Sochi’s architecture was palatial, every surface seemingly carved from white marble. The motifs were reminiscent of Ancient Greece — not without homage to myth and local lore, which claimed that Zeus had nailed Prometheus to a nearby cliff up in the mountains.
The style was matched by the Olympia’s decor. Polished floors, exquisite furniture and round-bellied vases had managed to stay in fashion throughout millennia.
On the main deck level, four persons sat at the table in the dining room. President Nikolai Alexandrov and the First Lady hosted two guests: an Oriental man in his fifties and a young woman — his daughter.
The Oriental’s oversized chest protruded underneath his shirt. He was of medium height, flabby at the waist, but his feline eyes oozed narcissism. In his country, Timur Kasymov had grown accustomed to attention. He was the President of Kazakhstan. Beauty was an attribute of power.
Earlier that morning, Kasymov and his daughter had flown in for an informal visit, honoring the invitation of the Russian President, who spent most of his first summer in office at his Sochi residence. After the Kasymovs had settled in the halls of Bocharov Ruchey, Alexandrov suggested a maritime adventure in the evening, which they duly accepted.
Now, the Olympia was anchored two kilometers off Sochi. Distant patrols of the Coast Guard kept a watchful eye for potential attackers, while a mixed security detail attended to the needs of the passengers on board. The Olympia’s staff of FSB and FSO officers was complimented from the Kazakh side by Kasymov’s security chief, a dark, black-bearded man named Ahmed Sadaev.
From Bocharov Ruchey, their pleasure cruise had taken them on a northerly course, away from the bustling center of the city, to an area guarded from tourists and the media. It was territory under direct authority of the Presidential Staff, belonging to recreational sanatoria that had been built by Stalin for the Party elite. Ashore, access to the beach was restricted, so there was no chance of any casual stroller happening to witness the Olympia—nor could any saboteur threaten it.
The evening flowed in a relaxed mood, but the questions that Alexandrov had to settle with his Kazakh counterpart nagged him all throughout the dinner. The pressing issues had to wait until the discussion became more tête-à-tête.
“Nikolai?”
“Yes?”
“I want,” Timur Kasymov said with finality, “to hire your chef. I’d keep him forever. The dinner was excellent. Like everything on your wonderful yacht.”
“The yacht isn’t mine. It belongs to the Russian people.”
Kasymov chuckled. The First Lady raised her head in laughter. She was a petite woman with a mole-spotted neck, and her gray hair, unwashed, was a mop of poodle shavings.
President Alexandrov dabbed his mouth as an FSB steward took away his empty china plate. “But you’re right. The Olympia is magnificent. A peaceful setting like this does help ease the stress.”
“You still work too hard, my friend, even when you should rest,” Kasymov said. “I see the bags under your eyes.”
“I keep telling him to see my cosmetic surgeon. After what he did to me, I look ten years younger,” the First Lady said.
President Alexandrov almost slipped into confessing that bug-eyed, she looked uglier than ever. Instead, he turned to Asiyah Kasymova.
“You have a gorgeous daughter, Timur. She is the one to grace the television screens, not old fossils like us.”
Throughout the evening, Alexandrov had been stealing glances at Asiyah.
At twenty-six, her face retained a childish look. She wore no makeup, only a touch of perfume on her neck. She had inherited the high forehead and cheekbones from her Russian mother, who had died when Asiyah was ten months old. Exotic sensuality shaped her rosy lips. But her huge hazel eyes, framed with faint arcs for brows, were the real source of her magnetism, hiding the child in her.
Her proportions were faultless. Mentally, Alexandrov undressed her, his eyes going over the lines of Asiyah’s bosom, her flat abdomen and narrow waist.
“Why didn’t you ever bring her along with you before?”
Alexandrov’s remark made Asiyah lower her head in apparent timidness. A strand of silky raven hair fell over her cheek. Her fingers tucked it back behind the ear. Long, gentle fingers.
For an instant, the hazel eyes burned with emotion. Alexandrov detected what might have been rage, provoked by his attention. It was intriguing.
“Asiyah is a shy girl. I gave her traditional upbringing… In accordance with the values of the Koran.”
“Ah yes,” Alexandrov said finally. “The Muslim customs. I find it very disturbing that Islamic extremism is on the rise in Kazakhstan.”
“The assassination of Ambassador Quinn is a terrible tragedy, the worst terrorist attack in the history of Kazakhstan. But we are determined to fight against these enemies of freedom and true Islam. I assure you, it was a foreign influence. There can be no tolerance for terrorist ideology in the Kazakh society. We stand by our values of democracy, and we will protect them.”
The First Lady sighed.
“A shame you had to bring up this unpleasant topic, dear,” she said in a bored tone. “All this talk of politics and terrorism ruins an otherwise perfect evening.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we left the men do discuss their affairs in private,” said Asiyah.
“A splendid idea,” the First Lady said. Her husband’s glances across the table were not lost on her.
Asiyah rose from her chair.
“On the contrary,” objected Alexandrov. “I trust that the evening has a lot left in it.”
The First Lady froze, seething behind her smile.
Asiyah resolved the impasse instantly.
“No, really, I wish to retire early. It’s been a long day. I’m still a bit weary from the flight.”
“I won’t stand in the way of your wishes,” Alexandrov said coyly.
The two women, young and not so young, left the table. The First Lady guided Asiyah up the stairs, to the boat deck.
“Good night, Asiyah,” called the President of Russia, but she was already gone.
The Russian President walked to the lounge beyond the colonnade.
“I have a fine selection of cognacs in the bar.”
“My pleasure, Nikolai. The choice is yours.”
Although formally Muslim, Kasymov had no qualms about the vice.
Alexandrov returned with a bottle of aged cognac and two snifters.
“The timing of the attack couldn’t have been lousier,” Alexandrov said. “Exactly when we expected serious progress for the Median Line agreement in the Caspian.”
“It is the work of the China-Iran axis,” Timur Kasymov said. “I am sure of it. They are desperate to stop it.”
“At least I hope nothing can thwart your initiative that we have dreamed of for so long.”
Kasymov brought the cognac to his lips.
“In a week’s time, I shall announce a referendum to be held, asking the citizens of Kazakhstan if they want to reunite with Russia.”
Alexandrov nodded.