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

by Misty Evans

  Anya’s megawatt smile blindsided him once more. She reached for his hand and squeezed it firmly. “I have a plan.”

  The black hole at Ryan’s feet swelled.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Yes! Relief flooded Anya from head to toe. She was going to stop Ivanov and Ryan didn’t think she was crazy. He wasn’t even acting weird over their kiss.

  Maybe good, maybe bad. Had it meant so little to him?

  Get over yourself, Anya, and quit wasting time.

  The thought of returning to Ivanov’s private chambers and searching for evidence about reactivated missiles, and his deal with the Iranians, kick-started the dread in her chest. But Ryan’s hand was so firm against hers, she didn’t linger on the unpleasant thought. The future—even if it was only a few hours away—didn’t matter as much as that moment. He believed her; that was the most important part of her plan. They were together, if only for a few stolen moments once again.

  She didn’t want to release his hand, but had been holding it and squeezing it several seconds longer than necessary. Pure and simple, she was acting like a dork. Like a lovesick teenager meeting her boy-band crush. “Sorry.” She dropped his hand and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m exhausted, and freaked out over my grandmother, and, uh, a little nervous.”

  His lips quirked to one side. “Tell me more about your grandmother. Was blackmailing you into returning to Moscow the only reason Ivanov kidnapped her? What about this code?”

  Stumped, she frowned. “I don’t have a clue. Why would my grandmother have a nuclear weapon code? The idea is ridiculous.”

  He studied her for a moment as if giving her time to think. Her brain honed in on that, and the thought she’d had several times surfaced. Was Grams a threat to Ivanov? Did she have proof he’d killed her parents? Did she indeed know a code that could launch missiles?

  Before her brain could answer, Ryan dismissed his question with a shrug. “I don’t recommend stealing anything from Ivanov’s office. We’ll figure out another way to get hard evidence.”

  A spurt of panic ran through her. “I can do it. I’ve already stolen something. Here.” She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, fingers shaking so badly, she fumbled with the job before retrieving the folded up warrants from her bra.

  As she unfolded them, Ryan’s eyes—locked on her display of cleavage—widened and his brows disappeared under the hair on his forehead. She’d shocked him. Because she’d stolen something from Ivanov, or because she’d hidden it in her bra?

  Using her free hand to draw the edges of her blouse together, she handed the paper to him. “KGB execution warrants. For my parents, and initialed by one MYI.”

  Ryan tore his gaze away from her cleavage and took the paper. He scanned the first paper, brows returning to their normal place on his face, then sinking into a frown.

  Anya buttoned her blouse and moved beside him to read the second warrant. The scent of soap, and that clean, spicy aftershave, enveloped her. The smell was so completely opposite Ivanov, it was, in and of itself, reassuring. She inhaled.

  He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, her close presence seeming to make him nervous. Ryan, nervous? She must be imagining it. Embarrassed, she pointed to the word next to each person’s name and was proud to see her fingers were no longer shaking. “See? That word right there. That’s Russian for ‘executed.’”

  “Yes, I know,” he murmured, dragging his gaze back to the paper.

  “Of course.” She gently slapped her forehead, signifying a doh moment, and her shoulder brushed against his. For some reason, she wanted to impress him. Wanted him to believe she was not only sane, but capable of what she was proposing. Wanted to leave her shoulder up against his. “I forgot. You’re fluent in Russian, aren’t you? I heard you speaking it at the cabin.”

  Again, he did the eye slide thing, as if he wanted to look directly at her but didn’t want to move, even a little, away from her. That was good. She didn’t want him to move. “Where exactly did you get these? How did you get these?”

  She’d stolen a launch key, and he was surprised she’d stolen a couple pieces of paper?

  Her watch alarm buzzed and Anya jumped. She’d been here over five minutes already. Her window of time was only ten. It wasn’t enough.

