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

by Misty Evans

  She gave him a curt nod. “Of course. And now if you’ll excuse my rudeness, I really must use the bathroom.”

  She laid a hand across her stomach for emphasis.

  Ivanov made a dismissive motion, not at her, but at Andreev. The prime minister let out a rude sigh and disappeared through the French doors. A moment later, Anya heard the outside doors of her suite open and close.

  She was alone with Ivanov in the bedchamber.

  His eyelids lowered slightly, and his lips curved in a lazy smile. He leaned toward her, his gaze on her lips.

  Worms of disgust slithered over each other in her stomach. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she shoved Ivanov out of the way with the other, and sprinted for the bathroom.

  She barely reached the gold plated toilet before retching.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ryan stared at the words on the computer screen, reading certain facts for the fifth time.

  Anya Maria Romanov Radzoya. Born: July 5th, 1987, Moscow, Russia.

  Father: Peter Romanov Radzoya, deputy prime minister to President Boris Yeltsin, 1990—1998. Computer genius. Assigned oversight position during transition from key launch to computer launch of Russia’s nuclear missile system.

  Mother: Ekateirna Yuri Radzoya, geneticist and genome researcher at Russian Academy of Medical Sciences, 1988—1998. Worked on top secret cloning project, REPLICA.

  The facts about Anya and her parents were scant, Anya’s life summed up in Agency-speak. Between the cold, detached words was another story. A story about party loyalists killed in an untimely and suspicious—at least to Ryan’s conspiracy-loving brain—car accident. A story that went back dozens of generations and hundreds of years to one of the original Imperial Houses, and included traitors, coups, and double agents.

  Anya was the last, and youngest, of three royal princesses, the one who’d been secreted out of Russia in the middle of a frigid winter night, and disappeared with her grandmother into the ether.

  A graduate of the Farm with top honors in spy lingo, Ryan read between the lines of Del’s brief, confirming his other suspicion. The CIA had indeed been involved in the relocation and new identities of Anya and her grandmother.

  Of course, the US government and its spy group had a longstanding and deep-seated interest in Russian nationals, especially those with political connections, so it was no surprise they’d lent a hand in the relocation. They’d provided Natasha, Anya’s grandmother, with more than protection. Detailed information about her government, and about Peter’s job, had been traded for a chunk of cash. What made Ryan drum his fingers on the tabletop was the fact Del had put two asterisks next to Natasha Radzoya’s name. There was no corresponding explanation in a footnote at the bottom of the page, but Ryan didn’t need it. Asterisks were another form of Agency-speak Ryan was well acquainted with.

  One asterisk meant spy.

  Two meant double agent.

  Natasha Radzoya had been a double agent. The only question was, for whom? Russia or the United States?

  Ryan’s fingers continued to drum the table. Where was Natasha now? Anya claimed Ivanov had kidnapped her, but where would he stash her? There were dozens of prisons and other hiding places in Moscow alone. Most likely, she was dead or close to it.

  He studied the photo Del had sent with the information. It was from Natasha’s passport, and resembled a driver’s license photo. Not the best picture, but even so, the woman’s eyes and tilt of her chin displayed her beauty and regal air to the camera lens. Her white-gray hair was boldly swept up to the top of her head, the royal blue scarf wrapped around her neck emphasized her porcelain skin.

  From her hair to her facial features, Ryan saw Anya reflected back at him. The ghost of Christmas Future.

  Why would Ivanov go after Natasha? Was it because she had been a double agent during the Cold War? Why would he care? Was it because her son and daughter-in-law had worked for Yeltsin? Again, so what?

  And why had Natasha slipped her granddaughter out of Russia after Peter and Ekateirna’s deaths? Was she saving her own skin, or Anya’s?

  None of it made sense. He needed Del to dig deeper. Find the transcripts of Natasha’s interviews. No matter how many times Ryan read the facts, the missing pieces didn’t add up.

  His fingers drummed faster.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Midnight. The appointed hour.

