Blackmail

23 MOSCOW

It was 8 p.m. when the sedan carrying Christine O’Connor and her interpreter, Mark Johnson, pulled to a halt not far from the Kremlin Senate, stopping behind a procession of cars depositing their guests for the evening’s event. As the men and women, dressed in tuxedos and formal evening gowns, stepped from their cars onto a red carpet, they were welcomed by Kremlin officials who escorted them into the green-domed building. For this evening’s gala, Christine had selected a blue dress that hugged her curves. Her hair was up, pulled back to reveal the sleek lines of her neck, accenting her high cheekbones and slate-blue eyes. Diamond earrings, matching pendant, and blue Valentino heels completed the look.

Christine and Johnson’s car inched forward, eventually reaching the red carpet. Stepping from the sedan, they were greeted by Russian Foreign Minister Andrei Lavrov. After passing through the security screening, Christine and her interpreter were escorted by a young man to the building’s third floor, entering an expansive ballroom with crystal chandeliers illuminating a glossy parquet floor. The room was faced with white marble, with one wall decorated by a painting depicting Moscow, and the other wall, St. Petersburg, symbolizing the centuries-long rivalry between the historic and “northern” capitals of Russia.

Christine and Johnson mingled as waiters carried silver platters of drinks and hors d’oeuvres throughout the crowd, and Christine selected a glass of champagne as a tray passed by. Several Russian dignitaries introduced themselves, with most needing the help of her interpreter. But others kept their distance, shooting quick looks her way. Christine was used to turning heads when she entered a room, but these glances were more furtive, not the typical wide-eyed, admiring stares. She observed the scene more closely, seeing heads bent in whispered conversations as she passed by, and felt sure they were talking about her.

Spotting the American ambassador to Russia not far away, Christine decided to inquire about the strange looks. As she moved toward her, Defense Minister Boris Chernov appeared, stopping Christine halfway to the ambassador.

“Good evening, Miss O’Connor,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Christine offered a smile as Chernov’s gaze swept her from head to toe.

They talked briefly, then Chernov excused himself to mingle with other diplomats. Christine scanned the crowd for the American ambassador again, spotting her in line to greet Russian President Yuri Kalinin, who was talking with the new Chinese chairman of the Central Military Commission — the head of China’s armed forces — and a female companion. Given what occurred during Christine’s last visit to China, when she’d been detained during China’s war with the United States, she decided it’d be best to wait until the two Chinese moved on before joining the ambassador.

Assisted by her interpreter, Christine chatted with several Russian dignitaries while she kept an eye on President Kalinin. After the Chinese bade farewell, Christine excused herself and headed in the president’s direction. However, she didn’t get far before a voice stopped her.

“Miss O’Connor.”

Christine turned as Semyon Gorev, head of Russia’s counterpart to the CIA, approached.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said as he shook her hand. “I have heard much about you.”

Christine had heard much about Semyon Gorev as well; the authoritarian director of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service had earned a reputation for ruthlessness and a thirst for revenge during his time as a field agent.

“Only good things, I hope,” Christine said, keeping her tone deliberately light.

“But of course,” Gorev replied.

He offered a friendly smile, but Christine registered tension behind his expression. She wondered if he’d read her file. She’d killed two Russians at Ice Station Nautilus, but considering Russia lost almost one hundred men in the conflict, her role had been small.

Their discussion remained cordial, however, and Christine glanced occasionally in Kalinin’s direction, watching the American ambassador work her way up the line. Confident and poised, President Kalinin greeted his guests with ease. During one of her glances, she noticed Kalinin looking her way and their eyes locked for a few seconds. When Christine returned her attention to Gorev, there was a scowl on the director’s face, replaced quickly with a forced smile.

When the American ambassador was next in line, Christine prepared to disengage from Gorev and join the ambassador. But then the ballroom lights dimmed momentarily. The ballroom floor cleared as guests moved to the perimeter, and a Russian dance company took the floor. Christine deposited her empty champagne glass on a tray as a waiter passed by, then turned back to Gorev. But the Russian was gone.

