Red Sparrow: A Novel

by Jason Matthews

  This was not a honey trap against a hapless European on her home turf, Dominika told herself. This was an operation in the foreign field against a foreign intelligence officer. She was Center-trained, she knew she would have to reel him in carefully. She had filed an initial contact report to Yasenevo, detailing the first few contacts. Volontov was pressing for forward movement.

  A couple of weeks, no response from Langley on the trace cable. Typical, but who cares? thought Nate. It was enough to meet her occasionally and drink in that face. He had gotten her to smile twice, her English was good enough to get a joke. He wasn’t going to spout off in Russian and scare her.

  One evening, as they finished swimming, they turned to climb the ladder to get out of the pool. They bumped into each other. Her suit clung to her curves. Nate could see her heartbeat beneath the drum skin of spandex. He offered Dominika his hand climbing up the ladder. Her hand was strong, hot to the touch. He held it for a beat and let go. Face impassive, no reaction. He held her eyes for another beat. She took off her swim cap and shook her hair.

  Dominika knew he was looking at her, kept calm, distant. What would he say if he knew she had been trained as a Sparrow, if he knew what she had done with Delon and Ustinov? She would not, absolutely not, seduce him. She would hear the cackles all the way from Moscow. No, she was going to accomplish this with discipline, with cleverness. Move it forward, she thought. Time to start opening the human envelope, to shake up that frustratingly consistent purple mantle.

  Dominika said yes to Nate’s suggestion that evening that they stop for a glass of wine in a neighborhood bar. His face had lit up with surprise, then pleasure. Seeing each other in street clothes on the sidewalk seemed strange. Dominika sat firmly on the other side of the little table, nursing a glass of wine.

  Now elicitation: Where are you from in the United States? Do you have brothers and sisters? What does your family do? She was going down the list, filling in the blanks in his papka.

  If Nate didn’t know better, this would have sounded like a debriefing. Maybe she’s just nervous, deflecting questions about herself. When Russians aren’t being intense, he thought, they’re being obtuse. Well, let her relax. He was not going to spook her by going in too hard. Spook her from what? he asked himself. She wasn’t a target and he wasn’t going to bed her.

  He ordered black bread and cheese. Very clever, she thought, he thinks that’s all we Russians eat. A second glass of wine? No, thank you. It was Dominika who finally said she had to go home. Nate asked if he could walk her home. At the front door to her small, modern apartment block, she saw him wrestle with the enormousness of leaning in for a peck on the cheek, she watched him trying to decide—men are all alike—then gave him her hand, shook his once firmly, and went inside. Through the glass door she saw him turn away, hands in his pockets.

  The trained SVR intelligence officer, graduate of Sparrow School and the AVR, congratulated herself on a good evening, good progress, especially how she had cut him off from that kiss. Then she laughed. Some courtesan you are, she thought, the slayer of gangsters, the seducer of diplomats, and now otkazatsya, denying a good-night kiss.

  “Hey, Romeo,” said Forsyth, leaning into Nate’s small office in the Station, “did you see the incoming from Headquarters this morning on Esther Williams?” Forsyth was referring to the results of the name-trace request Nate had cabled in on Dominika Egorova; DPOB: 1989, Moscow; Occ: Administrative assistant, Russian Embassy. He had drafted the cable more than a month ago. Nate expected that there would be “No Hqs traces” on the woman, she wasn’t even on the local dip list. She had told Nate she held a junior admin rank, the absolute bottom. The rest of Nate’s cable vaguely outlined the contact based on aperiodic meetings at the swimming pool. Totally useless, no access, no potential.

  “No, I haven’t seen the cable,” said Nate. “Is it on the reading board?”

  “Here’s my copy,” said Forsyth. “Take a look at this.” Forsyth chuckled as he handed the cable to Nate. As Nate started reading, Gable appeared behind Forsyth.

