Blackmail

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.