table where her order was taken by one of the waiters from the previous night. Inga and Andreev moved off. While Anya waited for her breakfast, she scanned the various tables of people and saw the person she was looking for. Ryan stood near one of the columns, sipping coffee, and speaking to the ambassador from the US Embassy. He was dressed in a dark gray suit with a clean-cut, tailored edge to it, white button-down shirt, and pale blue tie. When he caught her staring, he gave her a slight nod.

“You slipped out last night,” Ivanov said. “I am afraid I was a poor host.”

Dropping her gaze from Ryan, Anya opened her cloth napkin and placed it in her lap. Then she glanced at Ivanov. The guilt on his face surprised her. “It was a long day. We were both tired.”

He seemed relieved. “Today the summit begins and I will be tied up with meetings. Tonight there will be another dinner, and afterwards, I promise to spend time with you and not fall asleep.”

The chagrin in his voice was genuine. The desire in his eyes, seeking her forgiveness, was as well.

In the bright light of day, the idea he’d once been an assassin seemed preposterous. The MYI had to belong to another man.
Maybe he’s not the man in black. Maybe he didn’t kill my parents. Maybe he can reasonable.

But as she picked up her coffee cup, the warrants bit into her skin. He
was
the man in black, she was sure of it. And his charm was nothing more than a façade.

The Belgian waffle she’d ordered arrived, covered in strawberries and whipped cream. It smelled delicious, but Anya no longer felt like eating. After her parents’ murders, she’d told Grams what she’d witnessed, and Grams had panicked, making Anya swear never to tell another human being what she’d seen. She’d packed up her and Anya’s belongings two days after burying her son and daughter-in-law and moved them to America, saying nothing more about it.

The impression that something was amiss diminished rapidly in the face of a new place with new people and experiences. Over time, Anya shut out the memories, did what Grams wanted, and threw herself into becoming an American. But the dread never left her, always lying under the surface of her new life, always reflected in Grams’s face. She never stopped looking over her shoulder, even as she immersed herself in growing up.

Executed
. The word ping-ponged inside Anya’s brain. Her parents had been killed, murdered. The move to America, the change of their last name, the dread Anya always felt…the fear and remorse rushed back like a tidal wave.

The whipped cream on her waffle was melting. Anya picked up a fork and stuck it in a fat strawberry, imagining it was Ivanov’s eyeball. While the documents weren’t one-hundred-percent proof he’d killed them, Anya couldn’t shake her suspicions. Was there a way she could find out if he’d been in the KGB?

Andreev returned with an official red folder and sat down next to Ivanov. The two men spoke in low voices in Russian, and the prime minister handed Ivanov a stack of papers and a pen. Ivanov signed the papers with bold, flowing strokes.

Anya forced herself to eat the strawberry she’d speared. As she chewed, she looked for Ryan. One of President Pennington’s aides, one of Ivanov’s cabinet members, and Truman were all standing around him talking. He was smiling and joking, and at one point, the whole group laughed in response to something he said. Even though she had no idea what the punch line was, she smiled along. She wished she was part of them, listening to his strong, deep voice, and laughing at his jokes.

President Pennington wanted to be part of the group, too. He rose from his chair and meandered over with several people in his party. He shook Ryan’s hand and patted him on the back, and Anya saw a faint blush on Ryan’s cheeks as he accepted some compliment from the president. A strange sensation of pride rose in her chest.

A large, cold hand covered hers, interrupting the moment. Ivanov. He glanced once in Ryan’s direction, studying the way Pennington joked with him, before his focus returned to her. “How is your breakfast?”

The flat tone of his voice told her he was upset. The tight hold he had on her hand told her he wanted her full attention. He didn’t like her staring at Ryan. Didn’t like the fact Ryan was more entertaining than he was.

Andreev shuffled the papers into the folder, stood, and made haste to leave. The folded papers inside Anya’s bra pressed into her skin as if in warning. She knew Ivanov’s currency, what he traded in. If he was a former KGB agent, he was ruthless. What had she been thinking? Showing even an ounce of interest in Ryan could get him killed.

Throat tight, she forced down the waffle and gave Ivanov a pleasant smile. From this point on, no matter what, she had to ignore Ryan. “It’s just the way I like it. Better than any I ever ate in America.”

Once again, Hyde morphed into Jekyll. Ivanov’s face went from controlled anger to childlike joy. The squeeze he gave her hand this time signaled his pleasure at doing something better than the Americans.

He rose from his chair, leaned down, and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I will see you tonight.”

Outwardly she nodded. Inwardly she recoiled as if he’d set a tarantula on her head.

Ryan couldn’t get Anya to look at him.

Like a shepherd driving his flock, Ivanov ushered his guests ahead of him out of the Palace of Facets. The summit would take place back in Georgievsky Hall, where diplomatic meetings had occurred for centuries. Ryan had never attended a weapons summit and had been looking forward to this one. Now, as Anya wasn’t following Ivanov but looking down forlornly at her waffle, Ryan had no desire to sit through hours of political posturing.

As Pennington and Morrow rounded up their respective groups and moved out, Truman sidled up next to Ryan and handed him a platinum pen. “Thanks for letting me borrow this last night.”

The pen was one of Del’s favorite toys. He’d probably loaded the hidden memory chip inside the cap with information about Anya. Without missing a beat, Ryan stuck it in the breast pocket of his suit coat. No one was within earshot or paying attention to them, but he played along. “Anytime.”

“Interesting information about our princess and her grandmother your man dug up.”

Ryan paused. Now she was “our” princess instead of Ivanov’s plaything. He tapped his pocket. “You read the contents of a CIA file?”

Truman grinned. “The price you pay for using me as your courier.”

Truman knew more about Anya at the moment than he did. Fabulous. Still trying to catch her eye before he left, Ryan ambled back to the table where he’d left his briefcase.

Truman followed. “Piece of advice, mate. There are a thousand pretty women in this city who would shag you, and all a lot less dangerous than that one.” He jerked his chin in Anya’s direction.

Anya, dangerous? What was in the file Del had sent him?

Most of the room had cleared out. Twenty feet away, Anya sat motionless, face pale, bluish shadows under her eyes. Ivanov had stepped up his public display of affection toward her that morning, insinuating their relationship had grown over night. Ryan’s gut churned at the thought.

He picked up his briefcase and gave Truman a pat on his shoulder. “Dangerous women don’t scare me.”

Truman laughed and hiked his thumb toward the open doors. “You coming?”

“In a minute.”

Ryan left him standing there and walked toward Anya. The few people still in the room consisted of maids cleaning up dishes and a couple of Ivanov’s security detail keeping an eye on Anya.

She glanced up at his approach. A smile broke over her face, but in the next instance, she slammed the door on her emotions, resetting her face to stone.

There was no time to figure out why, so Ryan simply placed his card on the table and slid it in her direction. “If you need anything, cell number’s on the back.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, using the card exchange as a simple way to give her a message. “Be in your room at midnight.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer. Turning on his heel, he spotted the reason for her sudden change of heart. Prime Minister Andreev had emerged from behind one of the massive columns and was watching. As Ryan passed by, Andreev fell into step behind him.

If Andreev wanted to intimidate him, he’d have to work harder than that. Ryan smiled to himself. As he passed through the doorway, he chanced a glance back at Anya.

The exquisite Russian architecture of the great hall paled in comparison to her beauty.

Now all he had to do was figure out just how dangerous she was.

CIA Headquarters

Langley

“Good morning, director. I trust your doctor officially released you from the hospital?”