“I look forward to hosting you at the reception at the cape in several days,” said Putin, leering. Dominika wondered if her dacha was wired for sound and video, and if the president had a key to the front door. Stupid questions.
“I will be there, Mr. President. Thank you for the invitation. And I must thank you again for use of the dacha. It’s quite beautiful.”
Putin nodded. “The view of the sea from that particular dacha is second only to the view from the master apartment in the main house,” he said as if he were selling shares in a Ponzi scheme.
Dominika smiled. “I have no doubt of that,” she said, noncommittally. She was not going to stick out her chest, wet her lips, and tell him she couldn’t wait to compare the two views. How to keep a suspicious, covetous, and randy despot’s hands off you for two or three days without incurring his wrath, or worse, embarrassing him regarding performance issues? There were bawdy rumors on the streets of Moscow that Dimitri Medvedev, Putin’s diminutive prime minister, a protégé who had switched leadership positions with Putin as a way to satisfy term limits laws, was better endowed and, well, more feral than his supposedly ubervirile patron. Medvedev’s nickname from those years was Nano President, but the mere thought that Putin was not the rampant alpha wolf among the whole pack could not be remotely contemplated. “Until then,” said the president before moving off. She felt footsteps coming up behind her.
“Congratulations, Director,” said a smiling, jubilant Gorelikov with a flourish. “You’ve earned this honor, and we will accomplish great things in the coming months.” Great things, to be sure, thought Dominika. Disrupting democracies, suborning innocents, enabling cloven-footed surrogates, maybe start the next world war. But Anton was reveling in the possibilities now that his ingénue, his creation, had landed the big job. “With the announcement of your new position, I took the liberty of transferring your belongings to your new penthouse on Kutuzovsky Prospekt. You’ll find it elegant and quite comfortable.” How kind and thoughtful. The courteous favor was an opportunity for Gorelikov’s team to rummage through her belongings. Bozhe, thank God I buried my broken SRAC equipment before I left. “The penthouse belonged to Andropov before he became First Secretary,” beamed Anton. Charming. I hope they’ve taken out the hospital bed and oxygen tanks since then. “Your daily schedule will naturally be taken up with more representational duties, starting tomorrow evening with a formal diplomatic reception in the Georgievsky Hall here in the Grand Kremlin Palace. Besides the embassies, there will be various delegations.” Dominika’s irrational first thought was that she had no dress for a formal reception. Gorelikov was a warlock, reading her mind.
“Dominika, I also took the quite outrageous liberty of putting a selection of evening dresses in your closet,” said Anton like a valet, “but I must apologize in advance for my utter lack of style. I hope at least one of them will suit.” The elegant Gorelikov, dressed today in an exquisite gray flannel suit of British cut, a white spread-collar shirt, and a black knit tie, would have chosen, Dominika had no doubt, elegant, expensive frocks in her exact size. Welcome to the club, thought Dominika. Now they’re dressing you like a doll.
“I’m sure they will be quite lovely, thank you,” said Dominika, her mind drifting. She knew Benford would hear about her long-anticipated promotion within a day: TASS and Pravda would carry the announcement, doubtless highlighting the fact that General Dominika Egorova was one of the highest-ranked women in the government. Modern Russia making great strides, thought Dominika, despite the unavoidable fact that the entire country was nothing more than a big petrol station with nuclear weapons and heaps of murdered dissidents.
The crowd made no move to disperse—no one arrived at a State function after the president and likewise no one departed before him—so Dominika continued speaking with Gorelikov, and they were soon joined by a mild and complimentary Alexander Bortnikov of the FSB, in a gorgeous powder-blue uniform with gold braid at lapels and cuffs. Bortnikov was a lieutenant general with three stars, after all. He shook hands with Dominika as he congratulated her, and his politely firm grip was dry and warm, his steady blue halo—matched by the equally steady aura above Gorelikov’s head and shoulders—hinted at reserve and good sense. Perhaps she could eventually count these two as true allies in this Kremlin maze. Then she remembered that this beneficent and reasonable grandfather had planned and authorized Litvinenko’s assassination in London. No one, but no one, was an ally.