  “Look, I left my babysitter sleeping in front of the TV. The guards take a ten-minute break when she’s there in the afternoon with me, but they’ll be back any minute, might even beat me there if I don’t hurry.” She took a couple steps toward the door. “Can we meet back here tomorrow, same time?”

  In the silence that followed, he seemed to absorb the fact that she’d slipped away from Inga to meet him and was planning to do it again. “Too dangerous. I’ll figure something else out. In the meantime, you can continue to pass messages through Truman. That was a good idea, by the way.”

  His praise felt like warm maple syrup running down her spine. “If we can’t meet here, and you can’t drug my guards again, then where?”

  He seemed unconcerned about the security. “Do you know anything about Kremlin Palace?”

  “Every school child in Russia learns the history of the Palace.”

  “Not the history, the layout. Hidden doors? Secret passageways? They exist throughout the entire structure. I’ll figure out a way for us to meet undetected and let you know.”

  Hidden doors. “My room is connected to Ivanov’s by a secret door. There’s a narrow hallway between them.”

  A nerve jumped in his jaw. “Can you lock it?”

  “Not from my side. I shove a heavy dresser in front of it.”

  He unclenched his jaw and for the first time since they’d started talking, she saw a light in his eyes. Hope? Happiness? She wasn’t sure.

  She held out a hand and he handed her the warrants. “Just promise me you won’t try to steal anything else from Ivanov until we meet again.”

  Taking a step back, she began walking away. Time was up and she had to get back to her chambers. “I can’t promise that,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Grand duchess?”

  She stopped and looked at him, confusion churning in her stomach. She wanted to stay there, talk to him more, find out what he knew about her and her family. Find out more about Ryan Jones and his spying. But a growing unease fired up the dread once more in her chest. “Yes?”

  “Be careful. Whatever you do, please be careful.”

  That she could do. Would do. “You too.”

  Just as she stepped off the giant Persian rug onto the hardwood floor, a muffled voice called her name from the hallway. Inga. Trouble One had woken up early. Had she brought the guards with her?

  With one swift move, Ryan grabbed her arm and hustled her behind a freestanding bookcase. Anya clutched at the shelf in front of her while one of Ryan’s arms went around her as they stared at the door together through a crack over the tops of the books. He was so close, she could feel his chest rising and falling against her back as he maintained his protective stance. She missed wearing his sweater. It was buried in her suitcase. Maybe she’d sleep in it tonight.

  The doorknob turned, and Anya’s heart slammed against her ribs from fear. She had no doubt Ryan could protect her from many things, but this was one thing he shouldn’t protect her from. She had to face Inga on her own and return to her suite. “It’s okay,” she whispered, placing a hand on his chest. “I can handle this.”

  He glanced down at her hand, back up at her face. Then he let her slip out of his arms. As the door opened and Inga called Anya’s name once more, he grabbed her hand, stopping her, and slid a slim book into it. Their gazes held and he nodded at her. She nodded back.

  “Here I am,” she said to Inga as she emerged from the bookcase. “Did you have a good nap?”

  Inga’s hand went to her chest in relief. “Czarevna Anya. I’ve been looking all over for you.” She gasped several times and Anya feared for a second the woman might be having a heart attack. After another heavy i
n and out breath, Inga pulled herself together, and shook a finger at Anya. “You know you are not to leave the Golden Chambers without me.”

  Anya waved her off. “You needed a rest after I kept you up half the night. I came in here for some new reading material.”

  Inga’s relief deepened as she saw the book in Anya’s hands. She scolded her anyway, guiding Anya to the door. “Next time, you must wake me, and I will bring you here, da?”

  As Inga propelled her through the door, Anya glanced back over her shoulder, a bit of panic fluttering in her chest at leaving Ryan. Behind the bookcase, he waited in the shadows. She wouldn’t have noticed him if she hadn’t known where to look. “Yes. Next time.”

  The door shut behind them with an audible click. The fluttering in Anya’s chest kicked up. When she looked down at the book in her hands, though, she felt Ryan’s presence still with her.

  A Thousand and One Nights. The Tales of Scheherazade. In English.

