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

by Misty Evans

  Devons was faster, snatching the envelope and dumping out the contents. A silver key fell into his hand. “What does this fit?”

  “A safe deposit box at the Lombard Odier Bank here in Geneva.”

  “What’s in the box?”

  For the first time since they’d entered, Grigory pulled himself together and met Devons’s stare eye for eye. “The poor lack much, but the greedy, more. If you want to know what’s in the box, I suggest you go open it.” Rubbing a hand over his face, he switched his focus to Naomi again. “I have nothing left. My grandson is dead. Natasha is gone. Everything we did to protect our families was for nothing. Ivanov is unstoppable.”

  Naomi squeezed his hand. “These men here will find Natasha. You haven’t lost everything.”

  Hoping she was right, John tugged Grigory’s coat off the nearby coatrack and held it out to him. “You can give me those locations on the way to the safe house.”

  Grigory frowned. “Safe house?”

  “It wasn’t that hard for us to connect you to Natasha.” Devons started for the door, grabbing Naomi with one hand, and lifting the key to dangle it in front of the lawyer’s face with the other. “If there’s something in that bank box Ivanov wants, he’ll come after you for this. Tonight you’ll stay in the safe house. Tomorrow, after you help us at the bank, you’ll take an extended vacation to Aruba until this all blows over. You feel me?”

  Grigory didn’t have a chance to think it over. Naomi took his coat from John and forced Grigory’s arms into it. “We’ll get Natasha back, and the two of you can start over.”

  Devon rolled his eyes, but John suspected he secretly admired her fairy-tale determination.

  Chapter Twenty

  KREMLIN PALACE

  MOSCOW

  Anya’s lips tingled, Ryan’s kiss in last night’s shadows lingering on her skin even in the light of day.

  Touching them gently, she sighed. What was she supposed to think of that kiss? There was something developing between them. Something more than their agreement to help each other. What exactly, she wasn’t sure.

  No time to worry about that now. Her time during the summit was running out. She needed to stay focused and get on with her job.

  When Grams and Anya had moved to America, one of Grams’s favorite pastimes had been picking up slang, new curse words, and various American sayings to add to her repertoire of Russian proverbs. Her favorite idiom was You have to eat an elephant one bite at a time.

  For the first several years in America, there were a lot of elephants to eat. After hearing her grandmother repeat the saying so many times, Anya had tuned it out. Now as she shoved back the covers and sat up in bed, body trembling from lack of sleep and tense nerves, she once again heard Grams’s voice offering the sage Americanism in her head.

  She walked to the massive walk-in closet, as big as her entire apartment back home, and went through the motions of getting dressed for breakfast. A black pencil skirt. White blouse. Black pumps.

  Her grandmother had taught her to be independent above all else, not so much through verbal encouragement but by her example. Anya had never relied on anyone else for help, and it galled her to do so now, but attacking this elephant alone was sheer stupidity. A crazy Russian leader, missiles, and the Iranians. She was in over her head and had no idea what she should do.

  Talk to Ryan.

  But how? When?

  In front of the mirror in the bathroom, she ran a brush through her hair and dabbed concealer on the bruise-like shadows under her eyes. The white shirt did nothing to counterbalance her paleness, so she added a touch of blush and some of her cherry ChapStick for color. Funny her lips felt so different after Ryan’s kiss. They looked the same as ever.

  She popped a pill, changed the bandage on her wound, and then went to the sitting room to wait for Inga, the memory of Ryan and his lips giving her strength. He wasn’t the only one who could set up a secret meeting.

  The older woman was surprised to see Anya up and dressed. “You feel better, da? Did you look at those files?”

  “Not yet.” Anya didn’t feel like conversation, and she needed to get out of the room. She had a plan. “Let’s go.”

  When they reached the Palace of Facets, Anya zeroed in on Ivanov and asked Inga to bring her a cup of coffee. Inga tsked at her. “Tea would be easier on your stomach.”

