The Blood Code (A Super Agent Novel) (Entangled Edge)
Page 12
The only problem with that line of thinking was the fact he’d made her his job.
Along with his stellar logic was fact number two: his instincts were staging a full rebellion. She could ignore him until global warming turned Siberia into a rain forest, but he was not giving up. At least not while she was in his sights. Damsel in distress. She might not be acting like it, but she was definitely the underdog in this scenario. While she might not become his top covert Russian asset, watching her appealing Russian assets were now his top priority.
Since he wasn’t prone to making mistakes, Ryan kept his direct attention off those lovely assets and watched her only from the corner of his eye. Andreev hadn’t given up watchdog mode, and Ryan knew better than to chuck the day’s work into the garbage by slipping up with anything more than an indifferent glance here or there at Anya.
By the end of the dinner, though, Ryan’s patience was wearing thin. They made their way to the salon for the evening’s entertainment and once inside the salon, he sank into a chair in the last row, avoiding Pennington, Lutz, and Andreev. While Truman sat next to him, the spy seemed to understand Ryan was in no mood for conversation.
The entertainment consisted of a troupe of jugglers, acrobats, and a performance of the classic bear dance. The bears in the dance were only male members of the troupe in costume, but Ryan didn’t miss the way Anya put a hand on her necklace when the bears’ handlers tugged on their chain-linked leashes.
That necklace was a national treasure. One that hadn’t been seen in years, just like the princess wearing it. He’d snapped a photo of it with his button camera to research later. If he was right, that necklace was one of the items presumably lost after the Soviet Union crumbled.
Many of Russia’s legendary Diamond Fund pieces had been sold to private collectors and museums at the end of the Cold War. Others were supposedly lost in the shuffle, the Romanov contributions suffering the most. Anya’s appearance with one of the lost pieces made him wonder: had it been in her possession all along? Or had it been in Ivanov’s?
More important, was it a peace offering or a marriage proposal?
Ryan’s gut again rebelled at the thought.
The entertainment wrapped up, and Ryan clapped along with everyone else, gritting his teeth even as he pasted on his friendly face. Ivanov stood, dragging Anya with him, to take his place center stage as the troupe filed off. “Tomorrow’s agenda will be the same. The summit will resume in Georgievsky Hall.” He beamed at Anya, his hand entangled with hers. “The grand duchess and I bid you good evening.”
For half a second, the light in Anya’s eyes died. A shadow passed over her face and her smile faltered. So she wasn’t happy; she was just playing her part. Ryan’s ego perked up.
As the group stood and stretched, commenting about the amazing show before parting ways again until morning, Truman poked an elbow at Ryan. “Your bluff is good, but if I was a betting man, I’d call you on it right now.”
Ryan stared at the back of the chair in front of him, not seeing it. Everyone around them had filtered off. “What bluff?”
“The one you’ve been playing tonight in regard to the princess. Pretending you’re not interested.”
“You are a betting man, but you don’t understand the art of the bluff.” Ryan rose from his seat. “A royal flush is nothing without the queen. She’s the one who isn’t playing cards.”
“Is that so?” Truman gave him a smug wink, before tilting his head in Anya’s direction. Sure enough, as he tracked Ivanov’s movements, his eyes caught hers. Ivanov was shaking hands with Prime Minister Morrow, his back half turned to Anya.
Her throat contracted, as if she were swallowing hard, before she gave Ryan a covert thumbs-up.
A sudden rush of pleasure buzzed his nerve endings. Not forgetting where he was and who might be watching, he took a cautionary scan of the room.
Andreev, hidden in the shadows of one of the columns, was regarding him closely.
Ryan had survived the CIA’s training camp, danced toe-to-toe with gun-happy terrorists, and once gone rogue in order to flush out a mole inside the Agency. Unwilling to damn Anya further, he gritted his teeth again and did the hardest thing he’d ever done.
He turned his back on her and walked away.
