“Think about it, gentlemen.” Dominika laughed. “We have found moles before. The guest list is manageable. Two hundred suspects is nothing,” she said, mock hearty and confident. “We’ll be able to cross off a hundred fifty names right away, you both know it, and I know it. The morons who run the Joint-Stock Companies, Russian Railways, or RUSAL state aluminum could never know such secrets. The remaining fifty can be interviewed, or put under surveillance, or electronically monitored. The FSB can handle that easily. Better yet, we can order all the prime suspects to attend a weeklong closed conference—something political like Governance in Novorossiya—in Nizhny Novgorod, so there will be no possibility of CHALICE communicating with anyone. By then it will be too late and MAGNIT himself will be able to tell us CHALICE’s identity. The mole is removed, MAGNIT is in place, and we initiate the systematic destabilization of CIA and the US government.” Dominika made a conscious effort to use the masculine pronoun when referring to MAGNIT.
“And the American?” asked Gorelikov.
Dominika shrugged. “He’s a discarded chess piece. For the time being, send him to Moscow and hold him incognito. Not in a prison, but in a remote district—or even a provisional capital, under supervision, house arrest. We keep him for future use: a show trial if we need it; a diplomatic concession; a spy swap. He’s not going to get near CHALICE, and the problem will be solved in a week’s time.” Bortnikov looked at Dominika from under bushy eyebrows.
“General, what you say makes sense. Your facility with operations is apparent. But there is still a risk that we do not find the mole in time. Are you willing to accept responsibility if we lose MAGNIT?”
“I do not even know MAGNIT’s true name,” said Dominika. “This will work and we will succeed without covering the walls of this ghastly little cottage with blood. Sergeant Riazanov will have to kill and eat a bear tonight instead.”
Gorelikov was impressed with his protégé. What she said was astute; it was a clever solution, specifically since he secretly had not approved of the physical aspects of the interrogation. He thought them barbaric. He looked over at Dominika.
“You’re sure it’s not that you’re taken with the handsome American?” said Gorelikov. Joke or hint? Anton had always circled around Dominika’s loyalty, poking and prodding. It was creepy and ominous, the mentor always testing the protégé.
“You have a point, Anton. Not counting Sergeant Riazanov, he’s the handsomest man in that room,” said Dominika. Both men laughed, their blue haloes positively shimmering.
DOVER SOLE
Place flour seasoned with salt, pepper, and dill in a shallow dish. Pat boned sole fillets dry, season both sides with salt and pepper, and dredge fish on both sides in the flour. Heat oil in a large skillet, add butter and swirl to combine. When foam subsides, add fillets and cook until golden brown on both sides. For the sauce: Heat drippings from skillet, add butter, and cook until slightly brown, remove from heat and add dry white wine, chopped parsley, lemon juice, and capers. Spoon sauce over fillets and serve immediately.
36
Hussar Condoms
It was 2230, and Dominika walked through her dacha, turning off the lights. She had taken off her party dress and was wearing a satin sleep shirt with snaps down the front. The doors to her upstairs bedroom balcony were open and the gauzy curtains heaved back and forth with the land breeze. Dominika knew she would not be able to sleep, not with Nate handcuffed to an aircraft seat flying back to Moscow, his broken arm and finger haphazardly set in a cast and splint. At least she had stopped the interrogation—for now. It had been a relief that Gorelikov and Bortnikov both had ultimately endorsed her plan of stashing Nate in Moscow and holding him in reserve as a hostage. Once commo with Benford was reestablished, she would inform Langley about Nate’s whereabouts, and diplomatic negotiations could commence to retrieve him and return him home.
That unmanned boat was due on the beach below her dacha at midnight tonight, according to the exfiltration plan. Dominika would meet the silent craft, open the hatch, and emplace a thumb drive with a detailed report of the events of the past three weeks, but primarily with the presumed identity of MAGNIT. The mole was US Navy Admiral Rowland; Dominika had approximately five days before the admiral was confirmed as CIA Director. Would Dominika’s intel get back to Benford, from the 6th Fleet frigate on patrol in the Black Sea through US NAVEUR in Naples, through the maze of the Pentagon, and onto Benford’s desk in that short period of time? She would, of course, address the thumb drive to the immediate attention of Simon Benford, CIA, but the ponderous US Navy bureaucracy was an unknown. Would they react accordingly?
