Red Sparrow 02 - Palace of Treason

by Jason Matthews

  Utter nonsense, of course, and Vikki looked skeptically at him, saying she didn’t want to do anything illegal (which Angevine glumly registered as her probable unwillingness to be totally co-opted as his witting subagent) but she sat next to Loganov and took the small envelope out of the flowing sleeve of her black satin kimono and slipped it into the Russian’s shirt pocket while leaning in and wrinkling her nose at the sweaty-cooked-cabbage-stinky-trousers bloom of him. From across the room, Angevine could detect nothing of the delivery. Vikki had been as smooth as a top pro.

  There was another reason he wanted to be there. Angevine wanted to observe the Russian’s reaction when he felt Vikki slide the thing into his pocket. Thankfully, the Russian did not react—maybe he didn’t feel the note against his man boobs—but maybe he had been briefed not to react to notes passed to him. His expression would be priceless, however, when, back inside his embassy, he opened the envelope to find the second envelope with DELIVER TO ZARUBINA written on it. No employee of the Russian Embassy in Washington—not even the ambassador—would hesitate for a minute to deliver the note.

  The ball was rolling. Angevine’s spirits were soaring later that evening as they clinked champagne flutes in Vikki’s apartment, and he scooped her up and danced her around the living room when Michael Bolton’s “You Wouldn’t Know Love” from his Soul Provider album came up on Soft Rock 97. The Russian money would be starting again—he already had additional info for Zarubina about continuing debriefings of a GRU officer in Athens. He looked into Vikki’s eyes and kissed her. Maybe with more money he’d meet someone with a little more savoir faire, but tonight, right now, her hard dancer’s body was pressed against him, and she kissed him back, her arms around his neck. His body stirred, but the stubble was growing back on his crotch and he had to stop two-stepping and scratch.

  The night was pitch-black as Angevine sat on a wooden bench and waited. The forested slash of Little Falls Park enveloped him, blocked out the city glow, and muffled the traffic noise on nearby Massachusetts Avenue. He sat hunched over, lead ingots filling his stomach, and closed his eyes, listening to the small snaps and rustling noises that come from a forest, even at midnight. A few lights from houses in Westmoreland Hills winked through the trees. Thank God it was too late for someone to be walking his dog. Tu es con, he thought to himself, you’re an idiot. He checked his watch.

  Angevine was waiting for the Russians at the site he had included in the note, which he had cased in preparation for the resumption of his brilliant career as a dashing operative. He was sitting in a small grassy depression, part of an artillery fort called Battery Bailey, one of scores of crumbled, overgrown Civil War sites dotted around Washington, DC, now mostly just smooth hillocks or sweeping greenswards, some with a HISTORICAL SITE sign, most of them anonymous and forgotten. He knew the Russians would appreciate the chain of old forts for what they were: Sixty-five miniparks, little oases of darkness and quiet inside the bustling capital city, not fenced and never closed, not patrolled by police, with access from and egress into the quiet grid-square neighborhoods they had protected from Confederate attack in 1864. And now, as the new Cold War proceeded, they were perfect venues for meeting clandestinely in suburban Washington.

  “Hello?” said a soft voice from the darkness on the other side of the grassy earthwork. “Is anyone there?” Angevine got up and walked to one of the artillery embrasures and looked out into the inky black. A small woman was standing on a lower dirt trail that snaked around the outside base of the battery walls, barely visible. She looked up at him.

  “I took the wrong path and now can’t seem to get up to where you are.” She wore a light coat and a floppy hat, as if she were expecting rain.

  What the fuck is this? he thought. This is Zarubina? Who the fuck else could it be at midnight? Angevine held up his hand and whispered, “Wait there; I’ll come down.” He walked around the far break in the wall, found the steep little trail, and in a second was standing beside her in the gloom.

  “Mr. Triton?” said the pleasant old lady. “My name is Yulia. How nice to meet you finally.”

  COLCANNON-IRISH MASHED POTATOES

  Peel potatoes and boil until soft. Vigorously mash with butter and cream until smooth. Separately sauté sliced garlic, chopped leeks, and shredded kale in butter until the vegetables are wilted. Season with salt and pepper. Fold the vegetables into the mashed potatoes and top with melted butter.

