17
GELENDZHIK, RUSSIA
The orange-reddish sun hovered only a few degrees above the horizon by the time Kalinin’s yacht returned to Gelendzhik, coasting to a halt alongside the pier. The conversation during lunch and the rest of the afternoon had been light and the time had passed quickly, accompanied by quite a few laughs while Kalinin tried to teach Christine a few Russian words. Despite several mispronunciations, she was a quick learner and had virtually no accent, which wasn’t surprising since she’d spent her childhood listening to her and Jake’s moms speaking in Russian over tea.
Kalinin escorted Christine onto the pier, joined by his presidential security service detachment, and they soon reached the dual staircase in the foyer leading to the bedroom suites. Dinner would be at eight, giving Christine enough time to freshen up and change into an elegant evening gown. She ascended one staircase while Kalinin climbed the other.
After washing her face and redoing her makeup, Christine slipped into a one-shoulder, sleeveless, red satin dress that hugged her curves, with a slit to the middle of her right thigh. It was a dress she hadn’t worn since before her last visit to China’s Great Hall of the People. Tonight, however, she would no longer avoid it, putting her blemishes on full display; the three bullet hole scars on her arm, shoulder, and thigh.
She made one final assessment in the bathroom mirror, then headed down the hallway. When she entered the foyer, she spotted Kalinin waiting at the bottom of the stairs wearing a blue suit jacket over an open-collared white dress shirt. His gaze surveyed her body as she descended the stairs, but if he noticed the scars, he didn’t comment. He extended his arm as his eyes locked on to hers.
Christine intertwined her arm in his and he escorted her toward dinner. To Christine’s surprise, they passed the dining room and kept going, emerging onto a poolside patio containing a candlelit table for two. Kalinin helped Christine into her chair, then slid into his.
A sommelier appeared within seconds, and after learning what type of wine Christine preferred, Kalinin selected a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. The sommelier returned a moment later with the wine, pouring a sample for Kalinin. After a short swirl and taste, Kalinin nodded his approval. The sommelier poured two glasses as the first serving of a five-course dinner arrived. The meal was delicious and the wine exquisite.
The conversation remained light and the wine flowed freely, and after Christine’s second glass, she began to feel the alcohol’s effect. Her thoughts wandered, touching on several issues but always returning to Kalinin and why she had agreed to spend the weekend with him. Notwithstanding the SVR death sentence and the value of remaining in Kalinin’s good graces, she had trouble reconciling her feelings for him. Personally, he was charming, but how could she overlook his sins: invading two countries and attempting to blackmail the United States from intervening?
Eventually, the topic came up. Kalinin was unrepentant, defending his actions to reestablish a zone of friendly countries along Russia’s western border, even if it required military force. It became clear that in Kalinin’s mind, this buffer zone was essential, and Christine’s frustration mounted as she failed to convince him he was wrong. As she pressed the issue, Kalinin shifted gears.
“Additionally, there are many Russians trapped inside other countries. The borders of European countries have been fluid for two millennia, and the current borders do not recognize the desires of the people. Russians should be in Russia, not Ukraine or the Baltic States, simply because some king traded away land that wasn’t his to begin with. Rectifying past wrongs, placing Russians in Russia, is not such a terrible thing.”
“Great idea, Yuri. You should give it a try. Oh, wait. You did, and we sank most of your Navy.”
Displeasure flashed across Kalinin’s face. He reached for his wineglass. “There is an edge to your personality that I hadn’t detected before this weekend.”
Christine took a deep breath. Hardison wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the change. It had begun in China’s Great Hall of the People, when Jake Harrison, the left side of his chest drenched in blood, placed a pistol in one of her hands and a flash drive in the other. Although she took several bullets in the process, she’d emptied the pistol magazine with a corresponding body count. At Ice Station Nautilus, she’d jammed an ice pick in one man’s temple and through another man’s throat. But those deaths were unavoidable. Her life and the lives of others had hung in the balance.
What she’d done at Chernov’s villa was different. She’d crossed the line. She was about to slip away, undetected, when she chose instead to place a gun in Gorev’s mouth. On the shore of the Black Sea, she’d killed a man for no other reason than … she wanted to.
Since that moment, she’d been struggling with who she was, the principles she stood for, and had been unable to reconcile her action with her values. An image appeared in her mind — of her standing above Gorev, looking down at his vacant eyes, his blood and brains splattered on the upholstery. She felt a lump in her throat as tears formed in her eyes.
Christine placed her napkin on the table. “Coming here was a mistake.” She stood and turned to leave.
Kalinin caught her wrist.
She faced him and he released her.
“Stay,” he said. “You must stop running away from what you’ve done.”
Christine vacillated, unsure if she could continue the conversation, much less wanted to. Finally, she asked, “Have you killed in cold blood?”
“That is a complicated question,” Kalinin answered.
“I don’t think it’s complicated at all.”
Kalinin countered, “Your problem is that you are too idealistic, your values too open-ended. They need to be constrained inside a framework that helps you distinguish between right and wrong.” As Christine contemplated his words, he said, “I am not guided by personal gain. I do what is in Russia’s best interest. That is what forms my values and shapes my actions.”
“So that’s how you sleep at night after invading two countries?”
Kalinin leaned back in his chair. “Yes.”
He gestured toward her chair. “Please.”
After a moment of indecision, she returned to her seat.
Kalinin refilled her wineglass. “I realize a relationship between us will be difficult, if not impossible. But let’s put the past behind us, at least for the weekend, and focus on the future.” He held his glass up for a toast.
Christine’s eyes went from his glass to hers. Burying the past seemed like a good idea. She touched her glass against his. “To the future.”
President Kalinin’s executive assistant approached. “I apologize for interrupting,” Yelchin said, “but General Andropov and his aide are here. The general says he needs to talk with you about the Zapad war games. There has been a terrible incident.”
Kalinin’s eyes shifted to Christine. “Where is General Andropov now?”
“He is waiting in the foyer.”
After considering things, Kalinin said, “I’ll meet him in my study. Do not mention Miss O’Connor.”
When Yelchin departed, Kalinin turned to Christine. “I don’t want General Andropov to see you. He isn’t pleased with some of my recent decisions, and I don’t want to arm him with information he could use against me. You can’t stay here, nor can you return to your room undetected. Come with me.”
Christine joined Kalinin, matching his pace as he strode toward his study. Once inside, he stopped beside a mahogany panel in the back. He flipped a rosette to the side, revealing a security pad. He punched in a code and the adjacent mahogany panel slid sideways, revealing a dark opening. Kalinin guided her inside.