Blackmail

96 SOCHI, RUSSIA

Christine wasn’t sure how much time passed, but her tears had dried and she was on her feet again, her hands on the pipe so the handcuffs no longer cut into her wrists. Her mind and body were numb, her muscles so drained that she barely had enough strength to hang on to the pipe. As the bright shafts of sunlight streaming through the boathouse openings faded, replaced with dirty-gray light filtering into her cell, her mind began to clear and her strength returned.

Night was setting in, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before Gorev discussed her fate with Kalinin. Her thoughts returned to escape. She didn’t have a plan yet, but it would start with freeing herself from the pipe. She examined the ends, which passed through flanges bolted to each wall. Hoping the pipe was just connected to the walls rather than running through them, Christine wondered if she could break one of the flanges free.

She gripped the piping and put her full weight on it, then yanked down as hard as she could. The piping didn’t move. She tried several times more, hoping she could loosen one end, but the flanges didn’t give. Undeterred, she slid her handcuffs sideways on the pipe, reaching one end to get a closer look at the flange. It was securely bolted to the wall. She slid her handcuffs along the pipe in the other direction, and an examination of that flange produced the same result. There was nothing she could do.

Her handcuffs sliding on the pipe produced a commotion, and she heard the door unlock. It opened to reveal one of Chernov’s Security Service agents — the one who had handcuffed her to the piping run. He turned the light on and examined Christine, then barked something in Russian to her and closed the door with a thud, locking it again. As the door closed, the single light hanging from the ceiling swayed slightly, and Christine got an idea. There was a metal shroud above the bulb, casting a dark shadow across the top of the storage room.

She was handcuffed to the piping only eight feet from the door and just to the left. She looked up, disappointed to see a clearance of only three feet between the pipe and ceiling. Had there been a seven-foot clearance, she could have used the pipe like an uneven bar, swinging down at full extension. Still, with some creativity, the pipe would suffice.

Christine gripped the pipe with both hands, then pulled herself up with enough force to continue through to a waist pull-up. She finished with her arms straight down toward the pipe and her hips resting against it. Her head was only a few inches from the ceiling, her upper body in the shadows. Leaning forward, she bent her knees slowly, pulling her legs into the darkness, and placed her feet onto the pipe. It wasn’t the most graceful position, but she had to improvise. Now that she was ready for the next move, she took a deep breath and yelled for the security agent. There was no response and she screamed again, as loud as she could.

The door unlocked and the security agent peered inside.

Startled by Christine’s disappearance, he stepped into the room to inspect more closely, pulling his pistol from its holster. As he moved toward where she’d been handcuffed to the pipe, Christine straightened her legs, pushing her hips up high, then released her feet from the bar, thrusting down as she pivoted toward the agent. Her feet connected solidly with his chest, slamming him back into the wall.

Christine had hoped to knock the guard out when his head hit the wall, and if he fell forward within range of her feet, her plan would’ve worked. But the guard was only stunned, dropping his pistol as he rebounded and staggered forward. Christine also rebounded after the impact, and she swung toward him again, this time clamping her thighs around his neck and scissoring her legs behind his head. She twisted sideways in the air, shifting her grip around his neck ninety degrees so she could cut off his airway. She pulled him toward her, hoping he’d trip in the process, giving her the opportunity to snap his neck, but he maintained his balance.

She squeezed her thighs tightly together, straining from the exertion as he clawed at her legs, trying to pry them apart. His face turned red and his eyes began to bulge. He dropped to his knees, his attempts to free himself becoming weaker. His lips turned purple and his body went slack, his arms dangling by his side.

Christine kept her legs clamped around his neck for another minute to make sure, then released him, letting him fall onto his face. After turning him over with her feet, she slipped a foot inside one of his jacket pockets, but found nothing. Inside the other pocket, however, she felt a metal key attached to a ring. Pinching the key between her toes, she pulled it slowly from his pocket. After firmly gripping the pipe, she piked at the waist into a V, bringing her feet up until the key was in her right hand.

