Blackmail

55 MOSCOW

It was 6 p.m. by the time the summit ended, and after a quick dinner in the hotel restaurant with Dawn and Elena, Christine returned to her room and changed into a formal dress for the evening’s reception. After touching up her makeup, she stepped from her room and knocked on Elena’s door. It was slightly ajar and Christine pushed it slowly open, calling Elena’s name. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing an elegant, form-fitting Russian Federation — red evening gown with her hands folded in her lap, staring at the wall. She turned her head slowly when Christine opened the door, then stood without a word. After grabbing a small purse from her desk, she joined Christine in the hallway as Dawn emerged from her room.

They descended to the lobby and headed to the hotel entrance, where a black limousine, situated between two sedans containing Diplomatic Security Service agents, was waiting to take the three women to the Kremlin Senate. During the short drive, Elena was silent, staring out the side window at the buildings along Mokhovaya Street. As they approached the southwest corner of the Kremlin, her attention was drawn to the five-century-old Borovitskaya Tower, with its green decorative spire rising to a ruby-red five-pointed star, symbol of the Soviet Union. After passing through Borovitskaya Gate, their car pulled to a halt in front of the Kremlin Senate.

They were escorted by a Kremlin aide to a ballroom on the third floor — the same one the Victory Day gala had been held in: a white marble — clad room with exquisite crystal chandeliers, their sparkling lights illuminating a glossy but crowded parquet floor. Waiters dressed in tuxedos made their way through the crowd, carrying silver platters filled with hors d’oeuvres and glasses of wine and champagne, offering the contents to the guests.

Upon entering the ballroom, Elena transitioned from the quiet, reserved woman in the car to an outgoing, enchanting personality. Christine watched in fascination as Elena turned on the charm, gathering a small crowd around her. The intended victim of her charm — Defense Minister Chernov — was nowhere to be found, however.

The three women engaged various diplomats, with Elena translating on occasion. Christine kept an eye out for Chernov, eventually spotting him enter the ballroom, stopping to chat with a representative from France. Elena also noticed Chernov’s entrance, and the two women broke from their conversation with several Italian and Russian diplomats.

As they headed toward Chernov, Christine whispered, “Are you ready?”

Elena replied, “I’ll have him eating out of my hand in no time.”

Boris Chernov turned his attention to the two women as they approached, commenting to the French diplomat as Christine and Elena joined them, “Are there two more beautiful women here tonight?” He eyed Christine briefly before turning his attention to Elena. “And you are?”

Christine answered, “I’d like to introduce Elena Krayev, our translator for the summit.”

Elena extended her arm, her hand bent at the wrist as she greeted Chernov in Russian. Chernov’s eyes took in Elena’s body as he bent slightly forward and kissed the back of her hand.

He turned to Christine. “An ethnic Russian translator. I commend you on the upgrade.” He said something to Elena in Russian and she laughed.

Stepping closer to Chernov, Elena placed her hand on his arm as she said to Christine, “You never told me what a good sense of humor Minister Chernov has.”

As Elena turned back to Chernov, Christine glanced over his shoulder and spotted Semyon Gorev, head of Russia’s SVR, standing along the ballroom perimeter, intently watching Christine and Elena’s interaction with Russia’s defense minister.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Elena said, then she wrapped her arm around Chernov’s and pulled him away for a private conversation. When Chernov and Elena drifted off, Gorev headed in Christine’s direction. As the SVR director approached, the French diplomat excused himself.

“Welcome back to Moscow,” Gorev said. “What game are we playing tonight?”

Christine’s pulse quickened. Had Gorev deciphered their plan?

“I’d like to redeem myself,” he added.

Christine’s concern subsided when she realized Gorev was referring to their encounter during her last trip to Moscow, when he barred her path in the hallway outside Kalinin’s office and she tricked her way past him.

“No game tonight,” Christine replied. She knew she shouldn’t antagonize the head of the SVR, but couldn’t resist. “I don’t want to embarrass you again.”

Gorev smiled. A tight, malevolent smile. “Well then,” he said, “perhaps we could play a game of my choosing.” He glanced around the crowded ballroom. “When there are fewer witnesses.”

Christine had already decided she should probably avoid Gorev during this visit. Now, she was certain.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, then turned and left him standing alone on the parquet floor.