  “Has Tommy Fuckfaster read the traces?” said Gable. He too was laughing. Nate didn’t look up and continued reading:

  1. Traces on subject ref indicate confirmed status as SVR Corporal in possibly Directorate I (Computer and Information Dissemination). Approximate SVR EOD date 2007–08. Graduate of Foreign Intelligence Academy (AVR), 2010. Probable family connection to SVR First Deputy Director Ivan (Vanya) Dimitrevich EGOROV. Subject posting to Finland not reflected in Russian Federation Foreign Ministry lists, suggesting TDY status and/or specific operational assignment of limited duration.

  2. Headquarters Comment: Reference contact is of interest to Hqs. Subject’s family tie to SVR leadership arguably provides her with unique access and represents an opportunity for significant recruitment.

  3. Applaud Station diligence in aggressive spotting and developmental activity. Encourage Station officer to pursue subject for additional assessment and development. Hqs standing by to support Station ops plan as required. Regards.

  Nate looked up from the cable at Forsyth and Gable. “You can’t get a better trace response than that,” said Forsyth. “This could work out to something big if you can take it all the way to recruitment.”

  Nate could feel cement filling his legs. “This feels wrong, Tom; she’s not plugged in, she’s too junior. Remains to be seen whether she’s recruitable. There’s something distant and closed up about her.” He looked at the cable again. “Women haven’t been allowed into the Academy for the last fifty years. I could waste six months trying to develop her for nothing. I think I should concentrate elsewhere.”

  Gable leaned farther into the room past Forsyth’s shoulder. “That’s right, think it all through.” He laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me? A knockout like that, plus a close relative to someone on the top floor of the SVR? You better check it out, good and hard. Never mind going after someone else. This is a fucking ripe plum just waiting to get plucked.”

  “I get it, I get it,” said Nate. “It’s just that she doesn’t seem like the type who’s an SVR operator. Dour and scared, at least that’s my assessment.” He shrugged and looked at the other two.

  “Well, assess away, kiddo. You got yourself a solid developmental prospect,” said Gable as he left the office. “Let’s talk ops plan when you’re ready,” he said over his shoulder. Forsyth turned to leave, gave Nate a wink.

  Nate looked at Forsyth and nodded. Okay, let’s see where this goes, he told himself. A waste of time. C’mon, get motivated. From right now, Dominika Egorova was something more than a beautiful face. She was his development target.

  Up the road from the US Embassy, in the Russian Embassy, Rezident Volontov was haranguing Dominika on the slow progress of her operation.

  “Corporal Egorova, you have made a good start, but your progress has been too slow. General Egorov has sent three requests for updates since you arrived. You must redouble your efforts to move your friendship with Nash forward. More frequent meetings. Ski trips. Weekend trips. Be inventive. General Egorov once again recommends that you cultivate in Nash an emotional dependency on you.” Volontov sat back in his chair and ran greasy fingers through pomaded hair.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” said Dominika. Her uncle, Simyonov, and now this smelly throwback. “Can you tell me, please, what Director Egorov means by ‘emotional dependency’?” Her level gaze dared him to suggest she seduce the American.

  “I’m sure I cannot speak for the Deputy Director,” said Volontov, swerving away from the washed-out bridge of their conversation. “All you need to focus on is to move the relationship forward. Develop bonds of trust.” Volontov waved his arm in the air to illustrate what “bonds of trust” might mean. “Most important, get him talking about himself.”

  “Of course, Colonel,” said Dominika, getting up from her chair. “I will push forward and keep you informed. Thank you for your valuable guidance.”

  After her session with Volonto
v, Dominika was deflated. He operated in a puerile, slimy world full of sly hints, insinuations. “Bonds of trust,” “emotional dependency.” Sparrow School. Would she have to deal with that her entire career?

