Gorelikov regrets I have to make this trip, thought Dominika, but I do not. Apart from their compromising Shlykov, the Istanbul trip would, of course, be an opportunity to meet her CIA handlers, their first contact since New York. She had been passed the address of an Istanbul yali, an elegant three-story wooden Turkish Baroque mansion in Anadolu Kavagi, a resort town on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, designated CIA safe house AMARANTH. The mansion had been rented by a real estate firm in Beverly Hills ostensibly for peripatetic senior Hollywood studio executive Blanche Goldberg, who used the house twice a year to meet mesmeric French film star Yves Berléand, with whom she’d had an on-again, off-again love affair for three years and counting (you never knew with a French lover). Blanche was only vaguely witting that the house was paid for by CIA—she didn’t ask the reason—but made her contribution to the love-nest cover-for-status by keeping a bedroom armoire full of expensive Beverly Hills lingerie and toiletries, including a bottle of Swiss Navy Lube in the elegant master bathroom medicine cabinet.
In Moscow, Dominika had been passed descriptions of the CIA moves to discredit Shlykov via thumb drives placed at a timed-drop site in the bushy verge against the ornamental wall of the Zhivonachalnoy Troitsy Temple on Kosygina Ulitsa on the southern border of Vorobyovy Gory (Sparrow Hills Park) on the Luzhniki bend of the Moskva River. Benford himself had included the key information regarding what Dominika should look for in Shlykov’s apartment: chemically treated brochures, suitcase lining with crimped flashing, chessboard.
The result was that Dominika was aware of every nuance of the CIA sting, and could direct her investigation unerringly to the evidence, to the astonished admiration of her FSB wingmen. She noted that suspicious Western foreigners were sitting across from Shlykov at lunch (were they signaling him?). The FSB boys followed them and they turned out to be US Consulate employees, presumed CIA. She spotted a thumbtack signal in a tree near Shlykov’s apartment that was pushed in too low to affix a poster. A horizontal chalk mark that was noted on a wall outside Shlykov’s apartment building on one day had a fresh vertical cross stroke two days later. And the electronic burst messages continued. Things were looking decidedly worse for Major Shlykov.
* * *
* * *
At no time did Shlykov mentally connect the massive operational flap culminating in running police shootouts at twenty locations in the city with any singular, personal failure in tradecraft, comsec, or planning. He was rarely burdened by introspection. Now this ridiculous Egorova had arrived to conduct a preposterous investigation on some nonsense about transmissions, and the timing ensured she would be here to witness his humiliation. He had been ordered to remain in Istanbul until the postmortem of OBVAL was complete.
The interview with a scowling Shlykov seated at a table in the rezidentura secure room developed nicely: Valeriy reacted angrily when asked about the mysterious transmissions, claimed not to know any Americans in town, and dismissed as ridiculous the existence of clandestine signals near his apartment. The FSB officers present looked at one another skeptically. Things got more interesting when Shlykov flatly refused to let the FSB “donkeys” search his apartment. The yellow halo around his head, bleached by rage and pulsing with fright, told Dominika a lot. His fear of career disintegration was eclipsed by his bol’shoe samomnenie, his self-importance, and his outrage at being challenged and questioned, especially by a woman. He’ll hang himself with that ego, Dominika thought. This would be easier than she expected.
“This is an uncomfortable situation for us all,” said Dominika equably. “I personally regret the need to interview a fellow colleague from the GRU.”
“Then fly back to Moscow and leave me to my work,” said Shlykov. “I have critical operational tasks, which you should realize take precedence.” He glared at Dominika with the disdain of privileged Soviet Golden Youth.
“Yes, well, the police shootouts in this city with your terrorist protégés seem to suggest that your critical operational tasks have not been totally successful; in fact, they were unrelievedly disastrous,” said Dominika. “They almost certainly may yet prove to be damaging to the Russian Federation and embarrassing to the president.” In the silence that followed, every Russian in that interview room knew that damaging the country was by far the lesser delinquency.
“I’ll attend to the operations,” said Shlykov, seething. He decided to add a towering insult. “Why don’t you concentrate on what you do best: filming yourself seducing men?”
