Red Sparrow 02 - Palace of Treason

by Jason Matthews

  Briefing Gondorf on urgent and dangerous operations was always tricky, like sneaking up on a grazing deer: Too fast, too direct, and he’d bolt from any perceived danger. Nate told him about TRITON’s escape to Paris, about the risk to a sensitive asset, but omitted specific mention of Dominika. Gondorf would have wet himself.

  Nate paused after ten minutes. Gondorf was sitting behind his desk, fiddling with his fingers, and Nate thought he would be rolling ball bearings in his hand if he could. Nate shot a glance at DCOS Ebersole, whose face was expressionless—strictly Easter Island—doubtless learned behavior to survive in the underground-bunker environment of Gondorf’s Station.

  “So we need unilateral phone traces on Angevine’s US mobile number,” said Gable to Gondorf. “We don’t want to go to the French and risk exposing our source. And we want to look for this guy ourselves, without the cops. And we have to do this fast.”

  “What you want and what’s going to happen are two different things,” said Gondorf. His voice was quivery, like a guinea pig’s if it could talk. “I’m not risking pissing off the French just for your mole hunt. You shouldn’t have let the guy escape.” His eyes darted to the faces in the room, calculating pushback. He didn’t calculate on Gable.

  “It’s time to listen closely, Chief,” said Gable. “The life of an asset is at stake. Not maybe, not later. Right now.” Gable stood up and leaned over the desk. “If you won’t get the cement out of your ass, then I’m taking Ebersole here upstairs and we’re going to run traces on the cell number and try to geo-locate the fucker’s phone. If we get a hit, then Nash and I are going to draw two Brownings from your weapons locker, hit the street, and look for the guy. If I have to shoot someone—inside or outside this embassy—to save the agent, I fucking will.” Gable’s buzz-cut head loomed over Gondorf, who avoided looking at him.

  Gondorf silently tabulated the half dozen serious bureaucratic infractions just committed by this lummox from Headquarters, not the least of which was a thinly veiled threat of bodily harm. “I’m ordering you two jerks to stand down,” he said. “I want you both out of my Station and out of the country immediately.” It was the best he could do, with this Rottweiler drooling over his desk.

  Nate stood up. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Gable.

  “Simon Benford is arriving tonight,” said Gable to Gondorf. “You can tell him what we can and can’t do.” He turned to the DCOS. “Can you take us upstairs and get us going?”

  During the last five minutes Ebersole had also silently calculated the shift of tectonic plates. He knew what was right, what was necessary, what was righteous. If he was sent home by a vindictive Gondork, it would be a blessing. “No more Brownings in the inventory,” said Ebersole, “but I have two nine-millimeter H&K P2000s for you.”

  “What holster?” asked Gable, stretching this out to fuck with Gondorf.

  “Nylon Bianchi belt rig,” said Ebersole. “The best.”

  “Let’s go,” Gable said.

  As they filed out, a fuming Gondorf pointed at Nate. “Nash, you always were a fuckup.”

  It occurred to Nate that the immediate absence of anything close to hatred or resentment meant he was over Gondorf, over the anxiety of his early career. He was now fully invested in major-league ops the likes of which Gondorf would never fathom. He stopped at the door. “Gordon, I personally regret that our relationship has not grown since we last worked together,” he said. “At that time I recall that you were afraid of the street. Nothing much has changed.”

  Nate patted the ridiculous poster on the wall as he left. “Hang in there, baby,” he said.

  They struck out on tracking a US phone but the next day, after running the local number of Angevine’s prepaid French cell provided by Dominika, they logged a hit in fourteen minutes. The Station was able to geo-locate Angevine’s instrument based on signal strength on the network downlink. They determined that his phone was, for most of the day, physically located somewhere on the Île Saint-Louis. They could not further pinpoint the location since the twenty-seven-acre island had no physical cell towers and moreover delineated the boundary of the fourth arrondissement with the fifth. There was a “soft” cellular zone on both islands in the Seine, but it was enough of a lead to know he was there. Quick traces in the reverse-directory did not reveal any Angevines in the neighborhood.