The evening’s entertainment began with an exhibition by the dance company, performing two Russian folk dances. Christine recognized the first as a khorovod, a circular dance where the participants hold hands and sing, with additional dancers in the middle of the circle. The khorovod was followed by a plyaska, a dance that told a story, like a play. This particular plyaska told the tale of two men’s quest for a woman’s love and her struggle making a choice.

After the two folk dances, the floor opened up for the guests, with the first dance being a waltz. Christine declined the request of a young Russian, choosing to observe first, quickly determining the waltz was ballroom style as opposed to Viennese, with an international left-right-left step, rather than the American right-left-right. During the dance, her gaze occasionally drifted to President Kalinin, who was deep in conversation with SVR Director Gorev. But while Gorev’s eyes were fixed on the president, Kalinin’s were pointed straight across the ballroom — at her — and she could feel the intensity of his stare from forty feet away.

She’d been on the business end of that kind of look a few times in her life — always from a man who wanted her either in the ground or in his bed. Christine cast another glance in Kalinin’s direction. He was still staring at her, and she wasn’t sure which scenario Kalinin was contemplating. Was Gorev, with his reputation for revenge, discussing her role at Ice Station Nautilus? Christine shivered involuntarily, then refocused on the waltz.

From across the crowded ballroom, Yuri Kalinin watched the American woman intently. Gorev followed his eyes to the attractive woman.

Gorev said, “Please tell me you are not seriously considering this.”

“She could be Natasha’s twin,” Kalinin replied.

“Her likeness is remarkable,” Gorev agreed, “but you cannot have a relationship with her.”

“Why not?”

Gorev replied with an exasperated edge to his words, having to explain the obvious. “She’s American.”

“She’s half Russian,” Kalinin countered.

“She cannot be trusted,” Gorev said with a tone of finality.

“I appreciate your concern,” Kalinin said, “but I don’t think dinner with her would jeopardize national security.”

Gorev turned to the Russian president, placing his hand gently on his shoulder. “I know how close you and Natasha were, and how difficult those last few months were. Forget about this American. I will find you a suitable Russian woman.”

A smile broke across Kalinin’s face. “A bride selected by the SVR? I think my secrets would be safer if I married the American.”

Gorev grinned. “You are a wise man, Yuri. Still, the president of Russia cannot have a relationship with America’s national security advisor. Do not let her likeness to Natasha influence you.”

Kalinin replied, “I’ve already given the matter much thought.”

The first waltz wound to a close, and confident she could perform the international version, Christine prepared to accept the next request. She wasn’t prepared, however, when the invitation came from Defense Minister Chernov.

She accepted, and standing in front of him, Christine embraced Chernov in the semi-closed position, keeping her body a safe distance from his. The music started and Christine focused on following the left-right-left sequence. After a minute with no mishaps, she settled into the rhythm of the dance, her motions becoming more fluid, and she noted that Chernov was an excellent dancer.

When the waltz ended, Christine released her embrace as she commented on Chernov’s ability. “You also are a superb dancer,” Chernov replied. “If you don’t mind, I would love the next dance as well.”

Christine was about to reply when a man tapped Chernov on the shoulder. The defense minister turned aside, revealing Russia’s president.

“May I have the next dance?” he asked.

Christine glanced at Chernov, who stepped back with disappointment on his face.

She turned to President Kalinin, fixing a smile in place that she hoped covered her nerves, and accepted. The Russian president caught the attention of the bandleader, requesting another waltz. Christine embraced Kalinin, choosing the semi-closed position again, resting her fingers lightly on Kalinin’s right shoulder as their lead hands joined. The music began, and having worked out the kinks in her dance with Chernov, Christine fell immediately into rhythm.

