“Remember, power up to upload the video link. Power down if things have gone south and you need help.”
Christine nodded her head slowly. Her determination was fading as the shock of what she had agreed to do set in. Elena placed a hand on her shoulder.
“You will do fine.”
57
SOCHI, RUSSIA
Sochi, located on the shore of the Black Sea, is part of the Caucasian Riviera, one of the few places in Russia with a subtropical climate. With the scenic Caucasus Mountains to the east and pebble-sand beaches to the west surrounding a vibrant city with a bustling nightlife, it’s not surprising that Sochi is Russia’s largest and most popular resort city.
Descending toward Sochi International Airport in a Dassault Falcon executive jet, Christine was seated beside Defense Minister Chernov. Configured to transport a dozen passengers, the jet carried only eight today. Behind Christine and Chernov were a Russian oligarch and his wife, both in their mid-sixties. Vagit Alekperov, the seventh-richest man in Russia, was president of LUKoil, one of the world’s most powerful oil companies, with reserves second only to Exxon. Alekperov and his wife spoke only broken English, and Chernov translated when required.
Rounding out the passengers was a detachment of four Russian Federal Protective Service agents, each man dressed entirely in black, wearing a sport coat over a turtleneck. Christine, on the other hand, was wearing something more colorful: a blue blouse over tan capri pants.
Having checked the Sochi weather forecast and noting temperatures approaching eighty degrees, Christine realized most of her attire—business suits and slacks—would be inappropriate for the warm weekend. After rifling through her clothes, she put together two outfits suitable for Chernov’s villa and yacht, along with two evening gowns in case they headed into the city for dinner or other festivities. Finally, her white silk nightgown would come in handy, as would the two lipstick vials and Elena’s cell phone, which she had transferred to her purse.
The conversation during the journey south was light and enjoyable, and Christine learned that Chernov had done well in the new, democratic Russia, managing to gain significant holdings in various industries. His wealth paled in comparison with that of LUKoil’s Alekperov, but Chernov had amassed enough of a fortune to afford a luxury beachside villa on the shore of the Black Sea as well as a small yacht.
The Falcon jet landed at Sochi International Airport and pulled to a halt near one of the private hangars. Chernov and his entourage descended onto the tarmac, where they were met by a black limousine and two sedans. Their luggage was transferred to the caravan and Chernov and his three guests slid into the center limousine, while Chernov’s security detail took the lead and rear sedans. With the airport less than a mile from the coast, it wasn’t long before they arrived at Chernov’s villa. A heavy black metal gate, part of a twenty-foot-high security wall around the property, opened slowly, and the three cars pulled into a circular driveway.
Chernov’s residence was a six-bedroom, single-story open-air villa with fans swirling slowly in each room. A maid, who greeted the group upon their arrival, showed Christine to her bedroom, the master suite she would be sharing with Chernov. After freshening up, Christine left the bedroom in search of Chernov and his two guests, passing a living room with adjoining bar, where she was surprised to see two of Chernov’s security detail pouring themselves a drink. Her presence didn’t go unnoticed, with one of the agents eyeing her as she passed.
She continued down a long hallway, between an indoor pool on one side and outdoor pool on the other. Hearing voices ahead, Christine stepped onto a blue flagstone patio framed by a curved granite balcony overlooking the Black Sea. Chernov and his two Russian guests were standing beside the railing, and Christine joined them.
The view from Chernov’s villa was breathtaking. Built on a rock outcropping dropping down to clear blue water thirty feet below, the villa overlooked a shoreline curving into a semicircular cove. On the right side of the shore, a pier jutted into the sea, with Chernov’s yacht tied alongside, as well as a smaller motorboat. At the base of the pier was a large boathouse.
The maid stopped by, dropping off drinks for Chernov and his two Russian guests, and Chernov asked Christine what she’d like. More for irony than anything else, Christine asked if she could have a White Russian. After a bit of translation, the maid nodded and returned a few minutes later with the requested cocktail. When they finished their drinks, Chernov asked his visitors if they’d like to head out on his yacht, an eighty-foot triple-decker. Chernov seemed to apologize to Alekperov and his wife for the modest size of his boat.