Her mind seethed, trying to calculate all the imponderables of the situation, her concern for Nate, her lack of commo. The opening day of Putin’s reception had been lavish, with two more days to go, and with enough food and drink to feed half of Moscow for a year. The bovine wives of the siloviki, dressed in outrageous satin and velvet frocks in teal, peach, or tangerine, the height of Soviet haute couture, vainly competed with the lithe trophy wives of the oligarchs in their bodycon minidresses and tanned cantilevered bosoms. The heavyweights could not compare in the sex department, but they held their own at the buffet tables. Gorelikov, Bortnikov, and Dominika had watched the exuberant guests from the sidelines as they milled about, whispering to each other, privately assessing the likelihood that one of them could be the mole. A score of one meant unlikely, a two meant a possible, and a three meant a short-list finalist. Dominika went along with the Star Chamber game with mock enthusiasm and grim determination. Some of the threes were going to have their lives rudely disrupted next week back in Moscow.
Dominika padded downstairs to the dacha’s stainless-steel kitchen, took a bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator, and started peeling the foil and wire to pop the cork. A slant of silver moonlight was the only light in the room, and cut diagonally across the marble countertop. The sea breeze picked up a little and the house stirred.
“Do you need help with that cork?” said a female voice. Dominika jumped a foot. A sturdy woman appeared out of the shadows of the kitchen and walked toward the kitchen island. She was dressed in a white T-shirt and black leggings, which did nothing to conceal a prodigious bust and athletic legs. She was Slavic and classically attractive; Dominika thought she might be close to fifty years old, with a dramatic white forelock that started in front and was swept back with the rest of a thick lion’s mane of hair. She had a crimson halo of passion—like Nate’s—strong and bright.
“Who are you?” said Dominika. “How did you get into this house?” The woman smiled and approached closer, but without any menace.
“As elegant as this villa is,” said the woman, “the locks installed are of inferior quality, especially those on the sliding doors. But I suppose you don’t have to worry about security here on the compound.”
“You are right about that,” said Dominika. “In fact, I can summon a security patrol to this house in about ninety seconds.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said the woman. “Forgive my bad manners, but are you General Egorova?”
“As much as I’ve enjoyed your unannounced visit,” said Dominika, “I believe it’s time for me to call security. Who are you?” The woman seemed unfazed. She approached closer and began whispering. She obviously knew about the limitations of audio emplacements in a large room with tall ceilings and cement walls. But this conversation was too dangerous in what Dominika assumed was a bugged space.
“I know you are Egorova, and you are exactly as Nathaniel described you.” This situation was too bizarre, insane, implausible. Was this a trap or trick conjured up by Bortnikov? Did he think she was a three on the suspect list?
“I’m afraid I know no Nathaniel, and I believe I’ve asked for your name for the last time.” She opened a drawer of the kitchen cabinet and took out a small PSM pistol, favored by senior security service officers and politburo members. She racked the slide back.
“You have every
cause to be cautious, but before you shoot me, I’d appreciate a glass of champagne,” said the woman. Dominika intuitively knew what this must be: this Polish beauty was from Langley. She poured a glass of champagne for the woman, while holding the pistol in the other hand. Dominika waggled the muzzle, indicating they should walk upstairs. Once in the softly lighted bedroom, Dominika led the woman outside onto the balcony. She held the PSM down by her side and sipped champagne. The sea breeze hissed through the pines and the Black Sea moon hung over the horizon.
“Who are you?” Dominika asked.
“I arrived with Nathaniel posing as an art restoration supervisor,” whispered Agnes. “My name is Agnes Krawcyk. Nathaniel was arrested within five minutes of our arrival. I could tell he was surprised. Someone must have given him up.”
Dominika sipped at her champagne. “How long have you known this Nathaniel?” she asked, still cautious.
“Only several years,” said Agnes. “But I worked during the Cold War in Poland for Tom Forsyth.”
“Describe this Forsyth,” said Dominika.