She dropped to her feet and pulled her hands together, then unlocked the handcuffs. After retrieving the agent’s pistol from the floor, she stopped by the door, then peered outside. There was no one in sight, so she crept along the wall until she reached the corner, where she had a view of the cove. The pier to her right ran out to Chernov’s motorboat and yacht, both deserted, and the brick walkway to her left wound up to the villa. It was still dusk, but it wouldn’t be much longer before it was dark. After debating whether to stay put until it was dark instead of exposing herself in the fading light, she decided to get moving.

Christine hurried down the pier, slipping into the motorboat. Crouching down, she examined the boat’s ignition system. Like Chernov’s yacht, it was a push-button start, but needed a key. She searched the motorboat but came up empty. Peering over the edge of the boat, she examined the shoreline, wondering if she could make it out on foot. But the cove terminated on both ends in jagged rocks transitioning to steep cliffs. The only way out was up toward the villa, but there was a twenty-foot-tall security wall between the villa and the road, which also merged into steep cliffs on each side. Chernov’s villa had been built in a secure location indeed. As Christine dwelled on her predicament, she remembered Elena’s cell phone was programmed to request assistance from an extraction team nearby, which was exactly what she needed. Gorev had knocked it from her hand in Chernov’s bedroom.

She examined the rugged terrain rising toward the villa for a concealed path, but it looked like the only trail up was the winding brick walkway. Thankfully, the path was sheltered by lush vegetation on both sides, which would obscure her approach. She slipped from the motorboat onto the pier again, quickly reaching the winding path.

By the time she reached the end of the walkway, darkness had fallen, and Christine stopped at the edge of the vegetation only a few feet from the open-air villa. She heard the faint sound of voices and concluded it was either the television or two agents, but in either case, the sound was coming from the living room or farther away. She emerged from the path and stopped beside the villa wall, and after convincing herself there were no Russians nearby, she slipped into a hallway leading to the bedrooms.

She reached Chernov’s bedroom and stopped at the door. It was slightly ajar, with Gorev’s men having damaged the frame when they broke into the room. She pushed the door slowly open and slipped into the darkness. She gently closed the door, then turned on a bedside light. The bed was neatly made up, with no sign of Chernov.

Christine searched the room, including the closet, bathroom, and under the bed, failing to locate Elena’s cell phone. Her heart sank at the failed discovery, but then she realized all of her belongings were missing: her clothes, purse, even her carry-on suitcase. She hoped Gorev’s men had deposited everything into her luggage, and if she could find her suitcase, she would locate Elena’s phone. She turned off the light and slipped back into the hallway.

She stopped outside each bedroom, and after verifying there was no light leaking from under the doors, slipped inside each room. There was no suitcase to be found, nor the belongings of Alekperov and his wife, who had apparently departed the villa. With no suitcase in the bedrooms, that left the formal living areas, and Christine moved forward, stopping at the edge of the kitchen. The lights were on and she heard water running and the clinking of pans. She pulled her pistol up, holding it with both hands, then peered around the corner. Chernov’s maid was at the sink, her back to Christine.

Christine stepped quietly past the kitchen, pausing to peer into the lit dining room, where there were a few dirty dishes, but no suitcase. Next up was the living room, and as she approached, the sound of men’s voices grew louder. She stopped at the entrance, pistol ready again, peering around the corner with one eye.

There were four men inside, one seated on a couch with his back to Christine, facing a wide-screen television on the far wall. At the adjoining bar were the two SVR agents and one of Chernov’s Security Service agents, each seated on a bar stool with a glass of clear liquid in one hand. The TV was on, but the four men were talking. She spotted her suitcase, on the floor beside the couch, open with one of her dresses hanging over the side, then she pulled back around the corner.