Chernov led the way from the villa, down a curving brick walkway to the pier, accompanied by two men from his security detail. After boarding the sleek white ship, the Russian defense minister took the controls in the flying bridge. The lines were taken in and Chernov’s yacht headed out into the Black Sea.
58
YASENEVO, RUSSIA
It was late afternoon when Semyon Gorev, seated at his desk in the Y-shaped headquarters of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, scrolled through the daily update on his computer. At the end of the intelligence summary, he reviewed the whereabouts of high-ranking foreign and domestic diplomats. Not only did the SVR keep tabs on foreign diplomats, they also kept track of their own, maintaining a record of their acquaintances and activities. One could never have enough information on Russian politicians; the hidden details of their lives had proven useful on countless occasions.
Gorev had a special interest in Christine O’Connor, and a quick check on her status produced a surprise result. She had left her hotel this morning, picked up by one of Chernov’s Federal Protective Service agents. After reading further, he noted Christine and Chernov had departed for his villa in Sochi, accompanied by the president of LUKoil and his wife.
What was Chernov up to, gallivanting around with one of the richest men in the country? Vagit Alekperov would want something in return for his friendship. Also, what game was Christine O’Connor playing? She had turned down President Kalinin’s offer for the weekend, only to accept one from Chernov? Kalinin was the clear winner on all fronts: more powerful, better looking, with a notably better personality. Choosing Chernov didn’t add up.
As head of the SVR, Gorev received background summaries of the diplomats visiting Russia, including Christine. However, he decided to examine her entire file. He left his office and headed to the Operations Center, a dimly lit room with over one hundred men and women at their workstations, poring over data on their computer screens while supervisors studied the most pertinent information on a dozen six-foot-wide video screens mounted along the front wall. Gorev stopped at one of the supervisor workstations.
“Pull up Christine O’Connor’s file.”
The supervisor complied, and Gorev peered over his shoulder as he scrolled through the information.
“Stop,” Gorev said when he noticed an entry about a meeting between Christine and Israel’s intelligence minister, who died about the same time as their meeting.
“Pull up Barak Kogen’s file,” Gorev directed.
The requested information was displayed, and at the end of Kogen’s file, Gorev found the information he was looking for. Barak Kogen’s death was publicly reported as a heart attack, but the SVR’s official assessment was that he was poisoned. Gorev examined the date. Kogen died the same day he had lunch with Christine O’Connor.
Gorev pulled his phone from his jacket, looking up Chernov’s contact information. The Operations Center was shielded from radio transmissions, so he called Chernov on a landline.
No answer.
“Get me a number for Chernov’s security detail.”
The number was provided and one of Chernov’s agents answered, explaining the defense minister was on his yacht in the Black Sea with Alekperov and his wife, along with O’Connor and two Federal Protective Service agents.
Gorev decided to pay Chernov and O’Connor a visit. “Give
me two men,” he told the Operations Center supervisor, “and air transportation to Sochi immediately.”
59
SOCHI, RUSSIA
The afternoon aboard Chernov’s yacht passed quickly as they cruised northwest along the Black Sea coast under a cloudless sky. From the flying bridge, Christine had a spectacular view of Sochi’s pebble-sand beaches, transitioning to green hills ascending toward the Caucasus Mountains to the east and wooded uplands to the north. With no chef aboard to prepare a meal suitable for his guests, Chernov docked at the Sochi Yacht Club for lunch at a French brasserie-style restaurant on the waterfront. Lunch was delicious, and after returning to the yacht, they continued northwest along the Black Sea coast. As the sun slipped toward the horizon, Chernov turned the yacht around and increased speed.
It wasn’t long before they cruised between steep cliffs framing the entrance to the cove beneath Chernov’s villa, then coasted to a halt beside the pier. It was almost dinnertime, and the aroma of rosemary and garlic greeted Christine as she entered the open-air villa. She headed to Chernov’s bedroom to change clothes, swapping her capri pants and blouse for a one-shoulder emerald-green chiffon dress.