To her surprise, Kalinin was an even better dancer than Chernov. He was also much better looking, with a trim, muscular physique, and only a few years older than her. As they glided through the turns, changes, and whisks, he kept the same intense gaze he’d had earlier trained on her. However, Yuri Kalinin didn’t seem the type to waltz with an enemy. If he was attracted to her… well. That opened up a number of interesting possibilities.

During the dance, the sensation she was being watched grew stronger. Letting her eyes slide away from Kalinin’s, she scanned the room; the stares from Russians in attendance were even more obvious than before. That was to be expected, as she was dancing with their president, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more.

When the dance ended, with her fingers still on his shoulder and their lead hands joined, Christine said, “President Kalinin, I have to ask. Why do I get such strange looks from everyone?”

Kalinin offered her a piercing gaze, then released her.

“Come with me.”

Christine followed Kalinin from the ballroom, spotting Semyon Gorev along the perimeter, monitoring their departure. They passed two Presidential Security Service agents, the Russian version of America’s Secret Service, before walking silently down a long hallway. After a left turn, Kalinin unlocked and opened a mahogany-stained door, flicking the lights on as they entered what Christine surmised was his office. Stopping in the foyer, Kalinin pointed to a picture on the wall.

“My wife, Natasha,” he said.

Christine might as well have been looking into a mirror. She knew her Russian genetics dominated her looks, but was surprised at how closely she resembled Natasha. The facial structure and even her hair and eye color were the same. It was then that Christine recalled Kalinin was a widower, his wife succumbing to cancer soon after he was elected president.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.

Kalinin nodded, the pain of his wife’s death evident on his face. His normally impassive mask slipped further, and Christine watched indecision play across his face as his eyes shifted from Natasha’s picture to her. It became clear that Kalinin was contemplating the controversial prospect of a relationship with America’s national security advisor.

On one hand, it wasn’t that far-fetched. Christine knew she’d make one hell of a politician’s wife if the idea ever appealed to her: beautiful, intelligent, and comfortable dealing with powerful men. The main obstacle in a relationship with Kalinin, however, was obvious. She lacked the loyalty he required. Not only to him, but to Russia.

Just as Christine decided a relationship with Kalinin was far too complicated and doomed to fail, the president of Russia asked her out.

“On future trips to Moscow,” Kalinin said, “if you’d like to spend time together, maybe for dinner, let me know. This is a busy month, but once Victory Day preparations are over and a few other issues are resolved, I will have more time. On your next trip, perhaps?”

The I’m not sure that’s a good idea stuck in Christine’s throat. Instead, she replied, “Perhaps.” She wondered if he heard the reservation in her voice, but if he did, he gave no sign.

“Wonderful,” Kalinin said. Checking his watch, he added, “We should return to the party before any unseemly rumors begin.”

While Christine contemplated whether Kalinin was concerned about her reputation or his, there was a knock on the open door. Semyon Gorev and Boris Chernov were in the doorway.

“See,” Kalinin said. “They are already getting suspicious.”

Gorev cast a glance at Christine before saying, “Boris has a matter he needs to discuss with you in private. It won’t take long. I’ll escort Miss O’Connor back to the ballroom.”

“Please do,” Kalinin said. Turning to Christine, he said, “It was a pleasure dancing with you, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Moscow.”

The door closed, and as Gorev escorted Christine down the hallway, he asked, “What did you and President Kalinin discuss?”

Christine’s first thought was to tell Gorev it was none of his business. She bit her tongue instead, then answered, “Yuri explained why I’ve been getting such strange looks. He showed me a picture of Natasha.”

Gorev replied, “On a first-name basis with President Kalinin after one dance? You move quickly.”

Christine stopped, irritated by the accusation. “For your information, I have no romantic interest in President Kalinin.”

“I overheard the end of your conversation. You said you’d consider his proposal to spend time together. That doesn’t sound like a lack of interest.”

Christine’s anger smoldered as she met Gorev’s accusatory stare. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” She started moving down the hallway again.