Ambassador Natasha Graham wasn’t far away, and Christine joined her, Dawn, and several Russian diplomats who had homed in on America’s ambassador and secretary of state. The conversation was quite cordial; from the moment Christine arrived at the Kremlin Senate that morning, the Russians had done everything possible to create a business-as-usual atmosphere, as if they were here to discuss a minor dustup at a border crossing.

She glanced periodically in Gorev’s direction; he engaged various dignitaries, both Russian and foreign, and every once in a while she caught him looking at her. As the evening wore on and she lost Gorev in the crowd, Christine decided she could use some time alone. She had introduced Elena to Chernov and figured her job was done. She retreated from the ballroom onto a balcony overlooking the city, stopping at the stone railing. Her eyes swept across the venerable city, surveying the historic buildings in the distance and the sparkling lights blending into the horizon.

Christine broke from her thoughts when Elena passed through the doorway onto the balcony, her cool facade replaced with a frustrated look. She stopped beside Christine.

“It’s not working,” Elena said. “The bastard doesn’t seem interested.”

Elena’s news was unexpected. With Chernov’s reputation, it hadn’t crossed her mind that he’d turn down the advances of a woman as beautiful as Elena.

“What do we do now?” Christine asked.

“I keep trying,” Elena said. “I need to be careful I don’t raise suspicions by coming on too strong, but I have no choice but to dial up the charm.” She looked down and adjusted her dress, exposing more cleavage. “Wish me luck,” she said, then headed into the ballroom before Christine could reply.

Christine contemplated returning to the ballroom as well, but wasn’t in the mood for more frivolous banter with Russian and NATO diplomats. She turned and looked out over the city again, letting her eyes fall on Red Square. The Victory Day banners that had draped the buildings had been taken down and the bleachers disassembled, leaving redbrick facades framing a gray cobblestone square. On the north end of the square, the iconic multicolored bulbous domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral rose skyward.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a man stopped beside her, offering a glass of champagne. She turned and was surprised to see President Kalinin. She glanced toward the ballroom; through the entrance, Gorev was watching, as were two Presidential Security Service agents.

“Welcome back to Moscow,” Kalinin said.

“Thank you,” Christine said as she took the champagne glass.

She took a sip, and there was an uneasy silence between them until Kalinin said, “Considering I ordered the invasion of two countries, you must think despicable things about me.”

“Pretty much,” Christine replied.

Kalinin smiled. “You certainly do speak your mind.” After a short pause, he added, “Is there anything I can do to make amends?”

“You can withdraw your troops from Lithuania and Ukraine.”

“Is there anything reasonable I can do to make amends?”

“That’s reasonable.”

“Not from my perspective.”

“Has anyone pointed out your perspective is warped?”

“Not lately,” Kalinin replied.

Christine debated whether to continue the conversation. It was pointless; a discussion on a Kremlin balcony wasn’t going to convince Kalinin to withdraw his troops. However, Kalinin was the president of Russia, and she couldn’t abruptly terminate the conversation as she’d done with Gorev. If nothing more, continuing the dialogue gave her the opportunity to deliver a few barbs to the man who had invaded two countries. He seemed not to mind so far, remaining in a good mood. Then again, he controlled southern Lithuania and eastern Ukraine, and it looked as though NATO was on the verge of capitulating. He had good reason to maintain a cheery disposition.

She took another sip of champagne. “So what’s next? What countries do you have your sights set on?”

“None at the moment.”

“At the moment?”

“One cannot predict the future. The world is a dangerous place, and I will do what is necessary to protect my country.”

“You’re right,” Christine replied. “The world is a dangerous place. Primarily because of you.”

“Has anyone pointed out how warped your perspective is?” Kalinin asked.

“Not lately.” Christine smiled.

“Look around the world,” Kalinin said. “Terrorists streaming across borders, religious fanatics inciting genocide. These are the threats of the twenty-first century. You don’t need to worry about Russia.”

“Care to ask a few residents of Lithuania and Ukraine about that?”

“Those citizens may be disgruntled, but they won’t be killed or oppressed. They will wake up, go to work each day, and enjoy the fruits of their labor and the liberties of a democratic society. Does it really matter whether their government is Ukrainian, Russian, or independent? When you consider the true evils in the world, my actions amount to minor sins.”