The three Russians likewise changed attire, with Chernov and Alekperov donning sport coats over open-collar shirts, while Alekperov’s wife changed into a stylish white satin evening gown. Drinks on the patio were followed by a delectable dinner, during which the wine flowed freely. Christine paced herself, limiting her consumption to two glasses. She would normally have stopped at one considering what she was about to do, but decided a second glass would help calm her nerves.
A Russian crème over fresh fruit for dessert completed the meal, and as darkness descended on the shore of the Black Sea, the conversations ebbed. Alekperov and his wife excused themselves for an early repose, leaving Christine and Chernov alone at the table. Chernov rose, extending his hand, assisting Christine to her feet, then led the way to his bedroom suite.
After they entered the room, Chernov pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket and turned it off, then closed the door behind them. As he locked the door, Christine’s apprehension began to mount, and she began trembling. Chernov noticed and inquired, considering the temperature was in the mid-seventies. Christine played it off as the chills from too much sun on Chernov’s yacht. Backing up her claim, her exposed skin had a pink tinge.
Chernov turned off the ceiling fan, then stopped in front of Christine, rubbing the sides of her shoulders to warm her up. As he looked down at her, Christine wrapped her arms around his neck and offered a kiss, which Chernov eagerly accepted. She let the kiss linger while Chernov’s hands wandered, doing her best to simulate a passionate response. When the kiss ended, she pulled away.
“Let me change into something more appropriate.”
Chernov grinned as Christine gathered her silk nightgown and her purse, then headed into the bathroom.
60
SOCHI, RUSSIA
It was dark by the time Semyon Gorev’s Falcon executive jet landed at Sochi International Airport. During the flight, Gorev examined Christine O’Connor’s file in more detail. She wasn’t an undercover agent; there was no indication she had received field training or had ties to the CIA. It seemed Christine was one of the unluckiest women in the world, however, frequently ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time. An SVR field agent would’ve had to work hard to end up in the predicaments Christine found herself in during her stint as America’s national security advisor.
After the aircraft coasted to a halt, Gorev and two SVR agents descended onto the tarmac, where they were met by a sedan. Gorev pulled his cell phone from his jacket and dialed Chernov, but the call went directly to voice mail. He contacted Gorev’s security detail, who relayed that Chernov and O’Connor had retired for the night.
Chernov had survived lunch and dinner with Christine, and Gorev wondered if his concern was misplaced. With only suspicion and no proof, Gorev decided to allow Chernov a few moments alone with the beautiful American. A more detailed discussion with Christine would be required, which he would conduct once he arrived at the villa. With the airport only a kilometer from the coast, he would be there in a few minutes.
61
SOCHI, RUSSIA
Once inside the bathroom, Christine exchanged her evening dress for her white silk nightgown, which went down only to the top of her thighs. Sexy enough, she concluded, before turning her attention to her purse. She placed Elena’s cell phone on the counter, then withdrew the two lipstick applicators. Remembering Elena’s mnemonic—purple paralyze, crimson kill—she removed the ring from the base of the wine-colored lipstick applicator. The silver band was made of a flexible material, which fit snugly to the ring finger of her right hand. After verifying the clear plastic sheath still covered the ring’s sharp point, she closed her hand into a fist, verifying the tack didn’t interfere with the movement. Not that it mattered; she planned to keep her hand open and palm toward her until the appropriate time.
She examined herself in the mirror. Her face had turned pasty white. She was trembling again and her blood pounded in her ears. She took a few deep breaths, exhaling slowly each time, but it didn’t help; she was almost shaking. Attempting a different tactic, she turned her thoughts to Brackman—what she had been forced to do aboard the sunken submarine. She focused on the months of guilt and anguish she had endured due to Chernov’s order. The trembling slowly subsided, followed by a determination that settled low and cold in her gut. She turned and headed toward the door.
