The Blood Code (17 page)

“But I bet it is exciting and the women are pretty and competent, right?”

He met her gaze. While the shuttered look was still in place, an amused light shown in his eyes. “Only the genetic research scientists who steal maps from a Russian president’s personal chambers. Gorgeous and extremely adventurous. That kind of risky move is usually only something spies do. You’re not a Russian operative, are you?”

Anya’s pulse sped up. He thought she was gorgeous. The female inside her did a whoop of joy.

There was real concern in his question about her being an operative, however. “I’m no operative, believe me. I’m conflict adverse, not risk adverse, and I’d do anything for my grandmother. Besides, it was pure luck, not skill, helping me steal those documents.”

“Either way, you need to hide them in a safer place.”

He rose from the bed and went to the wall closest to the bathroom door. There he knelt on the floor and retrieved his glasses. Using the screwdriver, he pried the five-inch molding from the wall on a short section spanning the right side of the door.

Standing behind him, Anya saw where the plaster didn’t go all the way to the floor and an old paint color peeked through. Ryan took the screwdriver and dug it into the plaster. Within a minute, a small pile of soft plaster rose on the floor, and a tiny opening now existed in the wall. A square just big enough to hold her contraband.

As Ryan folded the map into the same shape as the hole in the wall, Anya tugged the papers and business card from her bra. “Here.” She handed him the items and noticed how he hesitated for a heartbeat when he saw his card. “Andreev tried to take it away from me,” she told him. “I refused to give it up.”

That crooked grin lifted the right side of Ryan’s face, but he didn’t say anything as he shoved the card and paper into the hole with the map. He replaced the molding, giving it a little tap to secure it.

He stood, stuck the glasses back in a pocket, and retrieved a cell phone from another one. “This phone has a camera in it. If you get back into Ivanov’s chambers, and you have a clear opportunity, take pictures of any documents you find. There may be tangible physical evidence in his office we can use if you get a picture of it, but don’t take unnecessary risks, okay?”

Playing spy was growing more and more fun. Seeing Ryan make a safe for her in the wall reminded her of Ivanov’s. “There’s evidence all right. Do you know how to crack a safe, Mr. Spy Man?”

“Yes.”

Another valuable skill. “Will you teach me?”

“No. No safecracking. Just take some pictures if you get the chance.”

He walked toward the dresser and the door to the passageway, checking his watch and lowering his voice to a whisper. “Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another long day.”

Anya followed, watching him hop on top of the dresser and press his ear to the door. She climbed on the bed, clutching the phone. “Ryan?” she whispered and he turned to look at her over his shoulder. “I won’t let you down.”

He nodded and mouthed the words
Be careful.

Something passed between them again, that silent communication that seemed to say more than any words could. Anya slid off the bed, running on full instinct, and grabbed his arm to pull him down. She kissed him on the lips. Then she mouthed back
You too.

He hesitated, seeming a bit stunned, yet recovered quickly, taking hold of the back of her neck, and leaning his lips fully to her mouth. Not too soft, not too hard, the kiss was still forceful and erotic. Heat shot to the spot between Anya’s legs.

Spying on the Russian president or kissing a princess, Ryan was clearly in control.

They broke apart, staring at each other, and breathing hard. A second later, Ryan was gone, the door sliding shut behind him.

Anya sunk into the soft mattress, happiness over their plan mixed with worry at the thought of him in the dangerous passageway alone.

He’ll be fine
.

The cell phone was warm from his body heat, and her lips buzzed from his kiss. After touching her lips, she turned on the phone and began searching through the functions. The address book was empty. The call log was empty. The picture files were empty.

Spies. Talk about secrets.

Anya touched her lips again and smiled.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

US Embassy

Moscow

When the call connected to Langley, Devons put Conrad Flynn on the speaker of the encrypted phone. “What d’ya got, boys?”

Devons looked at the ancient computer monitor and made a face. John knew how he felt. The head of US Operations wasn’t going to like his answer. “Letters and numbers. That’s all we got off the floppy. Took me hours to hunt down a computer to read it, and all we got was a string of letters that make no sense, and four columns of numbers that also make no sense.”

Flynn’s tone was brusque. “They mean something. Radzoya had that information for a reason. What’s Quick think?”

John faced the phone, ignoring the look Naomi shot Devons from the corner of her eye. As per her MO, she’d refused to stay in Switzerland and was now in Moscow with them. Devons had told her not to say a word while he and John spoke to the director of operations or he would kill her. Seemed like the only way they’d get rid of her at this point.

