The Blood Code (A Super Agent Novel) (Entangled Edge)

by Misty Evans

  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.

  “You like the food? Next will be sturgeon. Bolshaya.”

  Her laughter had drawn Ivanov’s attention. He followed the direction of her gaze, saw Ryan—who’d had the good sense to look away from Anya and return to his conversation—and narrowed his eyes at her.

  Grams needs you. Play your part. Maybe if she pretended to have forgotten her native language, and seemed to be more American than Russian, it would turn him off. “Bolshaya means ‘a lot,’ right?”

  One small act of defiance, but it worked to make Ivanov forget about Ryan, and take to instructing her. He stretched his arms out to demonstrate. “Da. Bolshaya. Big.”

  He lifted his vodka shot glass and tapped it against her champagne glass. “The longer you are here, Czarevna, the more you will remember your Russian ancestry and learn about your Russian future.”

  The longer you are here. His summons had only required her presence for the summit, but every minute with him confirmed the truth about his true intentions.

  He downed the shot and slapped the upturned glass on the table. “You and I, together.” He smiled, and in that smile she saw something that made her heart hammer. “Vazhny. Also big. Important.”

  For years after Grams had removed her from Russia, shadowy monsters followed Anya everywhere. In her imagination, in her dreams. The man in black was always there. Now, staring at Ivanov, it was as if the Grimm tales had come to life. The monster of her youth had materialized in front of her.

  But Grams had trained her well. Showing fear or uncertainty would send a fatal signal to the monster, giving him the upper hand. The reality was, she was a nobody, and Ivanov was the president of the Russian Federation. She had something he wanted, though. Something no one else could give him.

  Her Imperial Russian genes. Defective though they were.

  During her years in America, living under a false name and keeping a low profile, she’d had to pretend her royal blood didn’t exist. But, here in the place of her birth, the blood of her ancestors swirled in her body, alive and vibrant, and fighting to resurface. The princesses who’d come before her whispered in her ear, bolstering her for the coming five days of torment.

  For Grams, she would survive. For Grams, she would face the monster and win.

  Fighting the urge to throw her champagne in Ivanov’s face, Anya instead raised her chin and smiled back at him, Ryan’s steady presence reassuring her.

  Chapter Eight

  He’d finally gotten a smile out of the princess. More, she’d laughed.

  A small thing, but it made Ryan’s chest warm with a sense of accomplishment.

  Even though he couldn’t hear the laugh, the effect had been mesmerizing, transforming her face like it had back at the cabin, and his imagination had happily filled in the sound. Before the night was over, he wanted to see if the real thing matched the soft, sexy resonance his brain had conjured.

  The laugh made her body language do a complete one-eighty. From the curve of her lips, the change rose up her cheekbones to her eyes. The rigid determination he’d seen in them earlier disappeared, and in its place, a conspiratorial look of appreciation. The chain effect then slid down her body. Her tense shoulders relaxed and she took another deep breath.

  While the entire metamorphosis took less than a heartbeat, Ryan registered every component.

  But then Ivanov spoke to her and the satisfaction brewing in Ryan’s chest had dissipated. Irritation took its place.

  Luckily Truman had been sitting on his left, carrying on the conversation without him, and asking questions as if they were indeed new friends. Before Ivanov could follow Anya’s gaze, Ryan had answered one of Truman’s benign questions. When he dared look back, she was talking to Ivanov.

  A dangerous emotion took root in Ryan’s gut.

  Anger.

  Anger was generally born out of fear, sometimes out of revenge. This anger, however, came from jealousy.

  Emotions, good or bad, made an operative vulnerable, and a vulnerable operative was a dead operative.

  Ryan shoved the jealousy behind a steel door in his mind and slammed it shut. Jealousy, mission or no mission, had no place in his life.

  He couldn’t, however, pull his focus away from Anya.

  The change he’d affected was still present. The smile she gave Ivanov was reserved, almost demure, and yet there was an edge to it. A sharp edge. As if she’d realized something that renewed her self-confidence.

  While the Russian president didn’t seem to notice, Ryan saw it in every expression on her face, every move she made over the next few minutes.