Sidelong glances from the milling siloviki were ill disguised; nervous noses already had sniffed the air and tentatively identified a newly formed triumvirate—Gorelikov and the Directors of SVR and FSB, a potent cabal favored by the president himself. But Dominika remembered Benford’s warning when the subject of her becoming head of SVR first was raised: “You’ll be close to the top, but even as you become indispensable to Vladimir, so will you be considered a threat to his suzerainty.” Nate had to translate that word, but she knew he was right. From now on, her official life would be plagued with hidden tests, sly traps, and constant assessments of her loyalty. She grimly told herself that gutting the Kremlin for Benford, Nate, and Forsyth would be trebly satisfying from now on, as long as she survived.
The familiar heartache welled up in her breast. Where was Nate now? Would they let them see each other? She would have to pick a plausible foreign trip, her first as Director, to be able to meet with her CIA friends, and from now on she would have to contend with hovering aides and ever-present security personnel.
Dominika would be busy in the next weeks, and she would have to alter her mode of operating. She’d have to concoct a reason to go out alone without an escort, to put down a signal for a personal meet with Ricky Walters, and make arrangements for a foreign trip in the near future. That would take a few weeks to arrange. Dominika had a lot to pass to her handlers, and she desperately needed reliable, secure commo. She still hadn’t decided whether to tell Benford and Nate that she had saved Nate’s life in Hong Kong. But for now, she had to get ready for a party.
* * *
* * *
The Georgievsky Hall in the Grand Kremlin Palace was an endless series of massive and ornately decorated coffered ceilings supported by spiraled-fluted marble columns at each pier, with intricate capitals and plinths, an ivory and gold arcade of dazzling opulence illuminated by colossal chandeliers hanging in a line from each dome, three, four, five, six of them, with galaxies of lights reflecting off the polished parquet floor inlaid with colored pieces of precious wood, set in patterns as complex as a Tabriz carpet from Persia. The room was filled to capacity with the boisterous Moscow foreign diplomatic corps, jostling and carrying flutes of champagne above their heads as they pressed through the throng. The oligarchs milled quietly in a corner, each wondering whether, when, and under what pretext their pre-Putin fortunes would be appropriated. The siloviki kept loose station around the president as he halfheartedly worked the crowd, dispensing an infrequent wry grin, or very rarely, a lopsided smile, which clearly he managed at a grave cost.
High-ranking Russian military officers from the army, navy, and air force stayed segregated in their herds, respectively green, navy, or light blue, like grazing herds of African antelope, the kudus apart from the sables, separate from the impalas. Dominika had known Gorelikov would stuff her closet with fabulous frocks. Two from Paris (a Vuitton and a Dior) and one from Milan (a Rinaldi), but she had worn the more demure Dior, a silk champagne-pink beaded floral-print gown with hourglass bodice, ruched waist, and low-cut plunge. Gorelikov steered her around the crowd, making introductions. She already knew the buffaloes on the Security Council and the secretary of the Council, dour Nikolai Patrushev, who stayed with her for a few minutes chatting, while looking down the front of her dress. Nikolai drifted off when Bortnikov eased up and kept Dominika amused for fifteen minutes whispering in her ear to point out the known and suspect foreign-intelligence officers from the respective embassies.
“That’s the German BND representativ
e?” asked Dominika. “He looks like a godovalyy bychok, a breeder hog. He cannot be active on the street.” Bortnikov pointed to a thin man with white hair talking to a group of diplomats. “The American Chief of Station Reynolds, capable, cunning, and tricky,” said Bortnikov. “His officers are active on the street, but we have not detected their activities . . . yet.” Keep up the good work, Dominika telegraphed to the American.
Suddenly Gorelikov excused himself and made his way through the crowd, weaving his way around obstructions halfway down the length of the one-hundred-meter room. Russian naval uniforms had gathered at a doorway to greet another arriving group of a dozen foreign naval officers—Bortnikov whispered they were Americans, a US Navy delegation—and there seemed to be as much gold braid and as many chests full of ribbons on the Americans as on the Russians.
