This was an Iran planning session, not a Security Council meeting, Dominika knew. That council had lost influence and standing during the first and second Putin regimes—it was now an elephant graveyard for soon-to-be retired military and intelligence officials, the current SVR director being one of them. Accordingly, Zarubina in Washington was positioning herself to unseat him. As the most junior participant in attendance, Dominika was seated at the far end of the table, beside an agitated Zyuganov. The SVR director, a full member of the council, sat woodenly halfway down the table.
Dominika scanned the other faces, pinched in tight shirt collars, suit coats stretched across bellies, lank gray hair spilling over glistening foreheads. Putin’s insiders, the new politburo. Yellows and browns and blues swirled around their heads, a palette of greed, sloth, pride, lust, and envy. And gluttony. Govormarenko of Iskra-Energetika was halfway up the other end of the table, picking his teeth. Dominika recognized the only other woman at the table—Nabiullina, one of the president’s closest allies and recent surprise pick as chairman of the Russian central bank—unsmiling and sitting at Putin’s left elbow, surrounded by a dirty yellow fog.
Then it happened. Putin scanned the assembled faces and the menthol blue eyes fixed on Dominika. He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and an aquamarine tie that positively shimmered in the movie-set light of the room. “Captain Egorova,” he said, his voice cutting across the table. “Come and sit here,” he said, indicating with a wave the chair to his right. On stumps that had moments before been her legs, Dominika got up, walked through the unfolding black bat wings of Zyuganov’s insanity and past a frozen Yevgeny sitting against the wall, a notebook balanced on his knees. Eyes followed her down the silent room, knowing smiles on the faces of the wisest among them.
“Initsiativa. Talant,” said Putin looking around the room as Dominika sat down. “Talent was critical in the matter of the Iranian procurement. And initiative. Our intelligence service brought this opportunity to light; Captain Egorova … and Colonel Zyuganov were instrumental.” He nodded down the table at Zyuganov, but the dwarf might as well have been sitting at a bus stop in Kazakhstan.
“And now we are in the final stage. The funds are available,” said Putin, looking over at Nabiullina, who moved her head imperceptibly. “And the seismic floor is being assembled as contracted.”
Down the table, Govormarenko held up three stained fingers. “Assembly completed in three months,” he said. That will be the lead sentence in tonight’s SRAC shot, thought Dominika.
“And the Germans will deliver the equipment as arranged,” said Putin. These were not questions, they were edicts.
“The cargo will be loaded on a Sovkomflot freighter in Hamburg,” said a man with bushy eyebrows. “The equipment will be off-loaded at Bandar Abbas in the Persian Gulf approximately one month later.” Putin’s blue eyes were unblinking.
All right Benford, just as we discussed. Dominika took a quiet deep breath. “May I make an observation?” she said. Putin turned to her and nodded, his eyes locked on hers. “I know nothing about sea transport, or heavy machinery, but officers in our Service know some things very well.” She didn’t dare look at their faces around the table, especially not at Zyuganov’s or the director’s.
“Cover,” she said. “Security. Stealth.”
The room was silent.
“As I understand the transaction, the Iranians have agreed to our proposal because they will receive the flooring—embargoed equipment—in secret. For them it is the most attractive part of the transfer, and they are willing to pay double for it.”
Putin kept staring at her.
“For a Russian freighter to transit from Hamburg to Iran would involve passage through the English Channel, the Strait of Gibraltar, the Mediterranean, the Suez Canal and the Red Sea, the Gulf of Oman, then the Strait of Hormuz in the Persian Gulf.”
“Correct,” said the man from Sovkomflot.
“A route that includes some of the most closely monitored international bodies of water on the planet.”
“Also correct,” said Sovkomflot.
“And the ship would be off-loaded at the port of Bandar Abbas.”
“Yes.”
“I would be surprised if Western navies did not quickly document the arrival of a Russian ship with a massive piece of machinery, not to mention satellite coverage of the main Iranian port,” said Dominika.
“Unavoidable,” said the Sovkomflot man, nettled at being told his business.
