The Kremlin's Candidate

by Jason Matthews

  Grace kicked off her shoes and led him into a large living room with picture windows and a herringbone parquet floor, without a stick of furniture or anything on the white walls—Nate cracked wise that he loved what she did with the room. The air was redolent with that same fragrance. Three large wicker baskets were lined up against the wall. At the end of the room an immense gong (from Tibet, Grace said solemnly) hung from a varnished standing frame, with a large white pillow on the floor in front of the dimpled seven-foot bronze disk. On either side of the gong were black lacquer console tables with matching Chinese cloisonné candlesticks, a deep copper bowl, and a squat black-granite carving that Grace called a shivalinga, an idol to the Hindu deity Shiva, the patron god of yoga. This is nothing less than an altar in a yoga church, thought Nate.

  Nate picked up the gong hammer, but Grace said, “No, not that way, I’ll show you,” and lightly ran the felt head of the hammer around the edge of the dimpled disk that started a low moan as the palpable vibrations started, then were overlaid with a higher whine as the harmonics mingled. She dropped the hammer, and shook herself, and Nate figured the wine had caught up to her, but she straightened and walked close to him, and he braced for either a kiss or projectile puking, but in a small voice she asked whether he wanted to see Kundalini energy, her style of yoga, the coiled snake at the base of the spine. It was a little creepy. Nate remembered Bunty thinking maybe she was a bunny boiler, but she was tipsily offering to show him the wellspring of her soul after two dates, and he said yes, of course; the snake at the base of the spine, sure. Then things got weird.

  Grace took two steps back, unzipped her cocktail dress, and stepped out of it, the straps of the straining black-lace balconette bra loose on her shoulders, and her boy shorts smooth between her legs. She sat on the cushion in front of the gong, folded her legs in the classic yoga Padmasana, and placed her hands on her knees. “First comes Kapal Bhati, skull shining breath,” she whispered. She began slow, controlled breathing, with deep inhalations and explosive exhalations. After a dozen breaths, she nodded to Nate, okay, make the gong sing like she showed him, and the low Tibetan rumble started, and Nate could feel the buzz in his own spine, but he had to concentrate on a smooth circular motion with the hammer as the second sympathetic higher note started, and he looked at Grace who was sitting rocking her torso in a circular movement, chin up and eyes closed, gaining speed, and she began an indecipherable chant at the same musical note as the gong. Four minutes, five, six, shoulders in a circle forward and back, hands braced and eyes closed, and the sweat started pouring off her face and ran in rivulets between her glistening breasts, and down her stomach to soak the waistband of her panties. Nate’s arm was getting tired, but he was afraid that if he stopped with the gong she would breathe fire at him, and levitate off the balcony into the night sky. At about the ten-minute mark of unabated violent torso swinging, Grace leaned back, arched her spine off the wood, the back of her skull planted on the floor. Her sweat-transparent bra strained high, and she clasped her hands together in a Ksepana Mudra above her heart. She bent back even farther, her rib cage expanding like a bellows, her prayerful hands pressed between her breasts, and she started trembling, tsunami spasms rolling up her heaving belly, the long muscles of her legs pulsing, her feet twitching, and her quivering chin pointing at the ceiling. She suddenly tensed, her eyes rolled white, and her mouth opened as she expelled a huge breath and lay still, hands now slack on her chest.

  Nate figured the telephone he’d use to call the ambulance was probably in the kitchen, but first he leaned over Grace who was now lying flat on the floor, eyes closed, legs unfolded and outstretched. Her rib cage was still expanding with her breathing. “Are you okay?” he asked, putting his hand on her shoulder. Her eyes slowly opened and focused on him. She smiled, put a hand behind his neck, and pulled his mouth down onto hers for a hint of a kiss, a single caress of her lips. Her sweet fragrance enveloped him, and his head swam. “What is that perfume?” he said. She pulled his mouth down on hers again.

  “Ylang-ylang,” she whispered in his ear, pronouncing it ee-lang, ee-lang. “It is very old.”