  “I don’t want tea, Inga. Coffee. Cream and three sugars.” She was rarely so brusque, but she couldn’t find the energy to be nice. Ignoring the stares of a nearby group, she walked past them, and goose bumps rose on her skin when she caught sight of Ryan from the corner of her eye.

  Don’t even look at him.

  Andreev was nowhere to be seen. Ivanov sat with President Pennington, and both men rose as she approached, concern obvious on Ivanov’s face. For her health or his, she wasn’t sure.

  “Twenty-four-hour bug,” she reassured him. It was important to keep the monster happy. “But just like you, I’m made from hardy stock. Nothing keeps us royals down for long, right?”

  The change she’d seen when she’d played along with his fixation on their gene pool happened again. He returned to his seat and glanced around the room to see who was watching them, pleased that she was at his side. “Very good. Would you like to eat?”

  She was already chewing the first bite of the elephant. “Inga is bringing me coffee. That’s enough for now, after last night’s illness.”

  Inga appeared at that moment, carrying a demure china cup and saucer to the table. Anya sighed. She’d need three times that amount of caffeine to get through this morning.

  Seeing the tight expression on Inga’s face, Anya felt a prick of guilt at her earlier gruffness. The poor woman had a hard enough life as it was. “Thank you, Inga.” She pointed at the buffet steaming with food. “Please have some breakfast while I talk to President Ivanov.”

  Inga glanced at Ivanov as if to get his permission. He gave her one downward nod, and Inga bowed slightly and said a soft “thank you” before heading toward the food.

  Ivanov started to return to his conversation with Pennington. Anya laid a hand on his forearm. His attention swung back to her.

  Sell it, Anya. “It’s meant so much to me to be back here in Moscow, here in the Palace, I’d like to create a scrapbook of this week. Perhaps I could speak to the journalist over there”—she pointed to Truman across the room—“and ask him to share some of his photos with me.”

  A flicker of distrust showed in Ivanov’s eyes and Anya immediately went to work to squash it. “With your permission, of course. I especially want a copy of the photo he took of us at the opening ceremony. That will be the first item in my scrapbook.”

  Ivanov’s ego trumped the worries forming in his mind. “I will enjoy seeing this scrapbook when it’s done.”

  One bite down. Another hundred to go. “Thank you.”

  Anya drank half of the coffee cup’s contents, letting Ivanov immerse himself in his conversation with Pennington while she carefully planned out what she’d say to Truman. All the while, she steeled herself from looking at Ryan.

  Easier said than done.

  They hadn’t had a chance to talk last night. Really talk, anyway. And that kiss… it seemed so out of character for him, and yet, she once again reminded herself, she didn’t really know what his character was like. The kiss probably meant way more to her than it did him.

  Hot and cold, this spy game. If they couldn’t meet to talk about her discoveries and his intentions, there was no way for her to explain her actions or figure out his. Clandestine meetings like last night’s were great for her short-term mental health, giving her a break from thinking too much, but they were hell on her heart and her timeline. They needed a better strategy…and fast.

  Would he go along with today’s bold idea? If he refused, she was back to square one. She was probably screwed anyway…might as well take a chance and see what it got her.

  Downing the rest of her coffee, she gathered her
courage and left the table.

  As she crossed the room, she felt Ivanov’s gaze crawl over her back, while Ryan’s scanned her front. Ryan’s attention was far more discreet, but it was as if he were more aware of her. As if just from the briefest of glances, he saw her—who she really was, not some idealistic version. And where Ivanov watched her with a possessive eye, Ryan watched her with an inquisitive one. Guarded, but curious all the same.

  Truman was shoving eggs into his mouth when she sat down across from him. He glanced up, did a double take, and nearly jumped out of his chair. “Princess Anya.” He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, held out his hand. His British accent was heavy. “An honor to meet you.”

  She played along and shook his hand, motioning for him to return to his seat. His name badge read Tony Westport, and his camera sat to one side. “Mr. Westport, I’d like you to show me all the pictures on your camera.”

  He did nonplussed well, setting the napkin down, and looking her straight in the eye. “Pictures?”

  “I’m starting a scrapbook of the week’s events, and since I don’t have a camera of my own, I wondered if you would share your photos with me. Please.” She stressed the last word, and gave him her most charming smile.

