The man’s eyes moved over her body, coming to rest on her face. “You are even more attractive in person, and your resemblance to Kalinin’s deceased wife is remarkable. I see why he is enamored with you. But none of that will matter once Kalinin leaves office.”
“Why is that?’
“Kalinin’s order is valid only as long as he is president. The day he steps down as Russia’s president will be your last day alive.”
Instead of the agent’s threat spawning fear, Christine’s anger began to simmer. Her eyes went to the pistol, still pointed at her. “Last I heard, Kalinin is still president. So why are you here?”
“To deliver a message from our new director. He appreciates your role in his promotion, but he is bound to the code. He—”the agent paused, then spread his hands out to his sides,“—we will enjoy watching you live your remaining days in fear.”
“That’s it? You came here to scare me?”
“Actually,” the man said, “I was hoping for more.” He placed the pistol on the table and pushed it toward Christine, stopping when it was within her reach. He leaned back in his chair.
“If the situation were to get out of hand today, ending in your unfortunate death…”
Christine examined the pistol; it was halfway between them.
“Go ahead. Take it.”
Even if she reached it first, did he have another gun? She surveyed his jacket for another bulge, seeing none. Her eyes went back to the gun, which she suddenly recognized: a Glock 26, the same type she’d been given outside China’s Great Hall of the People. The same type she’d bought and was upstairs in—
The gun on the table was hers.
The realization must have played across her face, because the agent admitted, “Yes, Christine. It’s your pistol. You should take it.”
She looked at the gun again. The magazine was inserted, but there was no way to know if he’d stripped the bullets. Plus, if the gun on the table was hers, his was undoubtedly within easy reach. As she debated her odds of survival if she went for the gun, something the man said earlier echoed in her mind.
Fortunately for you, President Kalinin has directed us to refrain from retribution.
She didn’t need the gun.
Christine leaned forward. “Get out. And if you step foot in here again, I’ll put a bullet in you.”
The SVR agent stood and retrieved the pistol, releasing the magazine onto the table. It was loaded. “You should have taken the gun. You would’ve had a chance, however slim.”
Christine pointed toward the door. “Get out!”
The man slipped the magazine into his pocket. “Good night, Miss O’Connor.”
After the man left, Christine moved swiftly to the door and locked it, then evaluated her predicament. Despite her resignation, it appeared she couldn’t walk away from what she’d done in Russia. She grabbed the gun and headed upstairs, entering her bedroom closet. After retrieving a case from the top shelf, she lifted the lid and verified the Glock was hers; it was missing from the case, as was one of the two magazines. She pulled back the pistol’s slide, verifying the chamber was empty, then inserted the magazine and released the slide, chambering a round.
As she held the pistol, she took a deep, shaky breath and tried to focus. What happened in Russia wasn’t her fault. Gorev had tormented her, telling her she’d be fish food at the bottom of the Black Sea by morning. What was she supposed to have done? Let him put a bullet in her head and toss her into the sea? After what she’d been through, the danger she found herself in now was decidedly unfair. A rage began to build, her face becoming flush with anger. She placed the pistol in the top drawer of her nightstand and slammed it shut, knocking over a portrait of her mother.
Christine righted the picture, studying her mom’s features. She took after her mother more than her father, her mom’s Russian genetics dominating. She couldn’t argue with the agent’s comment about her resemblance to Kalinin’s wife, who had died of cancer not long after he was elected president. When Kalinin had shown Natasha’s picture to her in his Kremlin office, it was like looking into a mirror.
She was grateful Kalinin had intervened, delaying the SVR’s retribution. However, it appeared he didn’t have firm control of his SVR, with the new director sending one of his minions to torment her. Perhaps Kalinin should be informed. During her last visit to Moscow, he’d given her his personal cell phone number after inviting her to spend the weekend, hoping for a favorable answer. She’d declined the invitation, but still had the number. She checked her watch; it was 8 a.m. in Moscow.
Christine returned to her kitchen and pulled her cell phone from her purse. She scrolled through her contacts, selecting Kalinin’s personal number, then hit Send.
The phone went immediately to voicemail.
She selected Kalinin’s work number — his Kremlin office. As the phone rang, she realized she should probably be polite, but her anger was boiling over.
When the call was answered, Christine said, “This is American National Security Advisor Christine O’Connor. I have a message for President Kalinin. You tell him—”
“One moment please.” The secretary placed her on hold.
Christine’s frustration built further at the rude interruption, and she paced around the kitchen island while she waited.
The secretary spoke again. “Miss O’Connor?”
Christine picked up where she left off. “You tell President Kalinin—”
“You can tell him yourself. He is on the line.”
Christine’s words caught in her throat. Before she could continue, Kalinin spoke.
“This is President Kalinin.”
Christine collected her thoughts, deciding it was best to tamp down on her anger. “President Kalinin, thank you for taking my call.”
“It is my pleasure. How can I help?”
“One of your SVR agents broke into my house and threatened me tonight.” After providing the details, she said, “I want to thank you for intervening, sparing my life for now. But if another agent breaks into my home again, I’ll either kill him myself or have someone do it for me. I’m sure there are a few people in Langley,” Christine said, referring to CIA headquarters, “who’d be happy to oblige.”
There was silence on the line. As Christine awaited a response, she worried that she’d come across too strong. Kalinin had intervened to save her life after all, and perhaps she should have been more grateful.
Finally, Kalinin spoke. “Thank you for informing me. I apologize for this incident and will address the matter.”
Christine let out a slow breath. This had gone much better than it could have.
Kalinin then said, “Let me make amends for today’s unfortunate event. The next round of nuclear arms reduction negotiations is in Moscow in two weeks. Afterwards, I’d be delighted if you joined me for the weekend at my summer residence in Gelendzhik.”
It was Christine’s turn for silence. Kalinin was an attractive man and only ten years older than her. Age wasn’t an issue, but Kalinin was Russia’s president and Christine was America’s national security advisor. She had trouble wrapping her mind around the complications created by a liaison between them, much less an intimate relationship, even if it began after she resigned.
After a short wait, Kalinin said, “This is the third time I have extended an invitation. I will not ask again.”
On the other hand, in light of what she’d just learned, keeping Kalinin in the friends column seemed like a really good idea. But a weekend with Kalinin wasn’t something she could agree to on the spur of the moment. She stalled for time.
“I’ll have to discuss this with the president and his legal counsel first.”