Blackmail

by Rick Campbell

  Christine hurried down the pier, slipping into the motorboat. Crouching down, she examined the boat’s ignition system. Like Chernov’s yacht, it was a push-button start, but needed a key. She searched the motorboat but came up empty. Peering over the edge of the boat, she examined the shoreline, wondering if she could make it out on foot. But the cove terminated on both ends in jagged rocks transitioning to steep cliffs. The only way out was up toward the villa, but there was a twenty-foot-tall security wall between the villa and the road, which also merged into steep cliffs on each side. Chernov’s villa had been built in a secure location indeed. As Christine dwelled on her predicament, she remembered Elena’s cell phone was programmed to request assistance from an extraction team nearby, which was exactly what she needed. Gorev had knocked it from her hand in Chernov’s bedroom.

  She examined the rugged terrain rising toward the villa for a concealed path, but it looked like the only trail up was the winding brick walkway. Thankfully, the path was sheltered by lush vegetation on both sides, which would obscure her approach. She slipped from the motorboat onto the pier again, quickly reaching the winding path.

  * * *

  By the time she reached the end of the walkway, darkness had fallen, and Christine stopped at the edge of the vegetation only a few feet from the open-air villa. She heard the faint sound of voices and concluded it was either the television or two agents, but in either case, the sound was coming from the living room or farther away. She emerged from the path and stopped beside the villa wall, and after convincing herself there were no Russians nearby, she slipped into a hallway leading to the bedrooms.

  She reached Chernov’s bedroom and stopped at the door. It was slightly ajar, with Gorev’s men having damaged the frame when they broke into the room. She pushed the door slowly open and slipped into the darkness. She gently closed the door, then turned on a bedside light. The bed was neatly made up, with no sign of Chernov.

  Christine searched the room, including the closet, bathroom, and under the bed, failing to locate Elena’s cell phone. Her heart sank at the failed discovery, but then she realized all of her belongings were missing: her clothes, purse, even her carry-on suitcase. She hoped Gorev’s men had deposited everything into her luggage, and if she could find her suitcase, she would locate Elena’s phone. She turned off the light and slipped back into the hallway.

  She stopped outside each bedroom, and after verifying there was no light leaking from under the doors, slipped inside each room. There was no suitcase to be found, nor the belongings of Alekperov and his wife, who had apparently departed the villa. With no suitcase in the bedrooms, that left the formal living areas, and Christine moved forward, stopping at the edge of the kitchen. The lights were on and she heard water running and the clinking of pans. She pulled her pistol up, holding it with both hands, then peered around the corner. Chernov’s maid was at the sink, her back to Christine.

  Christine stepped quietly past the kitchen, pausing to peer into the lit dining room, where there were a few dirty dishes, but no suitcase. Next up was the living room, and as she approached, the sound of men’s voices grew louder. She stopped at the entrance, pistol ready again, peering around the corner with one eye.

  There were four men inside, one seated on a couch with his back to Christine, facing a wide-screen television on the far wall. At the adjoining bar were the two SVR agents and one of Chernov’s Security Service agents, each seated on a bar stool with a glass of clear liquid in one hand. The TV was on, but the four men were talking. She spotted her suitcase, on the floor beside the couch, open with one of her dresses hanging over the side, then she pulled back around the corner.

  It was feasible. The couch was close to the living room entrance, and if she dropped onto the ground, she could enter unseen by the men at the bar, their view blocked by the back of the couch. Likewise, the men couldn’t see her suitcase, also blocked by the couch. She knelt into a crouch and peered around the corner again. She was still too high; the faces of the three men at the bar were still visible above the back of the couch. Christine lay prone, and after verifying she could no longer see the three men, she crawled slowly into the living room.