“Salt-and-pepper hair, six feet tall, and slender; he wears his reading glasses on the top of his head. Very experienced, amazing operational mind. He brought Nathaniel to Helsinki from Moscow and saved his career. Satisfied?” Her halo was steady, assured. Dominika put the pistol on the ledge of the balcony. This was Nate’s wingman, and Benford’s clever addition: sacrifice Nate, clear the field, and hope for success. Crazy, but it worked; this woman was here, wasn’t she?
“I’m sure your instructions were never to come to this dacha,” Dominika said.
“I don’t care about the rules anymore,” said Agnes. “I want to save Nathaniel. Where is he? Do you know? Is he all right?”
More than professional focus, thought Dominika. There’s a personal dimension here too. “They were halfway to killing him this afternoon. They broke a finger and his left arm. He resisted a preliminary course of psychotropic drugs. As the Director of SVR, I argued that he should be kept incognito in Moscow, in good condition, to use as a future bargaining chip as developments require. He’s already on a plane to the capital.”
Agnes put down her glass. “You sent him to Moscow? I can’t get to him there. There’s no way he can escape.”
“I saved his life by sending him to Moscow. What were you going to do, shoot your way into the guardroom, grab Nathaniel, and run for the beach? There are five hundred troops in these woods.”
“He might be in one of your prisons for five years,” whispered Agnes.
“I’ll worry about Nate later,” said Dominika. “Right now, you and I need to accomplish one thing. I believe Nate’s superiors in Langley arranged a canary trap to determine the identity of a high-placed mole in the United States named MAGNIT. Did Nate tell you any of this? No, he probably didn’t know himself. During Nate’s interrogation they kept asking about an informant with a code name of CHALICE. I believe that is part of a blue-dye test, a telltale incriminating variant, because I’ve never heard it before. Do you understand what that is? Do you know the word CHALICE? Forsyth and Benford need to know that variant immediately. The word CHALICE will flag the identity of MAGNIT. Do you understand?” Agnes nodded.
“Tonight you’re getting on that drone speedboat, whatever they call it, and you’re going to bring back that code name, and deliver a thumb drive with the details. Demand to speak personally to Simon Benford the minute you get on board the navy ship. Directly to Benford at CIA. No one else. Do you understand?” Agnes nodded her head again.
“How can you protect Nate in a Moscow prison?” asked Agnes.
“There’s only one thing that’s important now,” said Dominika, ignoring Agnes’s mule-headedness. “CHALICE. Bring that name back to Benford. I’ll watch over Nate in Moscow.”
* * *
* * *
The dacha’s doorbell rang, a strange cacophony of tubular bells that sounded more like wind chimes. Putting a finger to her lips, Dominika signaled that Agnes should hide in the spacious bedroom closet next to the vast bed. Agnes slipped in and soundlessly pulled the louvered doors closed. Dominika ran downstairs, put Agnes’s champagne glass in the cabinet under the sink, and left hers on the counter with half a bottle of champagne. Tugging at the hem of her nightshirt, and fluffing her hair, she walked across the living room to the glassed-in front door.
President Putin was standing under the front entrance lantern, the glow casting shadows under his eyes, nose, and chin, transforming him into a blue-haloed gargoyle, an otherworldly creature on a late-night pop over to visit his new Director of Foreign Intelligence, who was barefoot and dressed in a satin sleep shirt that barely covered her sex, and whose wild hair was tied with a blue ribbon. The satin shirt did nothing to hide the swell of her breasts, or the imprint of her nipples, or the rhythmic flutter of her heartbeat. The president’s retinue of bodyguards was clustered on the paved path below, in three or four electric golf carts, watching. In an acid flash, Dominika knew the head of state of the Russian Federation would in ten minutes be between her legs, that this was the inescapable moment—no more creepy frottage during furtive midnight visits—the moment that CIA asset DIVA would be required to sacrifice herself to her chosen role as spy, seductress, and implacable foe of the monster in the Kremlin. She thought of Gable as she felt herself shutting down, closing the internal doors of her emotions, marshaling strength to overcome revulsion. She was moving into full Sparrow mode. She wondered if Gable was looking down from Heaven’s cocktail lounge.