“What are they doing here?” asked Dominika.
Bortnikov shrugged. “Some fool discussions proposing joint naval cooperation against Somali and Malay pirates,” he said. “Patrushev has decided we do not have the time or the resources for such adventures, but we invited them anyway for appearances and to collect assessment data on these admirals. Some day we may face them in battle,” Bortnikov said, chuckling. Dominika watched as Gorelikov, Patrushev, and the Russian admirals stiffly greeted the American contingent, which was accompanied by the US ambassador and a phalanx of aides, including, to Dominika’s alarm, the youthful Ricky Walters, her case officer in Moscow for personal meets. Bogu moy, my God, if he saw Dominika would he have the wits to keep expressionless? She resolved not to go near the Americans for the entire evening, slightly incongruous behavior for the new Director of SVR, who would be expected to get right in the faces of US Navy visitors. The thought tickled an ancillary fact she could not retrieve.
Dominika kept quartering the room, “cutting the pie,” like they taught her a hundred years ago at the Academy, circling in the opposite direction, to stay away from the Americans, but to also keep them in sight. Could she dare scribble a note and try to slip it into Walters’s pocket? To say what? What if Gorelikov saw her? No. A thousand times no.
Gorelikov was certainly spending a lot of gratuitous time with the US Navy contingent, handing around flutes of champagne, raising his glass to toast the ranking officer of the group, the Chief of Naval Operations, but then he turned and toasted another admiral who Dominika saw was a mannish woman. Dominika eased through the crowd to get a closer look, and something stirred in her, the female admiral was familiar, somehow. She had smiled at a Gorelikov witticism, revealing uneven teeth. What was it? Gorelikov was recommending canapes from the tray of a passing waiter that featured an assortment of salaka, toasted brioche with herring and melted cheese. A snaggletooth. Twelve years ago. The Metropol Hotel. The GRU honey trap. The skinny naval student. The biter with the tooth. Her shoulder. She had never asked—or cared—about the result of the snap trap. It was possible, probable, that the blackmail did not take, for the historical success rate on honey traps was only 25 percent. If it did take, the Kremlin had been running a US admiral for more than a decade.
Then Dominika stopped, frozen like an idiot mannequin in the middle of the hall, jostled by partygoers under the blazing chandeliers, and felt her spine grow cold. The selection of the DCIA—Benford had written to her with the names of the candidates. This one here tonight had to be the naval admiral, Rowland. Her visit to Moscow on this delegation could mean nothing, but it could also mean much. The pieces tumbled in her head like a collapsed mosaic ceiling. Shlykov. Naval railgun. She knew who this was, and she knew why Gorelikov was toadying to her. Now all she had to do was get word back to Benford to find out whether MAGNIT liked herring on toast. With no commo she was mute and Benford was blind.
* * *
* * *
Gorelikov was sitting on a red velvet couch at the end of the empty hall with his feet up on a brocade chair, his tie loosened, and a flute of flat champagne on the floor beside him. Dominika sat at the other end of the couch. A few remaining waiters scurried about, collecting the last of the crockery from the twelve groaning buffet tables that had been spaced along the length of the hall. An army of cleaners would follow to polish the magnificent floor and to dust the interstices of the chandeliers.
“US naval officers are exceedingly adept in unfamiliar social situations such as tonight’s reception,” said Gorelikov, rubbing his eyes. “They receive schooling in diplomatic conversation and comportment, and handle themselves with confidence. Our senior officers are krestyane, peasants and plowmen, by comparison, hesitant to say anything for fear of revealing the color of the hulls of our ships. It’s positively Soviet, the way they act.”
Dominika wanted to work on him a little. “Back then they were all terrified of Stalin,” she said. “He purged the entire officer corps in the thirties.”
“Yes, but now? The president supports the armed forces.”
“Old habits fade slowly,” said Dominika, noncommittedly. “But who was the female admiral you were speaking to? She was the only woman in the bunch.” Gorelikov’s halo wavered, and Dominika listened for the deception.