“I suggest you take a less defiant line,” said Dominika. “It is unfortunate.” The FSB men heard something in her voice that made them shift in their seats. Shlykov seemed not to register the danger.
“There are anomalies that correspond to your movements,” said Dominika. “I trust they will amount to nothing, but I am here to confirm that there are no counterintelligence issues.”
“Do you think I’m working for the Americans?” Shlykov shouted. “You’re ridiculous, Po’shyol ’na hui, fuck off.” He stood and loomed over Dominika.
“I advise you to sit down and cooperate,” said Dominika, looking up at him. Shlykov bent over her, and stuck his face in hers. The FSB men sat on the edge of their chairs.
“Your reputation precedes you,” said Shlykov. “The wonder girl with the big sis ’ki, the well-titted-out prostitute trained to suck off—”
Dominika’s hand shot out and grabbed Shlykov’s jutting bottom lip between forefinger and thumb, and pulled down hard. The major grunted with the pain and went to his knees. Dominika twisted his lip and slammed his head against the edge of the table. Shlykov sat on the floor and held his head. His lip had already swelled and gone purple, and his right eye was closed.
“Consider yourself confined to the rezidentura,” said Dominika, standing. “You can sleep on the duty-officer cot. A security officer will be with you at all times.” She turned to the FSB men.
“Get the keys to Comrade Shlykov’s residence, both front door and apartment,” she said. “I want to go there now.”
At the apartment, the FSB bloodhounds did Dominika’s work for her—she didn’t have to prompt them at all. In fact, she praised their diligence. They gathered all the papers in Shlykov’s desk drawer and found the suitcase under the bed and showed Colonel Egorova the telltale marks on the lid, suggesting some tampering. They hefted the big wooden chessboard they found on the upper shelf in the front closet, shook their heads, and were going to leave it.
Dominika shrugged, pulled out more drawers, and rummaged around the closet. “Strange,” she said. “Have you found chess pieces, a chess set?” The FSB men looked around, shook their heads, and suggested they take the chessboard back to the consulate and examine it under the fluoroscope used to screen incoming mail and packages. Dominika looked doubtful.
“Very well,” she said. “It’s better to check, to be thorough.”
“Bez truda, ne vitashis i ribku iz ruda,” said one of the FSB men loftily, without effort you won’t pull a fish out of a pond.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Dominika. “Let’s see what we find.”
* * *
* * *
Iosip Blokhin had not appeared anywhere in Istanbul during the disastrous failure of OBVAL. There had been a firefight between TNP shock troops and PKK cell members barricaded in a private house in the historic Rumelihisari neighborhood on the Bosphorus that had been fierce and prolonged, suggesting that the normally unsophisticated PKK terrorists had received tactical advice from a professional. A police picket line in the woods around the house detained a stocky man making his way through the trees as the shooting began tapering off, and he was taken into custody in the police precinct house in Arnavutköy on the basis that he had no identification.
When the burly man in East Bloc English claimed he was a Russian diplomat and demanded to see a consulate official, the police lieutenant called the coordinating captain (it was Hanefi), who in turn called his American friend Nathaniel Nash and offered him the opp
ortunity to speak to the Russian who the Turks strongly suspected was a professional soldier. Hanefi said he could give Nash an hour alone with the Russian before Russian dips arrived to spring him. Nate accepted and quickly called Benford to say this had to be Blokhin who, Dominika was sure, had killed the two women and two cops in New York, her North Korean asset, and her Sparrow in Vienna.
“Go hard on this ape,” said Benford. “Pitch him—your cover’s blown to these Bolsheviks anyway—and tell him we know what he did. Say we got him on Hilton Hotel security cameras, to protect DIVA. Tell the son of a bitch the next time he shows a hair of his ass outside Russia, we’ll extradite him to New York to stand trial for the dissident’s murder,” said Benford. “Burn him so badly he’ll be useless to them from now on.”
“It’s highly unlikely, but what if he’s ready to play ball? How high are you willing to go to get him in harness?” said Nate.