  He knows everything, she thought. Even my favorite book.

  As if in response, the bandage over her wound tugged at her skin.

  Not everything, she reminded herself. She touched her side.

  No matter how good a spy Ryan was, Anya still had many, many secrets.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  His game was off tonight. Ryan shuffled the cards in his hand, but there was no making anything of them.

  Tonight’s entertainment was Vegas-style gambling. Poker, blackjack, even slot machines were available to the guests. Showgirls circled the floor delivering drinks and flirting. In one corner of the hall, a circus act was performing, complete with jugglers, fire eaters, and a set of performing cats and dogs.

  Anya sat watching with Ivanov, outside of Ryan’s view.

  His card game sucked, but his luck was holding in other areas. He had his asset. She was as close to Ivanov as any of the man’s cabinet. And she was willing to risk everything to obtain the evidence Ryan desperately needed to end Ivanov’s reign.

  Across the green felt table, Truman wiggled a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Ryan considered mentioning the traitorous tell to him. A good poker player never gave his opponents the upper hand, though.

  The other three players—a Pennington aide and a couple of Ivanov’s cabinet members—had already folded.

  Ryan folded, too, and Truman raised a questioning brow while happily claiming the pot. New players lined up around the table to watch, and Ryan would have enjoyed taking their cash any other time. Tonight, he had a job to do. While everyone was enjoying Las Vegas, he needed to get to Georgievsky Hall.

  “I’m done, too,” Truman said, as Ryan scooped up his chips.

  “Quitting while you’re ahead for once?”

  Together, they walked across the room toward the cashier to turn them in. Truman scanned the area. “Think I’ll try my hand at slots.”

  Ryan looked over the row of machines and saw a lot of unhappy faces with their near empty cups of nickels. “Save your money. Ivanov’s got them rigged.”

  “Should we watch the circus?”

  “No thanks.” Ryan gave his chips to the cashier. “I’m turning in early.”

  Truman remained silent until they’d both received their money. As they walked past the slots, he spoke under his breath. “Need help?”

  Across the room, a roar of astonishment went up from the circus audience as a dog jumped through a ring of fire. “With what?”

  “Whatever you’re about to do.”

  Ryan smirked. “Bored already?”

  “My mark is playing it cool here. I haven’t found a scrap of evidence against her.”

  A slot machine behind them finally paid off, buzzers ringing with good fortune for the player. “Well, you can give a message to Anya for me.”

  “So now we’re playing bloody Chinese whispers?”

  “The politically correct name for the children’s game is telephone or grapevine.”

  Truman shook his head. “You Yanks make a fucking deal out of everything, you know that?”

  A fucking deal was right. “Tell her to leave the dresser in its normal spot tonight if she can. I’ll knock twice after midnight.”

  “Midnight meetings, how cliché,” he said, as he pieced together what was happening with lightning quick speed. “You won’t make it to the door to knock. She’s under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

  “I’m not going through the guarded door.”

  “Ah.” Again Truman worked the details out in the span of a second. “The hidden hallways, then? Sweet setup. Do you have a map? Kremlin Palace is a logistical nightmare. Never know what torture chamber you might end up in.”

  Ryan tapped his temple to signify his mental map. “Give a message to Del, would you? Tell him to contact Stone or Flynn and find out if they’ve uncovered anything more about Natasha Radzoya’s disappearance from Switzerland last Wednesday. And I need the transcripts they have from her interviews when she first came to America.”

  Jugglers took the stage at the circus to a loud round of applause and whistles. Truman watched them while he spoke out the side of his mouth to Ryan. “This is batty, mate. Ivanov will kill you himself if he catches you messing with his property.”

  “I know,” Ryan said, and on the heels of that came a singular, damning thought.

  She’s worth it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  TWO HOURS LATER

  Anya’s knee bobbed incessantly under Ivanov’s desk as she shuffled the papers covering the top. Ivanov was in the bathroom. She had a minute, two tops, to find something for Ryan.