“Unavoidable is not acceptable,” said Putin, turning to him. “The Persians will know all this, they will complain. The transaction could be jeopardized. This government would be embarrassed.” You mean my transaction could be jeopardized, thought Dominika. And one does not embarrass the president, she transmitted to the clueless official.
“And how else would you get a multiton cargo from Germany to Iran?” snorted the Sovkomflot man.
Please God, Benford, let your facts be right, she thought. “Like we do in the Service,” said Dominika. “Unseen, through the back door.”
“Riddles—” said the Sovkomflot man, stopping when Putin put up his hand.
“Tell us,” said Putin.
“Instead of heading south, our freighter proceeds north from Hamburg to Saint Petersburg and off-loads the equipment. Completely routine and innocent,” said Dominika. “The shipment is then transported through Russia to a minor Iranian port on the south coast of the Caspian Sea.”
“Improbable,” said the Sovkomflot man. “Land transport would require a massive trailer. This cargo is bulky, as big as a house, weighs over forty tons. Even the military does not have equipment that capable.” A few cronies spoke up, more to participate than to assist.
“A transporter-launcher for a ballistic missile might be modified to accommodate—” began a bald man.
“That would take months, and road quality is uneven the farther south—” said another.
“Are you mad? Through the heart of the country?” said Sovkomflot.
“Weather would have to be factored in—” said Govormarenko, still picking his teeth.
Putin held up his hand. Royal-blue pinwheels of light flashed behind his head and shoulders. He did not glance at his barnyard geese around the table. Dominika saw that he knew she had the answer; he just didn’t know it came from Simon Benford. “Captain Egorova?” he prompted.
The room was silent.
“I looked at a map last night,” answered Dominika. “I had an idea.” A murmur came from the end of the table, which Putin ignored. Dominika didn’t dare look away from him. “From Saint Petersburg through the lakes, Ladoga and Onega, across Rybinsk Reservoir into the Volga canal, to the Volga, all the way downriver through the delta at Astrakhan, then traverse south on the Caspian to Iran and the northern Persian port of Bandar-e Anzali.” She looked at the faces and turned again to Putin. No one around the table would say anything until they were told by the president himself what they should think about the proposal.
“Waterborne, discreetly delivered directly from sovereign Russian territory to Iran,” said Dominika. “The entire route is established: canals, lakes, inland seas, used by motorized barges that have the capacity of hauling three times the weight. They already haul timber, steel, coal, and gravel, including in darkness and all kinds of weather.” The corner of Putin’s mouth was twitching. “And Tehran pays, secrecy is preserved, and along with it Russia’s reputation is, again, advanced,” said Dominika. Meaning of course that President Vladimir’s place on the world stage is augmented as is, not incidentally, his bank account.
The square-faced Nabiullina sat back in her chair. It was said she was brilliant, a Putin ally, protective. She was fifty, had shoulder-length auburn hair and bird-wing-shaped wire-rimmed eyeglasses. She wore a rust-colored jacket over a flowered bow-tie blouse. Her voice was like melting ice cream. “As you said, Captain,” said Nabiullina, “you have no experience in shipping or transport. How is it you came u
p with this quite remarkable plan? How did you think about our internal river and canal system? Officers in your Service admittedly must be imaginative and flexible, but this is a remarkable performance.” The message read: It’s a little more complicated than shaking your tits, missy; this is the Kremlin, and that’s the president whom you’ve just given a presidential boner. Nabiullina crossed her hands and smiled at Dominika, who smiled back.
Thank you, Benford, thought Dominika, for being so smart. He had anticipated the challenge and had suggested the correct answer.
“I thought of the river because I remembered seeing commercial traffic on the Volga near Kazan,” said Dominika, “when I attended the Kon Institute. You may have heard of Sparrow School?” Dominika looked at Nabiullina steadily, fighting the anger swelling in her throat. It was excruciating to bring this up publically, but Benford had predicted the effect. “We were brought to the institute by hydrofoil on the river, and we used to walk along the Volga between training sessions. I always saw barges on the river. That’s what reminded me.” The reply read: I have my own credentials, sestra, sister, and don’t think for a minute I cannot handle dour economists or Vladimir’s stoyak.
