The Kremlin's Candidate

by Jason Matthews

  * * *

  * * *

  Dominika’s heart was pounding in her chest as she walked down the path to the cottage with Gorelikov. She knew the American who had been captured had to be Nate. Just had to be. You pushed the exfil signal to get a reaction, and you got one, she thought. But trying to break into the compound? She knew Nate was brash, but what was Benford thinking? Now she had to supervise the interrogations, her own exposure and ruin one croaking confession away. Anton was frantic to protect MAGNIT, who Dominika was now 100 percent certain was Admiral Rowland. No more hunches. Dominika had read the daily summaries circulated from the Americas Department: Rowland was being confirmed this week as next Director of CIA and would surely read Dominika’s name as a CIA asset the week after. With Nate in custody, Dominika had one option left: she’d have to send Rowland’s name back to Benford in that crazy drone speedboat—if they’d send it—that would be on the beach tomorrow night. She had no idea if the information would get to Langley in time.

  Her heart fell when she saw him, but if he noticed her in the now-crowded, overheated cottage, he gave no indication. Three experts, five guards (three militiamen and two SBP), Dominika, Gorelikov, and a stenographer were all squeezed into the room. Bortnikov was expected momentarily; this technically was an internal security matter that belonged to FSB.

  Nate was in an armchair, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a ridiculous T-shirt, being talked to by one of the pros from Moscow. The doctor from the Serbsky Institute—his yellow halo hinted at duplicity—was leaning close, a paternal hand on Nate’s knee, talking to him in English in a soft voice, which Dominika could barely hear. She made out phrases “futile effort,” “early release,” and “return home.” Dominika sat in a straight-backed chair slightly behind the armchair, out of Nate’s line of sight. Anton paced the length of the little living room, looking impatiently at Nate and the doctor, until Dominika grabbed him softly by the arm and made him sit down. The elegant and phlegmatic Gorelikov was a nervous wreck. Hearing Nate’s voice for the first time was a knife blade in Dominika’s heart.

  “Doc, you’re either going to have to give me a happy ending, or take your hand off my knee.” The doctor sat back and smiled. He was the chief psychologist from the Serbsky Institute, the clinic where dissidents are evaluated and remanded to psychiatric wards instead of Siberian gulags.

  “I appreciate your sense of humor,” said the doctor, who had snow-white hair and one eye higher in its socket than the other, which made him look like a Dover sole. “But you’re in serious trouble, Mister . . . ; forgive me, I don’t know your name.”

  Nate smiled. “I didn’t offer it,” he said, holding out his hand. “Nathan. Nathan Hale.” The stenographer scribbled furiously, but none of the Russians knew who that was. After traces were run, they’d all get a lesson in the American Revolution. Gorelikov stood up and signaled his impatience. The fish-eyed doctor leaned forward again.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hale,” he said. “But I must now ask you to answer my questions. Your plan has been foiled. Absolutely nothing can come of it. Your cooperation will be viewed favorably by the relevant authorities, including at the highest levels. We can avoid any unpleasantness, and you will be returned home without delay.”

  “What highest levels?” said Nate. “And what sort of unpleasantness? Just so I can inform my own authorities, at the highest levels, of course.” Dominika closed her eyes. Nate’s smart mouth would be his undoing—and hers.

  “Whom were you sent here to meet?” said the doctor brusquely. “We know a great deal. In a matter of hours we will know your true name and a summary of your career. I sincerely hope it was more illustrious than this debacle.” Dominika knew the technique: belittle the subject, impress him with Russian omniscience, take away hope, and then give a little back. Hard-soft, push-pull.

  “If you know so much,” said Nate, “then you know I’m here to work on the art-restoration project and take a look at the compound.”

  “What did you expect to do on the compound?” asked the doctor.

  Nate shrugged. “The usual. Take latitude, longitude, GPS coordinates. So we can bomb it later.”

  The doctor slapped Nate’s face, losing his cool. “Who is CHALICE?” he yelled. “We know all about your ill-fated plan.”