  “Yes, of course. Well, bugger.” He frowned slightly and lowered his voice. “Technically, the pictures are the property of the Guardian. I’ll have to get permission to give you copies, but I’m sure I can arrange something.”

  She didn’t really need the pictures, but she did need a minute or two more of his time. “Could you at least show me what you have so far?”

  Behind the neutrality of his face, she saw a growing curiousness. And behind that, a probing gaze with a healthy dose of skepticism. So much like Ryan’s. Still, he shoved his plate out of the way, picked up his camera, and turned it on.

  For the next couple of minutes, Anya browsed the collection of photos on the camera. After the first dozen, she realized none of them included Ryan. Hurriedly, she flipped through the next dozen. No Ryan.

  Now she was curious.

  “Is there something specific you’re looking for?” Truman asked.

  “Um, no. I wonder if you could do me a huge favor?”

  “Besides sharing photos with you?”

  She put every ounce of charm she could drag up into her face, and patted his hand like they were old friends. “I’m a demanding woman, aren’t I? Must be my much publicized royal blood.”

  Truman seemed a bit dazzled by the pensive look and friendly touch, but he recovered quickly and chuckled along with her. “I’m at your service.”

  Anya flashed him a brilliant smile and took the next bite of the elephant. “Can you give your friend, Mr. Jones, a message for me?”

  LOMBARD ODIER BANK

  GENEVA

  Two minutes after eight o’clock the next morning, John, Naomi, and Grigory Yordanov walked into the bank. John peeled off to the right, a newspaper in hand and a two-way radio device in his ear, and took a seat in the plush waiting area near the bank’s floor to ceiling windows. Naomi and Grigory located the woman in charge of the lock boxes.

  Devons sat outside watching the entrance and scanning customers for any signs of Ivanov’s secret police detail or Russian undercover operatives who might also be surveilling the bank. It was one thing to steal the contents of Natasha’s safe deposit box. Another to walk out of the bank with it and not end up dead.

  Which was why John was alert behind his copy of the Geneva Times. Naomi was impersonating Anya Radcliff, the only other person on the bank’s files allowed access to the box, according to Del. During the night, Josh Devons, CIA spook, weapons expert, and fake Geneva cop, had suddenly become a paper pusher. With Del’s instructions and supplies from a local forger, Devons had made Naomi a fake passport with Anya’s information on it. Naomi had bought a wig and tinted contacts to change her appearance. Both women looked nearly identical on paper, and when Devons had offered the idea up, Naomi had jumped at the chance to play spy again.

  John had adamantly argued against the pair to no avail. And he couldn’t exactly call up Conrad Flynn and tattle, “Devon’s former girlfriend”—or whatever she was—“is a Mossad agent playing 007 for us.”

  Personal feelings aside, the plan was solid. Sending Naomi in place of Anya would get the job done, and John knew for a fact Flynn would have probably recruited Naomi as well.

  John wasn’t happy about it, though. Naomi pretending to be Anya Radcliff or Anya Radzoya was asking for trouble. Shit would hit the fan at some point and his ass would be on the line. That was why he’d insisted on entering the bank with her and keeping as close to her and Grigory as possible. Nothing was happening to any of them on his watch. Nothing.

  Grigory had morphed overnight into a smooth operator. He chatted up the desk gal, barely giving her a chance to eyeball Naomi’s passport and confirm she was on Natasha’s list of approved key holders. Grigory also provided his own ID, impressing the woman with more than his charm. While Naomi headed to the elevator that led to the underground vault, Grigory offered the woman his business card and his services. She wrote down his personal cell number and gave him hers.

  Voices and the click of women’s heels echoed off the marble floors and high ceilings of the bank. John hustled to follow Naomi into the elevator without looking like he was following her. Like a good operative, she ignored him behind her giant sunglasses, which boasted the Dior name on the sides, until the doors shut. Once they were alone, she snagged the glasses off her nose and glared at him. “Stop acting as if you are stroking out.”

