The Blood Code by Misty Evans Read Free Book Online Page A

ambassador stood, signaling the discussion was over. He snagged his long wool coat from a hook and motioned for Ryan to follow him. “Just don’t embarrass me.”
    Recruiting assets in Russia had been a priority of Ryan’s since he was promoted to top-dog over the European and Asian sectors. Getting CIA operatives into Russia, however, was still risky business. Twenty years after the end of the Cold War, animosity toward Americans ran like an electrical charge under the surface of Russian culture, waiting for a spark to ignite it. Something, no doubt, Ivanov was counting on down the road.
    The new Russian president pretended to be a friend of the United States, but the CIA suspected Ivanov of covertly funneling money and weapons into Iran and Afghanistan. The only reason he would do such a thing would be to undermine America’s ongoing war with terrorism.
    While Ryan had a bevy of spies he could have used in Moscow to recruit assets, part of being director of operations was identifying the best man or woman for the job. In an extremely sensitive case like this, the man for the job was him.
    The casual air of the opening ceremony would give him the perfect chance to meet the deputy prime minister and strike up a conversation. It might take the entire week of summit meetings, dinners, and parties to gain the man’s trust, but if he was as disgruntled as Ryan’s sources claimed, the time would be a worthy investment. Keeping an eye on Anya, and figuring out if Ivanov truly held her grandmother captive, was his second mission. She hadn’t told him everything, he was sure of that. Just enough to persuade him with that damned launch key into believing he was saving America, as well as her grandmother, if he helped her out.
    Ryan gave the ambassador a slight nod. Time to go to work. “After you, sir.”
    Half an hour later, Ryan was in Georgievsky Hall, otherwise known as the Hall of St. George, along with a mass of American and British diplomats. An appropriate place to host the trilateral summit welcome ceremony, its massive columns were crowned with statues exemplifying Russian weaponry. Marble plaques built into the walls showcased commanders who’d received their highest military decoration—the Order of St. George.
    Russian architecture fascinated Ryan. Fresh out of the Farm, he’d once navigated Moscow by the intricately designed buildings on a field test, sans map. He’d learned Russian as a second language and fell in love with its art work. The Great Kremlin Palace was his favorite site in Moscow, but he wasn’t there for a sightseeing tour. As his gaze scanned the room, he counted fourteen of Ivanov’s security guards stationed at the room’s archways, and another dozen plainclothes police scattered amongst the US president’s secret service detail and the British prime minister’s security unit. Ivanov had guaranteed the visiting dignitaries the highest level of security available and apparently he was true to his word, at least on this subject.
    What Ryan didn’t see was Anya.
    He told himself not to worry about her. Whoever she was—double agent, innocent Russian princess, damsel in distress, or all of the above—she’d made it clear she was capable of handling herself in this place. His first order of business was his official Agency mission. Ignoring his lingering worries about her, Ryan scouted for surveillance equipment. Amidst the interior structural decor were hundreds of places perfect for cameras, and although he didn’t see any obvious lenses, he knew they existed and were tracking his every movement.
    Waiters with trays of champagne, vodka, and hors d’oeuvres circled small groups of socializing dignitaries at the east end of the ballroom. On the opposite side, long tables covered with damask tablecloths, fine china, sixteenth century candelabras, and shoulder-high floral centerpieces, were laid out in a U shape for dinner. A mixture of modern Russian rock music and classical opera added