“Dobriy vecher, Mr. President, good evening,” said Dominika. “This is a pleasant surprise. Do you have time for a glass of champagne? I was having one myself.” Putin waved his security men away into the darkness after one of them asked if he should check the dacha beforehand. As she poured a glass of bubbly, she noticed the extra wet ring made on the countertop by Agnes’s glass, but she smeared it away with her hand, and they clinked glasses and sipped.
“To the quick discovery of the traitor among us,” said Putin, and Dominika rolled the champagne around her tongue, savoring the secret.
“The American knows who it is. We will grind it out of him like a peppercorn under our thumb. Bortnikov and Gorelikov briefed me this afternoon on the CIA officer,” said Putin. “They described the bumbling preliminary interrogation this morning about why he came here and what he knows. They also told me about your proposed solution to the problem, which I found astute and well-timed. Are you enjoying the party?” A typical Putin conversational swerve that, Dominika was convinced, was designed to demonstrate the president’s rapidity of mind.
“I told them both we cannot be eliminating our opponents as if we were barbarians,” said Putin. Króme Shútok Are you kidding? marveled Dominika. She silently thought of the names of the two-hundred-plus journalists, dissidents, and political activists eliminated since the year 2000 under this president’s beneficent reign, not to mention half the civilian population of Grozhny, in Chechnya.
“Thank you for your confidence in me, Mr. President,” said Dominika. “I am sure we can discover the American mole from a pared-down list of fifty names. In fact, I was going to suggest that you review the final list—your perspective on individuals will be invaluable.” Putin smiled and nodded; he could purge other enemies in the process.
“In five days we will know that name, and all the others,” said Dominika, soothingly. Putin had endorsed her plan not to damage Nate, and to keep him in reserve as a bargaining chip. Now he was talking about crushing peppercorns. A faint sound came from upstairs and Dominika was terrified that Agnes thought the coast was clear and was coming back downstairs. Vladimir had heard the noise and was looking up the stairs. Would the tsar care for a threesome?
“The breeze from the balcony moves the drapes in the bedroom. Come, I’ll show you.” Dominika put her glass down, took the president’s hand—it was callused because he picked at it—and led him upstairs, making as much racket as possible.
“The vi
ew from the balcony is exceptional,” said Dominika. “I must thank you again for the use of the dacha.” Putin stuck his head out of the sliding doors, glanced at the sea and the moonlight shining on the surface riffled by the land breeze that started after sunset. He came back into the bedroom. He didn’t care about moonlight. His blue halo pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
“A handsome view, but not as beautiful as you.” Dominika imagined Agnes falling out of the closet, hands over her mouth. Quiet sestra, sister, our tsar is a love poet, don’t ruin the moment.
“Mr. President. Are you always this poetical?” She walked up to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and pressed against him, flattening her breasts on his chest. Their mouths were inches apart. A thumbnail into his eye. A wristlock to lead him onto the balcony, a mighty heave over the wall, and Russia will be done with you. Instead, Dominika brushed her lips against his and peeled his T-shirt over his head. The musk deer scent of him came back to her—part gaggy cumin and cinnamon cologne, part day-old armpit and crotch. If it had been Nate, she would have run her chin and lips over every inch of him to inhale his sweetness, but not now. She stepped back and pulled open the top three snaps of her shirt, which hung open, revealing a hint of cleavage (No. 95, “Keep the banya door slightly open to create more steam”).
Putin put his hands inside her shirt and ran his fingers around her nipples. “I think in these circumstances we can dispense with ‘Mr. President,’ ” he said. Perhaps to illustrate, he trailed his fingers down Dominika’s flat stomach, then lower, running his fingers along her pubis, then pushed up and in. The trained Sparrow stifled a flinch—men were always stuffing their fingers everywhere prematurely, as if they were looking for the light switch—and instead closed her eyes and whispered “Oh, Volodya,” the affectionate diminutive of Vladimir. “I do not know what to call you,” she whispered, “lest someone overhears our intimacy.” What I’m asking you, you, svinya, is whether you’ve bugged this whore’s cottage.
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