It was feasible. The couch was close to the living room entrance, and if she dropped onto the ground, she could enter unseen by the men at the bar, their view blocked by the back of the couch. Likewise, the men couldn’t see her suitcase, also blocked by the couch. She knelt into a crouch and peered around the corner again. She was still too high; the faces of the three men at the bar were still visible above the back of the couch. Christine lay prone, and after verifying she could no longer see the three men, she crawled slowly into the living room.

She reached the back of the couch, then made her way slowly toward the end. She looked up; the man had his arms spread out along the top of the couch, gesturing with his hands on occasion before returning them to their resting place. Christine pulled the suitcase across the carpet toward her, back around the corner of the couch, then lifted the lid carefully and searched inside. After sifting through her clothes, she spotted her purse, its contents dumped into the bottom of her suitcase. Beside the purse was Elena’s phone. She reached in and retrieved it.

Gorev had knocked the phone from her hand and she wondered if it was still functional. There was no sign of damage, however. Placing her pistol on the carpet, she simultaneously pressed the power and down volume buttons. The cell phone vibrated and Christine froze, then shot her gaze upward. The man still had his arms on the back of the couch and the four men continued their discussion. She retrieved her pistol, and with the gun in one hand and cell phone in the other, prepared to slip from the living room.

She started crawling away when the man’s arm dropped over the back of the couch, his hand coming to rest an inch from her head. Her eyes went to the ornate gold ring on his hand; the man on the couch was Gorev. The vision of him shoving his pistol into her mouth flashed in her mind, and emotions flooded her body.

Without considering the ramifications, she dropped the phone and sprang to her feet, grabbing a fistful of Gorev’s hair, yanking his head back so he could see her face. She pressed the pistol barrel against his forehead. Christine looked at the other three men, their hands inserted inside their jackets, who had frozen when she’d placed the pistol against Gorev’s head.

She had no idea if they understood English, but said, “Pull your guns out slowly and toss them onto the floor.”

When none of the men followed her direction, she pressed the pistol hard into Gorev’s forehead. “Tell your men to toss their guns unless you want your head to look like a Cheerio. You do have Cheerios in Russia, don’t you?”

Gorev spoke to the three men in Russian, and they tossed their pistols onto the floor.

Then he looked up at her. “Hello, Christine.”

“Hello, Simon.” She deliberately mispronounced his name.

“Put the gun down,” he said, “and no harm will come to you.”

She almost laughed. When President Xiang offered his word in the Great Hall of the People, she believed him. Gorev, on the other hand, would kill her the instant he got the chance.

As if reading her mind, he said, “You have my word.”

“I have a better idea,” Christine said. “We’re going to play a game tonight. It’s called Christine says. Are you ready?”

Gorev didn’t respond, but his eyes narrowed.

Christine smiled, then moved the pistol slowly down his forehead, between his eyes, and down the bridge of his nose. When she reached his mouth, she rested the barrel on his lips.

“Christine says, Open your mouth.”

When Gorev didn’t comply, she mashed the barrel against his lips. “Open your mouth or I’ll blow a hole through your teeth.”

Gorev slowly opened his mouth, and Christine slid the barrel inside.

“Simon, are you ready to die?”

Gorev didn’t answer, not that he could talk with a pistol barrel in his mouth. Christine said, “It’s a rhetorical question. No need to answer.”

She pulled the gun out slightly, so he could see her finger wrapped around the trigger. She squeezed the trigger slowly, so he could watch the color of her index finger change from pink to white as she increased the pressure.

“You probably thought it was cute,” Christine said, “terrorizing me with your game. How does it feel?”

Her thoughts returned to what he’d done to her in the boathouse, and a dark mood settled over her. Gorev was a cruel, sadistic creature who enjoyed torturing others.

“We’re going to play a new game,” she said. “Want to know what it’s called?”

She crouched down beside him, her eyes on the three agents as she whispered, “It’s called Seemon dies.”

Christine stood and pulled the trigger.