  He didn’t know why, but the American-sounding expression mixed with her Israeli accent made him laugh. It didn’t, however, stop him from wanting to grab her and haul ass out of the bank.

  He adjusted his earpiece and spoke to Devons. “We’re going down into the vault where the boxes are kept. Communication may cease for a few minutes. Whatever you do, cover us.”

  Devons’s voice, cocky as ever, floated into his ear. “Got your back, man. Relax.”

  Ding. The elevator stopped as they reached the bottom floor. They stepped into a foyer with a table along one wall sporting a vase of flowers.

  John took Naomi’s arm and helped her across the threshold. “You remember the plan?”

  She patted the large bag hanging from her shoulder. “I know what I’m doing.”

  With that, she hustled to the directory at the end of the short hall. Finding the Swiss version of safe deposit box vault, or whatever the hell it said, she turned left and disappeared.

  Setting his newspaper on the table, John noted a surveillance camera in the corner. He turned his back to it while speaking softly to Devons. “D, you there? Can you hear me? Come in.”

  All he got back was static.

  A clock above his head ticked off the seconds as John leaned against the elevator wall, staying out of sight of the camera while he ran possible alternative routes out of the bank using the mental map in his mind.

  After three minutes had passed, he wanted to pace, but held himself still. Patience was one of the requirements for the type of work he did and he knew the value of it in every situation.

  Four minutes passed.

  Five.

  At nine minutes and seventeen seconds, voices echoed down the hall on the left. Naomi’s and a man’s. Naomi was speaking rapid-fire French, sounding like a native Swiss instead of an Israeli, but agitated. John’s nerves went into overdrive.

  The man grunted. A warning? A comment? The sound of Naomi’s heels on the marble floor sounded wrong—click, thud, click, thud—but John could tell the two of them were coming fast, and he didn’t have time to think. He punched the button for the elevator and reached around to the spot at the back of his waist for his gun.

  Naomi came around the corner, a burly, dark-haired guy dressed in a guard uniform with a beard and an attitude in tow. His hand was wrapped around her arm.

  John stepped forward, gun already clearing his waistband,
when Naomi smiled at him and held up one of the heels from her shoe. “Broke my favorite Louboutins. Can you believe it, honey?” “Monsieur Blanc, here, insisted on helping me to the elevator.”

  Monsieur Blanc looked less than excited about his escort services, but John eased the gun back into his waistband. The elevator’s soft ding sounded behind him. He pasted on a fake smile, and hustled Naomi away from the man and into the elevator. “Thanks,” he said to the guard and punched the button to return to the main floor of the bank.

  Once the doors closed, Naomi leaned against the back panel, smiling and lopsided in her shoes. She pulled out an old floppy disk and handed it to John. “I miss fieldwork.”

  John checked the disk over, his gut sinking. “This is it? This is all there was?”

  Naomi’s delight faded. “And these.” She drew out a stack of old comic books. Seeing his frown deepen, she crossed her arms. “What’s wrong?”

  In his ear, Devons’s voice crackled, stopping John’s reply. He handed the disk back to Naomi. “Say again, D. I didn’t catch that.”

  This time, Devons’s voice came through loud and clear. “We got trouble.”

  “Inside or out?”

  “Both.”

  Ding. Securing Naomi behind him in one fluid motion as the elevator opened, John reached for his gun.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  GI 42 PRISON

  MOSCOW

  Idiots. Iranians were far inferior to Russians. Always had been. He’d offered to sell them guns, and now they wanted missiles. As if he would actually sell them advanced nuclear weapons, plans, or warheads.

  Natasha Radzoya, however, was as clever as he was, and as loyal. Not loyal to her country, but loyal to her granddaughter.

  No longer gagged, she nevertheless remained silent. He’d switched tactics, allowing Andreev to give her water and bread. The cold, dank prison cell had been turned into a sauna. Instead of silence, screeching techno music filled the air. Natasha was ailing, but not close to dead. Not yet.

  Her stubbornness was commendable. In the end, if he had to, he’d resort to physical torture. First, he’d play with the mouse a little more.