  “Are you all right?” said Nate. “What happened to you?” Grace rolled to her feet, unhurriedly unclasped her sopping bra without covering herself, and walked to one of the wicker baskets, pulled out a linen kimono, and slipped it on.

  “What was that?” said Nate. Grace ran her fingers through her hair, then knotted the belt of the kimono, looking him in the eye without blinking, not at all embarrassed.

  “Awakening Kundalini,” she said. “It’s when I lose myself.”

  “Awakening what?” said Nate.

  “Have you heard of the seven chakras in the body? Life-force centers? No? I will explain it another time. It is too late tonight.”

  Another whisper of a kiss at the door, and Nate walked home along Bowen Road, mentally drafting tomorrow’s cable for COS Burns’s release on what appeared to be a notable start in the developmental to recruit Grace Gao, aka Zhen Gao. Nate’s case-officer antennas were vibrating a little, assessing factors: This was going faster than normal, maybe artificially faster? This Kundalini energy thing was unexpected; could it be exploited? She had sobered up fast enough. She was an enigma, but irresistible: erotic without being salacious; alluring without being wanton; at once sophisticated and naive. If he could swing it, he had a feeling this could be an exceptional recruitment. The foreign scholarship in the United Kingdom was still an unexplained anomaly, as was her apparent uninterest in his personal history. These were false notes, but he’d resolve them.

  * * *

  * * *

  The MSS counterintelligence team in the apartment next door listened to the audiotape of the dinner at the China Club, and reviewed the video of Zhènniǎo, the poison-feather bird’s performance in the honey-trap apartment on the other side of the bare wall—with the choreography of the gong and Matsyasana, the provocative bowstring fish pose, and the chaste kiss—and were satisfied with the evening and with future prospects for entrapping the American CIA officer and eliciting the name of his agent. His assassination was a foregone conclusion. The team leader politely congratulated their esteemed guest from Moscow, the beautiful blue-eyed Russian SVR officer who sat in an armchair in front of the monitors, bouncing her foot. Her guidance on how best to concoct Grace Gao’s fictitious personal legend to inveigle the American was sibylline—almost as if she knew how he thought.

  MA PO EGGPLANT IN GARLIC SAUCE

  Mix ground pork with rice wine vinegar, chili sauce, cornstarch, and soy sauce. Refrigerate. Cut Asian eggplants in half lengthwise, brush with peanut oil, season with salt, and broil cut side down on baking sheet until charred and tender. Whisk chicken stock with sake, sugar, sesame oil, bean paste, and soy sauce. Stir-fry minced scallions, garlic, and ginger until fragrant, add pork and brown, then add chicken stock mixture and bring to a boil. Simmer until sauce thickens. Place eggplants cut side up on a platter and spoon over with pork. Garnish with sliced scallions. Serve with steamed rice.

  29

  Your Chakra Is Showing

  Dominika had arrived in Hong Kong several days earlier after a day of ceremonial courtesy calls in MSS Headquarters at the Ministry of State Security. General Sun stayed in Beijing for consultations, so Dominika was turned over to an English-speaking captain of the Guangzhou MSS office, named Yuán Chonghuan. He had chosen the inexplicable Western business name of “Rainy,” yu tien in Mandarin, which was phonetically close to Yuán and lyrical, or so he thought. Rainy Chonghuan was exceedingly short and thin, with all the built-in malignancies of the physical runt. He had the toxic temper of a low-level officer who one minute relishes mistreating subordinates, and shamelessly toadies to superiors the next. He had caramel-colored teeth and stubby fingers with nails bitten to the quick. The halo around his head and shoulders was caramel-colored too, the color you get when the yellow of conniving treachery mixes with the browns of sloth and envy. Dominika knew she had to be ca
reful around him.