Grigory was also there. The two of them were currently sitting with Del at the conference table, flipping through the comic books they’d retrieved from the safe. “The numbers aren’t longitude, latitude, or any kind of coordinates for air, sea, or land. We tried playing with the letters, but, like Devons said, they make no sense.”

“They’re probably a code,” Devons added. “But none I’ve ever seen.”

There was a long, strained pause on the other end. Then Flynn’s voice lowered a notch. “I didn’t send my weapons expert and best tracker on a wild goose chase two thousand miles away for nothing. What’s your gut say, Devons? Why would a former operative of the Soviet Union, who worked for our side, hide a bunch of numbers in a safe deposit box fifteen years ago in Switzerland, that only she and her granddaughter could access?”

Devons shook his head, gaze scanning the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “The numbers are a code.”

“No shit. A code you
have
seen before.” Flynn drew an impatient sounding breath. “Look at ’em again, and tell me what they’re for, weapons expert.”

The term seemed to flip a switch in Devons’s brain. His eyes lit up, and he stared at the screen. His focus intensified as his gaze flew back and forth across the columns. “Goddamn,” he whispered under his breath. “There’s at least a thousand of them.”

John stepped toward him and looked over his shoulder at the numbers for the fiftieth time. “A thousand of what?”

“Missile launchers,” Flynn said from the speaker at the same time Devons said it, too.

“As in nuclear warhead missile launchers?” John asked.

Devons tapped the monitor with a finger. “These are missile launch codes for a thousand different sites.”

Flynn sounded pleased at his pupil’s assessment. “Missiles pointed at England and the United States. If Ivanov grabbed Anya Radzoya, he’s trying to cut a deal to get those codes back.”

John didn’t get it. “Why doesn’t he already have them? And what about the nuclear arms reduction summit? Those missiles from the 1980s were decommissioned, weren’t they?”

A chuckle came from the speaker phone. “Decommissioned doesn’t mean destroyed. The missiles are still there, just sleeping, and Ivanov wants to wake them up. Natasha Radzoya either stole those codes, or Yeltsin gave them to her for safekeeping. I assure you, that floppy disk is the only surviving copy, and if Ivanov gets his hands on it…”

Devon slapped the table next to his phone. “We’re gonna be toasty critters before the year’s out.”

“Exactly.” A squeak came from the speaker as Flynn shifted in his chair. His tone once again took a brusque manner. “Give those codes to Del, and destroy the disk, Devons.”

“What about the funky letters?”

“Those too. Del will figure them out. Oh, and Quick?”

“Yeah?”

“Find Natasha Radzoya. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about Anya?” Devons asked. “She knew about this. She brought us that launch key.”

“Natasha is our priority right now. You got any leads, Quick?”

“Three, actually.”

“Don’t give me three,” Flynn said, impatient again. “One. Where’s Ivanov got her stashed?”

John planted his feet further apart, rubbed a hand over his face. Devons’s intense focus was on him now. “The Kremlin. My best guess is she’s under the Palace in GI 42.”

One of Devons’s brows lifted. The speaker was eerily quiet.

Another squeak from Flynn’s chair broke the silence. “Better figure out a way to get into the Kremlin, boys. Smith’s going to need all the help he can get.”

The phone line went dead. Devons, Grigory, and Del stared at John, looking like they thought he was suddenly going to pull a full-proof plan for crashing the summit meeting party out of his ass.

Naomi, still reading the comic book in front of her, flipped a page and frowned. “What is this?”

John and Devons gathered on either side to get a better look. A piece of paper with an unusual graph on it was folded into the comic book’s pages.

The graph had headers and footnotes, some typed and others handwritten. All of it was in Russian.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Devons said.

“I’ve seen one of these before.” Naomi unfolded it, laying it on the table and pressing out the creases. Below the graph were a couple of spreadsheets.

“What is it?” John asked.

“My mother had one of these done when she was trying to prove my paternity.”

O-
kay
. “It’s a paternity test?”

“Mine looked different than this, but yes, there are three DNA profiles.” She pointed to the first spreadsheet. “This column shows the mother’s, this one, the child’s, and this one, the father’s.”

She trailed a finger down the page to the second, and more extensive, spreadsheet, translating the Russian softly under her breath. “But this is something else. The child’s genes appear to have been tested for various markers.”

“Markers?” Devons asked.

Naomi nodded. “
A marker is a gene or DNA sequence that can be used to identify individuals or species.”

Grigory seemed to choke. “Is there a name on the paternity test?”

Naomi shook her head, pointed to a handwritten line at the bottom. “The child’s marker letters are combined into one, here.”

“Let me see that,” John said. He took the paper over to the computer. Sure enough, the string of letters on the screen matched the genetic markers.