“Three years substantively working in place inside, he gets one million dollars. He wants out now, he’ll get two hundred fifty thousand dollars after a meaningful debriefing in the United States. Money contingent on production—the usual. See if that shakes his tree. Get something solid from him as a sign of good faith before you agree to anything,” said Benford.
“Okay, I’ll talk to him tonight and let you know,” said Nate. “I’m prepping for the meet tomorrow with Domi. I’ll get over there early and get things set up for Marty. When’s he get in?”
“He’s not coming,” said Benford, thinly. “I had to send him to Sudan; a wheel came off in Khartoum Station.”
“Marty’s not coming?” said Nate, his stomach flipping.
“I trust you heard me, unless your ears were affected by the blood rushing to your lower extremities,” said Benford.
“Gable is DIVA’s primary handler,” said Nate.
“And you are her backup officer,” said Benford. “You know how this works, Nash. You debrief her, review commo and sites, make sure she is operating safely. Did you receive the requirements cable?”
“It came in this morning,” said Nate.
“Then go and do your job,” said Benford. “And endeavor not to ruin the asset with your beastly manner. Or do I have to come out there myself?”
“No, I’ll handle it,” said Nate. “You’ll get a wrap-up cable when we’re done.”
“Good hunting,” said Benford, hanging up.
* * *
* * *
Blokhin was in a small gray interrogation room at the police station that was bare except for two metal chairs. Hanefi met Nate outside the door and they took turns looking at him through the peephole.
“Bir esek oglu,” muttered Hanefi. A son of a donkey. “Nate bey, he looks dangerous. Dikkatli ol, be careful. Do you want a man in the room?” Nate shook his head. “Tabanca?” A pistol?
“No. I want to squeeze him and don’t want him to lose face. But if you hear me screaming, come in and shoot him,” said Nate.
“I am thinking he is in Istanbul for organizing the cells,” said Hanefi. “With no diplomatic papers we put him in Silivri Prison for twenty years, but because Ankara fears trouble with Moscow, he is free after you finish with him. Iyi sanslar, Nate bey, good luck.”
Nate pulled open the door and stepped into the room, which was dimly lighted by a single bare bulb. Blokhin stood in a corner, leaning against the wall, his tree-trunk arms crossed over his chest. There was a bruise under his right eye, probably a corrective love tap from a TNP jailor who didn’t like Russians. Nate sat in one of the chairs and slid the other chair a foot toward Blokhin, an invitation to sit, but the sergeant remained standing. Nate knew he was unlikely to find this guy’s buttons, but there was nothing to lose. A brief bio on Blokhin had been spun up, but there wasn’t much.
“Sergeant Iosip Blokhin,” said Nate in fluent Russian. “Congratulations on the sharada, the charade of last night. I thought Spetsnaz was better than that.” Blokhin stared at him.
“It’s hard to imagine you going along with such a half-baked plan, but that’s GRU for you—amateurs,” said Nate. Blokhin didn’t move. Push another button.
“Of course you’ll be blamed for the unsatisfactory operation,” said Nate. “No one in the Kremlin, or the Security Council, or the General Staff will support you. Major Shlykov will cast you aside, like the pack animal he thinks you are. They may even cashier you out of Spetsnaz. What group are you in? Alpha or Vympel?” Blokhin uncrossed his arms, pushed off from the wall, and stood behind the metal chair looking down at Nate. He slowly sat down, back straight, hands on his thighs. Nate braced for a lunge.
“You are CIA?” Blokhin asked. His voice was like gravel poured out of a bucket.
“If they kick you out of Spetsnaz, what will you do in Moscow?” said Nate, ignoring the question. “Become a driver on a city tram? Collect tickets at Dynamo Stadium? Do you have a family to feed? Parents?” Come on big boy, tell me something, anything.
“You come from Washington?” asked Blokhin, tilting his head as if Nate had blown a dog whistle.
“Washington is close to New York City,” said Nate. “Ever been there? Ever been to the Hilton on Sixth Avenue?” Blokhin’s face was impassive but his pupils dilated.
“What do you want?” said Blokhin, sitting back in his chair. An opening? Work it.
