After she rejoined Yelchin in the hallway, he led her down to the main floor and through a set of French doors into a study lined with mahogany bookshelves and paneling. Russian President Yuri Kalinin, wearing khaki slacks and a collared sport shirt, rose from his chair behind a matching mahogany desk.
“Christine, welcome to Cape Idokopas.” He circled around his desk and offered a warm, two-handed shake. “I’m glad we are finally able to get together.” He checked his watch. “Are you hungry? We will have lunch aboard my yacht as we enjoy the beautiful weather.”
The weather was indeed beautiful, and Christine was hungry as well.
“Lunch aboard your yacht sounds great.”
Kalinin escorted Christine through the mansion’s passageways, joined by four black-suited presidential security service agents along the way, then entered an elevator and descended several hundred feet, exiting into a tunnel. They emerged from the base of the cliff onto a dock, where Christine and the five men boarded the president’s yacht.
Kalinin showed Christine around Sirius, a 177-foot-long, five-deck ship, complete with a cinema, two whirlpools, a glass-encased waterfall, and wine cellar, able to accommodate eleven overnight guests and twelve crew members. They stopped by the bar, where a crewmember poured Kalinin a glass of cognac and made a White Russian for Christine. The aroma of rosemary and thyme filled the air as Kalinin led Christine past the kitchen, where a chef was preparing lunch. After climbing to the top level of the yacht, Christine and the Russian president settled into cushioned seats on the starboard side of the flying bridge. Crewmembers took in the lines and Sirius angled out to sea.
The weather couldn’t have been better, with the temperature in the low eighties and a light breeze kicking in as Sirius picked up speed, cutting through the Black Sea. They cruised southeast down the coast as Kalinin pointed out the sights along the shore. In the distance, rolling green hills ascended toward the Caucasus Mountains.
After they passed Sochi, Russia’s largest and most popular resort city, a cove drew into view, containing a villa atop a rock outcropping overlooking the water. Christine examined the rubble of what once was a flagstone patio, and her pulse quickened. Her eyes shifted to the boathouse by the shore, and her thoughts took her into a dark room where she’d been handcuffed to an overhead pipe; a room where Semyon Gorev had jammed a pistol into her mouth.
Kalinin was talking, but Christine seemed oblivious to his comments, staring toward an alcove along the shore. Her complexion had turned pale and her breathing shallow.
She stood without a word and descended the staircase, disappearing into the level below. Kalinin studied the distant alcove, realizing it contained Chernov’s villa. He recalled what Christine had been forced to endure, then realized how insensitive he’d been. He had directed Sirius’s captain to head southeast, past Chernov’s villa.
Kalinin headed below, spotting Christine leaning against a credenza, staring at her reflection in a mirror. He stopped behind her and placed his hands gently on the side of each shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. Her eyes shifted, catching his reflection in the mirror. He added, “I should have been more thoughtful.”
Christine turned toward him. “It’s okay.” Her voice was listless and she failed to make eye contact. As Kalinin searched for appropriate words, he watched emotion play across her face. Then her features suddenly hardened and her eyes locked on to his.
“No, it’s not okay,” she said, her words sharp. “It’s your fault this happened.” She pointed her finger at him, poking him in the chest with each sentence. “You invaded Ukraine and Lithuania. You blackmailed the United States and NATO.” Kalinin stepped back, creating space between them, but Christine advanced. “It’s your fault I ended up in that alcove.”
The pitch of her voice rose, her face turning red with anger. Kalinin continued retreating, nearly tripping over an ottoman before his back hit the bulkhead. Christine jabbed him in the chest again. “It’s your fault that I—” She stopped, her hand frozen in midair.
It was Christine’s turn to search for words, but Kalinin spoke first. “I did what I thought was best for my country. I intended you no harm.” He waited for a response, but Christine remained quiet, the color slowly fading from her face. Kalinin said, “Please accept my apology.”
She stared at him for a moment, then headed toward one of the guest staterooms, closing the door behind her.
Kalinin took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. Hippchenko was wrong. A relationship with Christine would be far more complicated than he’d predicted.
He returned to the flying bridge, unable to enjoy the beautiful weather, his thoughts dwelling on Christine as he lingered over his cognac. His shoulders were tense and he stared more into his glass than upon the scenic shore sliding slowly by. Lunch was almost ready, and there’d been no sign of Christine.
She suddenly reappeared, a refilled drink in her hand. She sat on the sofa beside him, a bit closer than normal.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Her words seemed sincere, but her voice remained flat. Kalinin tried to decipher the mixed signals, concluding she hadn’t completely worked through the issue. He decided the best tack was to put the matter behind them for now.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said.
Christine looked up. “You do,” she said, her eyes catching his. Then she added, “But I accept your apology,” and she smiled.
The tension faded from Kalinin’s shoulders and he returned the smile. He decided to take a chance and draped his arm along the top of the cushion, behind Christine. She leaned back into his arm. Kalinin felt warm, unsure whether it was from the cognac or Christine’s proximity. Perhaps their relationship would develop further after all.
He’d find out tonight.
16
KUBINKA AIR BASE, RUSSIA
Sixty kilometers west of Moscow, General Sergei Andropov stood on the tarmac beside the Ilyushin IL-76 aircraft, its jet engines spinning up as Colonel Vagit Savvin motioned for his handpicked men to board. Andropov waited impatiently while the 120 armed soldiers boarded the troop transport. A short distance away, twenty armored personnel carriers and infantry fighting vehicles were loaded aboard Antonov An-124s. Although Andropov expected no resistance from Kalinin’s servants and was confident the president’s security detachment would be quickly overwhelmed, he was taking no chances.
Colonel Savvin approached. “The communication equipment is aboard,” he reported, referring to the jammers that would disrupt all cell phone signals within a one-hundred-meter radius of Kalinin’s mansion. Prior to commencing the operation, the landline would also be cut. Although Kalinin’s security detail would be quickly overrun once Andropov’s men stormed the residence, he had to be sure no one was notified of the situation. Andropov would arrive at Gelendzhik accompanied only by his aide, with the rest of the men held back until Kalinin was in custody.
The last of the armored personnel carriers were loaded aboard the An-124s and the ramps lifted slowly shut. The most important piece of equipment, however, was in Andropov’s hand. A briefcase delivered to his home several days ago. After the last soldier boarded the Ilyushin IL-76, Andropov followed Savvin into the transport for the ninety-minute flight south.