Nabiullina stared at Dominika for a beat, reading the reply, acknowledging the psychic challenge. Putin was delighted with the exchange, the corners of his mouth threatening to lift in a smile. He stood up, pointed at the Sovkomflot representative as if to say “get going” and then nodded all around the table. That was enough of a prompt. As participants rose and milled, waiting for the president to leave the room, Putin stopped for a second and nodded again to Dominika, then exited the hall, Nabiullina and two aides in his wake. The side door closed with a click and people started filing out.
The director mopped his face with a handkerchief and quietly shook his head. Yevgeny avoided looking at her—he had certainly gotten an eyeful, seen the future. Zyuganov oozed up beside her and moved his mouth in a rictus of controlled fury.
“Very nicely done, Captain,” he said. “The president was quite impressed.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” said Dominika, watching black parabolas arc out from behind his head. “The president is giving the Service all the credit. It is deserved. Bringing our officials together with the Persians—you have done much in a short time. This is your project.”
Zyuganov looked at her with a slightly tilted head, as if he were deciding where he would start on her with the dermatome, to flense fillets of skin off her back and belly. Their footsteps rang off the marble floors of the Senate building corridor, then were swallowed up as they descended the richly carpeted grand staircase. Yevgeny was listening, close behind them.
“I would have preferred that you briefed me on your suggestion beforehand,” said Zyuganov, looking up at her.
Of course you would have, you bedbug, thought Dominika, fantasizing about putting a hand at his back and trapping the toe of his shoe with her foot. He would be down the staircase on his face. “I did not expect the quite embarrassing invitation to sit at the head of the table. Believe me, Colonel, I never would have ventured to suggest—”
“When do you leave for Greece?” Zyuganov asked. There was a spot of spittle on his lower lip.
“In several days, Colonel,” said Dominika. “I would welcome your views and guidance on this investigation.”
“Yevgeny can give you what you want,” said Zyuganov, turning back to his deputy to see if he had heard. Yevgeny’s face was shiny with sweat. Indeed he can, thought Dominika.
“Thank you, Colonel,” said Dominika.
Athens. Back with her friends. Back with CIA. Dominika would relish telling Bratok Gable about this meeting—she decided she would, with a straight face, offer to romantically introduce him to Nabiullina. Forsyth, quiet and wise, would focus on the Iran transaction. Benford of course would want to discuss TRITON, LYRIC, Zarubina. He would be pleased with the new intel, the leads. She would send multiple SRAC messages tonight as previews. Then, with a gulp, Dominika wondered how she would explain Yevgeny’s “recruitment” to Nate.
In the car on the way back to Yasenevo, Udranka was sitting in the rear-facing jump seat, leaning back with her long legs stretched out and her hands behind her head. I wouldn’t tell him, she said, no matter how much you want his forgiveness. You know what you did and why you did it. Who’s to say you can’t have a secret?
BABKA RUMOWA-POLISH RUM CAKE
Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy, then blend in eggs. Add flour, baking soda, milk, and vanilla and mix well. Pour the mixture into a fluted tube pan and bake in a medium oven until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Perforate the slightly cooled cake and pour over a syrup of sugar, water, lemon and orange zest, vanilla, and rum, soaking the cake completely.
21
Athens Station. Gable and Forsyth sat in the ACR in silence, waiting for Nate. Sitting two feet from each other without speaking was preposterous—no, creepy—but you didn’t talk when the door was opened, ever. A minute later Nate stepped into the secure acoustical room carrying a metal in-box full of files. He dogged the door with a twist of a friction lever that was, like every other piece of the twenty-foot trailer, made of clear Lucite. Their ears popped as the door gaskets squeezed the last of the freely circulating air out of the room. Soon the atmosphere would be thick and coffee-heavy.