Chapter Sixteen
RUE TOEPFFER
GENEVA
The Geneva law office of Marché, Yordanov, and Baker was an international firm dealing in everything from offshore business transactions to divorce. Housed in a large multiplex that had once been the Honduran Embassy, the law firm was one of many businesses in the U-shaped structure.
The street between the law office and the imposing church across from it was a one-way with parallel parked cars on either side. Night had descended, but between the streetlights and the spotlights on the Russian Church, the entire block was easily visible. While John, Devons, and Naomi waited for Del to run background checks on all of Marché, Yordanov, and Baker’s employees, they watched the side entrance marked “Employees Only” straight across from the church. John snapped pictures with a digital camera of anyone who came or went.
Devons’s phone rang. He pushed a button and Del’s face appeared on screen. “Whatcha got?”
Del was sweating slightly and his glasses were askew. “Before we get to the lawyer, I thought you should know, I’ve heard chatter from inside the Kremlin. The prime minister is suspicious of a certain American that fits Smitty’s description.”
“How are you picking up chatter from inside the Kremlin?” Devons looked amazed.
“You have your skills, jarhead. I have mine. What do you want me to do if things go bad?”
Devons shook his head and chuckled. “Stay at your keyboard. As soon as we know what’s going down with Natasha, John and I’ll head to Moscow in case Smitty needs help.”
Del made a face, then switched gears. “Grigory Yordanov is probably your man. Except he’s not. Yordanov is an alias. His real name is Sergei Kutzeg.”
John and Devons exchanged a look. John pocketed his camera. “What do we know about him?”
“He was part of the KGB during the seventies and eighties. Disappeared right before Yeltsin took power in the nineties. Resurfaced in Geneva ten years ago as Grigory Yordanov and became a partner with Marché and Baker. His last living relative, a grandson, died two weeks ago.”
Devons shrugged. “And?”
“Natasha Radzoya bought a plane ticket for Geneva six hours later.”
Naomi, who’d been so quiet in the backseat John thought she’d fallen asleep, spoke up. “They were lovers.”
John and Devons both turned to look at her. Del frowned and squinted at the monitor on his end. “Who is that?”
She leaned forward to put her face in his line of vision. “Naomi Singer. And you are?”
“Never mind,” Devons said, eyeing Naomi with speculation, Or definite interest. John wasn’t sure. “Why do you think Yordanov and Radzoya were lovers?”
Naomi gave Devons a look that said he was six kinds of dense. “A Russian secret police officer and a spy, working together in Cold War Russia? What could be more romantic?”
It was a good call in John’s book, but Devons grunted. “You, of all people, viewing the world through happily-ever-after lenses.”
Naomi rolled her eyes and sat back.
Alrighty then. John agreed with Devons. He didn’t view the world that way either in his line of work, and while understanding what role Yordanov played in Natasha Radzoya’s abduction and disappearance was important, if it didn’t help him locate her, it was pointless.
Devons stared out the windshield. “So the grandson dies and Natasha books a flight to visit her friend here in Geneva. She arrives, receives a call, most likely from Grigory-slash-Sergei, but never makes it to the law office. Why did she really come to Geneva, and why did Grigory want to see her?”
Naomi again attacked his IQ with a why else gesture. “Because her soul mate was grieving.”
On the video screen, Del shrugged. Naomi, frowning at the back of Devon’s head, remained quiet, her irritation speaking volumes. John’s brain continued to connect dots. “Ivanov’s the third player in this game. Must be something to do with him.”
Devons considered it, nodded. “Something big.”
A new face filled the video screen. “Here’s a photo of Grigory taken at his grandson’s funeral.”
Grigory was older than John expected and the strain on his face was visible in the shot. Whether from losing his grandson, or from something more sinister, wasn’t clear, but John was willing to find out. “Unless he took another exit from the building, he’s still inside. I say we go in and have a chat with him.”
