Blackmail

by Rick Campbell

  Kalinin didn’t miss the flippancy in the president’s words. He had the upper hand and was using it.

  The American president continued, “Your attempt to blackmail the United States and NATO was both brilliant and inspirational, and it gave me an idea.”

  The right half of the screen morphed into a nine-grid, three-by-three display, showing video feeds from oil refineries and natural gas facilities, with the American president’s image remaining on the left half of the screen.

  “American forces have taken control of Russia’s twenty-four largest oil and natural gas facilities,” the president said, “wiring them with explosives.”

  The nine videos zoomed in, focusing on explosives attached to equipment, each with a sophisticated detonator pressed into the explosive material.

  “Do these look familiar?”

  The American president reached for a small electronic tablet and tapped in a ten-digit code. The detonators on-screen activated, and the videos zoomed back out.

  “All of the explosives attached to your facilities have been armed, and I probably don’t need to inform you, but if anyone tries to remove or jam them, they’ll detonate. Also, in case you get any clever ideas, the master disarm code has been changed.”

  The American president added, “I’ve also moved several submarines into the Black Sea, which I’m sure you’ve noticed by the absence of a few Russian frigates. In two hours, unless ordered otherwise, they will commence sinking all merchant ships departing Russian ports on the Black Sea. At that time, you can also say good-bye to your twenty-four largest oil and natural gas facilities.”

  Kalinin realized the implications; the Black Sea terminals loaded the vast majority of oil and natural gas destined for Asian and African markets, not to mention being the largest grain ports in the country. By destroying the twenty-four facilities and cutting off the flow through the Black Sea, America would cripple Russia’s economy.

  The American president interrupted Kalinin’s thoughts. “Of course, none of this will occur if you withdraw your troops from Lithuania and Ukraine. You have two hours for us to detect your troops returning to Russia.”

  The American president let his demand sink in, then asked, “Any questions, Yuri?”

  Although a few choice words came to mind, Kalinin had no questions. The American president’s ultimatum, as well as Russia’s response, was clear.

  Kalinin replied, “We will begin withdrawing troops immediately.”

  “Excellent,” the American president said. “As a show of goodwill, I’ll disable the detonators at your oil refinery in Omsk, the largest and most modern in Russia, I believe.”

  The president tapped in a ten-digit code and pressed enter.

  One of the nine video feeds blanked out in a blinding white flash, fading to reveal a dozen orange fireballs rising skyward from a mass of twisted metal engulfed in flames.

  “Sorry, Yuri,” the American president said. “I’m all thumbs.”

  The screen went black.

  95

  SOCHI, RUSSIA

  Christine’s eyes opened slowly, then fluttered back shut as her blurry vision was greeted by a throbbing headache. She opened her eyes again and lifted her head slowly, and her vision cleared. She was lying on her stomach on a wooden floor in a dimly lit room, with the only source of light being shafts of sunlight streaming through slots near the top of the room. There was a brackish smell in the air and the sound of waves lapping against pilings.

  She was in the boathouse, inside a storage room.

  Confirming her assessment, there were several piles of crates cluttering the room, along with a few old life preservers and vests.

  Christine tried to push herself to her feet, then realized her hands were cuffed behind her back. She rolled onto her side and then to a sitting position. She was still in her nightgown and barefoot. Looking around, she examined her new accommodations more closely. She was in a twenty-by-twenty-foot room with no windows and a single door. The only openings to the outside were several six-inch-wide slots at the top of the wall to her left. Above, a few pipes ran the width of the room a few feet above her head.

  She rocked forward onto her feet, and on the slim chance the door was unlocked, she pushed the lever down with one foot, then hooked her toes behind it and pulled. No luck. She heard a man’s voice on the other side of the door, speaking in Russian. At first, she thought he was talking to her, but then there was a squelch of a handheld radio, and she realized the man was a guard posted outside, most likely informing Gorev she had regained consciousness.

  The door unlocked and opened, and one of Chernov’s Security Service agents, pistol drawn, appeared in the doorway. Christine froze where she was. The man studied her for a moment, then closed and locked the door again. After evaluating her predicament, she realized her options were limited. As in none. At least while her hands were cuffed behind her back.

  However, she could fix that. Christine had been an elite gymnast in high school and college and was still both flexible and strong. She lay on her back, and supporting herself with her shoulders and feet, arched her back, curving it until her hands slipped past her hips. After pulling her legs through, she was on her feet again with her hands in front. They were still handcuffed, but at least she could use them now.

  She examined the slots along the top of the wall again, and wondered if she could create a larger opening; the boathouse was made of wood. She searched through the crates, hoping to find something she could pry the planks apart with. After finding nothing useful, she decided to try with her bare hands. She stacked three crates against the wall, climbed up, and pulled on a board between two slots. As she pulled with all her strength, her hands slipped off and she lost her balance, the pile of crates tilting to the side as she fell. She twisted instinctively while in the air and landed on her feet. Being a former gymnast had its advantages.

  The crates came crashing to the ground behind her, and the door opened a moment later. A single incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling turned on, illuminating the room in weak yellow light. This time, Semyon Gorev and two SVR agents entered, along with Chernov’s Security Service agent.

  Gorev eyed Christine’s hands, in front of her instead of behind her, and the crates against the wall. He spoke in Russian and Chernov’s agent stepped forward, unlocking one side of her handcuffs. As Christine wondered if Gorev was going to release her, the agent raised her right arm and locked the handcuff to a pipe above her head. After pulling a second pair of handcuffs from his jacket, he connected Christine’s left hand to the same pipe.