  Colonel Dominika Egorova of the SVR was an alien being to Rainy—the leggy, busty Slav with the high cheekbones might as well have been from another planet. His English, learned at MSS Officer’s school, was just fluent enough to discuss strategy with her in the operation to trap the American. Rainy Chonghuan had, however, immediately seen that this Russian was held in high esteem by General Sun and MSS leadership, which meant he would butter her remorselessly. He moreover saw that she had long experience working American targets. Her suggested amendments to the entrapment-phase plan, including tweaking Zhènniǎo’s personal history to appeal to the Yankee’s operational instincts, were impressive. Anything that would ensure success and bring him credit and promotion was welcome. Rainy provided a translated copy of Zhènniǎo’s service docket for Colonel Egorova’s review, and suggested the two women meet to discuss nuances of the nectar bait. To his surprise, the Russian demurred, explaining that Sparrows in the Russian Service operated most effectively with fewer distractions. Rainy hurriedly agreed, complimenting the colonel on her foresight and wisdom.

  Zhen Gao’s personnel file was fascinating to Dominika. The autobiography she had recited to Nate was mostly fiction, with some nuggets of truth. She had not lost her parents, she was not adopted, and she never went to hotel school. She was never taught yoga by a wizened yogini when she was twelve, she learned it only later, as a way to stay in shape and help her seduce targets.

  Zhen Gao was the daughter of a minor State-school teacher from Anxin, in Hebei Province, on the reed-choked shores of Lake Baiyangdian. Already a stunning beauty at age sixteen, Zhen caught the eye of a provincial administrator who appraised the woman’s body under the schoolgirl’s smock. He used his influence to install the young girl as a housekeeper in a State-controlled villa, took her virginity, and occasionally shared her with other municipal jacks-in-the-office to curry favor. When Zhen was eighteen, the administrator was caught taking bribes and was tried, convicted, and executed for corruption. With no patron, and an undeserved reputation as a “pleasure girl,” she was sent to Tianjin, a teeming city of fifteen million on the northeastern coast two hours south of Beijing, and enrolled in State School 2112, a training academy run by the MSS that, the file obliquely explained, trained young women in “intelligence techniques,” which included seduction, elicitation, recruitment, and blackmail. Graduates were known as Yèyīng, Nightingales.

  Based on academics, performance, and an assessment of ideological aptitude, a handful of Nightingales were chosen for continued study at Institute 48 in Beijing, a classified facility in the northeastern Shangjialou District where students were trained in the use of firearms, exotic weapons, and poisons. At age twenty, Zhen was sponsored by a storefront Sino-Anglo friendship society controlled by MSS for study in the United Kingdom, both to master English and to be exposed to Western ways. Four years later, she graduated as a full-fledged seductress-assassin of the State, known as a Zhènniǎo, the poison-feather bird. Because of her excellent English and British manner, Zhen was quietly placed in a cover position as assistant general manager at the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong, available for assignments as required.

  Bozhe, thought Dominika, reading the file, a young girl defiled by a swine, passed around the pigsty, then forced into the Chinese version of Sparrow School. Her pulse raced as she read Zhen’s life history—it was like her own. But Russian Sparrows don’t kill people, Dominika told herself, but you have, haven’t you?

  Throughout the second volume of the file, Zhen now was referred to as Zhènniǎo. Dominika asked Rainy what a poison-feather bird was, and he haltingly described the mythological bird, with coal-black plumage, that fed exclusively on serpents, and whose feathers as a result were highly poisonous. One could stir a glass of wine with a single such feather to make it mortally toxic, he said. Only in China, thought Dominika.

  The file documented fourteen assassinations credited to Zhènniǎo—the most recent being a drug-dealing Burmese police chief who had been poisoned with a distillate of the monkshood bloom. There had been no witnesses and no blowback connection to Beijing. Dominika turned to a pharmacological annex in the file that listed monkshood as a poisonous plant that produces aconitine, a lethal tetrodotoxin readily absorbed through the skin. Even slight contact with the delicate, purple bell-shaped flower would, between two and eight hours later, induce cardiac arrhythmia, ventricular tachycardia, ventricular fibrillation leading to respiratory paralysis or cardiac arrest. Zhènniǎo had applied the poison on the skin of the police chief blended with ylang-ylang, a fragrant essential oil used in aromatherapy.

