The (Russian) Devil & the Deep Blue Sea

It was a voice she knew.

"Abigail Jones--what a treat! I wondered if I might run into you here."

Abby froze, and a slow flush crept into her cheeks. Unwillingly, she turned on her heel, till she faced a barrel-chested man in an immaculate white suit and panama-hat, reclining casually at a nearby café table. He had dark, piercing eyes, and wore his hair close-cropped beneath his hat. Catching her eye, he raised his espresso cup in a jaunty salute. "Mrs. Jones, you must come and join us. I insist!"

Her feet felt like they were cased in cement. But Steven took Abby's hand to draw her over, and she trailed along obediently.

There was a brief, awkward pause, but Steven stepped in to fill the gap. Being a pastor and public figure, he had plenty of experience meeting new people and making chit-chat. "Hi, I'm Steven Jones. I don't think we've met, Mr....?"

The plutocrat's face lit up in a dazzling smile. "Ah! The great Steven Jones. Yes, I feel as if I know you already. What is it you Americans say? 'I'm a big fan.' The name is Yevgeny Brosaev."

Steven ducked his head a little. "Why, Mr. Brosaev, what a surprise! Such an honor to finally meet you. I'll never forget the courage you showed in arranging my release in Moscow. Not to mention, looking after Abby while I was in there. And your support for our foundation has been most generous." Brosaev waved a self-deprecating hand, as if to say 'it is only money.'

The tycoon had a couple of people seated with him, along with a flock of security goons hovering in the wings. Abby had met both of his table-mates before, but she failed to recognize one of them now: a dumpy, gray Russian functionary, sweating profusely in an ill-fitting black suit. She recalled the other one vividly, though. This was a lithe, pale-skinned woman of perhaps 29 or 30. The woman's face was elegant and severe--set off with dark-rimmed glasses, and framed by jet-black hair styled with choppy, neck-length sophistication. She wore a slinky, bandeau-style dress, splashed in warm pinks and oranges, which oozed the sort of simplicity that meant it cost a fortune.

Dear God (Abby reddened), it was Yevgeny's personal assistant, Yulia.

Abby's mind flashed back instantly to that moment, two years ago, when the oligarch had been penetrating her on his desk. Right in the middle of the act, this woman Yulia had strolled into the office and taken a lingering look at, well, everything. Brosaev had known she was there, but simply kept on thrusting. It was utterly impossible to meet her gaze now.

There were only three chairs at the small table, and Brosaev scowled at his fellows, clapping his hands together. "Where are your manners? Make room for our guests!" They rose with a clatter (though the secretary made no effort to hide her disapproving sneer).

Then Brosaev nodded at the vacated spots. "Please, have a seat. Yulia, get our friends some coffee!" Steven held out a chair for Abby, and after a moment's hesitation, she plopped down into it. "We must catch up," the billionaire continued. "Allow me to rearrange my schedule."

He made a curt gesture, and the bureaucratic lackey bent down for instructions. Neither Abby nor Steven had ever learned any Russian, of course, but they pasted attentive looks on their faces in an effort to be polite.

« It's time Pyotr. Set our arrangements in motion. »

The aide appeared hesitant. « Yevgeny Pavlovich, you can still change your mind. This is lunacy. She's nice-looking, sure. But you've already had the woman once--you really want to send good money after bad, just to fuck her again? »

Brosaev was not amused. « Know your place, Pyotr. I tell you, I will make money on this venture! But even if not: the cunt's shy manner and moral anguish are delicious. These are things I rarely get to sample. Furthermore, screwing-over these crazy religious nuts is a genuine pleasure for me. And that's leaving aside the fact that she gave me a son! How many of the glamour-queens who sponge off me can say that? So you see, getting another shot to impregnate her is merely good business sense. If you had any balls, you'd understand that. »

Undismayed, Pyotr tried again. « It's not just the money, boss. This plan is absurd. You're risking an international incident! »

« What 'international incident?' The president here will thank me. It does a country good to stir things up once in a while. Helps the leader see who the troublemakers are. Now quit your schoolgirl whining and call the mullah. »

Still frowning, Pyotr bowed acquiescence and wandered off, phone pressed to his ear. Yulia, meanwhile, sauntered back to the table, dangling a white china espresso cup in each hand, and setting them before the Joneses with studied disinterest.