  Gorev smiled as he unwrapped a peppermint candy and popped it into his mouth.

  “A breath mint?” Christine asked. “Are you hoping for a kiss?”

  “Not exactly,” he replied as he pulled a pistol from inside his jacket. He left it down by his side.

  A cold shiver ran down her spine, and she forced her eyes back up toward Gorev’s face, searching for a clue to his intentions.

  “You did an admirable job on Chernov,” he said. “I’d like to tell you that you failed and he survived somehow, but unfortunately that is not the case. Unfortunately for you, there are ramifications.”

  He stepped closer. “What do you think is fair compensation for the life of Russia’s defense minister?”

  When Christine didn’t answer, he said, “Putting a bullet into your head would be too easy and, frankly, boring. Instead, since you are so fond of games, we are going to play one now. It’s called—Seemon says.”

  Christine replied, “It’s pronounced Simon says, you moron.”

  Gorev stared at her with cold eyes, then cracked the mint between his teeth. “I know that, Christine. My first name is Semyon, but most Americans have trouble pronouncing it correctly, so I make it easy for them. Seemon. So the game we will play is called Seemon says. Understand?”

  Christine nodded slowly.

  Gorev pointed his pistol at her, pressing the barrel against her stomach. She felt the
cool metal through the thin fabric of her nightgown, and a chill raked her flesh.

  He slid the barrel slowly up Christine’s stomach, then between her breasts. The pistol continued upward, the barrel caressing her neck, then Gorev tilted the gun up and pressed the barrel hard under her chin.

  “It’s a pity I have to kill such a beautiful woman.”

  His words filled her with a crippling wave of terror. But instead of pulling the trigger, Gorev smiled again, then rode the barrel over her chin, leveling the pistol when the barrel rested against Christine’s lips.

  “Seemon says, Open your mouth.”

  Christine clenched her jaw and turned her head away.

  Gorev spoke in Russian, and Chernov’s agent grabbed her head and forced it back toward Gorev until the barrel rested against her lips again.

  “If you play the game,” Gorev said, “the end will be painless. If not, I promise you the most excruciating pain you have ever experienced.”

  Christine kept her teeth clenched together, trying to keep the fear from showing in her eyes.

  Gorev clamped a hand around her neck. “Open your mouth.”

  When Christine refused again, Gorev nodded to the two SVR agents. One pinched Christine’s nose shut while the other tried to pry her mouth open. Christine kept her jaw clenched, but it wasn’t long before she felt light-headed, and when she could hold her breath no longer, she gasped for air. When her mouth opened, Gorev jammed the pistol barrel into her mouth.

  He let the barrel rest in her mouth a moment, and Christine tasted the ferrous tang of metal. Her pulse started racing, and her breathing turned rapid and shallow.

  Gorev said, “As I reviewed your file again, I tried to find someone important to you. I would have let you live long enough to see them die. But you have no husband, no children, no siblings, no parents. Your lack of loved ones takes most of the fun out of things. But not all.”

  He leaned close, whispering in her ear, “Seemon says, Time to die.”

  Christine’s eyes shot to Gorev’s index finger as he slowly squeezed the trigger, and she watched in horrified fascination as the color of his finger gradually changed from pink to white. A low moan began to build in her throat and her legs started to give way. With one last tremendous effort, she pushed the terror down and steadied herself.

  The end of Gorev’s finger turned white.

  She closed her eyes as tightly as she could.

  The pistol hammer fell.

  Christine didn’t hear the shot. Only a metal click.

  The pistol didn’t fire.

  She heard Gorev laugh as he pulled the barrel from her mouth.

  Christine opened her eyes as Gorev said, “It looks like I forgot to put the bullets in.”

  It took a moment for the terror to subside, to collect her thoughts.

  “You sick bastard.”

  Gorev smacked her across the face with the back of his hand, and Christine felt a sting as metal sliced into her cheek.

  “Now look at what you’ve done,” Gorev said as he wiped the blood away from an ornate gold ring that sparkled under the incandescent light. He lifted the hem of Christine’s nightgown and dabbed away the blood on her cheek. “It’s only a small cut. Do you think we should get stiches?” Gorev smiled.

  Christine’s eyes narrowed, doing her best to convey hatred.

  Gorev grabbed her throat with one hand again, squeezing hard. “You’re lucky Yuri has taken a fancy to your pretty face, or you would be fish food at the bottom of the Black Sea by now. Instead, you get to entertain me until I discuss the issue with him. He’s busy at the moment, but once I explain what you’ve done, he will leave it to me to dispose of you.”

  He released her throat and slid his pistol into the harness under his jacket. “Until then,” he said, “you can hang out here.” His eyes went to Christine’s handcuffs, her body hanging from the pipe. He laughed at his own joke, then left the room, as did the two SVR agents. The last man, Chernov’s security agent, turned off the light, then closed and locked the door.

  As the door shut, Christine’s legs gave way. The handcuffs cut into her wrists from the weight, but the pain didn’t register. The tears came first, then the sobs. The emotions that had built up over the last few years—the terror as her ex-husband drove a knife into her neck, the panic as her car plunged into the lagoon off the coast of China, and the guilt as she watched Brackman take his last breath and drift off into the murky water—were amplified by what Gorev had done, and she could no longer keep it all in. Hanging from the handcuffs in the semidarkness, she let it all out.

  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 stunne
d, 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.