Christine agreed there were significant issues facing Western societies. Whether Russia was at the top of the list, however, depended on Russia’s endgame.

She replied, “The problem is, we don’t know where you’re going to stop. How many countries you’ll gobble up before you feel safe.”

Kalinin replied, “You bring up an excellent point. Russia and the West are in conflict because we don’t trust each other, and there is no trust because we don’t understand one another. Get to know my country. Get to know me, and you will understand Russia poses no threat to the West.”

As Christine pondered Kalinin’s assertion, he said, “The offer I made during your last trip still stands. Any time you visit Moscow, it would be my pleasure if you joined me for dinner or even a weekend getaway.”

Christine couldn’t foresee a situation where she would take him up on his offer, but didn’t want to turn him down outright, so she just nodded.

When she didn’t reply, Kalinin asked, “Do you have any encouraging words to offer?”

“Not at the moment.”

Kalinin turned toward the balcony, placing his hands on the stone railing. “I see.”

Christine joined him, looking out over the city. “Now isn’t a good time for this discussion,” she said.

“I understand,” Kalinin replied. “My offer remains open.”

He turned abruptly and left.

Her eyes followed Kalinin into the ballroom, and Gorev and the two Security Service agents moved away with the president. Alone on the balcony, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had managed to piss off the two most powerful men in Russia, in less than an hour. Not the smartest moves.

She just didn’t have the patience anymore, not that she had a lot to begin with. The last few years in the administration had worn her too thin. She had signed up to be a paper pusher, with confrontations limited to those across a conference room table, not those that required a gun or a bloody ice pick. It was time to think about handing the president her resignation when the issue with Russia was resolved.

Christine was about to return to the ballroom when Boris Chernov stepped onto the balcony. Over his shoulder as he approached, Christine spotted Elena, wearing an unhappy expression. She shook her head slightly. She’d failed to snag Chernov.

“Hello again, Christine,” Chernov said as he joined her at the railing.

“Good evening, Minister Chernov.”

“Please, call me Boris.”

“Boris,” Christine said, then took a sip of her champagne.

“It looks like the summit wrapped up quicker than expected.”

“It did,” Christine agreed. “But we established a solid framework for future discussions.”

“Which I hope,” Chernov said, “will lead to a peaceful resolution of our differences.”

“There is always hope.”

“When do you head back to America?” Chernov asked, changing the subject.

“Not until Monday.”

“Do you have plans for the weekend?”

A sick feeling grew in the pit of Christine’s stomach. Chernov was making a move on her. She tried to deflect his interest onto Elena.

“I happened to notice that Elena is quite smitten with you.”

Chernov replied, “Hens don’t peck at pretty Russian faces.” When Christine gave him a curious look, he explained, “It’s a Russian idiom. An appropriate translation in English would be—beautiful Russian women are a dime a dozen. I prefer something more challenging.” Sliding closer to Christine, he said, “I want what Yuri wants. And I want it first.”

Christine resisted the urge to step back, creating ample space between them. Instead, she stayed close as she tried to figure out how to redirect his desire. America’s attack in the Persian Gulf couldn’t proceed unless the pipeline explosives were disarmed, and that wasn’t going to happen unless Chernov and Elena were alone.

“I think you would enjoy Elena’s company.”

“Not as much as I’d enjoy yours.”

“I don’t know, Boris,” Christine replied, searching for a solution. Finally, she latched on to an idea. If she agreed to his proposal, but gave him Elena’s room number instead of hers, it might work. With Elena opening the door while properly attired — scantily clad, that is — it’d be hard for Chernov to say no when she pulled him into her room.

“How about tonight. An hour from now. Hotel National, room 1051.”

Chernov shook his head. “Unfortunately, I have meetings tonight, which will run late. However, I leave for Sochi tomorrow morning. My first weekend off in months. I have a villa on the shore of the Black Sea and a yacht we could spend the day on. Much more pleasurable than dreary Moscow. I’ll have a driver pick you up at your hotel at seven a.m.”

Christine had painted herself into a corner, agreeing to a liaison with Chernov. Unfortunately, tomorrow in Sochi, with Elena in Moscow, wouldn’t work. Her mouth felt dry as she worked through the implications. Their plan to kill Chernov had failed, and now she was stuck with him for the weekend.