“How was LYRIC last night?” said Forsyth.
“Like rolling a boulder uphill,” said Nate. “He brought his ego, as usual.” He started taking folders out of the tray and laying them on the table.
“Did he bring the budget documents for the Ninth Directorate?” asked Forsyth. “DoD has been asking.”
“Budget time in Washington,” said Gable. “Cake eaters want to justify their own budgets.”
“Nope,” said Nate. “When I asked, LYRIC said he brought something better.” Nate opened one of the files and took out a bound, one-inch-thick booklet and slid it over to Forsyth.
“What the fuck is this?” said Gable. Forsyth was riffling through the booklet.
“It’s a classified report on the clandestine technology acquisition by GRU Ninth Directorate of the frameless canopy from the Chinese J-20 stealth fighter,” said Nate, reading the Russian title on the cover. “LYRIC said the Russian air force is going to use it on their T-50. Better visibility, better heads-up display, survivable pilot ejection at higher speed.”
Forsyth looked at Gable. “The Air Force will love this crap,” he said, sliding the book back. “We’re not going to refuse this sort of intel.”
“A good sign, him bringing this out now,” said Gable to Forsyth.
“What do you mean, ‘a good sign’?” said Nate, looking at them both.
“No other issues, no other twitches?” said Forsyth.
Nate felt his scalp creep in alarm. “What are you guys talking about?”
“DIVA sent three separate SRAC messages last night. Came in late, after you had kicked off your SDR for LYRIC. You know the Moscow case officer out there?” said Forsyth, handing over the Moscow cables for Nate to read.
“Yeah, Hannah Archer,” said Nate. “She’s solid.” Hannah naked, hair wildly mussed, her feet on his shoulders, yeah solid. “Three messages?”
“Five total. This Hannah cabled that there are two more SRAC bursts from DIVA coming tonight,” said Gable. “She’s cabling the texts as soon as she retrieves ’em and gets back inside the embassy.” Gable ran his hand over his brush-cut hair. “Two runs in two nights. That cowgirl has some balls. We should get her assigned to Station when she finishes in Moscow.”
Jesus, thought Nate, that would be just perfect, and studiously did not look up as he read. Halfway through the first cable Nate did look up. “The Center knows about LYRIC?” Nate said. “What does Benford say?”
“There’s a rat up the drainpipe,” said Gable.
“The Russians are talking to somebody code-named TRITON, who’s gotten wind of LYRIC,” said Forsyth. “It’s in the second cable there. We nor
mally wouldn’t be read in to a CI case back home, but since DIVA generated the intel, Benford wants Station to know.” Forsyth shook his head.
“So Benford’s got a problem,” said Gable, “and the Russkies know they got a problem, and now we, or more precisely you, got a problem. A Restricted Handling asset, your agent, in the crosshairs.”
“Russia Division is worried,” said Forsyth. “Benford told me they may have lost another case. Some Russian was called home from South America.”
“This shit usually happens in threes,” said Gable. “Seen it a million times.”
“And DIVA could be in considerable jeopardy,” said Forsyth. “She’s been the frequent subject of a lot of spectacular cable traffic, from Athens, Vienna, Langley. God knows how many people have read about her.”
“And bagging this third ear, this TRITON asshole, isn’t going to be easy,” said Gable. “Headquarters sends LYRIC’s shit only to about a thousand fucking talkative dickheads,” said Gable, nodding at the booklet Nate had collected last night. “Pentagon, Air Force, contractors, White House, the committees.”
“Benford is going to be busy,” said Forsyth.
“We have to pull them both out,” said Nate, already three steps ahead, trying to slow down when all he wanted to do was hop in his car and go get LYRIC. “We can get the general out of Athens right here, right now. Digging Domi out of Moscow is going to be—”
“She’s coming to Athens in a week,” said Gable. “Thought I’d tell you so you can get a haircut.”
Nate flipped through the cables, got through DIVA’s brief mention of Line KR and her counterintelligence trip to Athens.
Red Sparrow 02 - Palace of Treason Page 29