  She reached the back of the couch, then made her way slowly toward the end. She looked up; the man had his arms spread out along the top of the couch, gesturing with his hands on occasion before returning them to their resting place. Christine pulled the suitcase across the carpet toward her, back around the corner of the couch, then lifted the lid carefully and searched inside. After sifting through her clothes, she spotted her purse, its contents dumped into the bottom of her suitcase. Beside the purse was Elena’s phone. She reached in and retrieved it.

  Gorev had knocked the phone from her hand and she wondered if it was still functional. There was no sign of damage, however. Placing her pistol on the carpet, she simultaneously pressed the power and down volume buttons. The cell phone vibrated and Christine froze, then shot her gaze upward. The man still had his arms on the back of the couch and the four men continued their discussion. She retrieved her pistol, and with the gun in one hand and cell phone in the other, prepared to slip from the living room.

  She started crawling away when the man’s arm dropped over the back of the couch, his hand coming to rest an inch from her head. Her eyes went to the ornate gold ring on his hand; the man on the couch was Gorev. The vision of him shoving his pistol into her mouth flashed in her mind, and emotions flooded her body.

  Without considering the ramifications, she dropped the phone and sprang to her feet, grabbing a fistful of Gorev’s hair, yanking his head back so he could see her face. She pressed the pistol barrel against his forehead. Christine looked at the other three men, their hands inserted inside their jackets, who had frozen when she’d placed the pistol against Gorev’s head.

  She had no idea if they understood English, but said, “Pull your guns out slowly and toss them onto the floor.”

  When none of the men followed her direction, she pressed the pistol hard into Gorev’s forehead. “Tell your men to toss their guns unless you want your head to look like a Cheerio. You do have Cheerios in Russia, don’t you?”

  Gorev spoke to the three men in Russian, and they tossed their pistols onto the floor.

  Then he looked up at her. “Hello, Christine.”

  “Hello, Simon.” She deliberately mispronounced his name.

  “Put the gun down,” he said, “and no harm will come to you.”

  She almost laughed. When President Xiang offered his word in the Great Hall of the People, she believed him. Gorev, on the other hand, would kill her the instant he got the chance.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “You have my word.”

  “I have a better idea,” Christine said. “We’re going to play a game tonight. It’s called Christine says. Are you ready?”

  Gorev didn’t respond, but his eyes narrowed.

  Christine smiled, then moved the pistol slowly down his forehead, between his eyes, and down the bridge of his nose. When she reached his mouth, she rested the barrel on his lips.

  “Christine says, Open your mouth.”

  When Gorev didn’t comply, she mashed the barrel against his lips. “Open your mouth or I’ll blow a hole through your teeth.”

  Gorev slowly opened his mouth, and Christine slid the barrel inside.

  “Simon, are you ready to die?”

  Gorev didn’t answer, not that he could talk with a pistol barrel in his mouth. Christine said, “It’s a rhetorical question. No need to answer.”

  She pulled the gun out slightly, so he could see her finger wrapped around the trigger. She squeezed the trigger slowly, so he could watch the color of her index finger change from pink to white as she increased the pressure.

  “You probably thought it was cute,” Christine said, “terrorizing me with your game. How does it feel?”

  Her thoughts returned to what he’d done to her in the boathouse, and a dark mood settled over her. Gorev was a crue
l, sadistic creature who enjoyed torturing others.

  “We’re going to play a new game,” she said. “Want to know what it’s called?”

  She crouched down beside him, her eyes on the three agents as she whispered, “It’s called Seemon dies.”

  Christine stood and pulled the trigger.

  Gorev’s head recoiled as a hole was blown in the back of his skull, splattering the top of the couch with a red puff, followed by a rivulet of blood.

  She pulled the pistol from Gorev’s mouth. “It looks like I forgot to take the bullets out.”

  Christine pointed her pistol toward the three men. “I don’t have a beef with you,” she said as their eyes shifted between her gun and the former director of the SVR. She collected the three pistols on the floor, slipping her fingers through the trigger guards, then backed toward the living room entrance, her pistol still aimed at the three men.