  Île Saint-Louis. The bastard was somewhere close by, in an area the size of four carrier flight decks. The island was three streets wide, connected to either bank by five bridges, a discreet and exclusive enclave in the center of Paris, graceful seventeenth-century slate-roofed Baroque mansions sprung from the loamy fifteenth-century medieval roots of cow pastures, charcoal ricks, and royal falconry gazebos. Gable and Nate walked the narrow one-way streets twice, past louvered shutters and ornate oak doors with brass lion-head knockers, ducking under striped canopies that shopkeepers cranked down against the afternoon sun. They measured progress by counting quaint shop windows piled high with cheeses, or breads, or bottles of wine, stepping around early evening shoppers with string bags and holding baguettes under their arms. Angevine’s face was stuck on the backs of their eyelids, and they looked for the frying-pan features of the five-foot-two Zyuganov—a photo had been found by Russian analysts at Benford’s insistence.

  Benford walked toward them dressed improbably in sunglasses, raincoat, and a beret he had purchased on the Île de la Cité from one of the dozens of gift shops along the north side of Notre Dame Cathedral. Gable told him he looked like the owner of a pornographic bookstore, which comment Benford chose to ignore. He was in a foul mood after a spirited exchange with COS Gondorf, which Benford characterized as like watching a salamander jettisoning its tail and wriggling under a leaf. “I intend to recommend he be withdrawn short of tour for cause,” said Benford. “He can spend the rest of his career with Vern Throckmorton as a nautch dancer in Bollywood.”

  They sat at a wicker table inside a wine bar, Benford with his back to the window. “Where is DIVA?” asked Benford.

  “Just got in. She’s at her hotel across the river, in the Marais,” said Nate. “Fifteen-minute walk.” Nate told him about Zyuganov, Putin, and what the president had ordered Dominika to do.

  Benford was quiet for a minute. “Unprecedented, once-in-a-lifetime access,” he said. “But we’re a thread away from losing it all, from losing her. If we cannot disrupt Angevine’s meeting with Zyuganov, it’s over. I’m not taking the risk of sending her back to brazen it out.”

  “You know she won’t run,” said Nate. “Absolutely not.”

  “Nothing is absolute,” said Gable.

  “This is,” said Nate. “I know her. Despite all your collective ragging on me, maybe I’ve gained definite insights on what makes her tick. She won’t do it.”

  “I know she won’t, not of her own volition,” said Benford. “Remarkable woman.” He sat back. “By the way, we heard that a certain shipment arrived after a long sea voyage, was received by the purchasing party, made an arduous overland trip, and is being installed as we speak. You might pass that along to her; she made it all happen.”

  “She still won’t quit,” said Nate.

  Benford dismissed it with a wave. “Nathaniel, rent a room on the island. She should stay off the street, but I want one of you to be with her at all times.” They ordered beers and waited until the waiter had poured.

  Benford took off his sunglasses. “We have tonight and perhaps tomorrow to stop Angevine. If we do not, I will assume her name is in Moscow, from the lips of the traitor. If that is the case, then one of you will sling her over your shoulder and carry her to the US Embassy, and we will fly her to safety.”

  Gable drained his beer. “And if we see Angevine and Zyuganov tonight, for instance?” he said.

  Benford put on his sunglasses and got up to leave. “Then you carry out Putin’s orders for DIVA.”

  Nate rented a room on the island at the Hôtel du Jeu de Paume—small, elegant, with polished wooden
ceiling beams, first hewn to build a handball court for Louis XIII. Dominika looked at the four-poster bed significantly, but Gable had taken off his shoes and was stretched out on the couch.

  “I’m going to take another lap around the island,” said Nate, looking at his watch. “We didn’t check the river landings and the little park at the east end.”

  Gable waved. “When you come back, I’ll go back out. You got your phone?”

  Dominika was shrugging on her coat, and Gable looked up at her. “Where are you going?” he said.

  “With him,” she said.

  Gable shook his head. “Better you stay here with me. We don’t want the Russkies seeing you with Americans on the street.” He pointed at Nate. “Especially not with sexually ambiguous ones.”

  Nate flipped him the bird.