  Waiters served an apple tart along with coffee. Anya dug into her dessert with an odd gusto lacking during the previous courses, and once again, a sense of satisfaction took hold inside him.

  Truman spoke around a mouthful of tart. “You really think Ivanov’s new plaything is a credible asset for the US?”

  Ryan sipped his coffee, ignoring the way his gut rebelled at plaything. “If I say no, you going to proposition her?”

  “I wish. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with an internal affair.” Truman cut his eyes toward the female British diplomat at the nearby table. From the way he emphasized “affair,” Ryan figured the woman was probably selling or sharing national security secrets with a lover.

  He made a mental note to put his own eyes and ears in London on her in case she was jeopardizing US security as well. “You staying in the Palace?”

  “No. You?”

  “That’s the plan. Pennington wants me at his beck and call. Not sure why, other than he’s completely out of his safe zone here.”

  “I assume Michael Stone planted a bug in his ear. Gave you a gold star and all that.”

  “The deputy director wouldn’t tell the president that I’m a spy, even if he is his brother-in-law. Lutz has his suspicions, but he’s been around a long time. Seen a lot of spies posing as various aides and advisors. I think I’ve convinced him I’m not, but if he tips my hand, he can kiss his ambassador title good-bye.”

  Polishing off the last of his tart, Truman followed Ryan’s gaze to Anya. “Anything you want me to pass on to Langley about her?”

  After seeing firsthand the extent of Ivanov’s “security” measures, Ryan was sure even with his high-tech communication gear, he couldn’t get anything in or out of the Palace without Ivanov’s people intercepting it. Truman could very well be his only safe link to the outside world.

  Ryan didn’t like being in another spook’s debt, but this time, the risk might be worth it. “I’ve already asked Stone to confirm Anya’s story about her grandmother’s kidnapping. Conrad’s still out of commission, so check with Del and see if he’s heard anything. Tell him not to risk contacting me yet. He’s only to send information in with you.”

  Truman gave a brusque nod.

  “In return, what do you want from me?”

  The British spy played with his fork, thinking it over. “I’ll let you know.”

  After dinner, they were led to a salon off Georgievsky Hall, which continued the gold, marble, and crystal theme. A group of young children hovered around a grand piano at the far end, while a twenty-something man in a tux complete with tails sat at the piano, playing soft show tunes. A large arched window framed the group, and outside the window, snow continued to fall.

  British and American security details fanned out around the perimeter. There were fewer Russian guards inside the salon, but the rest were outside the doors. As in any situation, worst-case scenarios ran through his head. Even with all the security keeping outside dangers from getting in, the people were sitting ducks if the danger came from within.

  Ryan trusted Ivanov about as far as he could spit. Crazy Russian dictators were a cliché for a reason. As nonchalantly as possible, he watched Ivanov’s every move. Anya’s, too.

  The seating in the salon was less formal and Ryan snagged a spot next to Barchai. The deputy
prime minister was still keyed up, fiddling with his cufflinks, straightening his tie over and over again. Ryan took the opportunity to introduce himself and made a few polite comments about the evening’s meal, but Barchai’s responses were short and pointed, as if he weren’t really listening. Ryan let further socializing go.

  An older woman, a grandmotherly type in a pale yellow dress, gathered the waiting children into a semicircle and cued the accompanist to begin. The oldest of the children looked to be eight or nine, and yet the quality of their voices as they sung traditional Russian folk songs for the dignitaries was truly amazing.

  As the children’s voices echoed through the room, Ryan glanced at Anya, who was at the front beside Ivanov. From his vantage point behind her, Ryan couldn’t see her face but her body language continued to demonstrate confidence. At the end of the concert, she clapped heartily.

  Each of the children in the chorus held a white rose. After accepting the applause, the first young boy on the end stepped forward and presented his flower to Anya with a small bow. The other children lined up behind him to do the same.

  Next in line was a short, thin girl. With her blue eyes and white-blond hair, she could have been Anya’s sister and seemed to know it. Her eyes rounded with awe as she handed Anya the rose and curtsied. “Dlya vas, Czarevna.”

  For you, Princess.

  Anya’s surprise over the presentation was genuine, and even sitting three rows behind her, Ryan could feel it as well as see it as she wrapped the young girl in a hug and praised her singing.