Free The Blood Code by Misty Evans Page A

“security” measures, Ryan was sure even with his high-tech communication gear, he couldn’t get anything in or out of the Palace without Ivanov’s people intercepting it. Truman could very well be his only safe link to the outside world.
    Ryan didn’t like being in another spook’s debt, but this time, the risk might be worth it. “I’ve already asked Stone to confirm Anya’s story about her grandmother’s kidnapping. Conrad’s still out of commission, so check with Del and see if he’s heard anything. Tell him not to risk contacting me yet. He’s only to send information in with you.”
    Truman gave a brusque nod.
    “In return, what do you want from me?”
    The British spy played with his fork, thinking it over. “I’ll let you know.”
    After dinner, they were led to a salon off Georgievsky Hall, which continued the gold, marble, and crystal theme. A group of young children hovered around a grand piano at the far end, while a twenty-something man in a tux complete with tails sat at the piano, playing soft show tunes. A large arched window framed the group, and outside the window, snow continued to fall.
    British and American security details fanned out around the perimeter. There were fewer Russian guards inside the salon, but the rest were outside the doors. As in any situation, worst-case scenarios ran through his head. Even with all the security keeping outside dangers from getting in, the people were sitting ducks if the danger came from within.
    Ryan trusted Ivanov about as far as he could spit. Crazy Russian dictators were a cliché for a reason. As nonchalantly as possible, he watched Ivanov’s every move. Anya’s, too.
    The seating in the salon was less formal and Ryan snagged a spot next to Barchai. The deputy prime minister was still keyed up, fiddling with his cufflinks, straightening his tie over and over again. Ryan took the opportunity to introduce himself and made a few polite comments about the evening’s meal, but Barchai’s responses were short and pointed, as if he weren’t really listening. Ryan let further socializing go.
    An older woman, a grandmotherly type in a pale yellow dress, gathered the waiting children into a semicircle and cued the accompanist to begin. The oldest of the children looked to be eight or nine, and yet the quality of their voices as they sung traditional Russian folk songs for the dignitaries was truly amazing.
    As the children’s voices echoed through the room, Ryan glanced at Anya, who was at the front beside Ivanov. From his vantage point behind her, Ryan couldn’t see her face but her body language continued to demonstrate confidence. At the end of the concert, she clapped heartily.
    Each of the children in the chorus held a white rose. After accepting the applause, the first young boy on the end stepped forward and presented his flower to Anya with a small bow. The other children lined up behind him to do the same.
    Next in line was a short, thin girl. With her blue eyes and white-blond hair, she could have been Anya’s sister and seemed to know it. Her eyes rounded with awe as she handed Anya the rose and curtsied. “ Dlya vas, Czarevna .”
    For you, Princess.
    Anya’s surprise over the presentation was genuine, and even sitting three rows behind her, Ryan could feel it as well as see it as she wrapped the young girl in a hug and praised her singing.
    Truman dutifully snapped pictures as the children filed by, Ivanov beaming at Anya with a strange kind of pride.
    Once more something dark and dangerous flickered deep in Ryan’s gut. A need to protect Anya, shield her from the Russian president, spread through his veins like a drug.
    He checked himself. He was there to do a job. Get in, find out what he could about Ivanov, and get out. He would help Anya and her grandmother if he could, but ultimately, the soap opera antics of the Russian president took second place to his mission to gain a bona fide asset inside the Kremlin.
    As the children