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.
58
YASENEVO, RUSSIA
It was late afternoon when Semyon Gorev, seated at his desk in the Y-shaped headquarters of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, scrolled through the daily update on his computer. At the end of the intelligence summary, he reviewed the whereabouts of high-ranking foreign and domestic diplomats. Not only did the SVR keep tabs on foreign diplomats, they also kept track of their own, maintaining a record of their acquaintances and activities. One could never have enough information on Russian politicians; the hidden details of their lives had proven useful on countless occasions.
Gorev had a special interest in Christine O’Connor, and a quick check on her status produced a surprise result. She had left her hotel this morning, picked up by one of Chernov’s Federal Protective Service agents. After reading further, he noted Christine and Chernov had departed for his villa in Sochi, accompanied by the president of LUKoil and his wife.
What was Chernov up to, gallivanting around with one of the richest men in the country? Vagit Alekperov would want something in return for his friendship. Also, what game was Christine O’Connor playing? She had turned down President Kalinin’s offer for the weekend, only to accept one from Chernov? Kalinin was the clear winner on all fronts: more powerful, better looking, with a notably better personality. Choosing Chernov didn’t add up.
As head of the SVR, Gorev received background summaries of the diplomats visiting Russia, including Christine. However, he decided to examine her entire file. He left his office and headed to the Operations Center, a dimly lit room with over one hundred men and women at their workstations, poring over data on their computer screens while supervisors studied the most pertinent information on a dozen six-foot-wide video screens mounted along the front wall. Gorev stopped at one of the supervisor workstations.
“Pull up Christine O’Connor’s file.”
The supervisor complied, and Gorev peered over his shoulder as he scrolled through the information.
“Stop,” Gorev said when he noticed an entry about a meeting between Christine and Israel’s intelligence minister, who died about the same time as their meeting.
“Pull up Barak Kogen’s file,” Gorev directed.
The requested information was displayed, and at the end of Kogen’s file, Gorev found the information he was looking for. Barak Kogen’s death was publicly reported as a heart attack, but the SVR’s official assessment was that he was poisoned. Gorev examined the date. Kogen died the same day he had lunch with Christine O’Connor.
Gorev pulled his phone from his jacket, looking up Chernov’s contact information. The Operations Center was shielded from radio transmissions, so he called Chernov on a landline.
No answer.
“Get me a number for Chernov’s security detail.”
The number was provided and one of Chernov’s agents answered, explaining the defense minister was on his yacht in the Black Sea with Alekperov and his wife, along with O’Connor and two Federal Protective Service agents.
Gorev decided to pay Chernov and O’Connor a visit. “Give me two men,” he told the Operations Center supervisor, “and air transportation to Sochi immediately.”
59
SOCHI, RUSSIA
The afternoon aboard Chernov’s yacht passed quickly as they cruised northwest along the Black Sea coast under a cloudless sky. From the flying bridge, Christine had a spectacular view of Sochi’s pebble-sand beaches, transitioning to green hills ascending toward the Caucasus Mountains to the east and wooded uplands to the north. With no chef aboard to prepare a meal suitable for his guests, Chernov docked at the Sochi Yacht Club for lunch at a French brasserie-style restaurant on the waterfront. Lunch was delicious, and after returning to the yacht, they continued northwest along the Black Sea coast. As the sun slipped toward the horizon, Chernov turned the yacht around and increased speed.
It wasn’t long before they cruised between steep cliffs framing the entrance to the cove beneath Chernov’s villa, then coasted to a halt beside the pier. It was almost dinnertime, and the aroma of rosemary and garlic greeted Christine as she entered the open-air villa. She headed to Chernov’s bedroom to change clothes, swapping her capri pants and blouse for a one-shoulder emerald-green chiffon dress.
The three Russians likewise changed attire, with Chernov and Alekperov donning sport coats over open-collar shirts, while Alekperov’s wife changed into a stylish white satin evening gown. Drinks on the patio were followed by a delectable dinner, during which the wine flowed freely. Christine paced herself, limiting her consumption to two glasses. She would normally have stopped at one considering what she was about to do, but decided a second glass would help calm her nerves.
A Russian crème over fresh fruit for dessert completed the meal, and as darkness descended on the shore of the Black Sea, the conversations ebbed. Alekperov and his wife excused themselves for an early repose, leaving Christine and Chernov alone at the table. Chernov rose, extending his hand, assisting Christine to her feet, then led the way to his bedroom suite.
After they entered the room, Chernov pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket and turned it off, then closed the door behind them. As he locked the door, Christine’s apprehension began to mount, and she began trembling. Chernov noticed and inquired, considering the temperature was in the mid-seventies. Christine played it off as the chills from too much sun on Chernov’s yacht. Backing up her claim, her exposed skin had a pink tinge.
Chernov turned off the ceiling fan, then stopped in front of Christine, rubbing the sides of her shoulders to warm her up. As he looked down at her, Christine wrapped her arms around his neck and offered a kiss, which Chernov eagerly accepted. She let the kiss linger while Chernov’s hands wandered, doing her best to simulate a passionate response. When the kiss ended, she pulled away.
“Let me change into something more appropriate.”
Chernov grinned as Christine gathered her silk nightgown and her purse, then headed into the bathroom.
60
SOCHI, RUSSIA
It was dark by the time Semyon Gorev’s Falcon executive jet landed at Sochi International Airport. During the flight, Gorev examined Christine O’Connor’s file in more detail. She wasn’t an undercover agent; there was no indication she had received field training or had ties to the CIA. It seemed Christine was one of the unluckiest women in the world, however, frequently ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time. An SVR field agent would’ve had to work hard to end up in the predicaments Christine found herself in during her stint as America’s national security advisor.