Christine emerged from the bathroom to find Chernov supine on the bed, feet crossed and his jacket and shoes removed, but fully clothed otherwise. With his head resting on a pillow, she had a problem; it would be difficult to puncture the skin behind his neck. Fortunately, Chernov stood as she approached.
“You look ravishing,” he said when she stopped in front of him.
Christine wrapped her arms around his neck again, resting her forearms on his shoulders, leaving her hands free while she offered him another kiss. Chernov accepted, and as his hands slipped beneath her nightgown and explored her bare skin, Christine removed the plastic sheath from the ring.
She let the kiss linger, and when she sensed Chernov pulling away, she plunged the sharp point into the back of his neck, just above the hairline as instructed. There was no reaction from Chernov; the numbing agent performed as advertised.
Chernov reached down to the bottom of Christine’s nightgown, pulling it upward. As Christine raised her arms above her head so he could slip it off, Chernov stopped halfway up. His face went slack and his muscles flaccid, and he collapsed onto the bed. His eyes darted around the room and his mouth moved slowly, as if trying to talk, but he appeared paralyzed otherwise.
Christine headed to the bathroom, replacing the plastic sheath on her ring, then exchanged it for the other one. She grabbed Elena’s cell phone and simultaneously pressed the power and up volume button. The phone energized, displaying a man’s face.
“What is the status?” he asked.
“Chernov is paralyzed,” Christine replied.
“Excellent. Point the cell phone at him.”
Christine returned to the bedroom, standing near the bed as she aimed the cell phone at Chernov. The video went to a split-screen mode, showing Chernov and whoever was on the other end. Another man appeared on-screen—an unshaven man whose eyes burned with a mix of hatred and glee.
The man spoke in Russian, and when Christine heard the defense minister’s name, Chernov’s eyes shot toward the cell phone. The man continued, the pitch and tempo of his words increasing, slowly approaching madman status; his face turned red and spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed at Chernov. Abruptly, his rage subsided and he smiled.
The first man she’d seen on the cell phone appeared again. “Kill Chernov now,” he said.
Christine placed the cell phone on the bed and removed the plastic sheath from her ring. Unceremoniously, she grabbed Chernov’s hair and
lifted his head up. As she slipped her hand behind his neck and prepared to pierce his skin, there was a knock on the bedroom door and a query in Russian.
Christine hesitated. Chernov’s death would look like a heart attack, but she needed time for the poison to take effect before she called for assistance. She had already paralyzed him, however, so there was no turning back. Another round of knocks emanated from the door, forcefully this time, accompanied by a second query in Russian with a more urgent tone.
Without further delay, Christine plunged the ring into the back of Chernov’s neck, then picked up the cell phone, aiming it at his face. As the knocking on the door was replaced with a heavy pounding, Christine called out, “Just a minute.”
The pounding subsided, and Christine watched as Chernov’s breathing ceased. His skin turned a bluish tint and his eyes roamed around the room aimlessly until they stopped moving altogether, leaving Chernov staring at the ceiling with lifeless orbs.
The pounding on the door resumed and Christine answered, saying she’d be there in a minute. As she turned off the cell phone, the wooden door frame splintered and the door flew open. Two men with their pistols drawn surged into the room, their weapons pointed at Christine as Semyon Gorev stepped between them.
Christine hurried toward Gorev. “Something’s wrong with Boris. I think he’s had a heart attack.”
Gorev glanced at Chernov, then a cold, hard look settled on his face as he turned toward Christine. He knocked the cell phone from her hand, sending it flying across the room. His eyes went to Christine’s other hand, and after spotting the sharp tack protruding from her ring, he punched her in the face, knocking Christine backward, dropping her to one knee.
As blood trickled from her nose, she spotted a gap between the three men and the bedroom doorway, and she bolted toward the opening. Before she reached the doorway, one of the agents intercepted her and smashed the butt of his pistol into her head. By the time Christine’s body thudded onto the floor, her world had gone black.
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