  “Stay exactly where you are for one hour, and no one will get hurt.” She had no idea if the men understood her or if the extraction team would arrive within that time, but figured an hour would be enough.

  After backing out of the living room, she sprinted down the hallway. She hadn’t given much thought to her escape plan, which amounted to vacating the villa and heading toward the water. Maybe she could lose them in the dense vegetation along the brick walkway until assistance arrived.

  Unfortunately, the three men either didn’t understand her or chose not to follow her directions. There was a commotion behind her—men shouting and running feet. As she turned the corner, a bullet buried itself into the wall behind her, and Christine realized she wasn’t going to make it to the brick path. After passing the indoor and outdoor pools on either side of her, she got an idea as she emerged onto the patio.

  Maintaining a full sprint, she headed toward the balcony overlooking the Black Sea, dropping her pistols on the way. When she reached the railing, she leapt up, planted a foot on the edge of the stone balustrade, and launched herself into the air, plummeting down toward the dark water. She plunged into the Black Sea, arching her back to arrest her descent in case the water was shallow. As the brackish water stung her cheek and wrists, she kicked her legs and pulled with her arms, swimming underwater away from the villa.

  Bullets zinged into the water around her, and Christine redoubled her efforts, trying to put as much distance between her and the shoreline as possible before coming up for air. Her lungs started burning and she angled upward, broaching the surface when she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She heard shouts from the villa balcony and a fresh barrage of bullets, some hitting so close she felt the water churning from their entry. To her left, the two SVR agents were sprinting down the pier toward Chernov’s motorboat.

  Taking a deep breath, she slipped beneath the water and continued away from the coast, hoping they’d lose her in the darkness as she swam farther away from the villa’s lights. When she came up for air again, the two Russians were in the motorboat, headed toward her. Bullets pierced the water from the men in the boat and on the patio, and she ducked under the water again and changed direction, angling toward the left.

  As the oxygen in her body depleted, a white light crisscrossed the water’s surface above her, sometimes passing directly overhead. When she could hold her breath no longer, she rose to the surface for air, and before she slipped back under, the light blinded her as it swept by, then quickly returned, illuminating her face. The boat turned in her direction, with the Russian at the bow bringing his weapon to bear on her.

  She took a deep breath and was about to submerge again when heavy-caliber bullets riddled the side of the motorboat and tore into the agent on the bow and then the driver, knocking both men into the water. A second later, a red flame streaked above Christine, headed toward Chernov’s villa, and the patio exploded in an orange fireball.

  The light and rumble from the explosion faded, and an eerie silence fell on the water; no one was shooting at her. As Christine treaded water, she heard the faint sound of approaching outboard engines.

  A voice reached out to her in the darkness. “Grab my hand.”

  Christine recognized the man’s voice; he was never far from her thoughts.

  A green glow stick activated, illuminating two Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats a few feet away, each carrying four men in combat gear wearing night-vision goggles. The man at the bow of the lead boat had his hand extended. She grabbed his hand, and Navy SEAL Jake Harrison hauled Christine into the boat.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  Christine shook her head as the two boats turned and headed out to sea.

  Even though it was fairly warm out, there was a brisk breeze on the water, and Christine was wearing only a thin, soaked nightgown. Whether from the temperature or because of what she’d just done, a chill came over her, and she started shivering. Harrison pulled her close to warm her, and Christine instinctively wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly as she buried her face into his chest.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  But Christine could only shake her head again.

  97

  BLACK SEA

  The full moon’s reflection wavered on the water as the two RHIBs headed farther out to sea, the glowing embers of Chernov’s villa fading behind them as the shoreline retreated into the distance. Aside from the low rumble of the outboard engine on each boat, the journey was quiet; neither Christine nor the eight SEALs spoke. She kept her arms wrapped around Harrison, not caring where they were headed or how long it took to get there.