  “I never heard the crypt CHALICE in my life,” said Nate, his cheek red. He knew instantly that he was at the end of a barium enema concocted by Benford and that the answer was already here: CHALICE. But now it had to get back to Langley. Maybe he could break out of his room at night and make it to the beach. The doctor nodded to one of the guards, who backhanded Nate on the side of the face. Dominika was about to get out of her chair when the doctor from Moscow State University interceded. His halo was blue. Dangerous.

  “It would be counterproductive to strike the subject if I am to use certain compounds. As I’m sure my esteemed colleague knows, punches and slaps will raise his levels of adrenaline and endorphins,” he said softly, as if he were berating his counterpart from the insane asylum, who knew only about restraints and shock therapy.

  “We’re wasting time,” Anton said. “What are your compounds? Do they work?”

  “Let’s see, shall we?” the doctor said to Nate. Dominika held her breath.

  The doctor took out three separate syringes, and laid them on the side table. Presumably each syringe contained a different chemical cocktail.

  “Just so you don’t have Polonium-210 in that little black bag of yours,” said Nate. A guard clamped his hands on Nate’s right arm, but he shook it off, grabbed the guard’s lapel, twisted it, and pulled him forward to sprawl on the floor with a clatter. Two more guards clamped down on Nate’s wrist. The doctor lanced one of the needles into the vein on Nate’s arm, then stepped back to look at his face. He lifted one of Nate’s eyelids and looked at his pupils.

  “Now I want you to relax,” said the doctor. “The experience will be quite pleasant.” Nate felt a hot rush travel up his arm, up his cheeks, then up the back of his skull. He experienced an intense wave of vertigo. The walls of the cottage spun in front of his eyes, and he had a sensation of falling a great distance out of the sky. He held on to the arms of the chair and rode the sensation, while quietly taking deep breaths to oxygenate his lungs. The doctor’s voice came to him from a great distance away, as if he were talking through a speaking trumpet.

  “Psychotropic drugs are chemical substances that change brain function, and result in alterations in perception, mood, or consciousness,” said the doctor. “There is a wide range of compounds; the effectiveness of each depends on the personality of the subject. A period of testing is required to determine which specific drug will be most effective on an individual subject. I have chosen one that normally is quite effective.” Anton looked as though he was ready to plunge the needle into the doctor’s own neck.

  “Perhaps you have not observed that this interrogation must be conducted with extreme urgency,” said Gorelikov. “We don’t have time for your damn chemical analyses, and we don’t have time for this other idiot’s moronic attempts to establish the subject’s trust, and we don’t have time for the luxury of Line S’s leisurely records searches. I need a name, the name of one of the two hundred guests now arriving for the president’s reception. One name. I need it before the sun goes down tonight. Can any of you duraki, mutton heads, accomplish that?” The doctor who had injected Nate stood stiffly with nervous indignation.

  “I appreciate the urgency of the situation, you can be sure, comrade. I, therefore, have selected a robust compound of 3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate and amobarbital mixed with a stabilizing derivative of Valium. You will observe the effect on the subject quite soon.”

  He pulled up a chair, and sat close to Nate, whose head was now lolling, his chin on his chest. The doctor looked nervously at a fuming Gorelikov, leaned close, and started speaking softly.