“We both serve our countries loyally, sometimes endure hardships, but in your system there are no rewards except the pride you take in having served. But that will be gone when you return to the Rodina. They will take that away from you in the space of a deep breath.” Blokhin said nothing.
“We are not enemies,” Nate said, with a straight face. “We are both soldiers, in different uniforms perhaps, but we both understand loyalty. In America we value loyalty and friendship, and repay it. Our soldiers retire with benefits, and live in comfort.”
“What do you want?” Blokhin repeated.
“I have a proposal, a way for you to reap the benefits you have earned. Something for you, apart from Russia, and Spetsnaz, and Shlykov.” Blokhin waited.
“Talk to us about what is happening in Russia, in the army, in Spetsnaz,” said Nate. “Do it for yourself; you deserve the rewards.”
“I would dishonor my uniform, my oath,” said Blokhin, shaking his head.
“They dishonor you already,” said Nate.
“You dishonor me; your proposal is an insult.” He didn’t ask how much, he just slammed the door.
“I want you to know that authorities in New York have fingerprints and DNA found in Daria Repina’s hotel room,” said Nate. “They will be compared against samples just taken from you by the Turks. There is no doubt there soon will be an Interpol warrant out for your arrest, and Washington will request your extradition to stand trial.” Blokhin smiled thinly. He knew Moscow would never agree to that.
“What this means is that you will be obliged to remain in Russia indefinitely, to avoid immediate arrest by a foreign government,” Nate continued. “Your days as a clandestine military operator are over. This neudacha, this fiasco, in Istanbul will be your last operation, an unfortunate professional legacy for which you will be remembered.” A bit dramatic, that. Nate knew Shlykov was already well and properly framed, and Blokhin at most would be criticized and demoted for his part. The added indignity of being pitched by the Americans after being arrested would be intense. Blokhin got up from his chair, returned to the corner, and leaned against the wall.
“I hope our paths cross again,” said Blokhin in English.
* * *
* * *
As he walked out of the police station, Nate erased Blokhin from his mind. He was meeting Dominika tomorrow. Nate took a deep breath. Godamn hell, shit-bitch, as Hanefi would say. This was going to be tricky. He could attend to the debriefing professionally, no problem. Intel first, followed by ops intel and CI. Establish a sked for future meetings, then review security, sites, and signals. Doing all this in five hours (the last Bosphorus ferry back to town was at 1800 hours) was g
oing to mean they would sit down and work straight through. It would mean Nate must keep his mind on business, even if Dominika put her slim, cool hand on his arm, or if her just-washed hair brushed his cheek, or if she laughed and stuck out her tongue at him. He would ignore that trademark sideways glance that meant she wanted him, invariably accompanied by the barely perceptible lifting of the hem of her skirt, a come-on from her Sparrow past. He could imagine Gable’s comment (“Nash’ll be playing twenty toes with her in five minutes”) and Forsyth would shake his head ruefully, disappointed.
Maybe he’d surprise everyone and instead convince her about coming out with him, defecting, quitting, leaving the danger, and the dread, and the risk, and starting a new life, together. What if she says, “Yes, let’s go, right now, I’m ready”? Nate thought. Besides meaning the end of his CIA career and the work that defined him, it would also mean the loss of the Agency’s best Russian source with irreplaceable access to Putin’s Kremlin. And he’d be the cause.
Dark ancillary thoughts emerged: Could either of them live without the sustaining excitement of this work, the knife-edge bustle of the street, the adrenaline high of stealing secrets from an implacable foe? What would their retired life be like? Would they look at the snowy Rockies from the porch of a log cabin? Or eat breakfast on a white balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay? Or throw another log on the fire in a cozy New England farmhouse? A conjugal dream or a constricting nightmare? Could either of them survive retirement? Gable always said that spooks dried up and died when they left the Game. Most Russian defectors went around the bend away from the Rodina; they missed the Motherland, the black earth, and the pine forests. Could he do that to her, to himself? Jesus, maybe he had scared himself straight, maybe she’d see the light too. Maybe they would move to the next chaste and professional level of superasset and sagacious handler, coolly taking care of business against Vladimir Putin and his predatory kleptocracy. Maybe.
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