  * * *

  * * *

  As she watched Zhen’s Kundalini demonstration on the surveillance monitor—the entire apartment was covered by cameras and microphones in the fixtures, woodwork, and ceilings—Dominika’s heart stopped when she heard Zhen tell Nate her perfume was called ylang-ylang. That’s how they would do him. Zhen would dab him with fragrant oil spiked with the monkshood toxin during some yoga tryst, which would kill him by the next morning.

  Would Nate sense the danger? Why would he? He was an operations officer on the hunt, intent on recruiting a beautiful Chinese girl. Benford and CIA had no idea of the threat; they couldn’t warn him. Dominika herself was in a screamingly perilous position. She couldn’t call CIA; she was in China. She couldn’t throw a package over the wall of the US Consulate as it was surrounded by MSS lookouts. She was constantly accompanied by MSS escorts, and the diminutive Rainy Chonghuan was always at her side. They had put her in a luxurious guest apartment one floor up, directly above this one, which Dominika had no doubt, was also humming with multiple digital microphones and lenses, making it exceedingly risky to try to leave the building and somehow make street contact on the fly with Nate who, she also assumed, was under MSS surveillance.

  If she acted to save Nate and made a mistake, the Chinese would report it to the Kremlin, and she would be lost. Dominika had tried to send Nate subtle warnings. She had advised the MSS that Zhen must not seem overly inquisitive, and ask no personal questions, the mark of an intelligence officer. She recommended that Zhen downplay her UK university years by simply saying they were paid for by a “scholarship.” Dominika told her hosts it was “safer to be vague,” but in reality these were inconsistent notes that she hoped would be the silent dog whistle in Nate’s head to get him to start smelling a trap. She also strongly advised that Zhen should mention Fernando’s Restaurant in Macao to shock the American into blurting something actionable, really knowing it would be a premature and aggressive note, sure to alarm Nate. She feared these would be too subtle, too diffuse warnings. Would Nate pick up on them? She couldn’t try any more subtle sabotage, for the Chinese were too smart. Dominika didn’t know how else to confound MSS plans to kill Nate.

  * * *

  * * *

  Grace had invited Nate back to her apartment for a home-cooked meal, in repayment for the dinner at the China Club. She opened the door, smiled, and pulled him by the hand into the apartment. She wore a beige shirtdress that came to midthigh, with floppy sleeves rolled up past the elbows. She briefly pressed up against him—he could feel the softness of her breasts under the shirt—and kissed him lightly. She padded barefoot through the living room—the air was thick with ylang-ylang—around the corner, and into a small but modern kitchen done all in white tile and stainless steel. On the counter were a number of ingredients, and a small black-handled Chinese cleaver.

  “I’m making a Burmese tomato salad,” said Grace. “The word for salad in Burmese is ‘lethoke.’ It means mix by hand.”

  “Were you ever in Burma?” said Nate. “What’s it called now?”

  “Myanmar,” said Grace. “Only as a tourist. But a Burmese woman there taught me how to make the salad. Her name was Kyi Saw.” Grace chopped the ingredients skillfully, whisked lemongrass vinegar, canola oil, and fish sauce, then fried sliced onions and garlic in a small pot of oil. Nate watched how she moved effortlessly around th
e kitchen, her hands quick and deft. She assembled the salad in a large wooden bowl, lightly tossed it with her hands until everything was incorporated, and handed Nate a fork. He tried a thin slice of tomato. The taste was salty, sweet, and pungent, with a slight crunch of crushed peanuts.

  “This is really delicious,” he said. “I’ve never had anything like this before.”

  Grace leaned on the counter and looked sideways at him. “I think they serve a version of the salad at a restaurant in Macao,” she said. “It’s a little restaurant on the beach called Fernando’s. We should go there sometime, and I’ll show you.” Nate kept his face neutral. Don’t like the sound of that at all, he thought. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not.

  “Sounds like fun,” said Nate. They brought plates of salad out to the balcony and ate while looking at the harbor and the scudding clouds in the night sky blushing pink from the city lights. “I find it inconceivable that this vibrant city was actually returned to China, and is now under the thumb of Beijing,” said Nate. “Do you think the spirit of Hong Kong can survive?”