Red Sparrow

by Jason Matthews

  “What are you talking about?” said Nate.

  “In Helsinki and in Rome, when we were lovers, did you tell your superiors?”

  “What we did was against the rules, unprofessional; it was my fault, we risked your security, the operation.” She was silent, looking down at him. It was another second before she spoke.

  “ ‘The operation,’” Dominika said. “You mean we risked the continued collection of razvedka, the intelligence.”

  “Look,” said Nate, “what we did was crazy, both professionally and personally. We nearly lost you. I thought about you all the time. I still do.”

  “Of course, you think about the case, about Dominika, the national asset.”

  “What are you talking about? What do you want me to say?” said Nate.

  “I want to feel that sometimes we leave the operation behind, that there is just you and me.” Her bosom heaved in her brassiere. He stood up and put his arms around her. His mind was a riptide of damage control battling the stirring of his passion for her. He smelled her hair, and felt her body. You gonna slip a third time, Mr. Case Officer? he thought.

  “Dominika,” he said, and the rushing in his ears started, the old danger signal.

  “Will you break your rules again?” she asked. She saw his purple lust, it lit up the darkened room.

  “Dominika…” he said, staring into her eyes. Her lashes caught some of the light from the window. He saw Forsyth’s face floating in the air above his head, scary, unblinking. He wanted her, more than his power to resist, more urgently than it was possible to think.

  “I want you to violate your rules… with me… not your agent, me,” said Dominika. “I want you to violate me.”

  The lace of her brassiere rustled as she unclasped it. They fell onto the bed, and she was on her stomach, and she pulled Nate on top of her, heavy and hot, his lips at her neck, his fingers twined in hers. She held his hands tight. He fumbled, she teased him, and he trapped her hips with his legs and her breath came up sharp. She groaned, “Trahni menya,” and reached behind to touch him while he whispered in her ear.

  “How many rules will you force me to break?”

  She looked back at him, wordlessly, to see if he was mocking her.

  “Shall I break five regulations, ten?” He kept his mouth close to her ear and began counting to ten slowly, matching the numbers with the cadence of his hips.

  “Odin… dva… tri…” She was trembling but at a different hertz rate than before.

  “Chyetirye… pyat… shest…” She stretched her arms out, gathered fistfuls of bedsheet.

  “Syem… vosyem… dyevyat…” Fingers like claws, she twisted the sheets around her wrists.

  “Dyesyat, ten,” Nate said, lifting himself off her back, hotly connected yet soaring above her glistening spine, and suddenly the gentle line of her back and buttocks arched, and she buried her face in the mattress, mouth gasping.

  The bar of moonlight inched across the room and they watched it as they lay next to each other. Nate leaned over and held her chin in his hand, kissed her on the lips. She took his hand away gently. “If you say the wrong thing,” she said, “I will put my thumbnail in your right eye and tip you over the balcony railing.”

  “I have no doubt you could do it,” said Nate as he lay back against the pillow.

  “Yes, Neyt,” Dominika said, “and if I need anything more, your little Sparrow will lure you into bed again.”

  “Okay, okay, that’s not what I meant. Can we get a few hours of sleep? Will you be still for a while?”

  “Konechno, of course, good agents always follow instructions,” said Dominika.

  TAVERNA XINOS PAPOUTSAKIA (STUFFED EGGPLANT)

  Brown ground lamb with diced onions and peeled diced tomatoes in olive oil. Season well, let cool, and add grated cheese, parsley, soaked day-old bread, and beaten egg. Halve eggplants lengthwise and sauté in oil until soft. Scoop out eggplants (reserve the flesh) and fill cavity with meat mixture. Top with Mornay sauce, drizzle with oil, and bake in dish (with chopped eggplant flesh and minimal water in the bottom) until tops are golden brown. Serve at room temperature.

  37

  Zyuganov gripped the receiver of the encrypted phone tightly. The instrument was as big as his head.

  “Of course they will be looking for surveillance,” Zyuganov said. “You’ll never be able to follow them. Stay with your original plan. Do you have the materials prepared? Fifteen minutes will be all you need. One name, confirm it, then the killing stroke.” Zyuganov swiveled in his chair.