  Walking home, Dominika thought furiously. Snap out of it. She was on assignment in a foreign country, living in her own apartment in a fairy-tale little city. It was wonderful. She had an important job to do, against a trained American intelligence officer. Well, he did not seem dangerous, but he was a CIA officer, and that was enough. Tonight she’d get him to talk more about himself. She’d ask him what he thought of Russians—he had not yet admitted he spoke the language. She would get him to talk about Moscow. He had to admit to his posting there. As she walked quickly down lighted streets toward Yrjönkatu, unaware that her limp was more pronounced, she looked forward to the contact.

  Walking toward Yrjönkatu himself, Nate was thinking hard, so preoccupied that he realized he was oblivious to the street, that he was ignoring his six. Wake up, sport, he thought, this is the first night of your new case. He used a red light to cross the street and change his directional flow, to catch a look as he watched for traffic. No hits, no casuals. Walk three more blocks and do it again. No repeats. This is no longer a splashy fun romp with a blue-eyed Slav in wet spandex. No, if she was an SVR officer—and he still doubted it—he’d have to pay attention and do some more assessment. God, he’d rather be working that drunk Tishkov. At least he’d have access to documents and the minutes of private meetings. That would be a real scalp, something that would start a buzz back home.

  Also lost in thought, Dominika likewise neglected to check for surveillance until she was three blocks from the pool. To atone for her inattention, she did a preposterous reverse in an alley—the pensionerki would have howled—and felt ridiculous. As both of them absentmindedly flailed away on the street, they turned different corners and arrived at the front door of the swimming hall at the same time. Dominika’s breath quickened, Nate’s pulse increased, but they both remembered what each had to do to the other, and got down to work.

  Dominika leaned back against the wooden partition of the booth. Long fingers slowly twisted the stem of her wineglass. Nate sat across from her, legs extended and crossed at the ankle. He was dressed in a V-neck sweater and jeans, she in a blue cable-knit top and pleated skirt. She wore dark tights and black low-heeled shoes. Nate noticed she bounced her foot under the table.

  “Americans never take things seriously enough,” said Dominika. “They are always making fun.”

  “How many Americans do you know?” asked Nate. “Have you been to the United States?”

  “There was a foreign student, an American boy, at ballet school,” said Dominika. “He was always joking.” She did not mind mentioning ballet, it was part of her legend.

  “But was he a good dancer?” asked Nate.

  “Not especially,” said Dominika. “The program was very difficult, and he did not apply himself.”

  “It must have been lonely for him,” said Nate. “Did you show him around Moscow, go drinking together?”

  “No, of course not, it was forbidden.”

  “Forbidden? Which part? Drinking or making him feel welcome?” said Nate, looking at his wineglass. Dominika looked at him for a second, then averted her eyes.

  “You see, always making jokes,” she said.

  “It’s not a joke,” said Nate. “I just wonder what he will remember about Russia, about Moscow. Will he have fond memories of the city, or will he remember only being lonely, unloved?” What a strange thing to say, thought Dominika.

  “What do you know about Moscow?” she asked, already knowing part of the answer.

  “I lived there for a year, I think I told you before, working in the American Embassy. I lived in the housing compound next to the chancery.”

  No interest, no inflection. “Did you like it?” she asked.

  “I was always busy, not enough time really to explore the city.” He took a sip of his wine and smiled at her. “I wish I had known you, though; you could have shown me around. Unless it was forbidden.”

  Innocent little boy, she thought. What an act. Dominika ignored the comment. “Why did you leave after a year? I thought diplomats stayed longer than that.” His answer would be the lead sentence of her report.

  “There was a sudden vacancy in Helsinki,” said Nate. “So I made the change.” Very smooth, thought Dominika. She noted that the purple around his shoulders did not change when he did not tell the truth. Very professional.

  “Were you sad to leave?” asked Dominika.

  “In some ways, yes,” said Nate. “But I felt sad for Russia as well.”

  “Sad for Russia? Why?”

  “We finished the Cold War without blowing each other up, came close a couple of times. Whatever you thought about the Soviet system, it was over. I think everybody hoped Russia would see a new day, freedoms, a better life for its citizens.”

