Blackmail

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.