  “Look, I’m not telling you not to save her, but the name is more important than anything, than anyone. Panimat? Understand? I’m waiting for results, and keep your mouth closed. Out.”

  =====

  Their last day in Athens, the sun hot at nine a.m., both of them feeling tired and unplugged and drifty. They walked from the hotel down Pindarou, stopped for a fresh-squeezed orange juice in Kolonaki Square, sat elbow to elbow under a canopy as the waiter brought a pastry. They would stay on the move throughout the day, continue to rehearse how Dominika would report the contact to the Center. Dominika took a bite of the flaky roll and licked her fingers. She was feeling better and made an effort.

  “Shall I tell them you forced me, or that I blindfolded you and locked you naked in an armoire?” She tore a piece of brioche and tried feeding him. He moved his head away.

  “The Center would probably understand stuffing someone into an armoire,” Nate said. He felt scratchy and irritable and guilty, no patience with morning-after love talk. Dominika’s face fell when he said that. She put the brioche down on the plate.

  “Well, that is bezdushnyi,” she said, turning to face him, heartless, soulless, but Nate’s contrarian demons already had their hands in his guts, and he knew his feelings for her, but he knew his duty, and he knew what she wanted, and he knew what he could give, what the CIA would let him give, and that he had let his passion—oh, it was real passion, no doubt—take over again, again, goddamn it, on the day before she was supposed to return to Moscow and sit in front of the interrogators, and if she wasn’t pitch-perfect, well, that would be his fault because he couldn’t tell her no last night. Romantic, hopeless Russians. She wanted some sort of romance, but they were both intel officers, and there couldn’t be any distractions. He looked at her—his last thought was that he probably loved her—but she saw the demons, read the purple bloom around his shoulders, and knew the connection of last night was gone.

  She saw his guilty regret, and the washed-out color around him. Her own demons flew out of the cave like bats at sunset and she became Egorova, feeling the anger building, the goryachnost, the temper that General Korchnoi had warned her about. She stood up.

  “I’m going back to my hotel for a shower and change of clothes,” she said.

  “Negative,” said Nate, slipping into agent-handling mode. “It’s the one place they can find you—and us. Benford definitely said—”

  “Gospodin Benford might do without a wash and a change. I cannot. I will take ten minutes.” Nate did some fast calculations. Stick with her? Cut her loose and meet her later? He had seen her face, knew the signs. She was furious at him; it would be best not to let her alone, she might disappear out of spite. Some report that would make back in Langley.

  “Okay, ten minutes, no longer,” said Nate, taking her arm. She smoothly took it away.

  The Grande Bretagne Hotel stood in the sunlight of Syntagma Square, gilt railings and wrought-iron porte cochere glinting in the white light. Upstairs, Nate stood awkwardly in the huge sitting room, with elegant groupings of tables, chairs, and lamps, a thick Wilton underfoot. He looked into the bedroom as Dominika shrugged off her dress—he remembered the black lace bra and panties—and she bent to pull off her sandals, turning to face him, a defiant lingerie model against the backdrop of the massive silk headboard of the bed. Her seminakedness whipped at his senses, and she knew it, she could read him. She took a provocative step forward
into the living room.

  “Do I distract you?” she said, lifting her arms. She was seething.

  “Dominika, stop it,” said Nate.

  “Please tell me,” she said, pulling the cups of her bra tight. “Do I disorient you? Is the plan working?”

  “Admirably. I cannot think that you could do your duty any better, Corporal Egorova,” said Sergey Matorin, stepping out of the walk-in closet between the bedroom and the bathroom. He spoke Russian that sounded like a truck transmission filled with gravel. He was dressed in a dark sport coat, black shirt and slacks, and wore slip-on moccasins. He casually tossed a zippered pouch and a black cloth sheath onto the bed and began shrugging out of his sport coat, never taking his eyes off Nate. Black.

  Silence, then electric shock and no hesitation, not a second, as the scraps of black lace launched at Black, her arms around his neck, a knee driving into his crotch. Nate noticed ballet muscles in her legs and her buttocks bunching as Black grunted and pushed her chin back and punched her in the throat, a killing blow, and she fell back on the rug, in her lacey undergarments, gasping.