  25

  A late afternoon rainstorm lashed the awnings of the shops along Arkadias Street, turning the fine layer of marble dust that perpetually coated Athens streets and sidewalks into gunmetal library paste. A second line of squally showers scoured the city, replacing the baked-earth smell of the day with dusk’s sweet air and, to Dominika, a trace of lavender. She stood under the awning of her apartment hotel, the Lovable Experience 4, in Ambelokipi, the commercial Athenian neighborhood almost equidistant between the embassy of the Russian Federation in leafy Psychiko and the safe house TULIP, which was maintained by CIA in the tony Kolonaki district, where she was to meet Nathaniel and Gable tonight.

  Dominika checked her watch and waited another minute for the last of the rain to stop. She didn’t have an umbrella—she wouldn’t have used one in any case; no one in Athens did. Evening traffic was picking up and lights were coming on: She calculated that her foot route through the dusty neighborhoods of Nea Filothei and Gkizi to check for coverage would take a minimum of ninety minutes—more if she started to get repeats. The area was full of long stairways, one-way streets, and cut-throughs; she would fillet any vehicular team in these back streets, and if they put foot coverage on her, she’d see the transition and could abort. She had purposely worn a dark gray sweater over a navy skirt to avoid the splash of color that helps a team keep the eye while working at discreet distances.

  Dominika didn’t take anything for granted: Both her Russian colleagues and her American handlers were more than capable of surveilling her, albeit for different reasons and with radically different potential results. The Americans might decide to cover her approach to TULIP to check her status. Validation of an agent doesn’t stop after recruitment, Dominika knew. In some ways they tested the continuing loyalty and veracity of their established reporting sources even more assiduously.

  Surveillance from the rezidentura in the Russian Embassy was a different matter: The rezident—an accomplished senior officer widely known in the service as a yubochnik, a skirt chaser—might want to keep tabs on her for general CI reasons. More likely, she thought grimly, Zyuganov could order discreet surveillance on her during her time in Athens to see if she did anything he could use against her later. This Athens trip was a rare and priceless opportunity to meet the Americans—denied-area, internal assets everywhere dreamed of such a chance to reestablish contact with their handling services. But her own countrymen’s inclination always to suspect their own made recontact with CIA dangerous.

  The pines on Likavitos Hill smelled fresh in the night air, especially after the vehicle-exhaust fog she inhaled at street level in Filothei. Through the dark trees she could catch glimpses of the fairy lights on the summit, and the lighted Saint George Monastery. Her surveillance-detection route had flushed nothing—no repeats, no demeanor errors, no evidence of leapfrogging or parallel coverage.

  Now it was very dark and she stepped off the road and waited, listening. No cars rolling past, no motor scooters buzzing. A light breeze through the pine tops mingled with the faint buzz of the city below. She was on sked, with ample time for the casual stroll down into expensive, hilly Kolonaki and to the safe house. She smoothed her hair self-consciously, imagining the apartment door opening, seeing the familiar faces alight with greeting. She stepped back onto the road, turned downhill on Koniari, then on Merkouri. Narrow meandering streets were dimly lit, the electric-blue flashes of televisions from inside the apartments visible on the interior ceilings. Piano music came from an open window.

  Dominika crossed the street and checked
her six, not focusing close behind her but looking a block back, surveillance distance. She used the cars parked thick along Kleomenous as a screen, moving smoothly, still watching for bobbing heads and shoulders. She suddenly smelled cinnamon and eggplant in the air—someone was baking moussaka. Her pulse was up a little as she turned right, uphill, on Marasli, then left for a half block on Distria Doras, came to the last apartment building before the start of the pine forest again, and waited a beat in the shadows, listening. She looked up at the roof line and at the one across the street, then scanned the darkened windows. No movement, no glint of a lens, no parted curtain. The front door squeaked when she went in.

  With a lurch, the little elevator groaned upward, until it stopped with a clunk at the top floor. There was a small landing and a single substantial-looking door. Safe house TULIP. No sound came from inside. The overhead bulb on the landing turned off as the timer ran out, plunging her into utter blackness, and Dominika couldn’t find the switch to turn the light back on, or anything that looked like an illuminated doorbell button. She ran her hands over the wall, blind. Idiotka, she thought, knock on the door. But was this the right apartment? Had she gotten the street right? She felt her way through the darkness to the door and put her ear to it, straining to pick up a voice, the clatter of dishes, music. Nothing.