Brosaev turned his attention to Abby. "That Pyotr always worries. I told him--'my appointments can wait, we must make time for our friends!' Alas, the world is full of these small-thinking men. But enough of that--Abigail, it is truly wonderful to see you again!" Yevgeny's manner was so effervescent, she couldn't help but return his gaze. "You may say we spent only a short time together. Four hours, perhaps? Five? But the pressures of that day were intense, and I felt I came to know you well."

Without waiting for her to respond, he leaned over and tapped Steven familiarly on the arm. "In fact, your wife is the reason I am here. When she told me about your work--about how the birth control is killing all the babies, and so on and so forth, that got my attention. I admire how you care about all the little babies, even when they are just one cell! So, although I don't like to toot my own trumpet, I will admit that I am the secret donor who paid for this Christian conference here! And naturally I'll be announcing more money for your organization as well."

Steven's face lit up, the way it always did with wealthy benefactors. "Praise the Lord! Once again, his mighty work will be done by your hand. There's such an opportunity here to eradicate the implements of Satan before they can fully take root--and the only thing holding us back is money. You're the answer to our prayers!"

Brosaev's glinting eyes slid back toward Abby again. "But what about your own kiddies--I seem to recall you had two? Are they at home?"

"Three, actually..." Abby's voice trailed off, flustered.

Once more, Steven covered her silence easily, reaching a proud arm around his wife's shoulders. "Your memory isn't faulty, though. Our third wasn't born until after that trip to Russia. His name is Jacob--he's 18 months now. They're staying with Abby's sister while we're away."

Brosaev beamed. "Ah, Yakub--a strong name. A good Russian name. Blessings abound."

Soon, the talk turned to Steven's pro-life initiative, and Abby let him take the lead, contributing a brief comment here or there when necessary. Just as she had back in Moscow, she marveled at how effortlessly and completely the oligarch dominated a conversation. He seemed to fill up all the space around him--his self-assurance and charisma urging you to listen to him, defer to him, like him, despite all the reasons you might have to the contrary. Weren't there supposed to be snakes whose gaze could hold you there, hypnotized, right up until the moment when they struck? If so, they must be a lot like Brosaev...

In fact, even seeing the man for who he was, Abby still wasn't fully immune to his charms. Before all that long, she too had been drawn into the exchange, almost as completely as Steven...

... And so it was that she actually felt a twinge of annoyance, when the goings-on in the vicinity began pulling her attention away from their banter again.

At first, it was subtle: just formless waves of unrest that rippled discreetly through the marketplace. She half-assumed it was all in her head--that she was simply projecting her own unsettled emotions.

Soon, however, there seemed little doubt that something really was happening. It wasn't clear what the surge in noise and activity signified, but it was definitely there. And it continued to grow, steadily, step by step by step--until eventually Abby became convinced that the buildup (whatever it was) was nearing its crescendo. Unwittingly, she held her breath, caught in a silent shiver of nervous expectancy.

Abruptly, all that tension finally hit its breaking point. With surprising rapidity, the square began to empty, and the proprietors to shutter their stalls. Not even Steven could remain oblivious to the commotion anymore. Losing his train of thought, he glanced around. "What do you think's happening?" Just then, a cavalcade of police cars roared past, sirens blaring; and Brosaev's security men tightened their cordon around the table, obviously on high alert.

"Let us find out." Brosaev beckoned over the agent in charge of his detail--a nordic-looking specimen with bleach-blonde hair and reflective sunglasses, wired with an earpiece. They shared a lengthy exchange in Russian; the man gesturing first toward the city center, and then the nearby marina.

"Akhh, the troubles we have in these third-world countries," the tycoon said at last, turning back to the Americans. "It seems that some Islamic fanatics received word of our Christian gathering, and have decided to stir up trouble. My guards report that a very large mob is coming, and it may get ugly. I do not fear for myself, since my role in the conference is not known, and Russia has good relations in the region. But you two, on the other hand, could be in real danger."

Just then, as if to punctuate the warning, a burst of automatic gunfire rang out over the rooftops. Abby had little frame of reference for such things, but it struck her as uncomfortably close.

Brosaev rose from his chair and sprang into action. Initiating a fresh and heated exchange with Pyotr and the blonde security chief, he gestured emphatically down the various aisles and passages of the market. The men were clearly displeased with his orders, but he soon browbeat them into submission. After that, with those two head-lackeys in the lead, the entire security team fanned out and disappeared into the depths of the market. No one remained in the square but the Joneses, Yulia, and Brosaev.