Gorev’s head recoiled as a hole was blown in the back of his skull, splattering the top of the couch with a red puff, followed by a rivulet of blood.

She pulled the pistol from Gorev’s mouth. “It looks like I forgot to take the bullets out.”

Christine pointed her pistol toward the three men. “I don’t have a beef with you,” she said as their eyes shifted between her gun and the former director of the SVR. She collected the three pistols on the floor, slipping her fingers through the trigger guards, then backed toward the living room entrance, her pistol still aimed at the three men.

“Stay exactly where you are for one hour, and no one will get hurt.” She had no idea if the men understood her or if the extraction team would arrive within that time, but figured an hour would be enough.

After backing out of the living room, she sprinted down the hallway. She hadn’t given much thought to her escape plan, which amounted to vacating the villa and heading toward the water. Maybe she could lose them in the dense vegetation along the brick walkway until assistance arrived.

Unfortunately, the three men either didn’t understand her or chose not to follow her directions. There was a commotion behind her — men shouting and running feet. As she turned the corner, a bullet buried itself into the wall behind her, and Christine realized she wasn’t going to make it to the brick path. After passing the indoor and outdoor pools on either side of her, she got an idea as she emerged onto the patio.

Maintaining a full sprint, she headed toward the balcony overlooking the Black Sea, dropping her pistols on the way. When she reached the railing, she leapt up, planted a foot on the edge of the stone balustrade, and launched herself into the air, plummeting down toward the dark water. She plunged into the Black Sea, arching her back to arrest her descent in case the water was shallow. As the brackish water stung her cheek and wrists, she kicked her legs and pulled with her arms, swimming underwater away from the villa.

Bullets zinged into the water around her, and Christine redoubled her efforts, trying to put as much distance between her and the shoreline as possible before coming up for air. Her lungs started burning and she angled upward, broaching the surface when she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She heard shouts from the villa balcony and a fresh barrage of bullets, some hitting so close she felt the water churning from their entry. To her left, the two SVR agents were sprinting down the pier toward Chernov’s motorboat.

Taking a deep breath, she slipped beneath the water and continued away from the coast, hoping they’d lose her in the darkness as she swam farther away from the villa’s lights. When she came up for air again, the two Russians were in the motorboat, headed toward her. Bullets pierced the water from the men in the boat and on the patio, and she ducked under the water again and changed direction, angling toward the left.

As the oxygen in her body depleted, a white light crisscrossed the water’s surface above her, sometimes passing directly overhead. When she could hold her breath no longer, she rose to the surface for air, and before she slipped back under, the light blinded her as it swept by, then quickly returned, illuminating her face. The boat turned in her direction, with the Russian at the bow bringing his weapon to bear on her.

She took a deep breath and was about to submerge again when heavy-caliber bullets riddled the side of the motorboat and tore into the agent on the bow and then the driver, knocking both men into the water. A second later, a red flame streaked above Christine, headed toward Chernov’s villa, and the patio exploded in an orange fireball.

The light and rumble from the explosion faded, and an eerie silence fell on the water; no one was shooting at her. As Christine treaded water, she heard the faint sound of approaching outboard engines.

A voice reached out to her in the darkness. “Grab my hand.”

Christine recognized the man’s voice; he was never far from her thoughts.

A green glow stick activated, illuminating two Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats a few feet away, each carrying four men in combat gear wearing night-vision goggles. The man at the bow of the lead boat had his hand extended. She grabbed his hand, and Navy SEAL Jake Harrison hauled Christine into the boat.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Christine shook her head as the two boats turned and headed out to sea.

Even though it was fairly warm out, there was a brisk breeze on the water, and Christine was wearing only a thin, soaked nightgown. Whether from the temperature or because of what she’d just done, a chill came over her, and she started shivering. Harrison pulled her close to warm her, and Christine instinctively wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly as she buried her face into his chest.

“What happened?” he asked.

But Christine could only shake her head again.