  Dominika turned slowly to face him. Oh-oh, thought Nate. “Bratok, are you telling me I cannot go out?”

  “Yep,” said Gable, who was generally unaware of Dominika’s fiery moods, and certainly was immune to them. “Until this concludes we have to stick together like summer underwear.”

  Dominika tilted her head like a puppy hearing a dog whistle, and turned to Nate. “Do you tell me the same thing?” she said.

  “We can go out after it gets dark,” said Nate. “We just don’t want Zyuganov to see you with me. He knows my face from my time in Moscow, you know that.”

  Dominika crossed her arms.

  “Don’t take it personal, sweet pea,” said Gable. “Benford’s staying away too. TRITON knows his face. Look, we’re here to stop these guys, to preserve your cover.”

  “The way to preserve krysha, my cover, is to let me find Zyuganov and finish with him. TRITON you can arrest and do whatever you want with him.”

  “And have him repeat your name during trial?” said Gable. “Not going to happen.”

  “So what are you going to do?” said Dominika.

  Nate jacked the slide of his H&K P2000 with a slight musical ratcheting sound, flipped the safety on, and slid the pistol back into his belt holster at his right hip. “Be back in an hour,” he said.

  Nate came back to the room, tired, cold, and hungry. He had done three circuits, looking for the tall angular figure, the Gallic nose, the dramatic hair. Or the flat Slavic face and jug ears of the Russian psychopath. He had cased the paved ramps leading down to boat landings at river level, rough stones periodically awash as the Seine boiled around the island and through the channel separating it from the larger Île de la Cité. He had sniffed around the small park—Le Square Barye—at the east tip of the island, Lebanese cedars and willows scraggly in winter, and checked the broad steps leading down to the curved stone terrace against which the steel-blue river parted like water split by the bow of a ship.

  Gable was still stretched out on the couch, reading a magazine. Dominika was lying on her side on the bed, eyes closed. She had been furious at being kept in the room, at being treated like a piece of property—which she knew, in some way, she was.

  She discussed the situation with Marta, Udranka, and Hannah, all of whom sat on the bed with her, a Rusalka slumber party. They know what they’re doing, said Hannah, the operator. Patience, said Marta, the wise one. Shut up, said Udranka, the passionate, you’re lucky to have someone to love and who loves you.

  As Nate came into the room, Gable’s cell phone trilled, waking Dominika, who sat up in bed, blinking. Her hair was tousled and she pulled at her wool skirt. Gable got up and started jamming his feet into his shoes. “Benford from the embassy. He wouldn’t say over the phone, but something’s in from Headquarters, something we should know.”

  “Maybe new SIGINT on Putin,” said Nate.

  “SIGINT? Fuck no,” said Gable, “not after Snowden went over. That loser gave the Russians all the keys. Moscow changed all the channels. We ain’t collecting shit from the Barents Sea to the Bosphorus.” He belted his coat. “I gotta get over there; don’t know how long I’ll be.” He slipped out.

  “Did you see anything?” said Dominika. She got off the bed and put her arms around his neck. Nate shook his head.

  Dominika put her face close to his, brushed her lips against his. “Will my tyuremshchik, how do you say this, let me go out, perhaps take me to dinner? I’m hungry.” She shifted her arms and slid her hands down Nate’s back.

  “I’m not your jailer,” said Nate. “And get your hands off my pistol.”

  Dominika stepped back, smiling. “You are so clever Mr. Neyt, even though you are sexually ambiguous. Now will you take me to eat?”

  Nate and Dominika took a discreet back booth at the Brasserie de l’Îsle Saint-Louis for dinner. They could not know that Angevine was sitting in his aunt’s apartment two hundred meters from where they were, looking at a wall clock in his aunt’s parlor.

  Over salade frissee, earthy cassoulet, and baked Camembert with caramelized onions, they whispered about the idea that Dominika might very well have to come back with him directly and resettle in the United States. Dominika looked at Nate over the rim of her wineglass.

  “And what would I do in America with a death sentence issued by Moscow over my head, with Department Five chistilshchiki, mechanics, looking for me?” said Dominika.

  “You couldn’t return to Moscow. Not with one or both of them running around,” said Nate.