"I told them to search the place and bring every one of the holy leaders to safety," he rumbled reassuringly. "Now: we get you to your car."

Hounded by the clamor of voices in the distance, the four of them darted through the nearly deserted alleys. Abby found herself hunched over, as if against an approaching storm. And before they were more than halfway to their motorcade, the tumult swelled ahead of them. From around the next corner, a handful of harried policemen appeared, in full retreat--closely pressed by an angry crowd wielding clubs and broken bottles. Their route was blocked.

"This way," Brosaev said calmly, signaling back in the direction of the wharves. "We cannot make it to your vehicles. However, my ship is berthed here--it will be safe."

"Yes, but what about the others?" Abby breathed as they swept along in his wake.

"Do not fret yourself," the Russian soothed. "They have the best guards money can buy. My men will protect them."

The imperturbable oligarch might have been taken for a Sunday stroller, as they threaded their way toward the marina. His strides were long, however, and Abby was glad she'd worn pumps--Yulia stumbled more than once in her impractical heels. Still, none of them were eager to dawdle. It felt as if the throng was right on their tail.

When they got to the waterfront, it wasn't hard to make out which vessel was theirs. The magnate's yacht towered over every other craft in the anchorage, a gleaming, shark-like monstrosity in brilliant ivory and lustrous navy and gleaming glass. Abby was poor at estimating such things, but it looked as long as a football field to her.

A man in pristine sailor's whites waited next to a motor launch, and Brosaev shepherded them in. As they cast off and headed into the bay, Abby saw that they'd been spotted by some of the rampaging protestors. While she watched, a part of the mob began cramming themselves into the rusty scows and barges tied up at the pier. This struck her as a worrisome development.

Fortunately, it was only a short ride to the yacht's fantail. There, a tall, olive-skinned man in officer's uniform saluted them as they stepped aboard. "Makris," the owner barked at him, "set sail at once. The port is no longer secure."

The skipper spoke in lightly-accented English. "Yes, sir." Then he hesitated, darting a calculating eye over the pall of oily smoke hanging over the quay, and the ragtag flotilla wallowing towards the ship. "Except... most of the crew are still ashore. I only have six or eight here on board."

"I pay you to be captain, do I not? So: captain with what you have!"

"Aye-aye, sir." Makris strode off toward the bow to raise anchor, shouting orders up to the bridge as he went.

Almost immediately, Abby sensed the slight, inaudible tremor of machinery turning over in the bowels of the ship. It felt powerful and comforting. She feared it might take too long for such a large craft to pick up speed, but the oligarch didn't seem concerned, and his confidence proved justified. The boats pursuing them were old and overcrowded and indifferently-steered, and it wasn't long before they began to dwindle in the yacht's wake.

As they made their way out into open ocean, the sun sparkled on the waves, and the water changed from vivid cerulean to a deep, royal blue. Once again, it seemed, the Lord had chosen Brosaev to rescue them from peril on land. But what perils might they face at sea? Abby had experienced the man's true nature back in Moscow--and knew better than to trust in his decency, his generosity, or his goodwill.

"Now, my friends, we shall relax and enjoy the voyage!"

Beckoning them to follow, Brosaev led them across a spacious pool deck and into an opulent saloon, appointed with gleaming chrome and polished mahogany. Glancing around at all this splendor, he waved a hand dismissively. "My main yacht is in Tahiti, you know. So, we are stuck with this old thing. As you say in English, we will be 'roughing it,' eh?!"

They rose three decks in a glass elevator, and then the tycoon ushered them out into the saltwater breeze and dazzling brilliance of a circular sundeck. "Make yourselves comfortable."

Turning to take in the sweeping nautical vista, Abby shed her headscarf and shook out her wavy brunette locks.

It seemed she'd been holding her breath ever since trouble flared in the marketplace, and she tried to let it out now. Yet, however much she willed herself to relax, the shadow of foreboding clung to her stubbornly. And though she hated to admit it, she knew why it was. You see, it hadn't really been the onrush of the mob that first kindled her anxieties. No, her tensions had been roused somewhat earlier, at the moment when Brosaev's commanding tones had rung out in the Grand Pecherie. Because what drove her fears, nearly as much as the threat of violence in the streets, was the possibility of falling under this man's sway again.