  “Now Mr. Hale, we are going on a pleasant trip, you and me. It will be quite
enjoyable. Are you ready? By the way, who is CHALICE?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Nate’s furtive deep breathing was just keeping the effects of the drugs from totally swallowing up his head, WHO IS CHALICE? and the room was still spinning but his grip on the armchair helped, as did digging his fingernails into his palm so he could concentrate on the pain, which became his tenuous hold on to the lip of the cliff, to the real world, keep breathing, he was on the edge of the abyss, WHAT IS CHALICE’S NAME? between consciousness and the dreamy state where he might start talking a blue streak, keep breathing dammit, think about Benford, keep your wits about you, Nash, and he thought about Forsyth, you’re stronger than they are, and he thought about Gable, rookie, don’t give those fuckers one thing, I’m proud of you, and he thought about them all, Korchnoi, and Hannah, and Udranka, and Ioana, everybody but Dominika, she doesn’t exist, WHO IS CHALICE? and he thought about Agnes two days ago in the hotel room in Warsaw, keep breathing, how her hands felt on his cheeks, feel the sensation, remember the sensation, don’t let go, and the room spinning and the doctor’s voice intruded into his thoughts, friendly, soothing, insistent, WHO IS CHALICE? don’t let go, stay in this room, his face was hot, and he could feel the sweat running down his cheeks. He looked up, the spinning got worse with his eyes open, but there was the photograph of Lenin looking down at him with those doll black eyes and the goatee unevenly trimmed, and the tight-lipped mouth waiting for Nate to start talking, but I won’t talk unless you do, you bastard, and Nate concentrated on those eyes, he locked on them, nothing else, nothing else, and waited for them to blink or move and the more he stared at Lenin’s face the stronger he became and he kept staring at the bridge of Lenin’s nose, taking in the whole photo, come down off that wall you bastard, come down and take over the interrogation, because the drugs weren’t going to work, Nate knew that now his head was clearer, and he kept breathing and the room slowed, and he kept looking at the photograph, and Lenin’s eyes blazed with hatred, and Gable’s voice told Lenin, you can go ahead and blink first, you goat fucker, because you’re not getting shit from us, and shove your proletarian revolution up your ass, and Nate kept staring at Lenin’s face, expecting the photograph to combust into the fire of Hades and to hear the roar of rage as his will was denied, and suddenly Nate was through the tunnel and his head cleared with an enormous rush, his eyesight crystal clear, noticing the grain of the logs on the wall, a fly on a windowpane, the frayed collar of the doctor, everything was humming and then Gable’s words came to him. “Listen up, rookie, just when things look darkest, they go black.” And Nate took a deep breath, and looked at the doctor. It had been twenty minutes, or three hours, Nate had no clue.

  The doctor looked at Nate and knew he had lost him, the drugs were already dissipating in his system—they typically spiked in the first half hour, then faded quickly. The doctor followed Nate’s gaze and saw the picture of Lenin and instantly understood that Nate had used the photograph to focus his attention and resist the soporific effects of the drugs. Smart young man, obviously trained. He would have to wait at least twelve hours before another injection might be effective, otherwise an overload of drugs might put the subject too deep and unable to respond from that desired state of drifty half awareness. This American seemed less susceptible; perhaps it was his apparent lack of fear. The doctor looked at Gorelikov and shook his head, as he nervously started packing up his little black bag. Anton turned away in disgust, and Dominika let out a long silent breath.

  Alexander Bortnikov of the FSB came through the door to the cottage and looked around. Gorelikov gave him a shrug of impotent rage. Bortnikov walked in front of Nate’s chair and stood looking down at him silently. “So nothing seems to have made an impression on our young American friend, eh? You can go,” he said, indicating the doctors. “One guard only. If the American moves, damage him considerably.” He pointed at the stenographer. “You. Out.” He picked up the receiver of the gray telephone on a side table. “Serzhánt Riazanov to the Gorki cottage, instantly,” said Bortnikov, hanging up. “We will see if we can keep your attention a little more closely,” said Bortnikov, his blue halo pulsing.

  * * *

  * * *

  They waited for thirty minutes. Dominika stayed seated behind Nate so their eyes wouldn’t meet. Sergeant Riazanov had to dip his head when coming through the door. He must have been over two meters tall, a giant. The first thing Dominika noticed were his hands, which were huge, with bony knuckles and long fat fingers. He had the face of an ogre—acromegaly was the medical name of the affliction commonly known as gigantism—with a protruding forehead, jutting lower jaw, pronounced cheekbones, widely spaced camel’s teeth, and a massive fleshy nose. Dominika had no doubt that the skulls of Sergeant Riazanov’s early relatives had been found in Pleistocene caves in Spain and France. He wore no uniform, but was in mechanic’s overalls, zippered in front, short in the sleeves and cuffs, and a pair of enormous combat boots. No insignia, no mark of rank. That he had been summoned by Bortnikov suggested to Dominika that Riazanov was a member of some FSB unit kept in reserve for extraordinary duties, like right now, in this little quaint cottage.