  “And you think life is not better in Russia now?” said Dominika, trying to tamp down the indignation in her voice.

  “In some ways, yes, of course,” said Nate, shrugging. “But I think people still struggle. The cruelest outcome is seeing a new age dawning, but nothing coming of it.”

  “I do not understand,” said Dominika.

  Let’s see if she takes the bait, he thought. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that your current leaders are creating a system as notorious as the Soviet system of the past. But it’s not as evident. It’s more modern, telegenic, plugged-in. The new weapons are oil and natural gas, but behind the scenes there’s just as much cruelty and repression and corruption as before.” Nate looked at Dominika sheepishly and raised his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to criticize.”

  Despite all the training and practice, Dominika had never before engaged with an American in such a discussion. She had to keep in mind that he was an intelligence officer, was adept at saying provocative things to elicit comments from her. She told herself to relax. This was no time for her to lose control. Still, she had to respond. “What you say is not correct,” said Dominika. “This is the sort of anti-Russia attitude that we are constantly aware of. It is simply not true.”

  Thinking about the renegade KGB officer poisoned by polonium and the journalist shot in her elevator, Nate finished his wine. “Tell that to Alexander Litvinenko or Anna Politkovskaya,” said Nate.

  Or Dimitri Ustinov, thought Dominika guiltily. But she was still furious with him.

  SPANISH EMBASSY TORTILLA ESPAÑOLA

  Cook seasoned, medium-sliced potatoes and chopped onions in abundant olive oil until soft, then remove and drain. Add beaten eggs to potatoes and onions and return to oiled pan on medium heat until edges and bottom start to brown. Place plate over skillet, invert, then slide tortilla back into pan and cook until golden brown.

  11

  Nate sat in the Station staring through the slats of the venetian blinds on the window in his office. He absentmindedly batted the cord of the blinds, making the plastic handle hit the wall and bounce back, click, click, click. Last night had been another National Day reception at some embassy. The half dozen calling cards on his desk amounted to squat, and there was a knot between his shoulder blades.

  The thought of swimming reminded him of Dominika. He had looked hard at her, they had been out several times, but he still thought the case was going nowhere. She was a believer, way committed, no doubts, no vulnerabilities. He was wasting time. The plastic at the end of the cord clicked against the wall. The cards on the desk mocked him. A single paper—his latest cable on contact with Dominika—lay in a metal tray on his desk.

  Gable stuck his head into his office. “Jesus, the fucking Prisoner of Zenda in the tower,” he said. “Why aren’t you out on the street? Take someone to lunch.”

  “I struck out last night,” said Nate, staring out the window. “Four National Days this week alone.”

  Gable shook his head, walked to the window, and yanked the slats o
f the blinds closed with a snap. He sat on the edge of Nate’s desk and leaned close.

  “Bend over, Hamlet, I’m about to give you a pearl of wisdom. There is a perverse element to this HUMINT shit we do. Sometimes the harder you try to find a target, to start a case, the farther away it gets from you. Impatience, aggression—in your case, desperation—gets in the air like a whiff of sulfur, no one wants to talk to you, no one will dine with you. Sulfur in the wind. You smell like rotten eggs.”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Nate.

  Gable leaned closer. “You got performance anxiety,” he drawled. “The longer you stare at your pecker, the softer it’s gonna be. Keep trying, but ease off the accelerator.”

  “Thanks for the graphic image,” said Nate, “but I’ve been at Station for a while and I have nothing to show for it.”

  “Stop, or I’ll start weeping,” said Gable. “The only guys you have to please are me and COS, and we ain’t complaining . . . yet. You got time, so keep going.” Gable picked up the cable in Nate’s in-box.

  “Besides, this Russian sugar-britches is gold waiting to be mined, your professional assessment notwithstanding. Get to work on her, for Christ’s sake. I have an idea how we can blow air up her skirt for a better look.”