  The overhead bulb came on and Gable stood behind her, his beefy face a foot from hers. She had not heard him or felt his presence in the dark. Dominika willed herself not to jump.

  “Bratok, you move well for someone your age,” whispered Dominika, straightening up, fists on her hips, debating whether to clout him with the bag holding her shoes. Before she decided, or before Gable could give her his customary bear hug, the apartment door locks began snicking and clacking—one, two, three—and the door opened and Nate stood in silhouette, backlit by a dim lamp inside the house.

  “I see you’ve met the doorman,” said Nate.

  “Does he always sneak up on people?” said Dominika.

  “He has to,” said Nate. “Otherwise they run if they see him coming.”

  Dominika stepped inside, following Nate into the apartment. Behind her, Dominika could hear Gable locking the three deadbolts again. They walked down a short corridor—English hunting miniatures hung in a row on either wall. The living room was white, subdued, with a gray-and-white marble floor. A large beige sectional couch and armchairs in the same material formed a central group in the middle of the room. Soft golden light came from several large ceramic lamps on end tables. It was the tastefully decorated living room of a wealthy lawyer, banker, or television personality, thought Dominika.

  She turned and noticed that the beige drapes along two walls were automatically parting to reveal floor-to-ceiling sliding-glass doors that opened out onto an enormous sweeping terrace that wrapped around the entire roof. Couches, chairs, and potted plants were arranged outside, too, dimly lit by recessed bulbs along the walls. Dominika stepped onto the terrace to look out over the winking grid of nighttime Athens and the distant illuminated butte of the Acropolis, which rose out of the city like a boat on flat water. Behind her, around the other corner of the terrace, the pine forest of Likavitos rose sharply up the summit. She heard Nate ease up beside her, felt his hand on her shoulder. She turned and he pressed his mouth on hers, the familiar sweet lips, the taste of him. My God, right here? But she didn’t want to stop.

  Nate pulled away, smiling. “Gable’s in the kitchen, but he’ll be out in a minute. Do you want something to drink?”

  She shook her head. “I missed you,” said Dominika. She put her hand on his arm, and Nate covered it with his own hand. In that wordless moment, they were back where they had left off.

  Marta leaned against the balcony railing. It’s worth the wait; it always is.

  “You’ve been busy,” said Nate. “Benford, Forsyth, all of us, we’re impressed. Your reporting has been remarkable … so are you,” he whispered.

  Dominika searched his face, read the purple bloom around his head, to be sure about him, then laughed. “You know how to flatter a woman, dushka. I’ve got a lot to tell you all.”

  Dominika had long ago decided not to tell her handlers—Nate or any of the others—about seducing Yevgeny. She had done nothing she was ashamed of; it was her job, and she would do anything it required—anything—but despite her resolve, Dominika did not seek their approbation, and didn’t want to deal with their knowing looks. She would say only that Yevgeny feared and mistrusted Zyuganov and they had forged an alliance. Make it sound all dark-Russian-conspiracy and they would nod their heads acceptingly. Except maybe intuitive Bratok, or wise Forsyth, or that mag, that magician Benford, or maybe Nathaniel’s heart would read her soul in about three seconds.

  “How long do you have tonight?” asked Nate. Gable was wheeling a stainless-steel drinks cart out onto the terrace.

  “I’m staying at the Lovable Experience Four,” said Dominika. “Despite the quite remarkable name, it is adequate. The embassy doesn’t know the hotel. I insisted on anonymity, behaved like a typical inspector from Line KR on an investigation. Zyuganov did us a favor sending me to Greece. We have all evening, most evenings, for two weeks, as long as I don’t have to be in the rezidentura.

  “Zyuganov thinks the GRU leak is in Moscow,” said Dominika. “He wanted me out of the way to pursue the case.”

  Gable and Nate said nothing; handlers never discussed one reporting source with another agent.

  “The night before I departed, Zarubina filed a report from Washington. Zyuganov doesn’t realize I know about it.” Dominika took a glass from Gable and raised it. “Na Zdorovie, to your health.”

  “What did Zarubina say?” said Nate. The CIA officers dreaded the answer they could guess at. A slight breeze stirred the pine tops.