“Del, see if you can find a link between Yordanov, Radzoya, and Ivanov during the Cold War,” Devons said. “Any link, no matter how thin, got it?”
Del agreed and signed off.
Before John and Devons could devise a plan for entering the building and finding Grigory, Naomi jumped out of the car and took off for the employee entrance. “Coming?” she called back to Devons.
“Shit,” John said. “She can’t come with us.”
Devons pocketed his phone. “You were the one who said we might need a Russian translator. I tried to warn you. But don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”
An international lawyer in Geneva would speak English. John shot a glance at Devons as the man hauled himself out of the compact Subaru. Devons was devising a plan. A plan that involved Naomi? God help them.
KREMLIN PALACE
MOSCOW
The fire in the fireplace burned and crackled as Ivanov droned on about his childhood. Anya listened with one ear and made appropriate noises here and there while she mentally tuned out.
They were in the Czarina’s Golden Chambers, in the private suite, the fire casting shadows on the expensive Persian rug and ornate coffee table. The tea from earlier had been cleaned up, and now a tray of fruit, crackers, and cheese sat waiting for consumption. Anya had eaten well at dinner, but even if she hadn’t, she would’ve had no appetite, and it wasn’t because Ivanov was in her suite.
Ryan wasn’t coming.
The image of his broad shoulders turning and walking away from her was burned into her brain. He hadn’t even glanced back. There was no way he was coming at midnight.
A stark numbness filled Anya’s chest. She was alone again.
Don’t be ridiculous. Ryan was never your friend. You didn’t even know him.
Ryan had given her hope and renewed her self-confidence. He’d been so forthright in reaching out to her. Or so she’d thought. Maybe it was all in her imagination.
But maybe, too, it was for the best. Even though no one had been watching them but Truman, it was better he ignored her. After all, she’d ignored him to keep him off Ivanov’s radar. Ryan may have just been playing along.
Either that, or he thought she didn’t need him anymore.
Her gut cramped. She did need him. More every hour.
“Did you know my parents?” she asked, interrupting Ivanov in midsentence.
Sitting across from her in a matching wing chair, he hesitated. She could see him mentally shift gears from his first experience shooting an assault rifle in the army to whatever history he’d had with her parents. His eyes transformed from animated to dead, like a shutter coming down on a window. “I met Peter once. At a state dinner with President Yeltsin.”
“What was he like?”
A muscle twitched under Ivanov’s eye. “We merely shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. I did not get to know him.”
The past few days had proven to Anya that even a simple meeting, a simple exchange, could tell you a lot about another person. Although she didn’t understand why Ryan had turned his back on her tonight, she knew he was one of the good guys. “Did my father seem like a good person to you?”
Ivanov’s eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out why she was asking. “I understand your need to embellish the memories you have of your father, but I am unable to help you with that.”
Before Anya could respond, there was a knock at the door. Seemingly relieved at the diversion, Ivanov called out heartily, “Enter!”
Andreev came into the room, forehead wrinkled, and lips set in a fine line. He was going to tell Ivanov about her earlier impertinence, she was sure of it. Even if she hadn’t already known of his plans with Ivanov to resurrect several decommissioned nuclear missiles, their exchange earlier that morning would have shown her he was not in Ryan’s league of good guys.
But what could Ivanov do to her that was worse than he’d already done? He’d had her parents executed, perhaps even pulled the trigger himself. He’d kidnapped her grandmother. He’d blackmailed her into returning to Russia. And now he held her prisoner.
Andreev asked to speak to the president in private, sending her another of his scalding glares. Anya tipped her chin up and glared back.
Go ahead. Do your worst.
The prime minister guided Ivanov away from the sitting area and into Anya’s bedchamber, putting as much distance as he could between them. The thought of Andreev near her bed made her shiver. Ivanov near it was no better. The two were a formidable pair, no matter where they went.