  Outside the French doors, the guards had been talking and laughing since Ivanov’s departure, but now they sounded tired, groggy. Long silences stretched between them as the night grew deeper.

  Inside the room, Anya paced like a caged animal, and rubbed the itchy edges on her side where her wound seemed to be healing. Would Ryan come? If he did, how would he get in? She’d chased Inga off but her door was under twenty-four-hour surveillance by both guards and cameras.

  After she’d vomited, Ivanov had left her alone. Like most men, he had no interest in playing nurse. Instead, Inga had stepped in to tend to Anya, and Anya had played the sick card well enough to convince everyone she had a mild stomach bug. After an hour of Inga’s incessant care, Anya insisted she needed sleep, and told the woman to leave. Then she’d lain in bed, wondering what to do about the conversation she’d overheard between Ivanov and Andreev.

  Out of all the ideas she’d had, the best was to attend breakfast in the morning and tell President Pennington what she’d overheard. The problem with that approach was Ivanov and Andreev would be watching her, and would know immediately what she was up to. She had no doubt Pennington would want evidence, like Ryan, before accusing his host of such treachery. And if Ivanov suspected her of treason, she’d never see Grams again.

  She was back where she started.

  Ryan would know what to do. Sitting in front of Catherine’s picture, she stared at the door, willing him to appear. Please come.

  The only light in the room was from a desk lamp. A soft glow lit that area, the rest was drenched in shadows. As she stared intently at the door, she thought she saw the ornate doorknob turn. Were her eyes playing tricks on her?

  No, because in the next second, there he was. Ryan, standing in the open doorway. He wore dark clothes, and his face was in shadows, but she’d know that hair and build anywhere. She’d know the tight coil of his body anywhere.

  He moved into the light, smiled at her, and stole a glance back out the door. Seeming satisfied, he closed it with a soft click. Anya rose and his gaze swept over her, top to bottom. “You all right?” he whispered.

  Flummoxed, Anya pointed at the door and lowered her voice to match his. “How did you get past the guards?”

  He held up a finger, went to the radio sitting on the desk, and tuned it to an all-night easy listening channel. Then he stepped right in front of her, drew her to him, and placed his lips next to her ear. “They’re asleep.”

  His warm breath in her ear made her shiver. “Asleep?” she whispered back.

  He leaned away and searched her face, a hint of humor in his eyes. Brushing stands of her hair back, he pressed his lips to her ear again. “A little sleeping powder in their evening meal. An American chef in Pennington’s retinue is easily bribed—something I’ll have to look into tomorrow. He dusted their evening meal with it. The guards won’t be out long, so I only have a minute.”

  Her body automatically pressed into him, arms rising on their own accord to hug him like she had at the cabin. “Why would you take such a risk for me?”

  He lifted his hand to her face. “I had to make sure you were okay. Ivanov hasn’t hurt you again, has he?”

  His fingers brushed her cheek, his sincerity so overwhelming her knees weakened. “I’m okay.”

  “What happened last night?”

  They were still whispering. The radio played on in the background. The clean male scent of him filled her nostrils. She wanted to bury her nose in his neck.

  Focus, Anya. “Last night?”

  “You were so different this morning. I was afraid he—”

&
nbsp; A noise in the hallway interrupted whatever Ryan was about to say. They both froze, gazes jumping to the door. As they listened, Ryan’s arms went around her, tight and comforting.

  Long seconds passed. The sound of a snoring guard drifted in. He must have tipped over or kicked the door. Ryan laid a hand on the small of her back, drew her close, and put his lips against her ear once more. “I was afraid Ivanov had turned you.”

  Warm breath, smooth skin, spicy aftershave. Heaven.

  Mimicking his stance, she positioned her face against the side of his head and breathed deep. Let the breath out ever so slowly. She needed to tell him about the papers tucked inside her bra. About Ivanov and the Iranians. The thousand missiles… “Turned me into what?”

  His soft chuckle sent goose bumps down her neck. “I was afraid he’d convinced you to embrace your royal genes, and his plans for them.”