  Nate needed more time to get there in slow motion, thinking, Someone’s going to have to die, dead, as in killed, because Black had heard them talking and they were a cell phone call away from meltdown, and he put his shoulder down and smelled ammonia and drove the thin body back against a little Hepplewhite in the corner, which made a crack when it splintered. They both pushed off the floor and three stones hit the side of Nate’s face, bang, bang, bang, oh, fuck, Spetsnaz open-hand technique, and he locked the ropy arm and kicked behind the knee and Black fell and rolled and popped back up, cloven hooves high and smiling. Nate felt for a piece of furniture, and slung it at Black’s feet, then stepped in to smell the ammonia again, and he started low and brought the heel of his hand up and through the chin, trying to remember other long-ago hand-to-hand techniques, as Black rolled again and reached the bed and pulled the whispered sheath off, and the blade was up and the point was making little circles, and it was time to back away, seriously, because this was no good and there were no weapons immediately at hand, nothing long enough and hard enough to deal with this bastard and the silver edge of the otherwise blue-mottled steel.

  The windpipe strike had not killed her, as there were black lace panties and black lace cups holding the big blue-and-white vase, Ming, Limoges, Wedgwood, whatever, smashing it between Black’s shoulder blades in a shower of shards, and he went down on one knee, but there was the whistle of the spinning slash and the blood started, a thin line on her thigh and diagonally across her belly, then she was red and slick, and she staggered back and fell with a bump, sitting up and looking at her legs, one wet, the other dry.

  The brass lamp felt good to Nate and heavy enough to throw, but Black’s backhanded parry was a blur, but at least it got him off her, and he closed with impressive speed, more like gliding, really, and Nate stepped inside the point of the blade, and he felt cool air on his arm and on his stomach where his shirt split open, then hot blood running down under his belt and down the front of his legs like pissing himself and the motherfucking sword was the real issue so he held the brocade chair like in the circus and the other sleeve of his shirt opened up and the hot blood pooled in his hand, and the point of the blade caught in the brocade of the chair, and he stepped in, not much more time on the clock, he reckoned, and tried to torque Black’s knee with legs that were losing strength, bad sign, very bad, like his red footprints on the carpet, and the smell of copper in the air.

  Dominika looked at them across the room, Matorin moving easily, swinging his Khyber knife, and Nate staggering sideways, sodden clothes red from the chest down. My fault, coming back here, idiotka, he’s going to fight until he dies, she thought. He’s fighting for me, and the rush of realization, He does love me, he is buying me time, and the goryachnost, the rage, picked her up off the floor, and she limped and weaved in an S to the bed and picked up the black pouch. She was looking for a weapon, any weapon.

  Black was breathing easily through his nose, and Nate could feel something come loose as the blade ran across his biceps and he grabbed the blade and felt it slide across his palm and through his fingers, like a wet knife through a birthday cake. Black stood looking at him, and Nate concentrated on locking his weak knees so he wouldn’t fall. This Spetsnaz guy no doubt was savoring the next cut, thought Nate, an upward rip to spill his long intestines on the Wilton, or the backhand strike at the side of his neck.

  Then Liberté came over the ramparts like something out of Delacroix with one breast out of her bra and she drove the red and the yellow pens into his buttocks and his instinctive back fist knocked her down, head bouncing hard, but Black started melting and rasping, great heaving breaths on hands and knees with red and yellow tails pinned on the donkey, and he crawled toward the knife but was slowing down, crawling in slow motion and shaking his head from side to side, with a narcotized diaphragm and a skull full of barbiturates and the good eye rolling up into his head and the heels drumming on the pink-and-blue carpet and the death rattle and Let’s seriously consider sawing off his head, just to be safe, but Nate’s hand was under Dominika’s left breast and he was glad of the fluttering heartbeat, her eyes opened, and he started to lay his head on the softness but remembered something important, he couldn’t go to sleep just yet, he had a call to make.

  =====

  Dominika had taken the phone from Nate’s nerveless fingers and told Bratok where they were, and he listened good and brought a cleared Embassy medic and a trauma kit, they were waiting on the street in the car. How Marty Gable got them both cleaned up and out of the hotel was a miracle, vintage Saigon and Phnom Penh. Bedsheets became bandages, Matorin’s vinegary-smelling jacket was buttoned all the way up, Dominika’s hair was slicked back. Gable motioned to her to yank the pens out of Matorin’s ass, sheath the Khyber blade, check his pockets. He put Nate’s arm around his neck and humped him out the service entrance, telling a limping Dominika to lock the door to the suite and throw the room key in a planter in the hallway.

