Blackmail

by Rick Campbell

  “Only Miss O’Connor,” he said.

  “I’m supposed to accompany her,” Wetzel said, “and serve as her interpreter.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the bodyguard replied. “President Xiang’s English will be sufficient.”

  Wetzel glanced at Christine, who nodded. Xiang’s accent had been thick during their previous meetings, but his English was understandable.

  Christine was wanded with a handheld metal detector and her leather briefcase searched. Satisfied that she carried no weapons, the lead bodyguard gestured toward the helicopter. Christine slid into the back of the four-passenger aircraft, where she was joined by the three Cadre Department bodyguards.

  After a command from the lead bodyguard to the pilot, the helicopter lifted from the tarmac, tilting forward as it accelerated upward. As they headed north, the multicolor illumination from the city below faded to a few sporadic yellow lights, then disappeared altogether, leaving only a full moon in a cloudless sky and the pinpricks of distant stars. Christine tightened her grip on her leather briefcase as the helicopter continued on in the darkness.

  A change in the beat of the helicopter’s rotors announced the end of their journey was approaching. The helicopter descended, coming to rest in the countryside with a soft landing. As Christine stepped onto damp grass, the sound of waves crashing ashore greeted her ears. The three bodyguards exited the helicopter with Christine, and the lead man pointed toward a narrow trail, faintly illuminated by the full moon, winding up a steep mountain slope.

  After determining the three men had nothing to say, she began the trek up the winding trail. At the end of a six-hundred-foot climb, Christine emerged onto a grassy plateau containing another helicopter and a circular stone building flanked by a curving thicket of magnolia trees. In front of the building, a Cadre Department bodyguard stood on each side of a dark entrance. Upon reaching the building, she climbed a half-dozen cracked stone steps, stopping in front of the two men. Neither man spoke, but one pointed to the opening. After taking a deep breath, she passed between the two men.

  Christine entered a temple illuminated by flickering torches, bathing a stone goddess in dancing hues of amber and burnt orange. Sitting upon a throne with a tablet in one hand and a staff in the other, the goddess was accompanied by two dragon guardians coiled at her feet, one on each side. Kneeling on the granite floor in front of the statues was President Xiang, his back to Christine and his hands clasped in front of him.

  Xiang made no indication he heard Christine enter, and she hovered near the entrance before spotting a stone bench along one side of the temple. She sat quietly on the cold granite, waiting while Xiang finished his prayer.

  After a few minutes, Xiang placed his hands on the floor, and Christine could see he was having difficulty standing. Xiang glanced at her and extended his hand, and Christine moved forward, offering hers in return. Xiang leaned heavily on Christine as the seventy-year-old president pulled himself to his feet, straightening to his full six-foot height, his gaze settling on her. She waited for him to speak first, but he remained silent as the flickering torches cast shifting shadows of stone dragons on the wall behind him.

  Xiang finally spoke. “I am surprised you came.”

  “Why did you request me?”

  Xiang studied her a moment before replying. “I wanted to know how important this was to America. What they were willing to risk. What you were willing to risk.”

  Christine refrained from asking the question that had hovered at the forefront of her mind since China’s request. Would she be allowed to leave after the meeting?

  Xiang motioned to the stone bench. “Sit with me.”

  Christine settled onto the bench again, her back against the cold stone wall, with the president of China beside her, his hands on his knees.

  “What is this place?” Christine asked.

  “It is the temple of my forefathers,” Xiang replied. “Mazu”—he gestured toward the stone goddess—“is the patron saint of fishermen and sailors. I was raised in the small fishing village at the base of this plateau, and I came here often with my mother when I was a child. I knelt beside her each time, praying for the safe return of my father. My mother, on the other hand, prayed for much more. She prayed for revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?”

  “My mother was a Japanese comfort woman during the Sino-Japanese War. I assume you are aware of the horror my mother endured?”