“I don’t recall her name. She apparently is a science genius,” said Gorelikov, dismissively. “She is retiring soon, and doubtless will be offered seats on boards of defense contractors as a consultant. These admirals can manage little else in retirement.” Interesting. You don’t know her name or where she works, but it has not escaped your notice that she is retiring soon. Dominika forced herself to yawn, as her mind churned.
IF this admiral was the girl Dominika seduced twelve years ago at the Metropol, and IF Gorelikov had been successful in pitching her as MAGNIT, and IF New York–based illegal SUSAN was now undetectably meeting her, and IF she were selected and confirmed as CIA Director, the first thing Gorelikov and Bortnikov would ask from her would be the list of active recruited CIA sources inside Russia. DIVA/Egorova would be at the top of the list. A lot of ifs, but Dominika knew there was grave danger.
Why wasn’t Gorelikov telling her the admiral was MAGNIT? Professional covetousness? Orders from the president? Was she somehow suspected? No. They had specifically selected her to meet SUSAN on Staten Island. Were they waiting for her promotion and a further demonstration of loyalty? Perhaps.
Dominika continued to stay away from the US delegation. God knows what trouble would ensue if the admiral recognized her. After a day of liaison meetings with an uncooperative Russian Naval Command, the Americans would stop in London for two days, after which the admiral would return to Washington for more preliminary briefings, and to await the selection of the final candidate. Then congressional confirmation hearings. In no more than ten days Gorelikov would know who would be running CIA. Dominika frantically calculated if she’d have enough time to trigger a crash-dive meeting with case officer Walters to pass an urgent warning to Nate and Benford. Gorelikov, the prescient warlock, seemed to read her mind.
“Will you be flying down to the reception at the cape tomorrow with me? I’ve reserved the Falcon 7 before Bortnikov or Patrushev could claim it. We all have to fly separately; it’s a regulation.” This is a mild test, thought Dominika. Do I fly down with him, or show a little independence and go a few days later, try to make a meet with the Station in the meantime? No. You’ll never get rid of your new bodyguards, and you’ll never get through to the Station. Act naturally. You stick to Anton for now.
“I’d be disappointed if you hadn’t invited me,” said Dominika. “How many guests are expected?”
“Total over the four days, not more than two hundred,” said Gorelikov. “But you have your dacha and your privacy. The rest of us stay in the main house on the presidential wing, elegant, but nothing like your own sea view. You don’t get lonely by yourself?” Dominika knew Anton was not flirting.
“No, I do not become lonely,” said Dominika.
Gorelikov smiled. “I’m sure you will not be,” he said. You mean when Randy Vlad comes scratching, thought Dominika.
&nb
sp; * * *
* * *
When Admiral Rowland was first invited to accompany the delegation to Moscow by the Chief of Naval Operations, she almost panicked and declined. For MAGNIT the mole to visit Moscow and rub elbows with the intelligence officers who were running her was sheer folly. A little more thought on the matter convinced Audrey that this trip would burnish her credentials for selection as DCIA, and that smooth Anton Gorelikov would ensure that no compromising contacts would be attempted. It would be enough for the Russians to see her across the ballroom, and to marvel at her cool nerve and audacity. She accepted the invitation to travel to Russia, sent a short message to SUSAN to inform the Center that she would be arriving, and packed her best uniforms.
After arriving in Moscow, Audrey stayed close to her colleagues, because she was still nervous about her security. After diplomatic pleasantries with Gorelikov and other officials at the Kremlin reception, Audrey assumed that would be the only contact with her handler, and the danger was past. She could finish her time in Russia, fly to London, then return to Washington to find out if she had been selected by POTUS as DCIA. It would be the most audacious penetration of an opposition service in the history of espionage.
She should have known better. The Russians could not resist the temptation to enter her Moscow hotel suite through the door of an adjoining room on the last night of her stay in the capital. The room was dark, and Audrey sat up in bed when the silhouette of Anton glided across the room, backlighted by city lights from the window. Without saying a word, he pulled up a chair and sat next to her bed, leaned close to her, and patted her hand.
“We are very glad to see you,” Anton said. “It has been too long. Are you well? Is contact with the woman in New York satisfactory?”
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