  “Oh.” She tried not to giggle. The conversation wasn’t humorous, but being this close to Ryan under the circumstances made her giddy. She pinched her silly internal schoolgirl and sobered. “I was trying to protect you. He’s a killer.”

  Ryan’s hand rubbed her back. An absentminded gesture or a provocative one? Either way, she didn’t mind. “My offer still stands. I can make some calls and get you out of here.”

  “Not going.”

  He hugged her then, their heads still close together, and his body supporting hers. His lips touched her earlobe. On purpose? “Knew you’d say that. Any news on Grams?”

  Running her hands up his arms, she relaxed. She just needed a minute to feel safe. “No, but I think I found out something important about my family…”

  In the hallway, the snoring stopped. A shuffling noise filtered through the door.

  Ryan sighed soundlessly and broke her hold. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  Already? “When will I see you again?” Panicked, her voice rose, and he touched a finger to her lips to shush her.

  She got a grip, whispered, “I mean, alone, like this?”

  One hand smoothed her hair. His mouth rested comfortably against her ear. “Soon, I promise. I’ll figure something out. The sleeping powder’s not enough for the time we need, but I couldn’t risk knocking them out all night. Someone would notice, and they’d be checked for drugs. Once confirmed, Ivanov might move you or kick us—the visitors—out. A tiny thing like that could cause an international incident, and he’s been itching to start one of those.”

  “What about the cameras in the hallway?”

  “I arranged a temporary malfunction.”

  She grinned. “Now who’s being industrious?”

  He returned her grin. As he pulled away, she gripped his shirt and jerked him back to her. Rising on tiptoes, she planted a kiss, smack on those delicious lips that had just been taunting her earlobe.

  She meant it as a thank-you. As a be safe message. It didn’t matter. Ryan enfolded her in his arms, molding her body to his, and kissed her back.

  The kiss was soft but demanding. Succumbing, she followed his lead, letting him take charge.

  My first real kiss.

  And boy, oh boy, it was one for the books.

  The world spun for a minute, so she hung on. To him, to the feelings boiling underneath her skin. She wanted to forget the nightmare her life had become. Forget who she was and the choices lying in front of her. Forget how tired she was. For that moment, the only decision she wanted to make was whether to trust Ryan’s intentions.

  I trust him.

  His tongue teased hers and she melted a little more. If he hadn’t been holding her up, she would have sunk to the floor, dragging him with her.

  Another noise interrupted their embrace, and Ryan broke the kiss, glancing at the door. When no warnings sounded, he raised her hand and kissed her fingers, gave her a meaningful look, and headed for the door.

  Once there, he listened for a long moment, body tense. Then he cracked opened one side of the French doors and checked the guard situation. Must have been clear, because he gave her a final glance and disappeared into the night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MARCHÉ, YORDANOV, AND BAKER INTERNATIONAL LAW OFFICE

  GENEVA

  “Try to be charming,” Naomi said to Devons as they entered the glass door of the law office.

  “I’m always charming,” Devon countered smoothly.

  Naomi snorted. John reserved comment.

  The reception area was sleek and contemporary with black couches, metal chairs, and black-framed modern art on the walls. Bushy green plants lent the only color in the otherwise monotone room. Large metal letters on the wall behind the crescent-shaped reception desk spelled out the name of the firm. The receptionist was absent from the front desk, but it was late, so maybe she’d already gone home.

  Light instrumental music came from speakers in the ceiling. Somewhere in the back, a copy machine hummed and spat out paper. Devons motioned at John to keep watch while he went behind the desk and scanned the papers laying on it. When nothing seemed worth his attention, he pulled out a keyboard drawer and woke up the computer. What he was searching for, John had no idea. All he wanted was to get the hell out of there.

  John’s ears picked up a sound before his eyes caught movement, and he snapped his fingers to get Devons’s attention. Just as a man came down the hallway, Devons hopped the desk, and rang the bell on the counter, as if the three of them had just walked in the door.

  The man was short and middle-aged, balding on top and spreading through the center. His gaze darted between John and Devons. “Mr. Imman?”