  Christine nodded, recalling the Japanese Imperial Army had created comfort houses throughout its occupied territories during World War II, forcing young women to satiate the sexual desires of up to thirty men a day.

  “Did your mother get her revenge?”

  “She did not,” Xiang replied. “But my mother’s blood flows strongly in my veins.” He cast a stern glance at Christine.

  Christine suppressed a rising wave of fear. “Is that why you chose to meet me here? To obtain revenge in the temple of your forefathers?”

  “Yes and no,” Xiang answered. “This place brings clarity of thought. I come here whenever I face a difficult decision.”

  Christine didn’t ask what that decision entailed and Xiang did not elaborate. Instead, he shifted the conversation to the reason for Christine’s trip. “What does the United States want?”

  After Christine explained, Xiang said, “The shoe is on the other foot. Russia is doing to you what you did to my country—placing a stranglehold on vital natural resources. For that reason alone, I should side with Russia.”

  “We can make amends,” Christine offered. Pulling the document from her briefcase, she said, “These are the concessions we’ll make if you join us in our battle against Russia.”

  Xiang waved the document away. “Assisting the United States is out of the question. With the memory of our war so fresh, there would be stiff resistance within the Politburo. However, with the proper incentives, China could remain neutral.”

  Xiang laid out his demands.

  With the proper price and guaranteed supply of natural resources, along with the elimination of all economic sanctions against his country, China would remain neutral.

  Christine replied, “The United States can drop only the sanctions we imposed unilaterally. However, we can intervene on your behalf concerning the international sanctions.”

  “That will be sufficient,” Xiang said. “I will convey the desired concessions formally to the American embassy. There will be no need for you to relay my request.”

  Xiang’s comment about her services no longer being needed did not go unnoticed.

  After a long pause, Xiang said, “Which brings us to the second topic of our meeting tonight.” The flickering torches in the distance seemed to dim.

  “You murdered the chairman of the Central Military Commission. You put a bullet into the head of a defenseless man who knelt at your feet.”

  “He deserved it,” Christine said. “He was responsible for Prime Minister Bai’s death.”

  “It was not your duty to dispense justice.”

  Christine evaluated Xiang’s words. He was correct. Besides, that wasn’t the real reason she killed him. “I’m impulsive,” she said, making her best attempt at an apology. “I needed to convince you I was serious. That I would kill you if necessary.”

  “You succeeded,” Xiang said.

  He said nothing more, and there was a strained silence between them. Christine’s thoughts went to Xiang’s order to imprison her in the bowels of the Great Hall of the People during her last visit to China. Finally, she asked, “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Until tonight,” Xiang replied, “I had not decided.”

  There was another long silence, his dark eyes probing hers. Finally, he said, “The question I had to answer was—should I be as ruthless as you.”

  Xiang pushed himself to his feet. Looking down at her, he said, “The helicopter at the base of the plateau will take you back to the airport.”

  48

 
VELIKIY NOVGOROD, RUSSIA

  The faint beat of a helicopter’s four-bladed rotor dissipated in the darkness as an MH-60M Black Hawk skimmed fast and low over the thick forest canopy. Although it could carry nine combat-equipped troops, there were only four men aboard the helicopter piloted by a Night Stalker, a member of the U.S. Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, a special operations force providing helicopter support. Unseen but not far behind, a second Black Hawk, also transporting four men, followed an identical flight path east.

  In the lead helicopter, Army Captain Joe Martin checked his equipment one last time. Like the three men beside him and the four in the other Black Hawk, Martin was a member of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, commonly referred to as Delta Force, an elite U.S. Army unit trained for hostage rescue, counterterrorism, and missions against high-value targets.