Gorev planted his hand against the wall, barring her path. She stopped abruptly, almost running into his arm. He said, “I don’t know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, but let me make one thing clear. You are not interested in President Kalinin.”

Christine bit down on her anger. “I didn’t realize that as director of the SVR, your duties included matchmaker.”

“I have many responsibilities, Miss O’Connor. I do the…” Gorev paused, his eyes narrowing as he searched for better words. “I do what is best for Russia and for Yuri. He doesn’t always appreciate what I do, but I assure you, my actions are in his and our country’s best interest.

“As far as your best interest goes,” Gorev said, “I suggest you maintain your relationship with Yuri completely professional. Your likeness to Natasha is a distraction, one he does not need.”

Christine said, “I’ll take your recommendation under consideration.”

“It is not a request.”

There was something about Gorev that reminded Christine of Kevin Hardison: a domineering man who tried to force his will on others. But like Hardison, Gorev had no authority over her. As she stood in the hallway in front of the two-hundred-pound man barring her path, she could have walked around him; the hallway was wide enough. However, she would not be intimidated, not even by the head of the SVR.

She placed a hand on Gorev’s shoulder. “You’re in incredible shape,” she said as she felt the muscles beneath his suit jacket. “You must work out.” Gorev stared at her as she continued. “I was a gymnast for seventeen years. A national champion on the beam.”

“And your point?” Gorev asked.

“My point,” Christine said as she ran her hand slowly down his arm, “is that elite gymnasts require three essential elements. Most people think flexibility is key, and it is, but strength is just as important. There are some moves many gymnasts can’t do because they aren’t strong enough. The third element is alignment,” Christine said as she stopped with her hand resting on Gorev’s wrist.

“If you begin a move even a degree or two out of alignment, it can spell disaster, especially when performing on a four-inch-wide beam. Alignment is also key for strength. If your muscles aren’t properly aligned, you won’t have the strength to power yourself through some of the moves.”

Christine clamped her hand around Gorev’s wrist.

“For example, if I were to rotate your hand ninety degrees”—she twisted firmly, rotating Gorev’s hand inward—“a small woman like myself could overpower a strong man.”

A grin creased Gorev’s face. “Care to try?”

“If I succeed,” Christine asked, “will you keep your nose out of my business?”

“If you succeed,” Gorev replied, “you’ll have the satisfaction of winning this little game of yours. Nothing more.”

“Fair enough,” Christine said.

She pushed down on Gorev’s wrist and he resisted. She pushed even harder, and his hand inched down the wall. He strained against her, halting the downward movement.

Gorev’s grin widened. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Christine pushed down suddenly with all her strength and Gorev reacted, countering her move with an upward thrust. Christine released his wrist and Gorev’s arm swung upward. Twisting to the side, she slipped past him before he could recover and bar her path again.

She turned around, facing him. “I was wrong. You’re too strong for me.”

The muscles in Gorev’s jaw flexed as Christine walked backward down the hallway, still facing him. Gorev replied, “We shall play another game soon, yes?”

“Perhaps,” Christine said in a much chillier tone than she’d used with Kalinin. “In the meantime”—she blew Gorev a kiss—“give my love to Yuri.”

Gorev gritted his teeth.

Christine turned and headed down the hallway, passing the two Security Service agents as she entered the ballroom. Gorev followed closely behind, then monitored her from the ballroom’s perimeter as she mingled among the crowd. It wasn’t long before President Kalinin returned from his meeting with Chernov. Undeterred by Gorev’s surveillance, Christine approached Kalinin as the band prepared to play another waltz.

“Care to dance?” she asked.

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied, then escorted her onto the dance floor.

With Gorev glaring in her direction, Christine embraced Kalinin in a closed instead of semi-closed position, pulling him close so he could feel the curves of her body during the changes and turns. The music began, and during a spin turn, she caught fury on Gorev’s face.

Christine smiled and pulled Kalinin even closer.