  The map. Where was that damned map she’d seen the other night? The one with weird names. Had those names been some kind of code?

  Ivanov had suggested they return to her chambers after the evening’s entertainment, but Anya had persuaded him into his apartment suite, using the excuse that she wished to see the family histories again. She’d also agreed to go over a few of the medical files Inga had dumped on her. At the mention of that, Ivanov had practically skipped into his chambers. She was so nervous, the image nearly made her laugh.

  Her plan was simple. Get in, steal the map, feign exhaustion from her twenty-four-hour bug, and escape to her room before midnight.

  Simple plans were usually the easiest. She learned that long ago from Grams. Tonight, however, her simple plan didn’t seem easy at all.

  Where is that map?

  From the moment they’d entered the room, Ivanov had put his hands all over her. The hands of a killer. She’d dodged, parried, and skirted them as best as she could, restraining her natural reflexes, and defying her defensive training to keep from punching him. Like before, he’d drunk too much vodka, and what few inhibitions he had disappeared as quickly as the alcohol.

  The only perk was the fact he had to empty his bladder, allowing her time to search his desk.

  Invoices, half-written speeches, and dossiers of the visiting dignitaries claimed the top. Red folders, manila files, and spreadsheets were mixed in. Apparently the wheels that turned to make the Russian government work were made of paper.

  From the distant shadows of Ivanov’s bedchamber came the sound of a flushing toilet and running water. Time was up. She shuffled faster.

  A doorknob rattled. Knowing she was out of time, Anya grabbed the leather-bound family history she’d brought with her to the desk, slouched back in the chair, and opened it.

  Ivanov shuffled into the room, and when Anya glanced up, she did a double take. He’d exchanged his expensive suit and tie for silk pajamas and a matching robe.

  Lovely.

  “Oh.” Anya stood, closing the book and setting it down. “You’re ready for bed. Forgive me for keeping you up.”

  “Nonsense.” He eyed the book, patted his stomach. “I only wanted to be more comfortable. Which history are you reading?”

  As Anya came around the side of the desk, a light blue paper caught her eye. The corner of the map she’d been looking for stuck out from a file a
t the far corner. It was ready to fall to the floor. She stepped in front of it, and leaned her butt back against the desktop. “Yours, of course.”

  Ivanov nodded, happy over her choice, and stopped at his built-in bar where he withdrew an icy bottle of Jewel of Russia from the fridge. He set up two shot glasses, unscrewed the lid, and poured, idly humming a song from the circus.

  She couldn’t take a chance he would head to the bathroom again before she had to make her way out from under his pawing advances. While Ivanov retrieved zakooska—bite-sized snacks to go with their drinks—she used one hand to tug the map the rest of the way out from between the folders, folding it behind her back and sliding it into the waistband of her skirt.

  Ivanov brought the zakooska and vodka to the coffee table in front of the fireplace and gestured for her to join him. Her stomach rebelled at the thought of getting within reach of his hands.

  She grabbed the book from the desk. Approaching the fireplace, she opened it, and flipped through the pages as if looking for something. “Where are your parents, Maxim? They must be very proud of you.”

  “Like yours, they passed many years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Any siblings?”

  He eyed her from the sofa, his attention lingering on her breasts. He licked his lips. “One brother.”

  Flipping another page, she found his name. “Abram?”

  His grin made the hair on Anya’s neck rise. “I enjoy the way you are now embracing your homeland.”

  “Does Abram live here in Moscow?”

  A heavy sigh escaped Ivanov’s lips. “He is a businessman. He has no home, but travels all over the world.”

  Apparently a touchy subject. One Anya was determined to pursue. “You must miss him like I miss my grandmother.”

  Ivanov’s eyes narrowed before he busied himself with the vodka and food. No way would she go through with his plans to marry her, but she needed to drive home her point. “Family is important to me, and I hope important to you. It will make me very happy to have my grandmother here in the Palace with us when the time comes.”