  With no security forces to deal with, this mission was as straightforward as they came. Break in, kidnap the scientist, and the Delta Force unit and Russian egghead would be on their way in only a few minutes. Although this mission posed little danger, they weren’t taking the operation lightly. The area surrounding the villa on the outskirts of Velikiy Novgorod had been extensively surveyed via satellite, and an eight-man team had been assigned. In case they encountered mechanical difficulties, two Black Hawks were being used, with one helicopter capable of transporting the full contingent of Delta Force personnel and the Russian to safety.

  The only item of concern was the cameras mounted atop the security fence surrounding the villa. However, with no one inside the villa besides the Russian scientist, analysts had concluded they were part of a home security system, which at best would be monitored remotely. With the nearest civilization fifteen minutes away, Martin and the rest of his Delta Force team would be long gone before anyone arrived.

  The Night Stalker’s voice came across Martin’s headset, announcing they were approaching their destination. Martin and the other three men pulled their night-vision goggles over their eyes and retrieved their weapons. The Night Hawk airframe shuddered as the pilot pulled back on the cyclic and adjusted the collective, and the helicopter dropped toward the trees and into a clearing with startling speed. The wheels bounced once, then the Black Hawk settled into the grass. The second Night Hawk touched down nearby and Martin led his team from the clearing into the woods, stopping to examine the GPS display on his wrist.

  They were two hundred yards west of the single-story villa. Martin moved forward, stopping at the edge of the trees. After increasing the magnification of his night-vision goggles, he examined the villa. It was surrounded by a security fence, with an automatic car gate and a manual pedestrian gate. The villa was dark, and at 2 a.m. local, the Russian scientist would likely be asleep in bed. The internal arrangement of the villa was unknown, but it wouldn’t take long for Martin’s team to complete its search.

  Martin examined the security cameras, mounted at intervals atop the fence. It was difficult to tell which direction they were pointed, but they appeared fixed, rather than sweeping back and forth. Martin signaled to his two four-man teams; one team would enter the villa and extract the Russian scientist, while the other took positions outside along the villa’s perimeter, should unexpected guests arrive or the occupant attempt to escape.

  Martin gave the signal and the two teams sprinted across the open expanse, with Martin’s team heading toward the pedestrian gate while the other team fanned out along the villa’s perimeter. Upon reaching the gate, the operator beside him, Patrick Terrill, pulled out a set of universal keys, and fifteen seconds later, the four men passed through the open gate and moved up the sidewalk. When they reached the front door, Martin spotted a security panel beside it. After a close examination, he determined it was wireless rather than hardwired.

  Child’s play.

  Terrill pulled a jammer from his backpack and selected the appropriate frequencies. Not only would they jam the signal between the sensors and the control panel, but they would jam the system’s anti-jam feature—a signal sent to the monitoring station if it detected it was being jammed.

  Terrill activated the jammer and used a universal key to unlock the door. He pushed the door open and the four operators surged into the dark foyer. There was no one present, and Martin closed the door softly behind him. As the door closed, Martin’s sixth sense kicked in. Something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his gut instincts had never misled him. With a sense of urgency, Martin led his team through the villa, weapons raised.

  They entered the living room—unoccupied.

  Dining room—unoccupied and immaculate.

  Family room—empty and neat.

  Kitchen and breakfast nook—several plates and glasses in the sink.

  Martin spotted a narrow hallway leading farther back into the villa. He led his team into the corridor, stopping by the first door. He turned the handle slowly and pushed the door open. A study with a built-in computer desk and bookcase. No one present. Martin moved to the next room and opened the door. A queen bed—empty and made up. That left the room at the end of the hallway.

  Martin stopped at the door, placing his hand on the doorknob. With this being the last room in the villa, there was no more need for stealth. Martin turned the knob slowly, then burst into the bedroom, followed by the rest of his team.

  There was a man asleep in bed. He jolted to a sitting position, and a quick look at his face told Martin he was their target. The man’s mouth dropped open after seeing four men with weapons pointed at him, then he clamped his mouth shut. Two operators moved forward and the Russian’s hands were quickly bound and a black hood shoved over his head. Martin led his team, with the Russian in the middle, to the villa’s exit. Upon reaching the front door, he twisted the doorknob, but it didn’t rotate.