  “Zyuganov is a wanted man. So is TRITON,” said Dominika. “I would have time to strengthen my position.”

  “You’re not making sense,” said Nate. He took her hand, and his purple halo pulsed. “This is hard enough. If you keep working, okay, you’re maybe the best agent in the history of Russian ops. But if you’re blown and they kill you, it’s all for nothing. No, Domi, if you have to bug out and resettle, then you clear your head and come out.”

  “It is not that easy, ‘just come out,’ ” said Dominika.

  “I’m just worried about how this is developing,” said Nate. The aura around his head told her he was concerned.

  “Please pay the bill,” said Dominika. The argument would come later; right now it hovered between them.

  They walked down the single main street, past darkened shops and galleries, Nate still searching the faces of the few pedestrians hurrying home in the chilly night. Inside the room, they had not yet taken off their coats when Gable called, sounding pissed. He would be back in two hours; hold down the fort. With what news? thought Nate. Pull her out? Let her go back inside? Nate could imagine the debate. Do not disturb the intel flowing from DIVA. Let her run as long as she can. Don’t upset the case. Let the lawyers and political appointees decide her fate.

  They looked at each other in their coats. Nate knew that adapting to a new life was a nightmare for defectors, an accumulated and unrelieved assault on the psyche of an alien culture, even for an experienced spy who had worked in the foreign field: elevator music from unseen speakers, the competing exhausts of a crowded mall, the taste of different tap water, the overload of colors in the cereal aisle in a supermarket. The wide screens, and iPhones, and tablets, blipping and beeping and winking. And his beautiful Russian, moreover, would have to adapt to a new life somewhere discreet and remote. Nate imagined her walking down Central Avenue in Whitefish, Montana, looking in vain for solyanka, pirozhki, or pelmeni.

  He looked at her, recognizing the signs—flashing cobalt eyes and flushed cheeks. He made to take her coat from her, but she stepped up to him and pushed him gently into the single plush armchair, then swung her leg over and straddled his lap.

  “Now I am going to explain how things are,” said Dominika.

  “No you’re not,” said Nate. “You’re going to listen to your handling officer, and follow instructions.” Dominika put her hands on his shoulders.

  “What instructions?” said Dominika. Nate pulled on the lapels of her coat to bring their mouths together.

  “Don’t move,” she said. She reached under her jacket, then her skirt, working through the layers of her clothing and his, shifting and rearranging, pulli
ng and unbuttoning, tucking and unzipping, until the impossible happened and she felt him between her legs. They were completely dressed, down to their boots, but inextricably connected, several layers down, and Dominika watched him with wide eyes as she slowly ground her hips on him. She ignored Udranka in the corner. The familiar pulses grew in her belly, radiating up to her chest, making it difficult to breathe. All she could do was bend at the waist toward him, her face an inch from his, keeping her seat, until her lips started quivering and she closed her eyes and laid her forehead against his and whispered, Davai, davai, do it, do it, and they both started shaking and tried not to fall off the planet.

  “What instructions?” she said shakily.

  BAKED CAMEMBERT WITH CARAMELIZED ONIONS

  Take a wheel of Camembert out of its box and make a shallow X incision through the top skin. Insert slivered garlic and thyme sprigs. Put the cheese back into its wooden box, drizzle with olive oil (or white wine or vermouth), place on baking sheet, and bake in a medium oven until the cheese is runny all the way through. Serve with sliced onions caramelized in butter and balsamic vinegar.

  42

  They stirred again after several minutes. They were both stifling as a result of having just carnally coupled while wearing winter clothing, including sweaters and outer coats, in an overheated hotel room, the premises having been last used as a sweat bath in 1634. When Nate proposed a shower, Dominika countered with a suggestion that they go back outside into the cool night air and walk around the romantic little island, perhaps crossing a bridge into Saint-Germaine-des-Prés to find a late-night Left Bank bistro to have a glass of wine. Nate saw that Dominika was tense and keyed up—it wasn’t just the usual sewing-machine legs after coition—and going back on the street was a subconscious tonic for her. The unspoken thought was that this life of espionage could very suddenly end for her, and she was prepared to have a fight about it.