  “Zarubina has made contact with the source called TRITON. He must be someone inside your service.”

  “What was in the cable, Dominika?” said Nate. She saw his purple halo pulse with agitation.

  “They now suspect the source you call LYRIC is here in Athens,” she said. The worst possible answer.

  A noise from inside the apartment made her turn. Benford stepped out onto the terrace; he had been in the kitchen when she arrived. He was dressed in a dark suit, tie askew, a kitchen towel over his shoulder. He carried a plate of dolmades, grape leaves stuffed with savory rice, glistening with olive oil, which he put on the drinks cart. Dominika shook his hand.

  “Good to see you, Dominika,” said Benford. “Are you well?”

  Gable poured another glass of wine. “Domi was just telling us—”

  “Yes, I heard,” said Benford, turning toward Dominika. “Did Zarubina describe how TRITON got in touch with her?” With the double-agent channel now unavailable to him, TRITON must have found another way to establish contact, thought Benford. Our boy is resourceful … and hungry.

  “I do not know,” said Dominika. “I did not see the cable.” She knew what was coming next.

  “How did you collect the information?” said Benford. All three of them looked at her.

  “Yevgeny Pletnev, Zyuganov’s deputy in Line KR, told me,” said Dominika.

  Benford, without knowing he was remorseless, continued remorselessly. “You wrote in one of your SRAC messages—the sixth transmission, I think—that Zyuganov was keeping you in the dark,” Benford said. His infernal memory recalled everything. “Surely his deputy would hew to his superior’s wishes that he not tell you anything.”

  “But I got him to tell me,” said Dominika casually. “Yevgeny fears Zyuganov. I convinced him we could protect each other.” She knew she sounded lame. Benford’s blue cloud was steady. She didn’t dare look over at Nate.

  “Yevgeny also saw Putin’s favorable impression of me, especially after I suggested your water-delivery route to Iran, Gospodin Benford,” said Dominika. “He has chosen sides; he wants my protection. All Russians know vysluzhit’sya, how do you say it?”

  “Brownnosing,”
said Nate. He was looking at Dominika sideways.

  “You took a chance recruiting this lover boy,” said Gable. “It exposes you a little.”

  “He is not my lover,” Dominika said too quickly.

  “No, I meant you took a chance, recruiting this guy,” said Gable.

  “He will not confess anything to anyone,” said Dominika, swerving. “He has already told me too much. He is afraid.”

  God this is awful, their faces showing nothing, their colors steady, their eyes seeing everything. Udranka laughed, showing teeth. You don’t owe them anything, no explanations, no apologies.

  “All right,” said Benford. “We will discuss security later. Please come inside and sit down; there’s much to do.”

  Dominika had quietly taken off her oxfords and slipped into her pumps, but now even these were off as she and the CIA officers sat around the marble coffee table, papers spread out, and worked by lamplight. If they had looked, they would have seen a sliver of moon rising over Mount Hymettus to the east. To an outside observer, the four of them could have been colleagues working on a sales campaign or a public-relations plan. Dominika was the recruited Russian source, but she had morphed into a member of a nameless team, specialists all, working against the odds to accomplish the impossible, to gain access to the inaccessible, to prevail against the unassailable.

  The CIA men took notes. The quiet conversation was businesslike but cordial. There was an occasional chuckle. Nate recorded everything on his TALON tablet. Benford led them through the entire concerto, including current intel on SVR operations and SRAC reporting—he reminded Dominika that she had to keep her message numbers straight. They discussed Zyuganov, updates on the Iran deal, President Putin, Zarubina, and getting an ID on TRITON. She listened when they told her about the suspicious matter of the recalled military officer from Caracas, and she told them she’d try to find out. Nate spoke to her about possibly adding more SRAC sites for geographic flexibility, and they looked at a map to find contingency backup personal-meeting sites, in case of mechanical failure with the equipment. Personal meetings—a Russian asset meeting a CIA officer in Moscow—were the ultimate risk. For one brief-encounter site Dominika pointed to the massive wooded park on the Luzhniki bend of the Moskva River—Vorobyovy Gory, Sparrow Hills—looking out over all Moscow. It was accessible, close to teeming Moscow State University, and there were a thousand ways in and out. Sparrow Hills, thought Nate. You couldn’t make this up.