  He tried again, but it wouldn’t move. He searched for a security panel nearby, but there was none to be found. Upon examining the doorknob more closely, he understood the reason for his nagging feeling when he’d entered the villa: there was no keyhole or lock mechanism, just a plain, inoperable doorknob. They were locked inside. Peering out the nearest window, Martin examined the cameras atop the security gate. They were pointed inward.

  Martin yanked the hood off the scientist. “What the hell is this?” he asked in Russian.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” he replied with a grin.

  Martin shoved the hood back onto the Russian’s head and forced him to the ground while the other three operators took up defensive positions in the foyer. There was no indication of anyone else in the villa or nearby, however. After evaluating whether to blow the door or bust out through a window, Martin spoke to the second team outside, explaining the situation. A few seconds later, one of the team members moved swiftly up the sidewalk. Upon reaching the front door, he twisted the knob and the door opened.

  Martin led the way from the villa, recalling the other team as they approached the tree line. It wasn’t much longer before Martin’s men and the Russian were aboard their Black Hawk, which lifted off swiftly at a tilt, barely clearing the treetops as it raced west toward the Russian border. Not far behind, the second Black Hawk followed. As Martin removed his gloves, he glanced at the Russian, lying on his side, still bound and wearing the black hood.

  Why was he a prisoner in his own home?

  49

  JASLYK, UZBEKISTAN

  Jaslyk Prison, a penal colony in northwest Uzbekistan, is notorious for having the harshest prison conditions in the country. While it is well-known as “the concentration camp of death,” little is known concerning who is incarcerated and how the prisoners are treated; but this hasn’t deterred Western journalists from circulating reports of beatings, sexual assault, and torture. Some experts even claimed that several prisoners who died at Jaslyk were boiled alive. These allegations, of course, were all true.

  CIA interrogator John Kaufmann sat at a scarred wooden table inside a small concrete-block room. With only a cot,
a table, and one chair, the musty-smelling cell was the most hospitable room in the facility. As he skimmed through a folder, he stopped when he reached the most recent entry, containing new information discovered after their guest, for lack of a better term, had been extracted from his villa west of Moscow. After reviewing Anton Fedorov’s dossier, Kaufmann closed the folder and tapped his index finger on the table as he sorted through the data. He couldn’t connect the dots. Something critical was missing.

  Kaufmann took the folder with him as he left the room, along with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After traversing a dingy, concrete corridor illuminated by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, he reached a guarded cell door. A burly, uniformed man unlocked and opened the door as Kaufmann approached, closing it after he entered the cell.

  Seated on one of two metal chairs in the otherwise bare room was Anton Fedorov, naked except for boxer shorts, his hands tied behind his back and to his chair. Kaufmann settled into a chair across from Fedorov, who seemed none the worse for wear aside from a few bruises on his face. Kaufmann commenced the interrogation, speaking in Russian.

  “I see you’ve met your Uzbekistani caretakers.”

  Fedorov replied, “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries. What do you want?”

  Kaufmann offered the Russian a cigarette.

  Fedorov shook his head. “You intend to kill me slowly, with lung cancer?”

  Kaufmann slid the cigarette pack into his shirt pocket, then pulled a photograph of a detonator from the folder, showing it to Fedorov. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Of course,” Fedorov replied. “I designed it.”

  “We have an issue,” Kaufmann said, “that requires your assistance. Your detonators have been attached to explosives, and we need to remove or disarm them. A simple problem, yes?”

  “Not exactly.” Fedorov grinned, a wide, toothy smile.

  Under normal circumstances, the Russian would have started bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose right now, courtesy of Kaufmann’s fist. However, Fedorov wasn’t your average terrorist, and Kaufmann had already decided to take a more civil approach.