  They collapsed in Gable’s backseat like Bonnie and Clyde, and the wide-eyed medic wrapped Israeli pressure bandages around Nate’s chest, arms, and hand, another around Dominika’s thigh, and taped the diagonal slice across her stomach. Nate’s pulse was thready from loss of blood, so the medic started an IV, and Dominika cradled Nate’s head in her lap, not talking, holding the plasma bag up as Gable slammed through traffic, cursing and pounding the steering wheel.

  They banged up the hilly streets into Zografos, under the loom of Mount Ymittos, and Gable helped them up to a top-floor retirée in a quiet Greek apartment block where the Station kept a contingency safe house. They put Nate in the small bedroom, and the medic stayed with him until the Embassy doctor arrived; they were both cleared, but Gable wanted them out as soon as they finished, twenty stitches in Dominika’s leg, three times that for Nate. Gable held Dominika by the shoulders, looking at her over the tops of his glasses, but she shrugged him off and went into the other bedroom to sponge off the blood, insanely flashing to Ustinov, how long had it been? Her breaths started coming in gulps.

  Gable thanked the doctor and medic—they wondered what the spooks were up to, but knew to keep quiet—and steered them out and gently closed the door. Dominika was in Nate’s room listening to him breathe, and Gable shooed her out. She didn’t want soup, didn’t want bread, she closed the door to her bedroom, but in five minutes Gable heard her cross back into Nate’s room, and he left her alone. Later that night Gable cracked open the bedroom door and heard her talking to him, he was still out from the sedative, color better, and DIVA sitting on the bed, talking Russian to him. Big ugly mess this was, but thank Christ they survived.

  Forsyth snuck in the next day, after dark, wearing a paste-on goatee and wire-rimmed glasses—Greek cops knew his face, and there was a manhunt on for the young Russian woman at the Grande Bretagne Hotel who had disappeared, leaving a dead man in her room. Dominika’s
passport picture was all over the television and papers. There had been another man, a dark-haired Westerner, perhaps an American. Gable told Forsyth he looked like a Viennese sex therapist in that goatee, then briefed him on the scene at the hotel, nodded to the two bedrooms in back. Forsyth sat down and threw a stack of late-edition newspapers on the coffee table. The bloodfest at the Grande Bretagne was being covered in a media firestorm excessive even by Greek standards. Station translators had provided a list of headlines:

  “KGB Slaughter Plot Sunders Athens Calm”— Kathimerini (center right)

  “Cold War Massacre at Grande Bretagne Hotel”— To Bhma (center)

  “Russian Beauty Sought in Sex Murder Tryst”— Eleftherotiypia (center left)

  “US Disdain for Greek Patrimony, Antiques”— Rizospastis (Communist)

  “Assassin Picks Low Season at Five-Star Abattoir”— Tribuna Shqiptare (Albanian language)

  They made a little noise in the kitchen, waiting for Dominika to come out of her bedroom. A half hour later Forsyth got up and tapped softly on her door. Through the door she told him she wasn’t feeling well, no, she didn’t need the doctor, but she wanted to sleep. Forsyth came back out into the living room. “I’m not sure, something wrong, more than shock,” he said to Gable.

  Then a little stirring and Nate shuffled in, finally awake, holding the wall, orange Betadine showing around the edges of the bandages and tape. One side of his face was purple. He eased into an armchair, face wet from the exertion and pain.

  “What’re you guys doing here?” he rasped. “Some kind of emergency?”

  “How you feeling?” said Gable, ignoring him. “Any dizziness? You have an appetite?” Nate shook his head, and Forsyth started talking softly.

  “I’ve been on the green line with the Seventh Floor. I’ve been called in a half-dozen times by the ambassador, who has himself been summoned by the Greek foreign minister twice. The entire Hellenic Police is looking for a Russian woman, trying to ID the dead guy, and the Russian Embassy claims to have no idea what’s going on. The Greek Ministry of Foreign Affairs is just up the street from the GB Hotel, and the TV lights in Syntagma Square have been on for twenty-four hours.”