When they disappeared from sight, Anya strained to hear their conversation. Andreev had left the French doors ajar an inch, but no matter how much she willed her ears to pick up their conversation, she couldn’t. Silently, she rose and tiptoed, step by agonizingly slow step, until she was standing to the right of the arched doorway. Holding her breath, she pressed her back against the wall, and edged closer to the opening.
Andreev’s voice, low and secretive, spoke fluent, clipped Russian. Nowhere in his diatribe did she hear her name mentioned. No Czarevna.
Odd. Perhaps the prime minister had decided against ratting her out. But why?
Anya’s brain skittered across half a dozen reasons, none of them very substantial. Maybe Ivanov wouldn’t appreciate Andreev confronting her. Maybe Andreev was embarrassed that she’d refused to cooperate and poured hot tea on him.
Ivanov was a jealous man. Maybe Andreev feared what Ivanov would do if he found out Andreev had approached her in her private quarters and spoke with her alone…
It seemed like the silliest reason for Andreev to keep his own counsel, but perhaps the wisest as well.
Lost in her thoughts, Anya missed part of the conversation, only hearing the end of a word that sounded vaguely like American. Her pulse leapt. Andreev had referred to Ryan as “the American” during their earlier confrontation. Was he informing Ivanov of their confrontation after all?
As Anya forced every cell in her body to concentrate on the Russian flowing between the men, she realized she’d misunderstood. They weren’t talking about Ryan, or an American, they were talking about the president of Iran.
More meaningful words jumped out at her. They were making a deal from what little she could hear. A deal involving…weapons?
Either that, or they were selling the Iranians a thousand semiautomatic cows.
Anya frowned. She must have misunderstood. Even though she didn’t follow politics, she knew Iran had rubbed most of the world the wrong way for its anti-Western rhetoric. The Iranian president’s focus on building nuclear weapons had everyone nervous. Why would Ivanov sell weapons to them?
She slid an inch closer to the doorway. The French doors were mostly glass, and even though they sported expensive white silk drapes, the men inside the room would be able to see her shadow if she stepped up to the doors. But they were deep in conversation, and a passionate one at that. She leaned her head to catch more words and hoped her shadow went unnoticed.
Missiles? Had Andreev just said something about launching missiles? Either her Russian was rusty, or she was listening to the president of Russia and his prime minister discuss the reactivation of not just a
few missiles along the Russian border, but somewhere closer to a thousand.
They needed a code. A code for initializing the launch of a select group of missiles protecting Moscow and St. Petersburg.
A code that apparently Natasha Radzoya had, and refused to give up.
Cold seeped into Anya’s bones. Her knees went weak. She pressed back against the wall with her full weight. Grams was still alive, but why would she have access to missile launch codes?
Anya knew Ivanov had been pretending to support the summit’s goals while secretly undermining it, but reactivating a thousand nuclear missiles?
My God. Why would he do that?
Stupid question. Why did Ivanov do anything? He was a power-hungry egomaniac who believed he was destined to be the greatest leader Russia had ever had. Weakening America and Britain would only add to his power. Reactivating nuclear missiles along the border, and around Moscow, would secure, at least in his mind, Russia’s place as world leader.
Once again lost in her thoughts, she missed the conclusion of the discussion. Without warning, a fat hand slid through the crack in the door to land on the knob and pause there.
Andreev. “The summit is over in four days.” He pushed open the door. “We need the code before then.”
Anya straightened at the exact moment his gaze landed on her. His eyebrows shot up in momentary surprise before crashing down over his steely eyes. He knew she’d been eavesdropping and opened his mouth to accuse her.
“Excuse me. I was just on my way to the bathroom.” She pushed past him into the bedchamber, gave an equally surprised Ivanov a weak smile, and hightailed it for the massive bathroom en suite. She’d only made it two steps when a hand caught her shoulder, stopping her.
The iron grip forced her to turn around. She faced Ivanov with her best innocent expression. “Yes?”
For a brief second, he scanned her face, suspicion clouding his own. “A matter of state has arisen, and I need to attend to it immediately.”