  John grabbed Naomi by the hand and turned on his own charm. “No, Mr. and Mrs. Johan. We have an appointment with Mr. Yordanov to set up an offshore account with our friend here…” He searched his brain for Devons’s cop persona. “Andresen.”

  Devons’s gaze dropped to John and Naomi’s clasped hands, and he scowled. Naomi beamed at the squat lawyer and leaned into John’s arm as if they were newlyweds who couldn’t wait to get back to the marriage bed.

  Devons’s scowl deepened.

  The man looked momentarily confused, but recovered quickly at the sight of Naomi smiling at him. “Sorry. Thought you were my evening appointment.” He glanced down the hall. “I didn’t know Yordanov had a client scheduled for tonight. Let me check and see if he’s here.”

  He disappeared, and Devons shot John a tight smile. “You’re good on your feet, man. Nice cover.”

  Good didn’t have much to do with it. Impatience did. He wanted to get in, find out why Grigory had left a message for Natasha, and get the hell out.

  On the receptionist’s desk, the phone buzzed softly. A few seconds later, the short lawyer returned and motioned them down the hall. “Yordanov’s office is the first door on your right.”

  So Grigory was there, but he had to know this appointment was bogus. As the three of them filed past the lawyer, John wondered how long he should keep up the pretense.

  He didn’t need to worry. The moment they entered the large suite filled with overstuffed leather chairs and massive mahogany furniture, Devons shut the door behind them, and got right down to business. “You speak English?”

  Grigory, who’d been staring out the window at the church, eased his office chair around to look at them. “Is she dead?”

  The Russian accent matched the one on the phone. As in the photo Del had sent, Grigory had heavy bags stacked under his eyes and hollow cheeks. His hair was completely gray. His eyes a light gray as well.

  “Who?” Devons said.

  “Natasha, of course.” When none of the three of them answered his question, he returned his gaze to the window. “You are not FSB. So that leaves CIA, yes?”

  Devons stepped up to the window, scanning the Russian church and street from Yordanov’s viewpoint. “You left Natasha a message last week with this address. Why?”

  Grigory shook his head and ran a hand over his face. “They got her, didn’t they?”

  “Who?” Devons as
ked again. He was starting to sound like an owl.

  “Ivanov’s secret police. Who else? She never made it here. I assume you’re here looking for her.”

  Nice to know they were all on the same page. John asked the most important question on his list. “Where would they take her?”

  Grigory turned his chair so he faced John. His accent grew a little stronger, even as his voice grew weaker. “Ivanov has a dozen different locations for interrogations and…”

  When he didn’t finish, Naomi stepped forward, frowning. “Please go on. And what?”

  The man swallowed, his watery gray eyes not seeing her but something else. Something distant and in the past. “Torture chambers. He was in the KGB, then a secret black ops group when the Cold War ended. They called him the Emperor. He conquered and destroyed many good people, either by torture or assassination.”

  Naomi glanced at Devons, brows dipping further. Her eyes filled with angst. For a former Mossad operative, she was awfully soft.

  She put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You loved Natasha, didn’t you?”

  His gaze dropped to the floor, his head moving in an affirmative nod. “She was everything to me all those years ago.”

  John took out his cell phone to take notes. “Where are the locations of the torture chambers?”

  Grigory looked up at him, a new light in his eyes. “You can find her?”

  “Maybe. But I need to know those locations.”

  Devons’s hawk-like gaze never left the window, but John could see he was watching Naomi’s reflection. “And I need to know why she was meeting you. She wasn’t just an old flame, was she?”

  When Grigory didn’t answer, Naomi knelt beside him and took one of his hands in hers. “You can trust us. We only want to help Natasha. And you.”

  The lawyer patted her hand, rose from his chair, and removed a large, framed, original oil painting from the wall. Behind it was a safe. He entered the code on the keypad, opened it, and drew out a small brown envelope. He held it in his hand for a moment as if making a crucial decision. Then he held it out to Naomi.