  The SEALs idled the RHIB engines, then angled the two boats toward each other. They drifted together with a gentle bump, and a SEAL at the front of each RHIB fastened a line to both bows. Two green glow sticks were activated, one hung from each bow. The engines were revved a few seconds, and the boats coasted apart until they pulled the line between them taut. The engines were secured, and the two RHIBs floated on the dark water, bobbing in the waves.

  As Christine wondered what they were waiting for, the SEAL at the front of her RHIB said, “Incoming at two hundred yards.”

  Christine looked ahead but saw nothing in the darkness. Then again, she wasn’t wearing night-vision goggles like the SEALs. As she peered ahead, a submarine periscope materialized out of the darkness, approaching swiftly. The periscope snagged the line between the two RHIBs, and the boats were yanked around and pulled toward each other as the periscope towed them toward shore, then began a slow U-turn, hauling the RHIBs farther out to sea.

  After reversing course, they picked up speed and waves occasionally broke over the bow of Christine’s RHIB. When the Black Sea coast was no longer discernible under the full moon, the periscope slowed, then stopped.

  Harrison released his arm from around Christine. “We have scuba gear for you,” he said.

  He helped Christine into her gear while the SEALs in both RHIBs donned theirs. As she finished wriggling into her equipment, the SEALs detached the engines and began deflating both boats. After verifying her face mask had sealed and her regulator was working, she and Harrison slipped into the water. With a firm grasp on Christine’s arm, he pulled her downward.

  It wasn’t long before several green glow sticks appeared in the distance and the shadowy shape of a submarine formed in the murky water, along with two Dry Deck Shelters attached to the submarine’s missile deck. The nine-foot-diameter door of the port Dry Deck Shelter was open, with two Navy divers waiting nearby. Harrison guided her inside, and a few minutes later, the two deflated RHIBs were hauled into the shelter, joined by the Navy divers and SEALs.

  The hatch was shut, and after the water was drained from the shelter, Christine followed Harrison’s example and removed her scuba gear. Harrison and Christine were the first to exit the hangar, dropping down through dual hatches into Missile Tube Two, then out through a hatch in the side of the tube, where a familiar face greeted her.

  Commander Joe Aleo, the physician assigned to Michigan’s SEAL detachment, escorted h
er to Medical, where he conducted a preliminary assessment—pulse, blood pressure, and flashlight in her eyes. A concerned look formed on his face as she sat there listlessly, providing succinct answers to his questions and nothing more. At the end of his exam, his eyes went to her cheek.

  “You’ve got a nasty cut, but I don’t think it’ll need stitches.” After cleaning and disinfecting the wound, he carefully affixed Steri-Strips to her cheek, sealing the cut shut. “That should do it,” he said. “If you end up with a scar, it’ll be faint.”

  After cleaning the cuts on her wrists where the handcuffs had sliced through her skin, he applied an antibacterial salve and wrapped both wrists in white gauze.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Harrison stood outside Medical, waiting for Doc to complete his examination. After a reasonable wait, he knocked on the door, and after Aleo acknowledged, he stepped into his office. He eyed Christine carefully; she sat on the bed staring straight ahead, her eyes unreadable, her body unnaturally still. When she failed to respond to his entry, Harrison looked at Aleo.

  “She’s fine,” Aleo said, answering Harrison’s unasked question, “aside from a few cuts.”

  Physically, perhaps. Harrison wasn’t a doctor, but he’d seen the symptoms before: acute stress reaction—Christine was in psychological shock. Aleo met Harrison’s eyes and he nodded slightly, confirming Harrison’s assessment. His eyes went to her bandaged wrists, realizing she’d been in handcuffs, and he wondered what the Russians had done to her.

  Aleo turned back to Christine, touching her shoulder to get her attention. “The SUPPO will be here shortly with a change of clothes.”

  Christine didn’t reply, but she looked down at her thin, soaked nightgown; it clung to her body and was practically see-through now that it was wet. On cue, Michigan’s Supply Officer, Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas, entered Medical with a stack of clothes in her hand.