Devons saw it at the same time. He whistled under his breath. “The kid’s DNA is some kind of code? Why would it be listed with ICBM codes?”

“Oh, dear.” Gregory wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Peter, what did you do?”

“Peter?” Devons asked.

“Natasha’s son was brilliant…and he designed the first computerized system to launch nuclear weapons.”

Naomi closed the comic book. “The paternity test belongs to Anya Radzoya, doesn’t it? Her gene sequence is somehow tied to the missiles.”

Grigory nodded. “I believe you may be correct.”

Anya. Natasha. They were both in big trouble. And if John didn’t find them, he’d have more to worry about than Flynn riding his ass. “We need to get into the Kremlin. Better yet, the bunker underneath it. We need to come with a solid plan, and fast.”

Devons grinned. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Playing a fake cop won’t cut it this time. Breaching the bunker is impossible, and the Kremlin isn’t much easier.”

“Not a cop.” The grin grew and he patted John on the back. “Terrorist, my friend. We’re going in as terrorists.”

…

The next morning at breakfast, Ivanov and Andreev were MIA. Worse, Anya was also missing.

Ryan’s gut churned. Had he compromised her last night? Had he been seen coming or going from her room? Or had it been their meeting in the library?

No one had spotted him last night, he was sure of that. But what if the library meeting had raised someone’s suspicions? What if Anya was at that moment fighting for her life?

Not one to overdramatize, Ryan shook off that last assumption and bit into his toast. They were late. Big deal. Anya had arrived late for breakfast before, and he’d kept her up late. Ivanov and Andreev were probably dealing with normal, everyday government issues. Pennington and Morrow had been doing the same in between the endless summit meetings.

Truman pulled a chair out and sat beside him. “Good God, you look like my aunt Edith showed you her knickers.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

A waiter arrived, poured Truman coffee, and took his breakfast order. Once he left, Truman slipped Ryan a new pen and an envelope. He lowered his voice, tapping the envelope. “From Del. Your specialist believes the package is in one of these spots.”

Ryan pocketed the pen, hoping it contained the transcripts he’d been waiting for, and opened the envelope. A slip of paper was nestled inside. John Quick had narrowed the possible locations for Natasha to three. One made Ryan whistle under his breath.

“Where is it?” Truman asked.

The most obvious place for Ivanov to be holding Natasha Radzoya was also the most dangerous. At least in terms of rescuing her. “GI 42.”

Truman set down his coffee cup without drinking. “But that’s…”

“Here,” Ryan finished for him. Government Installation 42 was a secret underground intelligence center built by Stalin during the Cold War. A presidential bunker. “Under the Kremlin.”

At the height of Stalin’s rule, it had housed fifteen hundred soldiers working round-the-clock shifts. The tunnels were steel-plated to absorb electromagnetic fields and conceal radio waves. One tunnel connected to the Moscow train and subway station, allowing for evacuation of Stalin and his top officials if necessary. Outfitted as a command center, it was the ideal place for him and his group to survive a nuclear blast.

The Russians claimed it had been abandoned. At the cabin, Anya had insisted there was a new, improved model, complete with a lab. Ivanov had showed it to her. Had she been within spitting distance of her grandmother and not known it?

The silverware next to Ryan’s plate of half-eaten breakfast suddenly rattled as if someone were shaking the table. Truman’s cup trembled in its saucer. The movement and sounds were so minimal, the two might have missed them if they hadn’t been silently contemplating how to pull off a rescue extraction from the world renowned bunker hidden deep underground.

Truman set his hands flat on the table. “Bloody hell, do you feel that?”

Ryan did. There was a vibration leaking up through the floor. Before he could answer, the tremor stopped. In the room around them, only a few other people seemed to have noticed and had the same perplexed look on their faces.

“Earthquake?” Truman wondered out loud.

Ryan had experienced small earthquakes in India and China. What he’d just felt was similar and yet not. It was a shock wave of some sort, but seemed too short-lived for an earthquake.

Half a dozen cell phones began ringing. The people in the room grabbed for them, puzzlement spreading among the group. In the next few seconds, as Ryan studied the looks of shock on Pennington’s and Morrow’s faces and more ringing phones escalated the noise in the room, his blood ran cold. He knew the look on the president’s face. It wasn’t an earthquake.

“Bomb,” he told Truman.

Which meant only one thing.

“Terrorists?” Truman’s eyes widened a fraction as his own cell began ringing. Around the room, people confirmed the news with shouts of “bomb” and “subway.” He rose from the chair to snatch the phone off his belt. “God save the Queen,” he whispered to no one in particular.

God save the princess
, Ryan thought, and ran for the doors.