Indeed, now that Abby was trapped on his yacht, these concerns seemed more justified than ever. Even with Steven by her side, it was possible to imagine the billionaire once again imposing his lusts on her, just as he'd done in Russia. And consciously, at least, Abby had no desire to experience such debasement again.

The hazard to her virtue, in and of itself, wasn't really what she dreaded. God often tested His servants with physical perils (and temptations), and the desecration of her body posed no risk to her immortal soul. What mattered was how one responded to such a test--what was in one's heart while one was being tested--and that is where her apprehensions lay. For, it seemed all too likely that if Abby's body did fall back into Brosaev's clutches, her mind and soul would inevitably follow.

This was an appraisal rooted in hard-won experience. Abby had faced a trial-by-fire in Moscow, two years earlier, and she could only call her performance then weak. Under the pressures of that day, she'd become a different woman, vulnerable in spirit and flesh. The plutocrat had steamrolled right over her--tapping into not only the worldly forces that gave him such power over those around him, but also intimate forces, deep down in Abby's brain stem, that made her physically receptive to him despite all her convictions.

Staring blindly out at the endless waves, Abby's eyes kept replaying that withering moment when she'd stood naked on the front steps of Brosaev's dacha, semen trickling down her thighs. She'd tried to put her foot down then, to refuse to get in his limo, to say enough is enough. But it had been no use. '"Don't screw this up," he'd warned, and she'd felt the icy chill of danger in his voice. "I only planned to fuck you once, but then you told me you are completely unprotected. Of course I am going to take another chance to get you pregnant." And that's exactly what he'd done. She'd been helpless to stop him. How could she ever hope to deny an ego so ravenous, and so unprincipled?

Nor was it just Abby's sense of powerlessness that troubled her. She also couldn't forget how anesthetized she'd become to Brosaev's lechery. Up to that day, she had been so very sheltered when it came to sex--had worked hard, in fact, to safeguard herself from even the slightest taint of secular culture. But it had all been for naught. Purposefully, unapologetically, systematically, the brute had stripped away not only that innocence, but the moral backbone that sustained it.

What hadn't he done to her? Ejaculated into her unguarded womb, despite all her protests. Taken her 'doggy style' in front of his aides--and, at the same time, invited one of those aides to shove his own penis down her throat. Given her the first (and best) orgasms of her life. And then left her tits-out and vulva-bared for the airport security officer to run his wand over. Her degradation had been so complete, that by the end of that day there had been nothing left that could shame or shock her. It's why, on the plane, Abby hadn't even blinked when that stewardess caught her riding up and down on Steven's shaft.

In the years since, Abby had worked to rebuild herself. She hadn't sought to become the person she'd been before, exactly--perhaps even tried to keep some of the nicer bits of what she'd learned. But she'd done her best to reclaim a sense of decency and moral boundaries; and for the most part, she'd been pleased with the results.

Until today, when the sound of Yevgeny's voice made all of that vanish into smoke. Instantly, she'd felt again what it had been like to be that exploited, cock-stuffed naif in Moscow--too dazed and compliant to even try to resist the man's depravity...

... Just then, a commotion arose behind Abby's back--bringing her meditations to an abrupt end. The voice she heard was Steven's. "Dear God!" he rasped out convulsively. "What are you doing?!!"

Whirling around, Abby saw that the outburst had been directed at Yulia. What the woman had been doing, apparently, was kicking off her heels and easing her way out of her sleek designer dress--because now, the garment was lying in a heap around her bare feet.

And nor, it appeared, had the personal assistant been wearing anything underneath!

Beads of sweat stood out on Steven's face, and he had one hand raised to shield his eyes--much as he might have done if demon-spawn had arisen from a crack in the earth. Abby waited for that same sense of shock and revulsion to wash over her too. But, to her chagrin... well, it didn't.

This blasé response to Yulia's nudity only stoked Abby's deeper anxieties further. It was, perhaps, reasonable that she felt neither surprised nor alarmed to find Yulia stripping off in front of everyone. Knowing what she knew, it was exactly the sort of thing one might expect to happen on Brosaev's yacht. Yet, in her heart, Abby believed it ought to provoke some reaction in her. She should view the scene as deplorable, or disgusting, or at least distasteful. But she didn't feel any of these things, and had no impulse to look away. And this struck her as worrisome.