  General Bortnikov pointed at Nate with his chin and the ogre stepped up to the armchair, lifted Nate by the armpits, shook him like a rag doll, and threw him back into the armchair. Nate looked up at him in amazement.

  “You must’ve been the tallest kid in your class,” said Nate. “You ever get checked for a tumor on your pituitary gland?” Bortnikov, unimpressed, nodded again at Sergeant Riazanov. The sergeant took Nate’s left hand in one of his grizzly-bear paws and started bending Nate’s little finger back toward his wrist. Nate thrashed wildly, but could not escape the vise grip of the sergeant as the little finger kept bending back, and back, until there was an audible snap and Nate groaned and fell into the armchair holding his broken finger. As the sergeant towered over the doubled-over figure of Nate, General Bortnikov moved slightly closer. Dominika felt faint sitting there. Those sweet hands, she thought.

  “Do you recall the name of CHALICE now?” he said. “We would like to know his identity rather quickly.” Nate held his wounded hand, his little finger dark blue. From behind, Dominika saw Nate’s crimson halo steady and bright, fueled by courage and, she knew, his love for her. But how long could he last?

  “I’m telling you assholes, I don’t know anyone named CHALICE,” said Nate. Bortnikov’s face flushed with anger.

  “Break his left arm,” he said to Riazanov. The giant grabbed Nate’s left arm, twisted the wrist, held it out away from Nate’s body, and swung a massive fist down against Nate’s forearm with more force than an iron pipe. The snap of Nate’s ulna made Dominika jump. Nate screamed and held his shattered arm while bent double in the chair.

  “Now, the name of CHALICE,” said Bortnikov. “Let’s be reasonable. All we require is a name. Sometimes it is easier to write it rather than to actually say it out loud.” He took out a pen and a notebook and put them on the arm of Nate’s chair with an encouraging smile.” You see we’ve left your right arm and hand alone for the time being so you can write the name,” said Bortnikov.

  “The hospitality and honor for which Russia is widely known,” said Nate, gasping and still bent over. He didn’t reach for the pen.

  “Let the sergeant help you,” said Bortnikov. The giant took the pen and placed it between Nate’s index and ring fingers and squeezed, lighting up the ulnar nerve in the hand as the pen ground against the bones. Nate’s head went back in agony.

  “CHALICE?” said Bortnikov. Suddenly Dominika knew she had to do something, anything. She was the Director of SVR. She got up from her chair, put a reassuring hand on Gorelikov’s shoulder, and strode forward.

  “Let’s stop this display,” said Dominika, with vehemence. “I wonder if the three of us could talk outside for a second,” she said, indicating Bortnikov and Gorelikov. The senior officers were taken aback, especially at the tone of her voice, and they fi
led outside onto the little decorative porch of the cottage, leaving Nate with Sergeant Neanderthal. She followed her colleagues out, slammed the front door behind her, and stared at the two startled men.

  “What the fuck are we doing?” hissed Dominika. She amped up her indignation. “This is not 1937 with Stalin running amok.” She paced up and down the little porch while Gorelikov and Bortnikov followed her with their eyes. Dominika knew both of them were capable of pulling rank on her, and probably would, but she had to get them to stop breaking things on Nate.

  “We don’t have the luxury of time,” said Gorelikov. “If this CHALICE reports the name of MAGNIT, we lose the best asset in the history of Russian espionage.” And probably both your heads, Dominika thought.

  “I know that, Anton,” said Dominika. “But what do you intend to do with this American? Break every bone in his body? No SVR officer would be safe in the United States or abroad thereafter. And which one of you would care to explain to the president that an American intelligence officer was willfully killed during interrogation?”

  “What would you propose we do about discovering the identity of CHALICE?” said Bortnikov.